It was the woods themselves... they're alive, Ashley.

Oh, Evil Dead. You scamp.

It's like the 90-minute enactment of every feminist horror fan's internal conflicts with the genre.

I mean, obviously, tree rape. It's another elephant. One of the reasons I was excited about the DVD of the film was to finally get a definitive word from the filmmakers about that, but almost inevitably, I was disappointed. Raimi and Tapert -- actually Tapert specifically takes credit for it -- say that it was just an idea they had to push the scene further and make it more painful for the audience.

"Sam, I was thinking, how can we hurt the audience?" is exactly what Tapert says. They don't dwell on the point, and this is basically all they have to say about what prompted the tree rape.

However, even though they don't have some Sooper Sekkrit Feminist Statement, nor do they have, for lack of a better word, an excuse for the scene -- still, I think this explanation actually says something positive about their intentions.

Specifically, what's interesting to me is that they don't talk about it being "scary," but painful. And not painful for the character, but painful "for the audience."

Which suggests that the idea that men don't identify with female characters in movies without some kind of psychological gymnastics probably doesn't hold water. Which should not come as any surprise to anyone but the most die-hard Lacanians, really, but which I spent six years of feminist film theory classes trying in vain to argue.

Of course, this only works if you grant that Raimi and Tapert were making the movie specifically for a male audience. I think you'd kinda sound ridiculous arguing otherwise, though, seriously. We're inclusive and enlightened now, but I think you'd be hard-pressed to argue that they really thought any women were going to see the movie except in the tow of a boyfriend. See also: Joe Bob Briggs -- he took girlfriend of the moment Cherry Dilday, who apparently yarked all over the upholstery in the Toronado. (See my previous post for the reference.)

I can give credence to the idea that the filmmakers meant the audience to identify with Cheryl to some extent. They mention on the commentary track for Evil Dead II that a similar scene in that film, minus the money shot, was originally written with a male victim; I guess with the idea that being impaled with a tree branch through the crotch is pretty unpleasant no matter what the anatomy of it.

But I think, especially when you're talking about guys who quickly got out of exploitation film and are now very successful in respectable movies ("indoor bullstuff," as Joe Bob would put it), I think you're going to have a hard time getting them to admit that something like the tree rape scene was intended to be erotic or titillating.

And obviously, this is really the most acutely problematic issue. Is the tree rape erotic? I mean, that's obviously subjective, but less so are the questions of whether it's seen that way, and was it intended to be?

And I can say, being an aficionado of Joe Bob Briggs' work, that the answer to that second question is "yes," albeit in a way that is strange and difficult to pin down. And that's something that the film, and the filmmakers, should probably be held accountable for. After 15-ish years of shock horror film and the drive-in cinema that obviously influenced The Evil Dead, I think everyone involved would sound pretty disingenuous claiming unfamiliarity with the eroticization of extreme sexualized violence against women. Blood, breasts, and beasts: they knew the formula, and they did it justice, if you can call it that.

And this of course brings me to the question of eroticized violence in exploitation film generally. And it's an issue I've struggled with since watching Evil Dead the first time -- it was, I think it's fair to say, the first exploitation movie I ever saw, and I enjoyed the hell out of the movie and was left with a new threshold for gore and perversity in horror movies. But eroticized violence is unavoidable, even central, seen by many as a virtual requirement to qualify for the "exploitation" label.

In a sense, it's horror in its purest form: what is the genre about, after all, but taboo and the violation of taboo -- the seeing of What Must Not Be Seen? Sexualized violence lies right at the heart of that territory.

Now, just because that's What Horror's All About doesn't make it okay. I think there's a razor's edge here, and it's hard to define where the boundaries are. Clearly, what is personally offensive, what is genuinely socially and culturally harmful and degrading, and what it actually kind of fun and entertaining are categories we all probably draw a little differently.

There was a fight last week over at Jezebel about whether a rape-simulation interactive DVD is so socially damaging that it's valid to pull it from Amazon, or whether that threshold and where we place it is a question of personal taste (and whether that personal taste should be allowed to direct decisions about what can and cannot be sold to the public). It's a question that's been part of the public discourse ever since we came up with the idea of free speech, and it's not one that I think there's any simple answer to.

So I guess the only conclusion I can draw is that the tree rape is only as offensive or acceptable as sexualized violence in exploitation film ever is. And personally, I would argue that, especially in a cinema as marginalized as this one, that it is not necessarily Part of the Problem. I'm a lot more concerned about the scene where audiences aren't going "blech" -- even if only for the benefit of the people around them.

Last week I went to a screening for some locally-produced short horror films. I left early on (projection issues rendering staying a waste of time, unfortunately), but not before seeing a little piece of crap about teenage zombies. The idea was that lust turns teenage boys into actual zombies. The boys are interested in nothing but (female) flesh, and the protagonist is a girl who learns that she would be happier and less afraid and conflicted if she just gives it up to her zombie boyfriends like the other girls in the film do. The film offended me a hell of a lot more than Evil Dead ever did, because it offered a blanket acceptance of all of our stereotypes about male and female sexuality -- men are monsters, incapable of self-control, women have to be cajoled into sex, women lack the monster impulse (none of the female characters become zombies), and teenage sexuality is horrific and dangerous, but funny. Most of all, it basically stripped women of all sexual autonomy, yet a-freaking-gain. Just give in! You'll feel so much better! As if that's any less destructive a message than the ever-so-subtle "ABSTINENCE" scrawled in three-foot-high letters on the blackboard in the "sex-ed" classroom where one girl takes refuge.

My point here is not to savage this little short, much as it may deserve it, but rather to point out that nobody is suggesting at any point, textually or subtextually, that The Evil Dead normalizes tree rape. Or any other kind of rape. Rape is the work of EVIL TREES.

And that, I think, is the thing that redeems a lot of exploitation film. It's neither making an argument nor reinforcing an assumption that there is anything acceptable in any way about violence against women. Its position is so far outside the margins that most people are vaguely embarrassed to admit they watch it at all, and the scant one or two who would actually publicly admit that they're turned on by it were, let's face it, probably mentally unbalanced and dangerously deranged to start with.

So it's not something like Stockholm (the DVD causing the fight at Jezebel), or Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter, or the fact that Chris Brown continues to show his face in public, all of which make pretty profound arguments in favor of rape or violence against women.

There are arguments to be made that Evil Dead might reaffirm some negative, societally-held views about rape -- from a horror fan's perspective, anyone who wanders off into the woods because they heard a noise out there is "asking for it," whatever "it" may be. But I think you're reaching a little bit, at that point.

Really, the rape itself bothers me less than the reactions of the other characters... but that's for next time! Yes, this will have to be a three-parter. Incredibly enough, I still have a few more things to say about The Evil Dead, all inspired by a single word on the director commentary. Stay tuned to find out what it was!

Join us.

So obviously I need to talk about The Evil Dead. I've been avoiding it, overwhelmed by the prospect -- I've been avoiding a lot of movies on my "to-do" list for the same reason, actually. But okay, here we are.

You sure this is a good idea, guys?

Yeah, totally, go for it. We'll be right... back here.

I'm going to have to split this post into two parts, because it's seriously way, way too much ground to cover in one post. The first part is where I gush about how awesome this movie is. The second part is where I suggest that it's immoral and unethical and that Raimi/Tapert/Campbell should probably be ashamed of themselves.

Never let it be said that my opinions are simple.

Complicated lady.

It's the elephant in the room for me personally: earlier this year, I watched it every single night as I fell asleep. It is actually good for that: the dialogue drops off drastically after the first half-hour. I usually fall asleep right after the tree rape. ...God. Okay, yeah, it's something we need to talk about. But that'll be in part II.

Okay. [deep breath] I love the movie, in bizarre and perhaps unseemly ways. It grabs ahold of my lizard brain and won't let go.

Ordinarily I'm a big proponent of story and character as central to a good film, but really, this one's just about pictures. Brutal, bizarre images and the raw, unformed ball of charisma that was Baby Bruce -- even when you don't know what the hell is going on, you can't look away.

Cutie.

Raimi's natural talent as a director is here in its purest form: essentially making it up as he goes along, he comes up with unrelenting craziness and makes it look easy. With virtually no professional equipment, he accomplishes incredible things: that overhead tracking shot of Ash he got by hooking his legs on the cabin's rafters, gymnast-style, and shooting while hanging upside-down.

There isn't a single inch of this cabin Raimi didn't wedge himself into to get a shot. Here he is under the stairs. 

I think Campbell was standing on Raimi's face for this one.

Stories like that make me assume that they were using Bolexes or some other super-light camera with no sync-sound, then looping sound later on. By contrast, essentially exactly the same equipment was used to make Manos: The Hands of Fate.

It's gonzo indie filmmaking at its absolute height, and you can't not love and admire it for everything it accomplishes. I'm not of the school of indie apologists who will say that about movies like Manos -- if this movie bit the big one as hard as that one does, I wouldn't be writing about it. But this is great filmmaking and a great example of what infinite determination and unbelievable patience can do -- the movie took more than two years to complete. Dude, that's essentially a master's degree.

Actually, getting a Master's degree is a lot like this. 

I do acknowledge that there is a definite camp factor here, and that it's a big part of why the movie is awesome and why I love it so much. I admit I was genuinely shocked when Raimi said the film wasn't meant to be funny, because it doesn't have that Ed Wood quality that makes failure charming -- it doesn't feel like a failed horror film, but rather a successfully campy comedy/horror film.

Whee!

But I guess part of the reason I laugh is the gonzo factor -- all the fluids going ever-which-way, the obvious glee with which they're covering Bruce in a film of goo, all the monsters making noises that veer from "eerie" to "frickin' loud" to "asthmatic fruit bat." You go that far over the top, a fair amount of camp just comes with the territory.

On the Evil Dead II commentary, talking about the latest puddle of goo they'd immersed Bruce in, Raimi notes, "My policy is to soak Bruce's membranes in as many strange dyes and liquids and potions and chemicals as possible."

Fluids everywhere.

Joe Bob Briggs characterizes Evil Dead thusly: "On the old barf meter... I think you'll agree that this is the paint-the-room-red vomit champion of 1983." That's from "The Evil Dead: Red Meat City," compiled in Joe Bob Goes to the Drive-in. Joe Bob didn't manage to get the film into a Grapevine, Texas drive-in until 1983, incredibly enough. 

And yet, there are some truly chilling moments. Cheryl's initial moments of possession, with that broken-doll pose (Tyra would be so proud!*) as she hangs in mid-air, that angry Pazuzu voice, and the genuinely effective make-up still manage to give me a little shiver every now and then.

The blood flood in the basement, played for freakout factor here (rather than Three Stooges-y punchline it would be when they revisit the gag in Evil Dead II), is still effective, particularly with that revved-up carnival music.

Let's see Nicholson try this.

That moment of foreboding in the third scene as they approach the house for the first time works so well, with the slamming of the porch swing like the clock counting out the final moments until their fates are sealed.

And leading up to that, I've always like the drive through the woods that brings them to the cabin; growing up in rural eastern North Carolina, I knew a lot of people whose "driveways" were those long unpaved back roads, and the movie perfectly captures that moment of doubt and danger as you wonder what's really at the other end.

I could say a lot of good things about Evil Dead, but few of them are new. The criticisms aren't new either, but some of them deserve more nuance than I think they've gotten before.

So, next time, I rip the beloved movie to shreds. Ash is so excited!



*It has occurred to me that the overlap between potential readers of my blog and fans of America's Next Top Model is, most likely, pretty much just me. That's okay. My planet is a weird but fabulous one.

Sally still carries a scar on her cheek

I know, it's been two weeks since I last posted. And I'm determined not to turn into one of those bloggers who never posts about anything but why she hasn't posted lately. Suffice it to say, I shall try to dig up some clever thoughts about a horror movie soon. Under consideration: Re-Animator, Evil Dead, Dead Alive and Blood Feast (which is the next thing on my Netflix queue -- oh! actually, I loaned my Netflixed copy of River's Edge to Dave and I can't watch a new movie until he sends it back. See, it's not my fault I haven't updated).

At the moment, to tell the truth, I'm kind of obsessed with The Who. It's difficult to connect that back to horror movies. I guess I could post about Tommy, except that I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to be that scary. Although with Ken Russell there's really no telling. Oliver Reed is pretty much terrifying just by showing up on set, and I can't be the only OCD case who has to leave the room during the scene where Ann-Margaret rolls around in beans. And there's Uncle Ernie, of course, and Keith Moon doesn't have to work that hard to be kinda frightening either, even when he's aiming at completely ridiculous. Maybe especially when he's aiming at ridiculous. The wacky comedy child molester... well, I've always had mixed feelings about it.

Anyway. One of those I mentioned earlier, soonish. Watch this space.

Ling Chi: Death by a Thousand Cuts

(Quick note: Blogger does not have the option to label only a single post "adult content," and I refuse to put a warning label on my entire blog because there will, inevitably, be the occasional breast in the occasional screencap. There's a couple in here. You know what? Breasts happen. Because of, you know, half the human race having them. Deal.)

So to make up for the lack of illustrations in my last post, this will one will be all illustrations (with snarky commentary, of course). A copy of The Wizard of Gore -- um, magically appeared, totally legally -- at my house, so here it is. Apologies that some of the images are low-quality -- my, um, magical copy has some magical quality issues.

Sigh... such lovely credits. Such a mediocre movie.

The party scene, wherein Ed demonstrates that hipsters reach a certain threshold of self-important pompousness at which they not only can't have fun, but they begin to actually implode from the force of their own toolishness. "I dig their sound." Ed actually has that line. Seriously, any human being who has said those four words in that order since 1980? Is a neo maxi zoom dweebie in desperate need of something -- anything -- to fill that yawning chasm between his ears.

"Sit down, bitch -- you die tonight." Apparently the line was supposed to be "sit down, slut," but Glover changed it. Because he's Crispin Fucking Glover, bitch.

"Did you feel something? Anything?" Also: fairly good shot for illustrating that yes, the codpiece is sort of amazing, but also that the filmmakers completely overreacted to it when they were like "oh my god we can't make the movie if Crispin insists on the codpiece." They spend, no lie, at least ten minutes of the commentary talking about the codpiece. I, on the other hand, didn't even notice it the first time I watched the film. Sue me: I was looking at his face.

I simultaneously find Ed's apartment assy and pretentious and also kind of covet it. Oh, well.

The effects are really cool, actually, for a low budget movie -- because "realistic" is impossible on that budget, they go for "surreal" and are generally pretty successful.

Dourif doing that thing Dourif does.


This is such a well-shot scene. It's not brilliantly edited; there's a couple of obvious continuity problems. But the wash of cool sunlight and the awesome location make me very happy.

I don't have a problem with taking inspiration from another actor's performance. What Kip Pardue does here, however, is actually outright theft. If it were consistent throughout -- but no, for some reason it's only in this scene that he simply cribs the Sweaty Nazi from Raiders of the Lost Ark. Does that guy have a name?

Enlightened comment on misogyny: you're doing it wrong.

Don't you just kind of hate these people on sight? Also, please to note Maggie's atrocious hair and godawful wardrobe. I think a high brow is a beautiful thing on many women; Christina Ricci is one of Hollywood's most gorgeous women. Bijou Phillips, though, just looks -- at least with this hairdo -- like she's going bald.



So one of the random trivia facts with which I impress my friends at parties is this: Joshua Miller here and Jason Patric starred in Near Dark and The Lost Boys, respectively -- the two big vampire movies made in 1987 and released within days of one another. As it happens, they're also half-brothers. They're the sons of Jason Miller, who was nominated for an Oscar for playing Father Karras in The Exorcist. In at least one of my numerous viewings of this movie, I decided that Josh turned out looking a lot more like his father than Jason Patric does (Jason Patric, as you will no doubt note if you watch the trailer for Downloading Nancy, now looks alarmingly like post-pudgification Vincent D'Onofrio.) Dude, look at that nose. That's a family nose, right there.


Cool images, cool transitions, beautiful production design, even some very nice shot composition: the cinematographer, Christopher Duddy, and the designer, John Pollard, did an amazing job on this picture. Again, the talent going to waste here just kills me.

Okay, here's one of the film's key problems, summed up in an image. This is actually a clue: Ed sees this and frowns. What we're supposed to get from that is that a pair of his shoes are missing. Do you get that from that image? No, of course not, because you don't know what the shoe rack looked like before. You just wonder why Ed is confused by his shoes. That's the problem I'm talking about: the filmmakers are playing a game of spot-the-difference with us without showing us the original. Even on repeat viewings, there's still no baseline: for all we know, Ed Bigelow does this every week. "It's like our lives started that night," Ed says. That's exactly the problem: unless you're playing Pirandello meta-games, characters ought to feel like they existed before we met them. So I guess the big question is, do the filmmakers know that meta and mindfuck are not necessarily the same thing?

Interesting note: the version that I -- um, that the magical movies fairies brought me is a slightly different cut than the one I saw originally. I'm assuming it's the R-rated version rather than the unrated, but I'd swear there are other differences, lines in one missing in the other that would have nothing to do with the rating. If I weren't a little bit tired of this one I'd get copies of both and compare them, but honestly I think I need to watch another movie for a while. I'm on a Crispin Glover kick; I may bump Willard to the top of the queue.