Call the Fremonts, fast! And for Pete's sake, don't let them eat anything!

Okay, so, I have learned my lesson about setting myself assignments. I have one more Evil Dead post to write, or rather one more chapter in a marathon essay. But I don't feel like writing it, and knowing that I'd said I was going to do it, I didn't want to write something else, and now I've seen both Blood Feast and Rob Zombie's Halloween and written about neither. So: I will be returning to The Evil Dead at some point, but for now it's just going to have to wait.

So I rented Blood Feast.

Wow. Just... wow.

I admit, I'd never seen a Herschell Gordon Lewis movie before, and I didn't know what to expect. I guess he got a little overhyped. I've read a lot of Joe Bob Briggs, obviously, and I realize that the drive-ins didn't ask for a lot in terms of writing or production value or acting or ... well, anything besides some fake blood and a few breasts. But for Cliff's sake, this is godawful.

I can put myself in the shoes of someone who'd never seen someone's head lopped open and their brain scooped out, to whom the intersection of naked occasionally under-dressed women and bloody violence was a new concept. From that point of view, I can see how the boob-flashes plus the bloody wrist-stumps and disembowelings would be a mind-blower, and who cares if the dialogue is laughably awkward or the acting is well below the standards of community theater.

The effects are pretty tragic as well, though I guess at the time they would have been shocking. I've always thought that one of the reasons Night of the Living Dead works as well as it does is that it's in black-and-white, which nicely masks the cheesiness of the effects; one of the problems (also one of the strengths, I'll grant you) with Dawn of the Dead is the intense 70s colors, rendering the zombies bright blue or green and the blood day-glo red, shading occasionally into an almost neon fuschia. Blood Feast suffers from the same problem; the effects might be a little more gruesome if they weren't quite so... loud.

And the acting... oh, the acting. You'd have to be weird or desperate to take a job in this kind of movie back then, I suppose. So desperate because literally nobody else would hire you to say words in front of a camera (and, in these folks' case, not without reason), or so weird that you could not go amongst normal people. Basically, these are actors and technicians who made this movie while they were waiting for Ed Wood to get the funding together for his next flick.

As a piece of film history, it's sort of amusing. As actual entertainment, it's unwatchable. See if you can scout out a scene on YouTube, or watch the first couple of scenes and then call it quits: it's not getting any better, and that's forty minutes* of your life you can't get back.

Next up on my drive-in history tour is Bloodsucking Freaks. I've read extensively about it, which will probably guarantee more disappointment. But seriously, it's got to be better than this.

*Drive-in movies were no doubt shorter than we expect these days, though I also wonder if footage got excised from this little epic along the way; it clocked in at barely 50 minutes when I saw it.

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.

Do you feel something? Anything?

So the movie I wanted to post about shows no signs of magically appearing at my house. I probably ought to try actually buying it, or at least renting it, before I despair at that state of affairs. But I also ought to go ahead and post this wordy-as-hell review, sadly image-free. I'll embed the trailer at the end, anyway -- the quality is crap, which is a shame because the original looks surprisingly good for something so low-budget -- but it's something.

The Wizard of Gore. No, not that one. The 2007 remake of the Herschell Gordon Lewis classic (or "classic," if you prefer): directed by Jeremy Kasten of The Attic Expeditions, who wants very much to be horror's answer to John Waters. He's... not.

The film also stars Brad Dourif, Jeffrey Combs, Crispin Glover and former child actor Josh Miller (of Near Dark and River's Edge, making a return to the screen after many years' hiatus).

It seemed like a sure thing. And as the opening credits rolled, I started to warm up to that glow of cinematic satisfaction that I was expecting. Under the title, rich retro textures and some gorgeous music accompanied the printing of a newspaper on a manual press by a man drenched from head to foot in blood. Cue me and a bowl of popcorn planning to have a lovely night.

And then cue the "wah-wah"s of disappointment kick in as the actual movie starts, and the happy glow begins fading almost immediately.

It doesn't help that the film's second scene is set at a trying-too-hard L.A. underground Halloween party, which the lead character then ironically describes as trying too hard. It is the first, but not the last time that the whole thing is a little too on-the-nose, a little too self-congratulatory. Yes, movie, we see that you are too good for this kind of orchestrated anarchy. And yet, here you are, ogling the Suicide Girls. (Which... oh, I'll have to get to that later.)

But the thing that everyone talks about when they discuss this movie is the plot, which makes NO SENSE. Well, actually, when you watch the movie a second time, the plot holes you thought the movie was getting lost in seal themselves up, but a thousand little ones re-open in their wake (I'd almost suggest that the film's final magic-show setpiece was a clever allusion to that fact, but... it's not). And that may be even more irritating, because you find yourself wondering if the filmmakers didn't pick up on those, or just didn't care, and moreover you find yourself pausing every couple of minutes to talk to yourself to be sure that there couldn't be a way for what you just saw to actually hold together in any coherent narrative fashion.

Kip Pardue plays a dilettante journalist who is by his own admission simply a collection of retro aesthetics: in every sense, an empty suit. He's just another bored hipster spectator with too much money and no sense of self. He has a girlfriend to condescend to and an assy loft apartment with no post-1970 technology. One night, he decides to go to a magic show with the same aimlessness he seems to do everything, but the show changes him in ways he spends the next two hours unraveling.

The thing is, if they'd just gone ahead and let the narrative blow itself to hell and not tried to make it make sense, I think the movie would actually be better. But instead we have a deus-ex-Jeffrey Combs wedged in at the end like it's a Scooby Doo episode. Just let the movie get lost in psychedelia and weirdness, and what you've got is a movie that follows happily in the footsteps of the trippy sixties exploitation films that its parentage would imply. Try to turn it into a murder mystery, pretend that all the clues fit together, and instead what you've got is a desperately unsuccessful and vaguely pedestrian genre film.

And the squandered potential is what really gets me about this movie. Here's the thing: most of the individual scenes work okay. Well, no -- every scene where Kip Pardue has someone else to play off of or isn't central to the scene is internally good. But put together, the film falls completely apart.

Pardue is a serviceable leading man, but I think he lacks the depth or charisma to pull this part off. It's not entirely his fault: Ed Bigelow is a deeply unpleasant character, and I'm still on the fence about whether the creators realize how much so. On the commentary, somebody -- possibly the writer -- was characterizing Ed's shifts of identity, saying, "'I'm a modern primitive! I'm a retro asshole!'" So somebody gets it, that the character is an asshole. And the thing is, a fascinating asshole can make for a great central character, but it's really hard to pull off. In Kip Pardue's performance, I can't say there's anything fascinating.

And again, this is wasted potential, because he's surrounded by a cast so wonderful that I actually got all tingly when I first discovered the film on the IMDb.

Montag the Magnificent, the enigmatic magician with a killer sawing-the-lady-in-half routine, is played by Crispin Glover, who basically defines fascinating. Glover's inspiration is said to have been Siegfried and Roy, and... wow. Yeah, that's in there, and in the creepiest possible way. One of the reasons Montag is such a great character is because he's so utterly ridiculous -- you would laugh out loud at him and his campy patter if he weren't so malevolently terrifying. Oily, grotesque, and deeply unsettling, Montag works perfectly in the movie that this should be, and with a different (better) main character and narrative approach, would have been.

And then there's Brad Dourif, who apparently was doing so many movies he couldn't remember which script to use, intimidated the crap out of everyone on set, and wears truly spectacular facial hair. Honestly, he's doing his Brad Dourif schtick. I can't say it's unique here, but it's always, always entertaining.

Another familiar face is Joshua Miller as Ed's bored, jaded best friend; Miller is back in a movie for the first time in almost ten years here. I was a little worried that what he brought to Near Dark was as much a function of his youth as his actual talent -- that his Homer worked on the strength of his baby face and ancient eyes as much as the work he was doing. But I think my concern was probably unfounded. I would admit that he seems vaguely -- rusty? That may be just because of what I went into the film already knowing about his career. But there was still a bit of what I want to call immaturity in the performance. Nevertheless, he thoroughly overpowers Pardue in their scenes together, and so much the better. In fact, if it were up to me I'd probably do away with Ed and make Jinky the main character; the movie loses a lot of steam when he makes his exit.

Oh, I suppose I should talk about Bijou Phillips as the female lead, but... why bother? Maggie has absolutely no personality. For that I'm prepared to place equal blame on the creators, who seem to have no interest in her as anything but a plot device, and Phillips, who is unbelievably irritating. (She's also saddled with some truly unfortunate hair and makeup, but that's just icing on the cake of an utterly forgettable role.)

Jeffrey Combs -- I won't say anything about Combs in the movie, other than the fact that he is, of course, grand. His role has some surprises that I don't want to blow.

But let me go back to Maggie for a minute, because I do write about women in horror, and The Wizard of Gore is the textbook definition of "problematic" in this regard. The character is so slight that she basically disappears down one of the film's more gaping continuity rabbitholes: in brief, the only backstory offered for the character is completely impossible within the narrative sequence of events proposed. I could explain the whole thing, but suffice it to say, we're left knowing absolutely nothing about her that makes any sense. She is so irrelevant that what she might be or might have been independent of Ed simply evaporates.

And this is one of the subtler examples. Much like the first scene I described, the film revels in its own vapid misogyny, then pats itself on the back for calling itself out as misogynist. And the filmmakers do the same thing on the commentary, with the writer ribbing the director at one point, "Hey, I'm not the one who made the misogynist movie!" Guys, admitting that your movie is misogynist doesn't make it okay, it just opens the door for you to actually offer a comment on misogyny in movies, in horror, in society -- just SAY something. All you did is have Maggie say, hey, that guy Montag's routine is misogynistic, y'all. And then you let -- spoiler alert for those of you who've never seen a horror movie before -- both Montag and Ed brutally murder her. So now, Pretentious Filmmakers, you've made a misogynistic movie, and said that your film was misogynistic. And yet again, no one with a double-X chromosome has made it to the last reel. Am I supposed to be impressed?

And that's before we even get to the Suicide Girls. They apparently partly bankrolled the picture, and so a whole flock of them have bit parts, largely as victims. In this picture, their role has not changed much since Herschell Gordon Lewis -- or, indeed, since the pale dead maidens of pre-Raphaelite painting.

And obviously the Suicide Girls out in the real world are a troublesome but ambiguous symbol -- does their embrace of a retro aesthetic and various forms of decorative self-mutilation simply echo in gothy flavors the physical distortions of a mainstream fashion model? Or do they assert their autonomy and right to choice and self-determination by defying Western society's insistence on keeping women safe and clean and quiet? Does anybody care now that they've basically faded into cultural irrelevance? I don't know the answer to any of those questions, though I could probably generate a paper about it.

But in this context, pulled from coy online photos and inserted into an exploitation horror film, any pretext to autonomy or self-determination they might have is stripped away under Montag's drug-induced hypnosis. Stripped, tortured, and eventually murdered for the benefit of a paying audience, they are rendered, as Montag himself precisely notes, meat.

And yet: I recommend the film. It's worth seeing for a brilliant performance by Crispin Glover and the reappearance of Joshua Miller, and the general hotness of both of the above. At the very least, I recommend it to those who enjoy a gory romp for its own sake and revel in a psychedelic mindfuck even if it ultimately disappoints.

But I do think it's kind of ironic that the film actually isn't nearly as bloody or gory as the creators seem to think it is (I saw the unrated version, and I have a hard time picturing what didn't make it into the R-rated version); there's better splatter out there. I'd say it's probably exactly as bloody as fans of the Suicide Girls can stand.

Every town has an Elm Street.

All right, so I promised a spirited defense of Freddy's Dead: The Final Nightmare. The problem now is that I've just watched the trailers for the next Harry Potter film and I am so excited, y'all. It looks to rock like a rocking thing. And now I may be way too excited about Harry Potter to put together any coherent thoughts on the subject at hand.

Sorry, Freddy. Aw, don't give me that look. No, you are better than Harry Potter, really.

Okay, here's the thing: I'm not saying Freddy's Dead is a good movie, by any means. No, it is not even a mediocre movie. It is a bad movie, an exceptionally bad movie. But I've never thought it was the worst of the series by half, and have always felt like some outrageously silly and ill-conceived moments have gotten it a bad rap.

So I know that it is often silly and stupid, and that the 3D ending was a stupendously bad idea, and that the video game death really is the worst in any of the movies. But I want to highlight some of the redeeming qualities of the film, without denying any of those fully valid criticisms.

First of all, I love this bunch of kids. They're the first post-Roseanne teenagers in the series, and the kind of kids you actually don't see that often in horror movies. They aren't especially attractive (granted, I always had a thing for Breckin Meyer, but I'm fairly sure I was in the minority on that one), they don't have cookie-cutter suburban lives, and there are no cheerleaders or nerds. They're like the Breakfast Club if all of them had been Judd Nelson.

She wants to be Darlene Connor so bad she can taste it.

The backstory on Freddy is kind of fun, and suitably weird. Alice Cooper was his father, which would make anybody a little bit odd.

I'm of two minds about expanding on Freddy's story; I realize that it does probably detract from his pure monstrousness. In the first film he's barely a memory and it's his very vagueness that makes him so terrifying. But a familiar monster also grows in stature as his legend does, I think, and as Freddy gains more of a story to tell, he becomes increasingly mythic.

In this one, Freddy's actually scarier without the makeup.

Freddy's house has gotten a bit of a makeover in this one, which works quite well for me. The blue lighting and cobwebs were getting a little campy by the end, there, becoming more carnival haunted house than horrifying outpost of evil. The abandoned look expressed in dirt and grime and decay reminds me of the house in Clive Barker's Hellraiser, which also gave me the willies.

There's a scholarly paper in the way the decay of Freddy's house mimics the real-estate-related terrors of his aging fan base -- which is why I'm not in grad school anymore.

The opening sequence is a good setup and the total mystery about what the hell has happened to the town is well-played, I think. I particularly like the spectral bus stop. Plus, let's face it, Bob Shaye actually is kinda creepy looking, so his cameo here is awfully appropriate.

Yes, Peter Jackson got into a feud with this guy. But then, he's hard to scare. Except with crickets.

Speaking of cameos, you've gotta like Johnny Depp's little cameo. (Side note: you know how there are several actors from the series at the funeral scene in New Nightmare? Apparently Wes wanted to ask Johnny Depp to do it but was afraid to. And then Johnny told him later he'd have been happy to do it. How awesome would that have been? And knowing he did this dreck, did Wes really think he'd turn them down?)

I like the creepy little girl; she's just creepy enough, without being too obvious. Which the children in white weren't to start with, but they kind of got done to death by the fifth movie. Which was, I might add, in my estimation actually substantially worse than this one. This movie veers into a trippier, harsher tone from the previous couple of movies, which had become almost fantasy, an excuse for increasingly absurd transformations and dream sequences. Freddy's Dead has, at the very least, a fairly credible set of characters and an attempt at recapturing the series' bite.

The town going completely mad after all of the children are killed was, I think, a weird and bold move. The creators have admitted that they'd been watching a lot of Twin Peaks, and it shows. In fact, if you put Roseanne and Twin Peak in a blender with a gallon or two of fake blood and a big hunk of cheese, you might get something like this movie.

And the powerful female characters in this movie are one of the things it takes from the influence of popular texts of the time, like Roseanne. I love Lezlie Dean's Tracy, cliche though she seems now. I love that there's no "good" girl, no cheerleader, no "hot" girl -- just Tracy, who'll happily emasculate any man who gets on her bad side. She's like if Kat from 10 Things I Hate About You was in a horror movie instead of a comedy.

As Ani Difranco put it, "I am not a pretty girl. That is not what I do."

And then there's Lisa Zane's Maggie, who I also love. She's down-to-earth without being naive, good without being innocent, and kicks ass without losing her shit completely. She feels like a worthy successor to my girl Nancy, and I don't think I'd say that of any other Elm Street heroine (except Heather, but that's obviously too weird to get into and the stuff of another post). She brings a welcome maturity and substance to a subgenre largely dominated by dimwitted teenagers.

(There would be an image of Maggie here, but I don't have this on DVD and can't find a nice one out on the Internet. Alas.)

As for Maggie being Freddy's child, I've actually always kind of liked the idea, though I thought it was pretty hideously handled in the film. There were some nice moments -- I like the confrontation between them in Maggie's dream, as she relives a childhood memory and tries to resolve the father figure she seems to have loved with the gruesome discovery in the cellar. Of course the whole thing devolves into silliness in the end, which is perhaps the film's most unforgivable shortcoming, but for a moment the prospect of real darkness looms.