Here is the 4-page movie herald for Bulldog Drummond Strikes Back 1934. Debonair Ronald Colman again stars as the urbane adventurer fighting crime. Lucille Ball makes an uncredited appearance as a bridesmaid. In 1947, another Bulldog Drummond Strikes Back starring Ron Randell hit the screens. Warner Oland (aka Charlie Chan in 16 movies) provides the sinister machinations in this pre-code B thriller.
I first took this trip on Terror Train for the anthology, Butcher Knives and Body Counts: Essays On the Formula, Frights, and Fun of the Slasher Film, edited by Vince A. Liaguno and published by Dark Scribe Press, 2011. Unfortunately the book is out of print, but if you can find a copy…
“Death?” I asked.
“An infinitely large house in which you never have enough fresh towels and somebody is always in the bathroom ahead of you,” said Zombos, tipping the last drops of Royal Brackla from his glass onto his tongue.
“Interesting,” I said. We were whiling away the moments of boredom with a word association game. I finished my Manhattan. I like it with three dashes of Angostura bitters and two ounces of Italian vermouth. “How about…slasher?”
Zombos slumped in his leather wing chair, deep in thought. I waited. The triple-chime from the Promoli fantasy clock on the mantle roused him.
“Shake and Bake,” he answered.
“Shake and Bake?”
“Yes. You know the slogan; gotta be crispy, gotta be golden, gotta be juicy.”
“I don’t see how it relates to the word slasher,” I said, still perplexed.
“Simple enough. Take one big, unsympathetic, psychopathic killing porkchop of a silent killer, add frisky-until-dead young adult seasonings, shake vigorously in a plastic see-through bag, then cook until the red juices flow.”
“I’m not sure it’s always that simple,” I said.
“How so? Can you name me one slasher film, not including Psycho, of course, that is not prepared out of the bag?” Zombos slumped back down, content he was right.
“Terror Train,” I said without hesitation.
He sat upright. “Terror Train? How is it different from every other slasher?”
“Well,” I began, Kenny, the killer, is a sympathetic average kid, smaller than a porkchop, and he doesn’t use weapons bigger than a toolbox or need gasoline. More importantly, although he can whip up enough masculine aggression to commit messy murder, he’s somewhat confused and definitely uncomfortable with expectations about his gender, leading to his inability to blend into being an insensitive, oversexed clod like the other frat boy jocks. It’s their in-your-face masculinity that terrorizes him enough to turn him into a screwball hell-bent on revenge.”
Zombos interlaced his fingers and settled back into his chair. “I recall the film.”
I continued. “Sure, it blends those elements we’ve come to expect: a holiday—New Year’s Eve—timeframe; a fairly isolated location created by the premed kids renting an antique locomotive—without a working radio—for a last fling party before graduation; and a traumatic backstory providing the impetus for mayhem. But…”
“But?” repeated Zombos, listening attentively.
“While the plot is threadbare around the fringes, there’s a tad more complexity weaved into the characters than first meets the eye. Certainly more than today’s bland seasoning of young victims,” I said.
“Really? How so?” asked Zombos, leaning forward to refill his glass.
I took a breath and continued. “You can see a spectrum of masculine certainty all the way to uncertainty on display, from the comfortable manliness of Ben Johnson’s train conductor to the gender-bending masquerade of Kenny, who has no social identity of his own, nor clear sense of his masculine side. Now in the middle, to provide contrast, you have Jaime Lee Curtis’s Alana, who is firmly feminine with masculine sensibilities bordering on manliness, and the queer relationship between Hart Bochner’s Doc Manley and his best bud—and Alana’s boyfriend—Mo.”
“Queer in the sense of gay?” asked Zombos, holding his glass midway, waiting for my answer.
“Well, yes and no or even maybe. I don’t think the use of the name ‚Manley, is by accident. Doc is certainly jealous of Mo’s relationship with Alana, and does everything he can to sabotage it. Is he just a control freak or is there something deeper going on? On the surface he comes off as being obnoxiously masculine, yet when Mo is killed, Doc acts like he’s lost more than a friend when his emotions overwhelm him. I would even go so far as to say he acts more feminine when and after it happens. I mean he freaks over the sudden loss and lovingly cradles Mo in his arms as he screams for help. I think he has a stronger bond with Mo than just frat boy friendship; I think he’s in love with Mo.”
Zombos downed his drink in one gulp and leaned forward. “Let me see if I understand you. Kenny, the killer, is confused about his gender—”
“Let’s say he’s made very uncomfortable because of it,” I added. “Before Doc Manley suckers him into bedding down with a ripe autopsied corpse, sending him to bedlam for three years, we know Kenny is shy and frail in both appearance and spirit, awkward in his physical sexual identity with the girls, and a misfit in the college social scene because of all of the above. Sadly, this makes him more of a real character, someone many of us can relate to from our own experiences with the social scenes in high school and college.”
“And Doc Manley is compensating for his unwanted mixed-gender identity by outwardly acting more masculine,” said Zombos, “but inwardly feeling more feminine in his relationship with Mo,” as more of a thought than a question.
“Which is why Doc scapegoats Kenny,” I said, completing Zombos’s thought. “Deep down, Doc is strongly attracted to Mo, but Doc knows to fit in on campus he’s got to play the machismo card, the ideal-of-manhood expectation college society expects of him: jock, alpha male, and lady-killer all rolled into one neat little package; which can become problematic if you’re gay and sensitive or straight and sensitive. So Doc takes out his frustration over this unwanted, but still strong, feeling toward Mo by playing his sadistic joke on Kenny in an attempt to exert his control over it. So, you see, there’s more to this story than the usual hack and slash.”
“Indeed,” said Zombos. “With what you have just said, Kenny’s transvestite disguise and costume swaps with his victims can be viewed beyond their utilitarian plot-use for hiding his true identity aboard the train.
“Definitely,” I replied. “While he changes into the costume of his latest victim to more easily commit his murders, he doesn’t need to masquerade as the magician’s female assistant. Just before the train leaves the station, he murders that annoying jokester Ed, and uses his Groucho Marx costume as a disguise to board the train. So why does he bother to masquerade in drag, at all? Is it just a pretense, or is it really who Kenny feels most comfortable with being?”
Zombos sat back in his chair and thought about what I said. The clock chimed half-past the hour as he continued to mull the question over. “Because…,” he finally said, “the relationship between the magician and Kenny mirrors the relationship between Doc Manley and Mo.”
“Bingo!” I said. “Ken, the magician played by David Copperfield in an almost effeminate manner, becomes infatuated with Alana. Kenny, who has feelings for Ken, eventually murders him out of jealousy. I admit I’m stretching a bit here, but there’s no explicit reason given for killing Ken. He just winds up skewered through the ears. But the relationship between Ken, and Kenny as his female assistant, and Doc’s relationship with Mo, contain some tantalizing similarities too good to ignore. It appears the costumes weren’t the only disguises in use aboard that train.”
“But when Kenny eventually confronts Alana for that kiss he never got,” said Zombos, “he goes off his rocker again, and relives that night three years ago.”
“That’s right,” I explained. “He realizes, after all this time, her kiss doesn’t make any difference. It doesn’t resolve his gender identity confusion as he hoped it would. Alana represents the feminine and masculine in harmony, something which Kenny cannot resolve. Curiously enough, the resolution is provided by Ben Johnson’s assured manliness wielding a mean axe.”
I prepared another Manhattan while Zombos poured another drink, but added more ice this time. We sat in silence for a little while.
“Jaime Lee Curtis,” said Zombos.
“Hot, take-charge babe,” I answered, then said, “Ben Johnson.”
“Saddle soap and Old Spice,” he answered.
We continued our word association game until the sunlight crept quietly into the library and the soul-lifting aroma of Chef Machiavelli’s Turkish coffee drew our attention elsewhere.
This striking lobby card, with its garish graphics and perfect inset scene, is more effective than the movie. Instead of a blazing hell-fire hound, this movie’s dog is rather docile when attacking anyone. Add the ludicrous head-piece to the scrawny four-legged fiend and any potential excitement is sucked away pretty quickly. With Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing (both men played Sherlock Holmes at various times), you would expect more Hammer terror. The travails of getting a “suitably ferocious Hound on film” are detailed in Brian Patrick Duggan’s excellently researched Horror Dogs: Man’s Best Friend as Movie Monster if you would like to know more.
“If any of you want to accompany me to the cemetery
you better get ready. I’d like to know who died.”
Zombos Says: Poor
Ripped from the case files of the League of Reluctant Reviewers comes this bizarre interpretation of a horror movie. It is incomprehensible. It is Spanish. It is nonsensical. It is so bad it is as much fun to watch as to belittle. It is Necrophagus, aka Graveyard of Horror, aka The Butcher of Binbrook. Since the direction is amateurish, the acting wooden and the script confused, one can only conclude that it was Nieva’s Eastmancolor cinematography that won the film first prize at the 1971 Festival of the Cine de Terror at Sitges. (The Overlook Film Encyclopedia: Horror)
“Your hand is shaking Mr. Bolton,” observed Chalmers as he ushered me into the familiar room. He was right.
The weather had turned wetter, chillier, and foggier than was usual for May. That was my excuse anyway. My hand started shaking during the long walk to 999 Transient Street, the club where the League of Reluctant Reviewers hung out. I only come here when Zombos and Iloz Zoc do not want to bother themselves with reviewing certain movies. You know, the difficult ones. The movies normal people feel ashamed to be caught dead watching. Those guys act like critic-wimps sometimes, especially when Paul Hollstenwall is involved.
Man, that guy savors dreck like bears lick honey.
I have taken this trip often enough thanks to Paul, but it is rare for my hand to start shaking. The hand that holds the DVD. It was shaking badly now; almost as bad as when I had brought The Human Centipede to the club the other night. But that’s another story. A real wild one. I must still be shell-shocked from that escapade.
“Perhaps I should take your wet coat and that DVD,” he suggested. He shook the drops off my coat while gingerly easing the DVD from my clenched fingers.
I usually bring the DVD to the Champagne Room myself, but this time I let Chalmers do it. He led the way. The owner of the club, the unseen man with
chalk white hands and a voice as smooth as velvet, sitting in the Chippendale wing chair always facing the fireplace, welcomed me in.
“And what have we tonight?” he asked, reaching out from the chair. “Hopefully, nothing as, shall we say, challenging as that previous movie?” He chuckled, but a little nervously.
Chalmers gave the DVD to him. Both hand and DVD withdrew behind the chair.
“Ah, I see. This should not take too long at all, I think.” A white hand reached out to ring the bell sitting on the small table by the chair while Chalmers escorted me to the small waiting room, where a comfortable settee and comforting drink awaited me. This time Chalmers chose a warm Tom and Jerry
instead of the usual chilled sherry. Good man.
I closed my eyes and let the hot liquid dribble down my throat, and waited for the League of Reluctant Reviewers to once again do their review magic.
A mad scientist, somewhat dead and feeding off corpse liquors to stay that way; a gaggle of women prone to hysterics and fits of slapping each other; and a skulking cemetery keeper, Mr. Fowles (Victor Israel), who gives googly-eye stares and never changes his clothes, infuse Necrophagus with
unintentionally humorous melodramatics topped off by an inane story so incoherently told you will need to search Google for understanding it before
you see it.
Even more surprising, you can’t blame Jess Franco or Paul Naschy for this one.
The short of it has handsome Lord Sherrington (Bill Curran) return to his family castle in Scotland (actually shot in Spain) to find out what happened to his wife Elizabeth, who died in childbirth. Sherrington’s brother, a research scientist (or something like that) also happens to be missing. A lengthy
narration at the end of the movie explains what his brother was doing and why he went missing, but at this point, for anyone still watching, it comes too late and doesn’t explain much anyway.
The long of it has two doctors acting rudely and mysteriously; Elizabeth’s frisky sisters and a niece (sorry, no nudity) either pining away for or fainting over Sherrington’s affections; the cemetery keeper skulking around a lot with his annoying pop-eye stare; Sherrington’s fondness for playing a tune—which sounds very much like On Top of Old Smokey—repeatedly on his harmonica.
Yes, a harmonica.
Add a police inspector investigating the brother’s disappearance (at least that’s one possibility for the policeman’s loitering around the castle since no reason is ever mentioned), two Scream-like robed and masked attackers loitering around the cemetery day and night, and another doctor who must be a villain because each time he enters a room, the camera zooms in on his face while zither-like zing-zing-zing musical notes alert us to his potentially
villainous role.
There’s also a fast change of seasons with snowball fights and summer-like greenery mixing together within a time period not more than a week or so long by my reckoning, so that’s fairly confusing, too.
When Lord Sherrington insists on playing his harmonica and seeing his wife’s body, he’s rebuffed by the doctors and the cemetery keeper. Entering the cemetery at night, he starts flinging dirt at the camera—pretty funny, really—as he digs up his wife’s coffin to find it empty. More dirt is flung at the camera as he digs up other coffins, also finding them empty. The two robed and masked loiterers knock him out cold and drag him someplace where a pulsing mound of dirt has tubes running out of it. He wakes up. Something in the mound of dirt wakes up. He screams a lot and that’s all we see: him screaming a lot.
Director Miguel Madrid’s penchant for close-up monster point of view angles, showing people on the ground screaming and holding up their hands to fend off an attack from the unseen growling something, don’t do much to raise the scares. Needless to say, Sherrington goes missing; but not his harmonica, unfortunately.
Endless scenes with the gaggle of women reminiscing over their lust for him (or perhaps it was his lusty harmonica playing?), berating each other for their lustful reminiscences, or holding hands and looking scared as they go searching for him in the Scottish castle that’s not in Scotland, round out the rest of the 80 minutes or so running time. As well as close-ups of a gloved hand poked into an overcoat’s pocket, moving from room to room, legs walking, and startled faces, punctuated now and then by the first few notes of On Top of Old Smokey or zing-zing-zing music for dramatic effect to complete the tour de force of cinematography on display here.
I’m being sarcastic.
When the monster finally does show up it goes after a girl so it can pointlessly carry her unconscious body in its arms while walking into a hail of police-fired bullets. Scratch one monster posthaste. Devout fans of early 1970s Spanish horror movies will argue Miguel Madrid brilliantly and intentionally fragmented Necrophagus by shooting it non-linearly and then raggedly cutting his scenes to create disorientation in the viewer.
Don’t believe them.
Zombos Says: Are You Kidding Me?
Disclaimer: Zombos’ Closet cannot be held libel for the loss of precious holiday time or mirth should any reader decide to ignore the numerous warning signs in this review and purchase, open, and view Santa Claws alone and/or sober. By reading this review, said reader releases Zombos’ Closet and its heirs, in perpetuity, from fault, risk, and all future liability or damage that may occur from such viewing.
“How long has he been like this?” I asked.
“For the past half-hour,” Glenor Glenda said.
“You should have called me sooner?” I felt Zombos’ faint pulse.
“He said he wanted to watch something different,” said Glenor. “I didn’t know.”
“How can you not know?” I held up the offending DVD, Santa Claws, while admonishing her.
“But Paul Hollstenwall said Zombos asked for it specifically—”
“Paul! So he’s the one to blame for this. The last time he was here he wasted our time with Neon Maniacs. I can’t believe he’d stooped this low. The man is incorrigible; a menace to decent horror fans everywhere.”
“I told Paul he shouldn’t. I told Zombos he should have gone to you first,” Glenor said with tears in her eyes. “But Zombos said it didn’t matter, that he wanted something new, something totally different to watch. He said he was too old to play it safe anymore. He’s been that way ever since his birthday.”
“Well, the damage is done. I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” I said, lifting a brandy snifter to Zombos’ lips. The color was gone from his cheeks. “At least with Paul Naschy movies I have a chance, but this? I’m not sure how to bring him back to sanity.”
Zombos was grayer than usual and his breathing was short and shallow.
“What was that?” I asked. I leaned closer. Zombos’ lips had moved, and a faint whisper caught my ear. “Say again?”
“Nudie-cutie,” he managed to whisper. “I just…wanted…to see…nudie-cuties. My god, it was beyond horrible.” He took the brandy snifter from me and held it in his trembling hands.
“Nudie cu—” Glenor started to say.
“That will be all, Glenor,” I said, interrupting her. “I can take it from here. Thanks!”
She left the room. Zombos slowly recovered in-between sips of brandy.
Nudie-cuties, scream queens, bodacious tatas—none of this can save Santa Claws. It’s a movie not to see alone or sober. It stands as the perfect equivalent to bituminous coal: sufficient punishment for any horror fan on your Naughty Horror Fan holiday list. Sleazy synthesized background music, ear-numbing dialog delivered through cereal box acting, and sloppy camerawork all bump and grind together, along with the T and A, in this one shoestring-budgeted movie.
The cinema-train wrecks in the first five minutes when dubious horror overwhelms the night before Christmas cheer, and another young soul is damned and primed for future killing. Director John A. Russo (yes, that guy of Night of the Living Dead fame) mires blue-tinted, mismatched close-ups with a wobbly pan to find little Wayne (Christopher Boyle) sleeping on the couch in the living room. In the bedroom, his mom is frolicking with a naughty man. The man wants to open his present early, but she’s afraid Wayne will wake up. He tells her he spiked Wayne’s hot chocolate with two sleeping pills to knock him out. She smiles and quickly displays her ample stocking-stuffers. Wayne, who apparently dislikes hot chocolate, wakes up and interrupts their sleigh ride. The boy is so upset—though you can’t tell by his acting—easily pulls a loaded gun from a dresser drawer. They plead with him using dialog so bad I also wanted Wayne to shoot them.
He does, they scream, and the years and holidays fly by.
Now free from prison, grown-up Wayne (Grant Cramer) is working publicly as a teacher’s aide and acting privately as a weirdo. When he receives his very own Raven Quinn (Debbie Rochon) life-size—but armless—mannequin from Scream Queen Magazine (a dubious promotional tie-in to be sure), he starts getting all dreamy-eyed as he admires its certificate of authenticity. Now there’s a true collector: I would have been happy with the 12-inch doll.
The mannequin looks nothing like Debbie Rochon, the real-life scream queen who plays the fictional Raven Quinn scream queen. Rochon has arms, killer legs, and a beautiful smile. Apparently the props department did not have enough money for doing a life mold of her, so they used a commercial mannequin’s torso instead, cutting off its arms and adding a black wig. One clever and creepy touch—actually the only clever and creepy touch—has Wayne dropping packing peanuts over the mannequin’s head as they dance. This is as artistic as it gets.
While Wayne admires and listens to his mannequin, the real Raven Quinn picks up her two children from her in-laws—her gallivanting husband’s mother and sister—who chide Quinn on her chosen profession. We learn Wayne lives next door to Quinn and acts like an uncle to her kids. As the kids run off to play, she and Wayne spend the next three hours sitting on the sofa—wait, I’m wrong, it only seems like three hours—proving why movie-making is a visual medium by boring us to death with their inactivity and mindless chit-chat.
For a psycho-teacher’s-aide-horror-memorabilia-collector (no insult intended to any teacher aides who are horror memorabilia collectors), who has the ‘real’ object of his obsession this close, not much heat or psychosis is shown. When Quinn comes on to him, he still doesn’t do anything. No, wait, he does: he goes back to express his love to the armless mannequin.
Then he decides to start killing people.
Just like that.
He goes to Scream Studios and kills a nudie-cutie, but not before she gyrates and completes her important shower scene acting moment; then he goes after the producer, who shoots Wayne at point-blank range. This being a no-budget movie, the blanks do no harm.
Scratch one producer.
Now let me reveal the spoiler. Are you ready?
To kill his victims, Wayne uses a prop from one of Quinn’s horror movies on gardening. I think it the documentary called Fertilizer of the Damned, or Weed Be Gone to Hell, maybe. Anyway, the gardening tool is a puny three-pronged weed-puller. We never actually see Wayne use it. He waves it around, and then there are a few drops of blood followed by a body slumped on the ground.
Let’s move on.
Wayne complains to his stoic mannequin how everyone needs to pay. It’s not clear for what, but he’s certain everyone needs to pay. Meanwhile Quinn tries to get back with her husband, but he’s bedding down with another nudie-cutie, providing ample opportunity for more T and A. With no one noticing the producer is missing, more nudie close-ups fill screen time while “Uncle” Wayne drugs Quinn’s two little girls’ hot chocolates and goes shopping for a Santa Claus suit. Right! That’s the tie in to the movie title. It’s the only tie-in.
More nudie-cutie shower scenes ensue with another potential victim; she takes her shower, she answers the phone, she chats for a moment or two, then she goes back to take a bath.
But didn’t she just take a shower? Who is she anyway?
We don’t find out.It’s just another randy, randomly inserted shower/bath scene with a well-endowed randomly inserted naked woman.
Wayne, dressed as Santa, shows up and kills her. I don’t know why and you wouldn’t, either. He just shows up and kills her. This is the only time he wears the red Santa Claus suit. He spray paints the suit black. Another inexplicable action left unexplained, but I thank god little kids everywhere are spared having a red-suited Santa slaying around without his sleigh.
In a flurry of scenes, it’s Quinn’s turn to start flashing her T and A—but we cut back to Wayne doing?—Nothing, really, so we quickly cut to Quinn’s errant husband returning home to find the kids knocked out on the sofa——And now we’re back with Quinn being nicely naughty with a cuddly stuffed toy—No! Back to the house and a frantic call to the in-laws—Yes! Back to Quinn strutting her assets for the camera; she takes her top off and then—No! We’re back to her husband running over to crazy Wayne’s house—Yes! Back to Quinn playing with her two big, unwrapped, Christmas presents.
So much for building tension (the dramatic kind I mean) as it’s killed during this inane scene and theme shifting. But like they say in those annoyingly loud infomercials, “Wait, there’s more!”
Black-suited Santa Wayne attacks Quinn’s husband, then goes after her. In one last breathtaking struggle—I was excited the movie was almost over—Wayne and Quinn’s husband go hand to hand (more like hand in hand the way the action was staged).Quinn grabs the weeder and plunges it into Wayne.
Finally, The End.
Bring Christmas cheer by leaving this one on the shelf.
Give a tie instead.
Zombos Says: Good
“What are you doing?” asked Zombos.
I dog-eared the page I was reading.”I’m sorry?”
“You have not written your review of The Final Destination,” he said.
“Death goes a-deathing. People die horribly. What’s more to say beyond that?
“You see, there, that is your problem. You are not creative enough. Now, I have been thinking of ways you can
add je ne sais quoi to your reviews. They have been rather stale lately.”
“Really?” I said, but not with much enthusiasm.
He continued, ignoring my lack of enthusiasm.
“Yes. For instance, why not look at doing a review in a completely different way.”
“Way?” I asked.
“Way.” He jabbed his right forefinger into his left palm.” Take The Final Destination.” He rested his forefinger on his chin. “Let me think, yes, I have the
perfect answer to creatively review it: Walt Whitman.” He waved his forefinger for emphasis.
“Walt Whitman?” I asked.
“Yes, Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass: I hear America Singing. There. Now go, fly with it!”
He flew out of the room, leaving me with one of those conundrums in a peanut shell situation we all face now and then. I seem to get them a lot, though.
If Walt Whitman were a zombie he’d eat me for sure after this.
I Hear the
Deathly Screaming
in The Final Destination
I hear Nick
and Lori, Hunt and Janet screaming, and cussing, and breathing heavy and hard,
their varied shrieks of fear I hear,
From death’s
mechanics, each one swung with his scythe wide, as it should be blithe
and strong,
whilst whacking heads and limbs akimbo, bone and muscle, and formerly high
spirits,
into fallow,
shallow ground of McKinley Speedway,
and
everywhere else they run
Nick
shrieking his premonitions, he measures his chances, nail and coffin width
long, as George the security guard runs in fright from his inevitable
smackdown, tries hanging himself,
but still no
good
Lori hissy-fitting her bewilderment as she makes ready for ignoring death’s
hooves fastly approaching, or leaves off
salvation by not believing in Nick’s foreshadows of graveyard co-ops, for all,
coming soon enough,
Hunt
bemoaning Charon’s dire boatman dirging of what belongs to him in his rotting
boat, the pool man cursing the
sticky mess Hunt leaves behind, all suckered innards spouting in fountains of
grue, clearing out the pool real fast, as sparking electrical circuits burn
bright
Janet
screaming as she drives through her car wash, the bristly-brushes whizzing
closer as she sticks her head in their way,
but stay the Grand Guignol hand and spoil the girl,
to vain thoughts of
giddily escaping death’s plan
until later, when he can dish it out even worse, of course
Lori’s song
of mistaken relief, the deathboy’s not on his way in the morning, or at nooning
intermission, or at sundowning, to sharpen his blade ‘gainst wet red oozing
twitching body parts
The
delicious grinding of the escalator, or zinging of the shearing metal flying,
or the phat tire splatting, or the
air-compressed canister flattening, all in marvelously punctuated 3D
Each groaning what body parts belong to him or her and to no one else, though
it’s all mixed up
The day what
belongs to death—at night the parade of dead
teens, robustly still dead, or dying, or waiting their turn
Screaming with open mouths,
when left intact,
their strong outcries in stereophonic crescendos, ‘gainst awaiting another
destination,
’cause it ain’t over yet ’til the fat lady gets hers
or the
audience stops coming,
but then they’ll reimagine,
rework,
rewrite,
rethink,
rekindle
this franchise till no one else remains,
but death grinning over all
Zombos Says: WTF?
I grabbed Glenor Glenda’s elbow as her foot slipped on the ice water puddling across the Mongolian teak wood floor of Zombos’ study. She composed herself, slid the steaming hot mug of Satan’s Balls back to the center of her serving tray, and properly presented Chef Machiavelli’s frothy and zesty spiced rum-cocoa concoction—splashed with peach-ginger–to our shivering and quite unexpected guest. Our housekeeper waited expectantly as he took a sip and neatified her uniform with much suspicious intent.
“May I get you a blanket…Mister…? Glenor asked.
“Lucifer. Oh, hell, let’s not stand on formality, just call me Luc, okay? You’re a darling, but I doubt a blanket would help.”
Lucifer’s long red tail waved excitedly as he sipped his drink.
“By Tartarus! This drink is wicked bad! And you say your Chef doesn’t use any black arts? Amazing! My three-eyed cook couldn’t find her way round a souffle, even with her two heads. Damn creature burns everything. Ah, this sinful beverage is heating up my rump. In spite of all the fur in my nether region I was going numb down there, you know.”
He winked at our usually flirtatious housekeeper. Glenor giggled.
I cleared my throat. She stopped giggling.
“Oh, jealous are we? You needn’t be.” He winked at me and flicked his tongue in a devilish manner. Glenor clapped her hand to her mouth stifling another giggle. My withering glance at her helped keep it at bay.
I was desperate. “Zombos! Any luck?”
Zombos was standing behind his Carlton House desk, holding the phone in one hand and a thick legal document in the other. Every now and then a few more sheets of paper slipped from the document and fluttered to the floor. He shrugged. “Sosumi is looking into it. He does not know how this could have happened.”
Sosumi ‘Jimmy’ Jango was Zombos’ crackerjack estate lawyer.
Lucifer finished his drink and smacked his lips. I motioned to Glenor to bring another one for our frisky guest. It looked like evening vespers would be well over by the time Zombos found the document we needed.
“What is that Jimmy?” said Zombos into the phone. “It is in Attachment 66? Okay. Okay, I will look for it.” Zombos hung up the phone. “He is almost here. He said to look for—”
“Attachment 66, yes, I heard,” I said.
“Ouch! Oh, you devil!” gasped Glenor with delight.
I looked at Glenor.
“He pinched me,” she said giggling as she hastily left the room.
I looked at Lucifer; he shrugged, smiled, and winked again. I looked back at Zombos imploringly. “Let’s find that attachment pronto, shall we? Did you check the Wooten? You tend to bury things in there pretty well.”
“Of course!” Zombos turned around and quickly opened the doors of his Wooten desk. The two places Zombos relies on to hide, store, or forget things are his closet and his cherished Wooten desk. Since the Wooten desk is smaller than his closet, I figured it would be easier to search first.
“Well, I’ll be,” said Zombos.
“You found Attachment 66?” I asked.
“What? Oh that, no. I found my set of Brasher Doubloons. I was wondering what happened to them.”
“Great, I’ll let Philip Marlowe know. What about the legal document?” My spirits were sinking fast.
“No, I do not see–wait a minute.”
“Yes?”
“I found it!” Zombos said triumphantly.
“Thank god,” I sighed. Lucifer cleared his throat. “Sorry,” I said, shooting a glance his way.
When I looked back to Zombos he was doing the walk the dog move with his gold-trimmed Duncan YoYo. That’s what he had found. I sighed again. There but for the grace of God I thought. Lucifer cleared his throat more loudly and gave me a smoldering stare.
“We really need that legal document…now!”
“Oh, yes, yes. Let me see.” He put the YoYo back and opened another draw. “Here it is.” He held up Attachment 66. “Let me see, now. Jimmy said to check the waiver at the bottom of page 13. Hmm…hmm…not good. Here, you better read it.”
I walked over to Zombos and he handed the document to me. I mentally translated the waiver’s legalese as I read it. Hidden in all the mumbo-jumbo was the stipulation that if the New York Times ever printed a movie review that was favorable toward a movie that I, acting as Zombos’ agent, reviewed negatively, hell would most certainly freeze over. I glanced over at Lucifer sitting uncomfortably on the large block of ice. So that’s why both of them suddenly popped up around midnight.
“But this is impossible,” I said. The New York Times has never given a favorable review to any horror movie I disliked. It’s always the opposite. They never give favorable reviews to horror movies I like, either.”
Glenor Glenda ushered an excited Sosumi Jango into the room. He furiously waved a copy of the New York Times.
“I found it!” he declared. “It’s Jeannette Catsoulis’s review of Tokyo Gore Police.” He unfolded the paper and read the review out loud. “Propelled by geysers of blood and tidal waves of neuroses, Tokyo Gore Police plumbs wounds both cultural and physical to deliver splatterific social satire.”
I was dumbfounded. Had she seen the same movie I had?
“Ouch! He pinched me,” said Jimmy, pointing at Lucifer.
“What?” shrugged Lucifer. “I can’t help it. I like lawyers.”
“It just doesn’t make any sense. This movie is simply not worth all this bother,” I was bewildered.
“Let me see your review for the movie,” suggested Jimmy, rubbing his behind as he stepped to a safer distance. “I can’t give you any reasonable council until I see it.”
Lucifer laughed. “I’ve not had this much nuisance since Daniel Webster stirred up a dickens’ worth of trouble and kicked me out of New Hampshire. Thank the fallen there are forty-nine more states, I can tell you that. And the lord knows I love congress. Wouldn’t be any fun without them.”
“Hold that thought,” I said and ran up to my attic office to retrieve my laptop. Still huffing and puffing after running back down, I showed Jimmy my review. As he read it out loud, Lucifer was enjoying another mug of warm comfort while Glenor made sure to stay within pinching distance. The woman is incorrigible.
Here’s what Jimmy read:
“Within the first half-hour of watching Tokyo Gore Police I realized it was going to be a transgressive tour through the cineburbia of outrageous gore and absurd social commentary, far away from movie Main Street. Surprisingly, it works for about the first half-hour, but begins to take questionable—albeit scenic—detours through RoboCop-styled commercials lampooning Japanese consumerism, Japunk-technorumble filled with bed wetting-inducing Rob Bottin-styled monstrosities comprised of squishy-gooey latex body parts glistening with stringy mucus highlights; and hacked limbs spouting endless geysers of blood saturating everything, including the camera lens. A chewed limp penis, one monstrous erect penis, chip and dip ankle drilling, a golden showering chair with vagina, and pretty women turned into grotesque objects of perverse desire, meld non-stop into arthouse incoherence. This Pachinko parlor’s worth of bright colors and frenzy left me wondering when exactly director Yoshihiro Nishimura let the special effects department direct his movie.”
Jimmy stopped reading and looked at me. “What’s this mean in English?”
“Just read on,” I said. He continued.
“The Scooby-Doo-simple story centers on Ruka (Eihi Shiina), a grown up, silent, and self-mutilating daughter traumatized after she sees her police officer father assassinated. She now works for the police as a special agent. She has issues. Ruka repeatedly slices into her wrists with a razor before going after a cannibalistic Engineer who is dining on his latest victim like a heaping serving of human sushi. Engineers are serial-killing criminals who can morph their wounds into weapons. Using a bazooka, Ruka blasts herself into action as her fellow officers, questionable members of the privatized Tokyo Police Force, are cut to pieces by the Engineer’s newly acquired chainsaw appendage. These opening moments are fun to watch because everything is so seriously over the top and Ruka wields a mean cleavage—with her Samurai sword.
“After Ruka does some ice-sculpting with the Engineer’s own chainsaw—using him instead of ice—the remains are brought back to the dirty and dreary police morgue. The hunchbacked, one-eyed coroner with a spring in his step and clothing like one of Hostel‘s housekeeping staff”—
“I love Hostel,” said Lucifer. “I almost died laughing it was so funny.”
—“searches for and finds the key-shaped growth found in every Engineer, which gives them their ability to mold tissue into lethal weapons. Someone known as the Key Man is responsible for mutating people into maniacal killing machines.
“That is as much story as you will get jammed between the dolled-up, blond-haired police dispatcher with her bubble-gum explanations and lively commercials extolling stylish self-mutilating box cutters, in assorted colors, and remote torture family fun for society’s deviants. Prolonged blood-fountain fanboy-favorite gore shocks provide the sticky action and, apparently, the main appeal this movie has for many reviewers and horror fans.
“The piece de resistance is the fetish club an off-duty police officer visits. It defies conventional or even tasteful description (not that many real fetish clubs could be described conventionally or tastefully). Women, grotesquely mutilated, are displayed as sexual objects to satisfy the appetites of the club’s vinyl-clad patrons. The officer loses his head over one woman (guess which head, I dare you), but winds up with a much bigger one. Under the control of the Key Man, he returns to the precinct to show it off to his fellow officers with lethally envious results.”
Jimmy stopped reading. “Does this get any better?” he asked.
“No, the movie doesn’t,” I said.
“I meant your review.”
“Just keep reading,” I said.
“Ruka eventually confronts the Key Man, who tells her the truth about her father’s murder, and reveals those responsible. As she goes after her father’s killers, the Tokyo Police Force goes crazy and begins attacking citizens.
“Not sure why. Not sure the director knew why, either.
“One person is drawn and quartered while others are shot, stabbed, hacked, and (insert your own favorite gore gag or body disassembly gimmick here).
“With little said and much mayhem done, Tokyo Gore Police will undoubtedly become a favored cult classic for some and a Pepto-Bizmol moment for others mostly due to its zeal for incomprehensible distastefulness.”
Jimmy closed the laptop’s cover, tapping it again and again while he weighed his thoughts, then stopped. “I got nothing.”
I slumped into the Regency sofa. Zombos practiced his Double Gerbil move on his Duncan YoYo, and Glenor Glenda busied herself by doing nothing.
“Wait, I have it!” announced Jimmy after a few moments reviewing the documents on Zombos’ desk. “It’s here on page 777, under Rider to Attachment 66, ‘herein to be known as Clause 3, otherwise referred to as the Two-Thirds Clause. If both parties agree to unbinding arbitration, dissolution of prior binding agreements, notwithstanding mutually agreed upon settlements of pre-existing or ongoing issues, will supersede, preclude, and nullify Attachment 66. Whereby the second party, hereafter referred to as Lucifer (also known as, but not solely restricted to, Mephistopheles, Asmodai, Beelzebub, Satan, Belial, Abbadon, and Mr. Scratch)—’ ”
“That’s my favorite,” Lucifer interrupted. “Has a nice inviting and unassuming ring to it, doesn’t it?”
” ‘Mr. Scratch,’ ” continued Jimmy, ” ‘and the first party, hereafter known as Godfrey Daniel Zombos and his dutifully bound executor, Iloz Mordecai Zoc, representing his living and or dead or quantum situated estate, including but not limited to chattel, codicils, bequests and residues and residuals wherever presumptive and inclusive, may reach mutually satisfactory resolution by invoking the Two-Thirds Clause.’ ”
Jimmy read the rest in silence, then said “All right, then. Now we just need to find out what this clause is.” He looked through the papers in his hands. Not finding it, he turned to the papers scattered on and around Zombos’ desk. Soon he was on his hands and knees examining each sheet on the floor and under the desk.
“Damn your souls to Hades with all this nonsense,” rumbled Lucifer. “It’s like waiting for a miracle. Enough of this! Time for the Four Horsemen!”
Lucifer reached into his Loculus.
Glenor Glenda dropped her serving tray and turned pale. I felt my heart suddenly pound against my chest. Jimmy banged his head against the desk in his haste to stand, absently crumpling sheets of paper in his fists as he stared at Lucifer in desperation. Zombos continued to practice his Buddha’s Revenge with his YoYo, oblivious to the impending doom about to embrace us all.
He almost had it, though. “Don’t do it!” yelled Jimmy. “We can
work this—”
Lucifer pulled out a bright red iPod classic. “What’s that you say?” he asked, pushing the earbuds into his
pointed ears.
“Nevermind,” said Jimmy, exhaling. He looked at his balled fists and loosened their death grip on the crumpled sheets.
“The Four Horsemen‘s 666 song is my favorite,” said Lucifer. “I like to crank up the volume on that one. Then again, I like to crank up the volume on everything.”
“Hey, here it is!” Jimmy triumphantly held up a crumpled sheet of paper in his right hand. He uncrumpled it, reading it as he did so. ” ‘The Two-Thirds Clause is described herewith. Should the party of the first part and the party of the second part mutually agree to arbitration by a party of the third part, satisfaction of encumbrance will render null and void all prior commitments, restrictions, and privileges pursuant to Attachment 66. Third party arbitration may be satisfied by agent or agency not associated with, bound to, or administered by either party. Third party agent or agency must show no prior agreement with either party of the first part or their executing authorities, dependents, and antecedents.”
We anxiously waited for the translation.
“It says that if we find someone else who always disagrees with your reviews Zoc, but who would, for this one time, agree with your review of Tokyo Gore Police, Attachment 66 would no longer apply. Of course, it would need to be someone not associated with you, and who has, up until now, always showed the opposite of your opinions and tastes in horror movies.”
“What the devil,” I stammered.
“Yes?” asked Lucifer, removing an earbud.
“No, not you.”
Lucifer popped the bud back into his ear.
“This is impossible. Who are we going to get who has always shown the exact opposite in their cimema taste to mine and whom would suddenly agree with me? It would take a mira—”
“So what’s all this?” asked Paul Hollstenwall entering the room. “I kept ringing the front doorbell. Chef Machiavelli finally let me in.”
Paul waved hello to Lucifer. “Dude, that’s some serious Face Off makeup you got going there. Hexcellent! What are you guys doing? Hey, am I being punked? That would be so awesome.” He looked around the room for a hidden camera.
“Paul, now’s not a good time,” I said.
“Wait a minute. Now I get it. You and Mr. Z are Larpers! Man, how cool is that! Looks like you got some weird sh*t going on. I bet the devil’s in the details , right? Anyway, I was passing by on my way to Jersey to catch Vampire Breakfast Club. I tried to Twitter you but I kept getting that stupid ass whale. Wanted to tell you to forget my tweet on Tokyo Gore Police. Saw it last night. Lame with a capital LAME. I was so disappointed it cooled my beans to zero. Now Drag Me to Hell was awesome.”
A car horn sounded.
“Gotta go before my date gets pissed at me again. Later.”
Paul flew out of the room. A moment of silence followed.
Jimmy looked at me. Zombos looked at his fingers tangled in his Cat’s Cradle. I looked at Lucifer. He removed his earbuds and nodded.
“Agreed! Most certainly, agreed.” He stood up.
Thunder shook the room and the ice block Lucifer was bound to split with a sharp crack, then shattered, sending glistening shards into oblivion. His massive hooves clattered on the floor as he stretched to his full height, dwarfing us in his spreading shadow floating across the floor.
“The last time I heard a sound so sweetly soothing was when I teased Moses into breaking those two little tablets of stone.” His voice, now unfettered, rebounded off the walls like the echoes in a sepulcher. His eyes glowed brighter than red hot iron.
“Be seeing you,” he said with a nod to me.
His arms and legs erupted into plumes of red smoke as his torso disappeared behind a shower of white sparks. His face lingered for an instant, alone in the air with a chesire-cat’s grin lingering behind. With a wink of an eye and a devilish grin, he vanished in a flash of crimson fire.
Now what did he mean he’ll be seeing me? I thought.
Hellz n’ Bellz
Hellz n’ Bellz
Screaming all the way!
What the hell, am I to do
With my horror fan’s gift-buying today, hey!
“Well, what are you waiting for?” insisted Zombos. “Stop daydreaming and get out of the damn elevator shaft already.”
We were playing Alone in the Dark and I kept getting killed. I refocused my attention and pulled my thoughts back from dwelling on the early days of PC games, keyboard and mouse controls, and cheat codes–lord knows I could use some omnipotence now. I stared at the Nunchuck and Wii-mote in my fumbling hands. My awkward, entirely useless hands, struggling to master the rudiments of the life-like motions and ‘A’, ‘B’, ‘Z’, button-presses needed to save myself–damn, fell down the elevator shaft again. Where is that ‘-‘ button anyway, and how do I use it to get past those blasted exhaust fans?
“You’re impossible,” encouraged Zombos, grabbing the Wii controls out of my hands. “Go do something useful, like putting together a book gift-buying list or something.”
Now that was a good idea…
…
Howdy Pardners! Tie up your horse and mosy on over to the chuckwagon. We’ve got steamin’ coffee and sizzlin’ beans, and a month’s worth of favorite posts from the notorious League of Tana Tea Drinkers horror ranch lined up and waitin’ for you…yeehaw! (This article originally appeared on March 2nd, 2009.)
And Now the Screaming Starts had trouble choosing a favorite, but here is its most visited post of the month, Sweet Little Thirteen. Perhaps the strangest phenomenon spawned by the Friday the 13th remilkshake is, unlike the treatment of the original, this flick has entered the pop culture sphere with a resounding shrug from the non-horror world.
The Vault of Horror explores what disturbs Karl Hungus in An Exploration of Fear. Greetings once again Vault dwellers, it is Karl Hungus here, so do not adjust your set, I am now in control of the transmission. It’s amazing how much excitement can be derived from exploring our own anxieties in this way, with a good Horror film, we come face to face with so many negative emotions, and come out thrilled at the end.
Dinner With Max Jenke shares the love for one of the lesser-loved Friday the 13th’s in Friday the 13th Part V: A New Beginning. This controversial attempt to continue Friday the 13th after 1984’s The Final Chapter didn’t win many fans at the time of its 1985 release. And in fact, it hasn’t won many more in the twenty-four years since then, either.
Mad Mad Mad Mad Movies was surprised by La Residencia (The House That Screamed). By this point in my movie-watching career, there are certain known quantities when it comes to watching Mad Movies. For instance, my tastes being what they are, I pretty much know going in to a movie by Paul Naschy, Jose Mojica Marins, or Jean Rollin that I’m going to find something to make my heart beat a little faster; similarly, I’m fairly confident that most Eurocine productions are going to leave me crankily unsatisfied.
Billy Loves Stu takes us on a 60’s romp with Nich&Katherine&Chad&Michelle, and Baghead. From its poster’s homage to that swinging 60’s romp, Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice, to its Blair Witch Project meets Body Double by way of Friday the 13th, Baghead is one beguiling and entertaining film.
Final Girl does something “a wee bit different” with a cheeky-monkey-hilarious comic strip review of Trilogy of Terror II. Don’t miss it!
Kindertrauma picks something it hopes is “not too weird” with Eden Lake. Maybe I’ve got a bit of that Stockholm syndrome because even though I got my ass handed to me, I can’t let go of the fact that EDEN LAKE, vicious as it may be, really is a good film.
So there you have it Buckaroos, until next time. Happy Trails to you!
Let’s applaud the hapless victims in horror films. They contribute so much to our enjoyment of their terror, their hysteria, and their blood. They are sliced, diced, minced, blintzed, mangled, strangled, eaten, beaten, slurped, blurped–feel free to insert your own action verbs here–and grilled and chilled in countless ways, just to make us jump in our seats, upchuck our popcorn, or tickle our fright-bone. They lighten our distressing job’s tedium and those tomorrow’s and tomorrow’s and tomorrow’s doldrums. Their witless, death-attracting antics creep forth in an endless and frenetic pace from film to film, keeping us happy–because we are not them.
The more paranoid you are, the safer you are, that’s the public service message every horror movie leaves us with. Anyone who takes a dirt road detour, leaving the sureness of good solid tarmac beneath their wheels, well, what more can be said? If you follow directions from a toothless, unwashed, gas station attendant with expensive tourist swag in his unkempt excuse for living quarters, you’re just begging for it: the drawn-out and quartered, bloody end of it. But if all horror movie victims acted smart and careful we would be bored stiff because nothing bad could come of it. So why do we keep writing books that show potential victims how to survive?
…
The Horror Movie Victim’s Guide to Being a Good VictimRead More »
In my younger years, it was an odd thing, but in times of stress I dreamed about zombies. Not the pleasant “hey, let’s dress up like zombies and stagger around the mall” on Saturday kind, but night-sweat, run like hell, sorts of dream zombies. Perhaps it is not so odd, being a horror fan and all that, but it was still disturbing all the same.
Usually, the zombies were lying in wait in some dark place I knew I should not enter. Either a basement or hallway or a road I was driving lost on. The bad situation was like a movie cliche that repeats itself with a bit of new set dressing and characters each time, except for the zombies and the overwhelming fear that eventually forces me awake. What causes this fear is still a mystery to me. A clear case for psychoanalysis for sure.
It all started in my teens, intermittently at first, occurring more often until a sort of closure dream ended it for a long time. That recurring dream was either a door to a weird-looking house, or the opening to a dark cave, or a door to a room down a long hall. There were no zombies then, only an omnipresent fear that where I found myself I should not be, and what lay behind the door or in the dark cave should not be seen.
This went on for a long time too. I did not sleep then nearly as much as I do now, but still it made sleep an often nerve-tingling experience. Each time I seemed to be a little closer to reaching the doorknob or entering the cave, but each time the fear took control, forcing me awake to avoid it; unreasoning fear, visceral fear, a fear only the chaotic subconscious or dark Thanatos could wield so potently.
And then one night it stopped in this way. The closed door, this time, led into a large dark house with many windows. I stood outside, looking up at the windows, then looking down at the door. It opened! I froze. From one of the windows a man dressed all in black, and wearing a top-hat, suddenly leaned out and shouted to me “it’s showtime!” He disappeared for a moment, then reappeared, holding a skinned torso in his arms. He began to toss it down to me. Instead of the fear that had so often forced me awake, this time it forced me to run through the open door. Now here is where it gets really weird.
Entering the house suddenly placed me on a sloping, mountainside path. It was dusk, and snow started to fall, dusting the path. I was alone at first, but a man, dressed in a gray robe and holding a staff, from which a yellow lantern glowed, started walking up the path toward me. I could hear bells as he came closer. When he passed me without a word, I felt the need to follow him. I did. We continued walking in silence. The snow grew heavier, and his lantern glowed more brightly with each step we took up the mountain path. Suddenly, his lantern glowed a very bright white light, filling my vision until there was this–the best way I can describe it–pop. It was a feeling more than a noise, and I woke up with a feeling of complete peace. The fear, fostered by whatever lay behind those doors for so long, was gone, and did not return; until my later years.
Now, I dream of being on a strange train or bus going in the wrong direction or trying to make a connection but I keep getting on the wrong train or bus, suddenly stranding me in an unknown place: a weird seaside part of a city or a street with lots of cars but no taxis and no public transportation, where everything is closing and night is coming, and I have this urgent need to find safety.
Of course, there’s the other nightmare I have now and then, where I’m in some public place like a mall and need a bathroom, but there aren’t any, so I keep searching and searching. But being older, I think those dreams have more to do with my prostate than my pysche.
So, what nightmares are you having? Sleep much?
Sugar and spice and everything nasty and not very nice; that’s the usual scenario when evil kids go out to play in the horror genre. But there’s something not quite right here. Children in real life rarely have power over adults (unless they are royalty or Disney-channel stars), while in the horror genre they wield enough power to make any and all adults quake in fear or drop dead. How can this be? What elements combine to turn all that sugar sour and comforting cinnamon spice into hot pepper? Why do they scare us so much, or traumatize us, or make us wish they would go away and play with their nastiness somewhere else? From zombie kids to Satan’s pride of joy, from juvenile serial killers to mutant offspring, the little evil ones bedevil us.
The following members of The League of Tana Tea Drinkers lend their thoughts on the subject for your edification pleasure. (This League of Tana Tea Drinkers article was originally posted on June 10, 2008)
Vault of Horror talks about the evil destruction of childhood:
For the longest time, horror films and the concept of childhood have had a complex relationship. This has much to do with the fact that one of the central themes of all horror entertainment—if not the central theme—is the corruption/destruction of good by evil.
Childhood as an ideal represents nothing as much as innocence in its purest form. And innocence itself is the ultimate distillation of “good”. Perhaps this is why both creators and audiences alike have often had something of a difficult time dealing with it within the horror medium. Because childhood represents the ultimate good, the corruption/destruction of that good is the most extreme form of evil that most of us can imagine. Very often it is simply too much to bear.
This is why, for as long as horror films have been around, the ultimate taboo, the one area most have avoided like the plague, has been the murder of children. True, there have been notable exceptions over the years, movies like Frankenstein (1931), The Blob (1988) and Sleepy Hollow (1999). But for the most part, filmmakers keep away from it, as exemplified most vividly in some of the Friday the 13th movies, in which Jason will literally walk past the beds of sleeping campers and keep his focus on the counselors. For most of us, violence against children is something we don’t really want to see in horror movies. It’s not fun or entertaining, and unfortunately, all too painful and real.
Which brings me to the original topic: Evil kids in the horror genre. Ruling out the literal destruction of the child, the closest most horror creators choose to come is the destruction of childhood. If horror is all about the corruption of good, then the corruption of the ultimate good, the innocence of childhood, is about as evil as it gets.
For this reason, the depiction of evil children stirs up deep feelings of dread and revulsion in many viewers. We innately perceive it as a gross affront to the natural order of things. Something within us senses this perversion, and recoils from it. Evil adults we can handle; most of us deal with them on an almost daily basis. But evil children? And by this I don’t mean the bratty kid on line at the grocery store who won’t shut up—I mean genuinely, truly evil children. An utterly alien concept.
Some of the genre’s finest works have mined this motherlode of subconscious terror: The Omen (1976), Halloween (1978), The Ring (2001), and most recently, The Orphanage (2007). It works to particular effect in William Friedkin’s masterpiece The Exorcist (1973), in which we literally witness the purest and most innocent little girl imaginable defiled and twisted by a wholly evil force into an obscene mockery of nature. Though flawed, Stephen King’s Pet Sematary (1989) pulls off a powerful combination by presenting us with the ultimate taboo (death of a child), followed by the perversion of innocence, as the child returns in evil form.
In short, it is this underlying sense of profound and incomprehensible wrongness that causes us to fear the so-called “evil child” in horror movies. It is also the subconscious connection to the ultimate act of corruption—the literal corruption of the flesh itself, i.e. the death of the child. Sublimating this primordial horror in the form of corrupted childhood thus becomes a safer way to scare the crap out of us, without offending.
…