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By Kit Rathenar

There are certain things that have always, historically, been the province of teenagers in a way that they can never quite belong to any other section of society. Every generation thinks they invented sex, drugs and rock’n’roll; and in a sense they’re right, because these are rites of passage such that it doesn’t matter who’s done them before. When we’re doing them for the first time, at that moment they belong to us alone.

Horror movies – we all know it – fall into that category, too. We sneaked into eighteens under-age, we dared each other to watch things that we knew we were going to regret, and we’ve all got that one movie that we scared ourselves to death with at some impressionable age and still can’t watch without a shudder. It’s just the way it goes. But there’s one other great cultural icon that resides in this teenage territory, and that’s cars. Even in England learning to drive and getting your wheels is still something special, and in America the First Car has been elevated to the status of a cultural cornerstone. And thus, it makes a certain sense that cars – like sex, like drugs, like rock’n’roll – are a hand-in-glove fit for horror.

Unsurprisingly then, when Stephen King, acknowledged master of the all-American nightmare, wrote Christine he did a damn near perfect job of deconstructing the American teenage boy’s traditional love affair with his chosen wheels and remaking it into a thing of terror. His handiwork is fully acknowledged and honoured in John Carpenter’s 1983 adaptation, which has obviously made a very close study of the original story. Christine seems to have become something of a forgotten entry in Carpenter’s lengthy filmography – certainly compared to the likes of The Thing, which directly preceded it – but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad film. It’s arguably a little lightweight in its conception compared to many of his better known works, but as early-eighties genre horror goes, it remains a pleasure to watch.

Though I’m probably biased, I admit, because I love cars. And I suspect you have to love cars to fully appreciate this film. If you’ve ever had that one perfect marque and model that you wanted more than life, if you always zero in on the stray copy of What Car? in the dentist’s waiting room, you will have no problem buying the premise that a shy, geeky young man might find the love of his life rusting away in a back lot. You can probably imagine exactly how he feels. And indeed if anything, the biggest problem Christine faces is that because its audience will recognise the sentiments at play, it has to work quite hard to make its monster an authentic monster. What’s so bad about a car that looks out for you, can take care of itself while your back is turned, handles all its own repairs and maintenance, and is quite literally willing to do anything for you? In your heart of hearts, it’s hard not to think: well, nothing at all, really. This is probably why both the book and the movie share the same slightly forced quality – Christine, the red and white 1958 Plymouth Fury with a jet black heart, is a gasoline-drunk teenage boy’s dream machine, so it takes a lot of narrative effort to make her convincingly evil enough that you’d want to see her destroyed. And for me, despite those efforts that still never quite happens; I watch this film and I love it, but definitely not for the inevitable events of the last ten minutes. Rather I love it for the gorgeous classic American cars, the mingled rock’n’roll and spine-tingling eighties synths of the soundtrack, and the visual spectacles and thrills of genuine terror that it offers. The scene of Christine running down her tormentor Buddy Repperton on an empty back road, sliding through the darkness with her entire frame wreathed in fire, chills me to the bone every time.

Since this is a John Carpenter movie, though, the other thing I find fascinating about it is the characters, because the characterisation in Christine is very, very classic Carpenter. While King’s original cast are fairly well preserved and translated to the screen, on top of this framework Carpenter has definitely added a layer of his own tendency to exaggerate and idolise the unreconstructedly macho. The male cast here are archetypal, at times two-dimensional, but believable and vital; by comparison the women, even when they impact on the plot, are unrealised ciphers who never really rival the forcefully projected and often violently expressed emotions of their male counterparts. But the all-important exception to this is Christine herself; who manages to convey more character depth with only her radio and the look in her headlights to communicate through, than do the rest of the female cast put together. This is really only fitting, however, since she is, after all, in truth the leading lady of the film. One key regard in which Carpenter’s adaptation diverges from King’s original is that King’s Christine seems to have started out an ordinary car, and the evil in her is a heritage of her previous owner; Carpenter’s, however, hasn’t even rolled off the production line before she’s showing her true bloodthirsty colours. It’s a change I like, since it frees Christine to be both figuratively and literally an entirely self-driving element of the story. Without her actions, intentions and emotions, there simply wouldn’t be a plot to begin with – the rest of the cast act and react around her, but always with reference to her and in response to events that she alone sets in motion.

And this is why, despite the fact that it’s by no means the most profound or truly frightening of John Carpenter’s movies, I’d still say Christine is well worth seeing – as it’s a credit to any director’s talents if he can take a non-speaking, non-human main character and make them believable as a narrative prime mover, and here, Carpenter successfully does just that. Sure, the movie has dated, if only because it’s so strongly located in its signifier place and time (although the special effects hold up surprisingly well) and it does conform very strongly to the mould of eighties genre horror, but if you have any nostalgia at all for that particular cinematic era, Christine is an above-par example that you might well have missed. Likewise if you’re a Carpenter fan in general; this may not be one of his signature films, but if you like his style you’ll probably still find something to enjoy here.

Just don’t watch it right before you have to do any night driving, that’s all…

By Stephanie Scaife

In the words of John Carpenter, “Cronenberg is better than all the rest of us combined,” and arguably he may indeed be correct; but what is irrefutable is that Cronenberg is the founding father and grand master of body horror, with a singular vision that is quite unlike any other filmmaker. Starting out, perhaps unsurprisingly, as a student of biochemistry (with a particular enthusiasm for entomology), he became interested in film whilst at university and later founded the Toronto Film Co-op with Ivan Reitman, who would go on to serve as producer on his early films before moving to Hollywood and forging a career as a director himself. Cronenberg’s auspicious beginnings in science are apparent throughout his films, with their central themes of mad science and its relationship to and interference with the human body, which is more often than not manipulated into something monstrous.

From Shivers in 1975 to Dead Ringers in 1988, Cronenberg had perhaps one of the greatest runs of any director, making consistently impressive and significant films that would have a massive impact on the horror genre and which proved to be eerily prophetic. Seriously, this guy is like a slightly nerdy looking Canadian version of Leonardo Da Vinci with an obsession for Freudian imagery and the deterioration of the body. From the concept of “downloading” in Scanners to the idea that technology would become inseparable from real life (“Television is reality, and reality is less than television”) in Videodrome, he was way ahead of his time. During this period of Cronenberg’s career Videodrome sits in the middle, somewhere between his early schlockers and later more mature films, and although it would never quite garner the critical praise of The Dead Zone or The Fly, it is one of his most influential films as well as being one of my personal favourites along with The Brood.

For those not already in the know, James Woods stars as Max Renn (named after Cronenberg’s favourite motorcycle) who runs a small television network out of Toronto that specialises in cheap and salacious material. Always on the look out for a quick buck Max sees the potential in Videodrome, a show picked up by a pirate satellite dish that is essentially just torture and murder, set in a single room with no plot. Max starts a relationship with sadomasochistic radio host Nicki Brand (Debbie Harry) and embarks on a mission to uncover the source of Videodrome, gradually uncovering the conspiratorial layers of its intention and origin. Gradually he starts to experience violent hallucinations, losing touch with reality.

Cronenberg was a child when the television became a commonplace household item. At that time nobody knew the long term effects of exposure to such a device, and there was a definite sense of unease around new technology. This feeling was also exasperated by the fact that after Canadian broadcasting shut down in the evening, a young Cronenberg was able to pick up television signals for the US. In interviews he has said that at the time he felt unclear as to what he was seeing and where it was coming from, heightening this suspicion of the technology and giving him the inspiration needed to write Videodrome as an adult, also perhaps giving rise to Max’s increasingly hostile relationship with his own television in the film.

These childhood experiences combined with the furore surrounding the introduction of VHS and the lack of a regulatory system at the start of the 1980’s further informed the inspiration for Videodrome. Cronenberg wanted to explore if what the censors were claiming was indeed possible; that by viewing certain material it posed potential harm to the audience. In Videodrome, however morally ambiguous and opportunistic Max may be, he is still the voice of reason, and when asked, “But don’t you feel such shows contribute to a social climate of violence and sexual malaise? – and do you care?” he replies, “I care enough to give my viewers a harmless outlet for their fantasies and their frustrations. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a socially positive act.” What is interesting though, is that although much of the film could be an argument that watching violence does have a negative effect on the viewer, Cronenberg turns this on its head by revealing that in fact the signals can be transmitted through any television programme; it doesn’t have to be the sadomasochistic snuff films shown on Videodrome, meaning that just the act of watching television regardless of the content is potentially damaging. It is instead the plan of capitalist despot Barry Convex to purge the country of the viewers who would choose to watch such programmes. Much like Max, we as the audience begin to question exactly why we have an interest in watching something so horrific, and at one point Convex asks, “Why would anyone watch a scum show like Videodrome?” which may as well be a direct question to the audience as well as to Max.

Nicki Brand is a fascinating and somewhat contradictory character. On the one hand she is a no nonsense woman who embraces her sexuality, and although a masochist, she is clearly not a victim unless she chooses to be one. Max and Nicki’s burgeoning relationship becomes focussed on Videodrome, and although reluctant in the beginning Max soon starts to see the appeal of the violence and the destruction of the flesh and as a result of Nicki’s encouragement they push the boundaries of acceptable sexual behaviour. On the other hand however, there is something not quite human about her; she is mysterious and strangely monotonous and could very well be a projection of Max’s psyche. She disappears quickly after their initial meetings and subsequently only appears to Max in visions and through his television screen. She could be read as a precursor to the age of internet pornography that we currently inhabit, where sexual deviancies are readily available at the click of a mouse and are now changing the way in which we view and experience sex. Nicki is Max’s fantasy, someone to broaden his horizons and open new doors, much like the internet (for better and for worse) has done for the masses. We are no longer tuning into secret satellite frequencies to grasp a glimpse of something subversive, instead it is part of the mainstream and everyday life. The new flesh, as it were, is constantly on the surface and no longer a part of the underground, presenting new possibilities for pleasure and perception.

One of the most striking things about Videodrome is its troubled production and how little this noticeably affected the final outcome. There were constant re-writes and even after completing principal photography Cronenberg still had no clear idea of how the film would end, which resulted in having to go back to do pick-ups and essentially editing together an ending that made sense to him. In fact the first draft of the screenplay (originally titled Network of Blood) was considerably more outlandish than the finished product, supposedly including a scene involving Max, Nicki and Bianca all with invaginated stomach gashes having a sort of orgy whereby their hands transform into mutated sexual organs. Unfortunately for all of us, due to production running behind schedule and Cronenberg being unsure of whether he could successfully create the scene, it meant that it wasn’t to be. Also somewhat surprisingly it was this version of the screenplay that attracted all of the major talent including Woods, Harry and special effects maestro Rick Baker, but perhaps that’s just testament to Cronenberg and his unique vision as a writer and director.

Even 30 years on Videodrome has much to offer the viewer. It is an audacious piece of work even for Cronenberg, showcasing some truly spectacular visual effects along with some of his trademark obsessions and visual tics. At the time it was obviously satire, but it’s astonishing (and slightly terrifying) just how accurately he predicted our present relationship with technology. Surely it’s only a matter of time now, so in anticipation – long live the new flesh!

By Nia Edwards-Behi

A woman rents a lakeside cottage in order to retreat and spend the summer months writing her first novel. Her arrival attracts the attention of four local men, who proceed to stalk her, attack her, repeatedly rape her, then leave her for dead. The woman is not dead. She takes time to recover, before returning to exact precise and deadly revenge on the men who raped her. The simplicity with which I Spit on Your Grave can be retold in synopsis undersells the film somewhat. It’s as simplistic as it can possibly be, with minimal characterisation or deviation from the now well-worn three act structure. But, while I Spit on Your Grave is on the one hand rape-revenge by numbers, on the other it is so, so much more.

The film began life as Day of the Woman, writer/director Meir Zarchi’s creative response to a real life experience. Zarchi reportedly witnessed the aftermath of a woman’s rape, and attempted to help her. His alleged second-hand experience of the incompetence of police handling of reports of rape inspired his film depiction of the ultimate revenge. Seemingly made out of Zarchi’s own back pocket, and certainly initially distributed by Zarchi himself, Day of the Woman is understandably a hard sell. It’s hardly the slickest film (though not as badly made as many would make out), and it remains to this day an incredibly difficult film to watch. In the UK it was always known as I Spit on Your Grave, the gloriously exploitative title given to the film when it was re-released and distributed by the Jerry Gross Organisation in 1980. The film became one of the über video nasties, films which, according to certain British newspapers and politicians, if watched in the home could turn you – or your dog – into a vicious murderer or rapist. The UK isn’t the only place to have banned the film, of course, with several other countries deeming it unfit for public consumption, while others simply cut the film to shreds. It’s not difficult to see why, as the film still has the power to shock. In its current certified form in the UK I Spit on Your Grave is still cut by almost three minutes. The cut rape sequences are still deeply disturbing, though the bizarre ‘stretched scenes’ are quite jarring – slow motion and repetition of images with overlaid audio are used to mask some of the cuts. For all the well-documented controversy though, there is much more to this ‘vile bag of garbage’ (as per Roger Ebert) than its over-bearing reputation.

Though I won’t go so far as to merrily claim I Spit on Your Grave as some sort of feminist triumph – it’s not – it’s far from the badly-made, misogynistic, dangerous exploitation film that it’s often made out to be. It certainly is an exploitation film, simply by dint of its release history, as well as its shocking and confrontational content. However, I Spit on Your Grave successfully demonstrates the sheer idiocy of correlating film with simple effect. The rape sequences are certainly protracted, almost unnecessarily drawn-out, but at no point are they offered up as entertaining, or titillating. This is due in part to Zarchi’s actually brilliant (at times) direction, and due to Camille Keaton herself. Martin Barker’s excellent essay on the film wonderfully outlines the cleverness of many of Zarchi’s creative decisions. For example, Zarchi’s use of long shots in particular ensures that Jennifer is never objectified. She spends much of the film nude or partially-nude, but her nakedness is never filmed in anything closer than a mid-shot. We’re not allowed any closer, but at no point does Zarchi’s direction distance us from her, either. Barker also draws attention to the use of music in the film. The almost complete lack of musical soundtrack is highlighted part-way through the attack on Jennifer, as she stumbles through a wooded area. A non-diegetic harmonica begins to play for several seconds until it revealed to be entirely, painfully diegetic, as we discover that one of the gang of men is playing the instrument as they lie in wait to attack Jennifer again. Barker’s essay was written and published in 1984, providing one of the few voices to approach these films as films, rather than as social poison. For Barker to have critically analysed such a contentious film in this way in 1984, at the height of its controversy is testament to his courage and critical integrity at that time. Barker’s analysis of the film actually holds up when revisiting the film, though it’s true others have defended the film a little too rigorously at times – better than Halloween it ain’t, Marco Starr.

An under-played strength of the film is Camille Keaton as Jennifer. Her performance is often dismissed but for me Keaton is arguably the reason the film works. Her willowy, slight frame is thrown about with such abandon by the men that it’s difficult not to genuinely fear for her safety when watching the film. However, as skinny and as slight as she is, in the revenge sequences she is sinewy and resilient. Problematic though some of the sequences are, they do not turn her into a machine (as the remake does) – her revenge on each man is arguably pragmatic and swift. As much as I’ve already stated that film is not some sort of feminist triumph, its depiction of Jennifer in the first half the film is admirable for the fact that at no point does she stop trying to physically fight the men. The only point at which she seems to give up is during the third attack on her, and after one of the men has repeatedly kicked her stomach and ribs. That’s more than can be said for a great deal of films with similar sequences.

Now, for all the potential praise that can be heaped onto the film, if one is so inclined, it’s hard to believe it would still be of such interest to people 35 years on if not for its association with the video nasties. If there’s one positive outcome of the utter debacle of the nasties and the Daily Mail and government and everything in between, it’s the longevity of some of the films that might otherwise have been forgotten. I Spit on Your Grave, of course, has left a film legacy, outside of itself. Though the film has a ‘sequel’ in Savage Vengeance (or Vengance, to take the film’s own spelling of the word), it’s hardly an influential or noteworthy film like its predecessor, and hell, I assume that only a few hundred people have ever bothered to watch it. If you’re reading this as someone who thinks that I Spit on Your Grave is a shoddy, badly-acted mess, then Savage Vengeance might truly blow your mind. It’s notable, perhaps, that from the outset this ‘sequel’ (Meir Zarchi had nothing to do with it) makes itself out to be a horror film with some ‘creepy music,’ but just what the bloody hell it ends up being is beyond me.

Of course, there’s Steven R. Monroe’s 2010 remake, which I hated, but I know others did not. My main problem with it is much the same as my problem with the Last House on the Left remake, amongst others, and that is that snappy and effective scenes of violence become protracted and elaborate set-pieces, more often than not completely diminishing any power the original might have had. Then, of course, there’s I Spit on Your Grave 2, which I’m not sure I can adequately express my feelings for without attaching my laptop to a boomerang and aiming it directly at the heads of everyone involved and submitting whatever the open Word document ends up with. No, the most direct descendants of I Spit on Your Grave are not its proudest legacy. Instead, the film seems to stand atop a dubious subgenre or cycle of films that contains many an under-appreciated classic. The film remains an unflinching account of horrible violence resulting in further horrible violence. Though there’s a very little to feel happy about after watching I Spit on Your Grave, when Jennifer Hills smiles as those credits roll, it’s very difficult not to smile with her.

By Stephanie Scaife

It’s Halloween night, and everyone is relishing the opportunity to delight in the transgressive, the uncanny and the things that go bump in the night. I do love Halloween, it provides me with the opportunity to be able to over indulge in candy and to wear as much black as I did when I was a teenager. However, I don’t need to use it as an excuse to watch horror movies because I do that pretty much year round. For better or worse horror is an intrinsic part of my life, I’ve watched horror films and read horror novels since I was a kid and it has always remained a passion of mine, so much so that I spend my free time writing things like this. So with that in mind I got to thinking about whether or not anything actually still scares me these days.

I don’t know if I’m just desensitised or maybe I’m too aware of genre conventions but I don’t often find myself frightened or even particularly invested emotionally by what I’m seeing on screen. This doesn’t mean that I haven’t been scared watching horror films in the past or that I don’t find many things to enjoy about watching them now, but it remains fascinating to me as to what it is exactly that myself and others find genuinely frightening. So this got me thinking as to what I’ve seen that has troubled, upset or scared me in recent years and more often than not the things that came to mind were not horror films, at least not in the strictest sense. So if you’re looking for something a little different this Halloween, and you want a genuine sleepless night then you need look no further…

Snowtown (Justin Kurzel, 2011)

I found this film so difficult that I actually had to turn if off halfway through and take a break before I could go back and finish watching it. Snowtown is the only film in recent memory that has had such a profound effect on me. It is an astonishing feat, especially as a first feature from Justin Kurzel, and perhaps it has something to do with the realism, the cast of unknowns, the oppressively grimy and dour look of the film and ultimately the fact that it’s a true story based on the most notorious and prolific serial killings to happen in Australia. There were a lot of upsetting things in this film and it treads this fine balance of being so compelling that you can’t take your eyes off the screen yet being almost entirely unwatchable because everything that happens is so awful and violent. Daniel Henshall is terrifying as John Bunting and his manipulation of those around him is so absolute, that in itself is perhaps what I found the most disturbing about the film. I’m not sure that I want to see Snowtown again, but it is a truly astounding film and if you want to witness what real horror is, then you need look no further.

Further viewing: Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, 10 Rillington Place.

The Living and the Dead (Simon Rumley, 2006)

Love him or hate him, Simon Rumley has certainly created a niche for himself in making non-genre horror films that on the surface appear to be art films but due to their bleak and uncompromising nature seem to appeal more to hardened horror aficionados. I found The Living and the Dead almost impossible to watch due to its palpable sense of dread and the inevitability of what unfolds on screen. Lord Brocklebank is on the verge of bankruptcy so must leave his terminally ill wife and schizophrenic son, James, alone in their decrepit mansion with a nurse to care for them whilst he travels to London to deal with the creditors. However, James decides that in order to make his father proud he must become the man of the house and look after himself and cure his mother, so after refusing to let the nurse into the house he sets about his mission. I think what’s so awful about the whole thing is that James never intends to do anything harmful to himself or his mother – he genuinely believes that he is helping.

Further viewing: Red, White & Blue, Requiem for a Dream.

The Cove (Louie Psihoyos, 2009)

In recent years I’ve often found that my most upsetting viewing experiences have been watching documentaries, in fact I can’t recall ever having been so distressed watching a film as I was when I saw The Cove. It’s true of many horror movies that the most frightening don’t so much involve ghosts and ghouls, but human beings displaying the horrors of which man is capable of without the addition of any supernatural element. Taking it a step further is a fantastically made and thrilling documentary that does just this – shows us the horrors that we are all inherently capable of committing – but what makes it so much worse is that it is all real. Although far from impartial, this is a powerful piece of filmmaking that exemplifies the power of human destruction and it is more profoundly disturbing than anything I’ve seen in any horror film.

Further viewing: Blackfish, West of Memphis, Capturing the Friedmans.

Breaking the Waves (Lars von Trier, 1996)

I could probably have picked just about any Lars von Trier movie to add to this list, but Breaking the Waves has always been the one I’ve found to be the most deeply upsetting. Emily Watson stars as Bess, a naïve and psychologically disturbed young woman with a simplistic and unwavering faith in God. When her husband suffers an accident that leaves him paralysed she believes herself responsible after praying for his return, so when he requests that she take on lovers then tell him the details of the trysts she believes that she is acting upon the will of God and that her actions are keeping her husband alive. Of course this could never end well and again, as with The Living and the Dead, Bess never really does anything wrong and believes that her actions are helping others when all she is really doing is destroying herself.

Further viewing: Dancer in the Dark, Antichrist, The Kingdom.

Irréversible (Gaspar Noé, 2002)

I have a real moral dilemma when it comes to rape revenge narratives, but I think that what Irreversible does that is so clever is that by using a reverse narrative structure where we’re faced with the consequences without the context – making the act of violence just that, an abhorrent act, without previously giving us any justification for relishing in it. Then just when you think things can’t possibly get any worse we see why Marcus (Vincent Cassel) did what he did – as the reaction to the violent rape of his girlfriend. Both the murder at the start and the rape scene are perhaps two of the most explicitly real and unwatchable depictions of either ever committed to film, and as is the intention, you as the viewer are left wondering exactly why you’d put yourself though such an experience. Noé is a master at creating discomfort, through visual flare, use of sound and music, unflinching violence and non-traditional storytelling techniques.

Further viewing: Enter the Void, I Stand Alone.

Watership Down (Martin Rosen, 1978)

How Watership Down ever got a U certificate is beyond me, as seeing it was perhaps one of the most traumatic film viewing experiences of my childhood. Rabbits are picked off by hawks, caught up in snare traps, murdered – and that’s before we even get onto the terrifying General Woundwort… not to mention that terrible Art Garfunkel song.

Further viewing: The Secret of Nimh, Plague Dogs, When the Wind Blows.

The Piano Teacher (Michael Haneke, 2001)

Gosh, this one really threw me through a loop when I saw it; perhaps due to going in not really knowing what it was about and perhaps due to the explicit genital mutilation, but more likely the combination of the two. Never has female sexual repression been so effectively portrayed on film in such a profoundly disturbing manner. Annie Girardot plays the most sadistically controlling and overbearing mother I’ve seen since Piper Laurie in Carrie, and she is absolutely terrifying. I’ve seen this film precisely once and it was an amazing piece of filmmaking with a wonderful performance from Isabelle Huppert, but I honestly don’t think I could ever sit though it again.

Further viewing: Funny Games, Ma Mère, The Dreamers.

The Girl Next Door (Gregory Wilson, 2007)

Imagine something akin to Stand By Me but with added torture and sadomasochism and you’re probably not even close to some of the horrors that unfold during The Girl Next Door. Set in 1958 and loosely based on the true story of the Sylvia Likens murder, The Girl Next Door examines the effects of peer pressure and how far children will go when instructed/allowed to do so by an adult. On the surface it looks like a picture postcard view of 1950’s Americana but when you scratch below the surface you find something dark and terrible. It’s fascinating to see how the children are warped and coerced over time from fairly standard bullying to torture and how quickly this happens. Although teetering on the edge of exploitation at times it never ceases to be as compelling as it is devastating.

Further viewing: The Lost, Chained, The Woman, Blue Velvet.

Threads (Mick Jackson, 1984)

This TV drama shot in the style of a documentary about a nuclear war and its effects on Sheffield is perhaps one of the most harrowing and unrelenting post-apocalyptic films I’ve ever seen, and in a genre not known for it’s cheeriness that’s saying something. Unrelentingly grim from start to finish, Threads has been described as, “the film which comes closest to representing the full horror of nuclear war and its aftermath, as well as the catastrophic impact that the event would have on human culture” and I quite agree. The documentary style of the film makes it feel all too real and the final ten minutes will leave you wanting to take a long shower followed by a Disney movie marathon.

Further viewing: The Day After, Testament, The Road.

Mulholland Drive (David Lynch, 2001)

Lynch is another filmmaker, like Haneke and von Trier who appears to have made an entire career out of directing terrifying and disturbing movies that don’t necessarily fit into the horror genre. Mulholland Drive is such an disconcerting film, even for Lynch the prevailing sense of terror doesn’t give up from start to finish. The diner scene in particular where a man talks about a nightmare he had is particularly frightening and even though I’ve seen it many times it still sets me on edge. The film itself is one long surrealist nightmare that is as open to interpretation as any dream.

Further viewing: Eraserhead, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, Lost Highway.

By Tristan Bishop

If there’s one thing I love just as much as horror films, it’s music. In fact, in another guise (editor’s note – there’s a clue in the title), I run an internet radio station and can be found DJing in some pretty terrifying London venues. It follows therefore, that I have a special affection for music which in some way references the films I love. With Halloween coming up, I thought it might be fun to share a few of my favourites (and perhaps a couple of my secret weapons) with the BAH readership.

Of course, there have been many articles written about horror and rock music in the past, so I delibrately avoided anything with loud guitars. Instead, read on to discover everything from zombie calypso to Cronenbergian drum & bass.

1. Yes, I did say zombie calypso. At first the combination of the most joyous music out there and the shambling dead may seem a tad odd, but when you consider the Carribean origins of the zombie legend it makes perfect sense. Here are couple of tunes you’d pretty much have to be a reanimated corpse not to smile at.

2. Hip-hop has long flirted with horror and violent imagery of course – Pugilistic lyrics are the lingua franca of the genre, with the proliferation of threats and boasts having roots in the rap battles that sprung up in New York in the 1970’s. If you were to believe everything the average rapper said then you would think they’d have offed more people than Freddy, Jason and Leatherface combined. There’s even a specific subgenre of hip-hop called ‘horrorcore’ which deals with the more extreme end of things, and which was popularised by RZA (from the Wu Tang Clan) and his side project The Gravediggaz way back in 1994. The video is a bit rubbish, but dig those psychopathic rhymes and dark jazzy breakbeats. I probably should warn that with this song (and the next) there are explicit lyrics. So now you know.

Of course the advent of the sampler meant that musicians no longer had to rely on lyrical allusion to show off their love of horror – now dialogue and even film music could be utilised. Here’s Busta Rhymes with a chart-bothering hit from 1998, which includes a certain Bernard Hermann theme you may well be familiar with…and this is one hell of a good video too.

3. You may well be familiar with France’s retro-futurist electro-rock duo Justice, but have you heard this little marvel which makes brilliant use of the theme from Dario Argento’s Tenebrae? Taking the giallo down the disco.

4. Finally, one of my absolute favourite genres of music is drum & bass – I can’t get enough of those lightspeed drums, especially when wedded to a decent melody and industrial strength levels of bass. First up we have the Welsh wizard himself, High Contrast, with a little something that may be familiar to Fulci fans….

If you would prefer something a little less smooth and soulful, here’s names-to-watch Mediks with a little zombie outbreak set to some rattling rave music.. You might want to play this as loudly as possible (whilst still being mindful of your neighbours of course):

And finally, being a massive David Cronenberg fan, I immediately spotted the use of some heavy sampling from the trailer of Shivers (under its release as They Came From Within):

I hope you’ve enjoyed this brief romp through some fun records with a horror theme. Why not scare your guests at your Halloween party with one or two? If you’ve got any favourites you’d like to share, drop them in the comments below!

Editor’s note: this is a detailed discussion of the film and, as such, it contains spoilers.

By Keri O’Shea

Sometimes, the luck of the draw can be a bitch.

Emerging onto the horror movie scene in close proximity during the late Eighties came two, in some ways very similar, sets of demonic entities; in each case, these entities were inert and unknown – or else shadowy rumours only – until called forth by mortal man; in each case, the embodied creature(s) could only move around on Earth once certain conditions had been fulfilled and in each case, these creatures would return to obscurity only once their bloodlust was successfully sated. The earlier film and its demonic beings, Hellraiser, became a franchise, its denizens now widely-regarded as canonical classic monsters; the second film, Pumpkinhead, despite being a modest hit now well-beloved of a hardcore of fans, is far, far less well-known. This is surely an accident of cinematic history. Despite the gloaming brilliance of Hellraiser (and I have previously spoken at length about the film here at Brutal as Hell) the directorial début of scene legend Stan Winston deserves far more credit than it tends to receive. Not only does it provide its own mythos, rending reality in the creative way which good horror must, but it does so from a deeply humane starting point. Unlike the debased, decadent Frank Cotton, the man responsible for summoning the beast of vengeance, Pumpkinhead, is a good man. Not only is he a good man, he’s a grieving man. At the heart of Pumpkinhead is a father, a son, and a tragedy.

What would you do if the one thing, the only thing in your life which you loved, was taken from you – and not just taken from you, torn from you? Perhaps via a senseless killing, an accident so mediocre it could almost be laughable, or a random act of stupidity? It happens to people all the time. One minute their loved one is there, and the next…gone. Wiped out. If this seems like a serious question to consider when we’re only talking about a horror movie then I’d beg to differ; Pumpkinhead takes the ‘what if?’ of human suffering and gives it a fantastical treatment, sure, but the relationship between the widowed father (Lance Henriksen) and his little boy is one of the most realistic and touching parental relationships I’ve seen in a movie, and it’s fundamental to the action which follows. It takes only a little detail and exposition to bring this about, too, in the capable hands of Winston and with the acting ability of Henriksen; one of the film’s earliest scenes, where the doting dad washes his son’s hands, telling him about how his grandmother used to wash his own hands when he was a little boy, is actually an ad lib. A simple enough thing, but one which reflects a spontaneity and warmth in this on-screen relationship, which makes what happens all the more appalling. You also gather a great deal about the isolation and vulnerability of these two; with no mother, Billy’s dad is everything to him, and vice versa. The prone, stand-alone shack where they live, somewhere in the rural South of the US, is symbolic in its own way. These two need each other. You don’t need to be a parent to feel the loss, when it comes.

And how does it happen? In another subtle touch, the event which kills Billy isn’t deliberate, and the callous actions which Harley assumes have taken place…haven’t. When a group of ‘city folks’ arrive in this tiny town with some dirt bikes in tow, a series of things happen. A father who needs to run an errand, a door left open, a little boy running after his dog, a guy on a bike who just doesn’t see the child, and – perhaps the only villain of this group – a man who wants to flee the scene and prevent the accident being reported. When Harley returns and sees his only child lying dead on the ground, he believes that the people responsible are wicked. They aren’t; they’re only flawed, panicked, like most people, and they’re not the mindless Spring Break types any more than the people they encounter in this rural area are simply hicks. From the point of the tragedy which leads Harley to take the extreme measures he does, nothing is quite as it seems.

But then, the society which Harley knows seems to operate by its own rules and, despite the 80s setting being kept intact, there are timeless codes and systems at play here. Nothing is as it seems at any point in this movie; Harley himself has to come to terms with a strange, repressed childhood memory of a man fleeing…something, and of this man pleading to get into his old family home; local children in the current day still tease one another with threats of Pumpkinhead, and – in his desperation, Harley is prepared to subvert natural order, to seek out this agent of revenge for his own purposes. Through and through, this is a movie heavily imbued with a pleasing sense of Southern Gothic, where the impossible is always possible.

Southern Gothic – in a nutshell, the ghosts, magic and supernatural of Europe transported, translated and transformed by new groups of people settling in new spaces – is a rich source of horror. In many ways recognisable, in many ways exotic, it’s the spirit of mystery and chaos spreading its hold over the bayous, the swamps and the thickets instead of the frozen forests and cold stone of Northern Europe. Pumpkinhead is an all-American revenant: his domain is amongst the close-knit communities which shelter, accept and acknowledge his power. Likewise, the monstrous witch who acts as his go-between is a witch of old, surrounded by the same mean creatures (the owl, the rat and the spider) which would have kept company with the weird sisters of Macbeth centuries before – but Ma Haggis is an all-American gal who knows ’em all, these people who (usually) keep a respectful distance but who all quietly know what she can do. Pumpkinhead may begin as a homunculus, fed with blood as per ancient notions of witchcraft, but it’s the blood of his neighbours he needs, and their needs he serves. The only catch is that nothing, once Pumpkinhead has appeared to wreak bloody havoc on whoever it is that has done something ‘real bad’, can dissuade him from destroying them. In many ways – in a series of developing ways – he is not an individual being, but rather an extension of the warped and brooding psyche of the person who called him up.

The demon himself is an interesting one: at first, his physical appearance seems very much influenced by Winston’s ground-breaking work on Aliens, by nature of its stature, its distended humanoid characteristics and its great strength. However, as the film progresses, Pumpkinhead – motivated by the thoughts and wishes of a man, remember – begins to strangely resemble the person who called him. Likewise, the tormented but flawed man himself begins to appear momentarily monstrous, even when he desperately wishes he had not done what he did. It’s an uncanny, and intensely dislikeable development, and one which adds layers to the symbolism here whereby we see what happens when one’s deepest, darkest desires are given tangible bodily form. Harley begins to fully understand the repercussions of summoning the demon too late to save himself. Throughout Pumpkinhead – and despite its bright, colourful, often painterly scenes – insult upon insult are added to the initial injury, meaning that this is a film which doesn’t go a bundle on providing respite, and this is true right up to the film’s closing scenes.

Sure, some of the scenes have dated a little during intervening years, and the heavier elements sometimes nudge into the sort of animated, involved tales children scare one another with, but I find it very hard to hold anything against this film with its well-paced, old-style storytelling, from a tradition before stories all ended with a ‘happily ever after’. Sometimes stories just end – but then, sometimes stories don’t have a clear beginning or an end, and Pumpkinhead holds onto evidence of this fact right until we, the audience, absolutely have to leave it behind. Harley is a good man, and a loving father. His little boy is a good kid, and the teens inadvertently responsible for his death are prevented from offering real help by circumstance, not malice. None of this means there’s joy to be had here. Once you open a floodgate, there is nothing you can do – and when that floodgate lets loose a tide of necromancy, cruelty and the literal embodiment of the darkest human impulses, “it’s gotta run its course”. Nothing – not God, which is one entity strangely absent from these dark hills, even in the ruined chapel which fails to prevent ol’Pumpkinhead from entering – and not man, can stop it, except by taking a step into the great unknown. And can God, then, offer aid to His children? As the film ends, with that one last devastating and upsetting final scene, we can only suppose that He can’t, either. There is a magic older than God in those hills, and it is this magic which ultimately holds sway, sweeping good men before it.