5/14/15: Don’t Go Stabbin’ My Heart

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'80s slasher films, 1980s films, Alf Humphreys, Canadian films, Carl Marotte, cinema, Cynthia Dale, Don Francks, film reviews, films, Friday the 13th, George Mihalka, Gina Dick, gory films, Halloween, Harry Warden, heavily-edited, Helene Udy, horror, horror films, horror movies, Jack Van Evera, John Beaird, John McDermott, Keith Knight, Larry Reynolds, Lori Hallier, love triangle, masked killers, miners, mining disaster, Movies, My Bloody Valentine, Neil Affleck, Patricia Hamilton, Paul Kelman, pickaxe, psycho killers, Rob Stein, Rodney Gibbons, Sean Cunningham, set in Canada, slasher films, Stephen A. Miller, Terry Waterland, Tom Kovacs, Valentine, Valentine's Day

While most folks probably feel that the insane killers are the determining factor in slasher films, I’d wager to say that there’s another factor that’s just as prominent and important: those kids just don’t listen. Time and time again, the youthful fodder in slasher films are given a handy set of rules to remember (“Don’t go in the woods,” “Don’t go in the cabin,” “Don’t have sex,” “Don’t look in the basement,” “Don’t split up,” “Don’t turn your back on it,” “Don’t feed it after midnight”) and, time after time, they just blow a raspberry and do their own thing. Doesn’t matter how many crotchety old men, sinister gypsies or age-old legends get thrown in their faces: these kids are here to party…and, of course, die.

The “rule” that the kids break (and pay for) in Canadian slasher classic My Bloody Valentine (1981) is the same one that Sir Kevin Bacon would rail against a scant three years later in the tap-dancing epic Footloose (1984): they just wanna dance, dammit, and they could give a hoot what any old psycho killers say. When the psycho killer in question just might be the pickaxe-wielding, cannibalistic and Valentine’s Day-hating sole survivor of a mining disaster, however, well…maybe the kids really should have listened.

20 years ago, in the town of Valentine’s Bluff, negligent mining officials paid more attention to the rockin’ Valentine’s Day dance than the mine and the resulting cave-in produced only one survivor, Harry Warden, who would proceed to murder the offending officials with his pickaxe. Leaving behind bloody heart-shaped boxes, Harry would also leave a parting directive: no more Valentine’s dances, ever. After heeding the maniac’s orders for two decades, the town’s young folks decide to throw caution to the wind and get their boogie on. The one guy not invited to the party? Harry Warden. Turns out ol’ Harry’s the kinda guy who doesn’t need an invitation, however: when he gets wind of the planned bash, the malevolent miner takes his weapon of choice out of retirement and starts to cut a (very) bloody swath through the unknowing town.

As the bodies pile up behind the scenes, a love triangle takes center-stage: T.J (Paul Kelman), the wayward son of the town’s mayor/mine owner, has returned home and attempted to rekindle his romance with Sarah (Lori Hallier), the girl he left behind. Only problem is, Sarah has hooked up with T.J.’s former best friend, Axel (Neil Affleck), a pompous, abusive lout who doesn’t take kindly to his ex-bestie popping up in the picture. As the two alpha males butt heads and strut around, Sarah and her friends decide to take the party into the mine, proper. Led by cheerful Hollis (Keith Knight) and goofball Howard (Alf Humphreys), the ladies descend into an area of the mine that’s been out of commission since the days of Harry Warden. As they’ll come to find, however, not all old, dead things stay buried…and, sometimes, the killer you don’t know is far scarier than the one you do.

George Mihalka’s My Bloody Valentine fits neatly within the ’80s slasher boom, coming less than a year after Sean Cunningham would scare us out of the summer camp with his now iconic Friday the 13th (1980), right in the middle of a rather impressive glut of like-minded films. While many (most?) of the ’80s slasher boom would end up being rather forgettable carbon-copies of better films, there were plenty of them that stood out on their own due to various degrees of individuality: My Bloody Valentine certainly stands proud with these.

While the acting is the same kind of thing fans of the subgenre should know to expect (in some places, it’s so broad as to approximate a ’50s beach movie), the performers are all personable and none of them, including Humphrey’s “oh so zany” Howard, ever wear out their welcome. While the film’s central love triangle ends up being rather overheated and corny, it does provide a reasonable measure of dramatic tension, along with leading to the inevitable moment where the feuding beaus must join forces to save their (shared) beloved. The adults in the film, namely Don Francks’ Chief Newby and Larry Reynolds’ Mayor Hanniger, are all largely ineffectual but, then again, that’s also par for the course with the majority of ’80s slasher films, as is the de rigueur first-person POV shots and heavy breathing on the soundtrack.

Atmosphere-wise, Mihalka and crew make the very best of their mine location, providing plenty of suitably creepy shots and tense moments, highlighted by the showstopper where the masked miner slowly strides down a tunnel, smashing lit bulbs with his pickaxe: it’s a truly glorious moment and one that’s been replicated several times in the 30+ years since it (presumably) creeped the living shit out of audiences. Speaking of the miner: all slasher films live and die by their main creepazoid and My Bloody Valentine’s villain is one of the greats. Silent, hulking and prone to imaginative kills, ala Jason, the miner is a simple but massively effective construct: more’s the pity that this (and the 2011 remake) were his only moments in the sun (so to speak).

Despite being hailed as a minor classic within the subgenre, My Bloody Valentine is equally notorious as being one of the most heavily edited films of the era. Whether due to societal issues of the time, an increased focus on censorship or the blowback from other violent films, the vast majority of the film’s creative kills are edited almost to the point of nonexistence: in an ironic twist, My Bloody Valentine is both one of the most AND least gory of the ’80s slasher boom. While I detest censorship, in general, the edited version of Mihalka’s film ends up being its own curious kind of beast: with the geekshow factor of the excessively violent kills removed, leaving only snippets of the aftermath, the focus is put back on the actual film. As such, the edited version of My Bloody Valentine is a rather lame gore flick (the worst shot in the edited version is the seconds-long image of Mabel’s burned body) but it’s actually a very effective suspense/horror film, similar to the first Friday the 13th or, to a much lesser extent, Hooper’s unbeatable Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974).

While a restored version of the film from several years back added in some of the censored gore, the version that most folks will probably see is the more readily available edited version. After seeing both, I still find myself leaning towards the edited one a little more, perhaps because the “restored” version is still edited: it’s kind of like cleaning off one spot of a filthy window while leaving the rest dirty. At the very least, the fully edited version has a sense of unity that’s less jarring than the re-added footage, even though some of the setpieces are so gloriously loony as to warrant the added attention (the scene where Helene Udy’s Sylvia gets turned into a human water faucet manages to handily one-up the meat hook scene in TCM, while recalling some of the more gonzo giallos).

As a big proponent of film history and its more unsung chapters, I’ve always enjoyed My Bloody Valentine, even if it’s nowhere near the creme de la creme of the movement. The film is fast-paced, fun and endlessly inventive, however, even if it occasionally winks so hard in the direction of Cunningham’s originator that it gets a severe eye cramp (in particular, the character of Jack Van Evera’s Happy is just Walt Gorney’s Crazy Ralph with a different Social Security number). I’m willing to wager that most fans of slasher films (or just horror films, in general) will already be familiar with this little export from America’s Northern neighbors. If not, I heartily suggest rectifying that little omission: in order to know where horror is going, you have to know where it was. Back in the dawning years of the ’80s, this is where horror was. If your only experience with holiday-themed horror is John Carpenter’s pumpkin king, set a date with My Bloody Valentine next February: the movie has a lot of heart…and it just might win yours.

10/7/14 (Part One): Before the Mask

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'80s films, '80s slasher films, 1st person POV, 31 Days of Halloween, Adrienne King, Betsy Palmer, camp counselors, cinema, classics, Crystal Lake, cult classic, dead teenagers, film reviews, films, Friday the 13th, giallo, Halloween, Harry Crosby, Harry Manfredini, horror, horror movies, Jason Voorhees, Jeannine Taylor, Kevin Bacon, Laurie Bartram, Mark Nelson, Movies, Peter Brouwer, revenge, Rex Everhart, Robbi Morgan, Sean Cunningham, sex equals death, slasher films, summer camp, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Tom Savini, Walt Gorney

Despite “starring” in ten separate films, going to Hell, New York, outer space and slaying enough teenagers to populate a mid-size country, slasher icon Jason Voorhees was not at the center of the film that started it all, Sean Cunningham’s Friday the 13th (1980). Of sure, Jason’s presence hung over the proceedings, no two ways about it: it just wasn’t his hand on the machete, so to speak. In many ways, Cunningham’s original film is more of a giallo than the brutal slashers that the franchise would evolve into with future entries. Like Hooper’s equally influential The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974), Friday the 13th is a fairly maligned film, seen as both bloodier and dumber than it actually is. In reality, Friday the 13th is a lean, mean, well-made and bluntly effective little film and stands proudly next to Carpenter’s Halloween (1978) and Hooper’s Texas Chainsaw Massacre as one of the founding forefathers of the modern horror film.

Story-wise, Friday the 13th is simple enough to almost be an urban legend or cautionary fairy tale. A couple of unsolved murders, along with a host of unexplained accidents and strange incidents, has led to the closure of Camp Crystal Lake for over 20 years. When hippy-dippy Steve (Peter Brouwer) decides to reopen the summer camp, against the concerns of the nearby townsfolk, it’s only a matter of time before trouble rears its ugly head again. This trouble, of course, manifests itself in the form of a heavy-breathing, blood-thirsty killer, a killer that we never get to see thanks to the film’s first-person-POV “kill scenes.” As a co-ed group of camp counselors busy themselves with renovating the camp and exploring each other’s underwear, the mysterious killer picks them off one by one, usually right after they’ve been engaging in a little of the ol’ fornication. In time, only Alice (Adrienne King) remains alive: will she be able to uncover the identity of the anonymous slasher or will she end up as just another maimed body stuffed into a cabin?

Within that amazingly simple setup, Cunningham, cinematographer Barry Abrams, composer Harry Manfredini and makeup/sfx guru Tom Savini work some pretty impressive magic. Indeed, it’s the combined forces of these four that go a long way towards explaining the power and continued impact of the film. Thanks to Abrams evocative camera-work and Cunningham’s sure-handed direction, the film manages to maintain a constant atmosphere of tension and creeping dread. Manfredini is responsible for that iconic score: it’s almost impossible to watch a slasher film, nowadays, and not immediately think of that classic “ch ch ch ka ka ka” effect. Elsewhere, Manfredini’s score builds and sets mood in as effective a way as Carpenter’s score for Halloween: like Halloween, Friday the 13th would be a much different, less effective film without its score.

Savini’s role, of course, could never be overstated: quite frankly, Tom Savini is one of the most gifted, influential makeup/sfx artists in the entire history of cinema and he elevates any film he’s involved with. In the case of Friday the 13th, Savini’s expert makeup and effects work really gives the film something to hang a hat on: while the film isn’t overloaded with pointless, gratuitous gore, it also doesn’t shy away from the red stuff: who could forget the scene where poor Jack (Kevin Bacon, in his big-screen debut) gets an arrow pushed through his throat or Marcie (Jeannine Taylor) takes an ax to the forehead? Although future entries in the series would play up the creative kill scenes to the point where they became the entire focus of the films, the kills in the original film are so well-staged and impactful that they have a resonance the rest of the franchise can’t possibly match.

As with Halloween and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Friday the 13th’s influence on the horror genre simply can’t be overstated: quite frankly, the film was responsible for establishing all of the slasher-film “rules” that weren’t previously established by Carpenter’s low-budget masterpiece. Crazy guy warning the intended victims? Check. Heavy-breathing, killer’s POV? Check (although Halloween did get here first). Creative, gory, murder setpieces? Check. Creepy, potentially sinister backwoods townsfolk? Check. Isolated, rural setting? Check. Sex equals death? Check. Endless sequels? Check and mate.

As mentioned earlier, the original Friday the 13th actually plays out more like one of Mario Bava or Dario Argento’s giallos than it does a “traditional” slasher film. In particular, one can see how much of an influence Bava’s Bay of Blood (1971) had on Cummingham’s film, both with regards to the kill scenes and the film’s overall style. There’s a mystery at the heart of Friday the 13th and, even though it might not be a particularly tricky one (we find out the identity of the killer by virtue of them being the only person alive aside from Alice, which is roughly equivalent to one of Matlock’s “confession on the witness stand” denouements), it still separates the film’s from the packs of “dead teenager” films that followed in its wake.

Acting-wise, the film is no worse and markedly better than many other slashers: most of the cast acquits themselves quite ably, although Kevin Bacon is a bit to backwoodsy for my taste and Adrienne King tends to wear out her welcome just a little by the time the film’s finale rolls around. Nonetheless, she’s a more than fitting “final girl” for much of the film’s running time and manages to be a bit more proactive than “cower in the corner, screaming and crying,” although she manages to do enough sustained whining to last a lifetime. Betsy Palmer ends up being the real star of the show: a TV and theatrical actress, Palmer brings an essential blend of insanity and maternal compassion to her performance as Mrs. Voorhees and her sustained cat-and-mouse chase with Adrienne King is one of the film’s unmitigated high points. Palmer is also the source of some of the film’s best behind-the-scenes stories, including the one where she actually started to beat up and throw poor King around for real, so caught up was she in the fictional action.

In fact, the filming of Cunningham’s cult classic is interesting enough to serve as its own film: fans of the franchise or filmmaking, in general, would be well-served to pick up the exhaustive coffee table book, Crystal Lake Memories: The Complete History of Friday the 13th. Even though the F13 series was never my favorite of the “classic” franchises, the book is filled with so many great stories, interviews and anecdotes that it really did give me a whole new appreciation for the series. There’s also a filmed version of the book, although I must admit to not seeing it, at least yet: if they can distill even one-tenth of the fun from the book, however, I’m assuming it’s also a must-see.

For many, Friday the 13th is a film that exists more on reputation than anything else: modern audiences seem to approach many of these classic films, including Halloween and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre as museum artifacts, pieces of history that were more instrumental in forming the foundation for modern horror than relevant as pieces of art, in their own right. This seems to be why modern remakes of these films are so prevalent nowadays: modern audiences and filmmakers appreciate the “sentiment” behind the films but find them too quaint for current tastes. This, of course, couldn’t be more wrong or reductive: there’s absolutely nothing wrong with these older films…it’s just that modern audiences have become more than a little jaded and lazy.

When examined on its own merits and removed from its role as a musty relic, Friday the 13th actually stands pretty tall: it’s certainly no worse than many horror films in the class of ’79/’80 and is quite a bit better than many of its peers. Like Halloween and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Cunningham’s film has a purity of vision and purpose that’s all too refreshing in an era when meta-narratives have become the default for almost every genre film. The film is clear and uncluttered, moves at a pretty breakneck pace and features a fairly decent twist ending (cribbed from De Palma’s version of Carrie (1976) but what are ya gonna do?): when compared to more generic, faceless slashers, the original Friday the 13th is practically a Kurosawa film.

While it’s a little harder to completely defend all of the films in the franchise (Friday the 13th Part 2 (1981) is actually quite good, although the series tends to dissolve into muck fairly quickly after the third entry or so), the film that started it all is an absolute classic: genuinely frightening, full of great setpieces (the scene where Marcie explores the creepy restroom is amazing), great effects and effective performances. We may only see Jason as a drowned rat in the first film but the movie feels all the more powerful for his general absence. Mr. Voorhees may have gone on to become a superstar, in his own way, but the original film is the real star attraction of the franchise, hockey mask be damned.