Blood is Thicker -- Families in Horror

The year is coming to an end, and you all know what that means: the days are growing shorter, the nights are filled with twinkle lights, and every radio station plays songs that involve more bells than usual. Yes, it's the holiday season, the magical time of year from November to New Years when we gather together to endure the company of our families. If you're fortunate enough to be apart of a family that is just as happy and adorable as your Christmas cards, then bully for you, it's another year of wonderful memories to be shared. But for many of us, the pilgrimage to Grandma's house is filled with misery and dread.

Not to brag, but nearly every gathering among my extended family has been punctuated with a memorable bit of unpleasantness--from the Christmas when a great aunt sized up my perfect cousins' accomplishments against my own for everyone to hear, to the Thanksgiving when my mother's sister took too many Quaaludes and passed out in her mashed potatoes at the dinner table (bonus points for the Easter that my mother-in-law told me, in grave detail, all the ways in which her pets had passed away over the years--here's a hint, none of them were from old age).

For as traumatizing as it can be to actually live in a fucked up family, there is something compelling about seeing them on film. Whether it's wacky comedies or Oscar-bait drama, genetically-shared dysfunction lends itself to all the best parts of a great movie: an ensemble of quirky characters, long-stemming grudges and deeply-held alliances, dark secrets revealed, and more than a few painfully relatable moments. When translated to horror, the family dynamic is transformed into something entirely new and even more fascinating. It introduces the idea that evil can be ingrained, instructed, and even nurtured.

Rob Zombie's premiere to the world of film took the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and the Manson family and blended them together to make a malicious technicolor hick stew. House of 1000 Corpses introduced us to the Firefly family, consisting of Mama Firefly and her grown children from multiple fathers, at least one of them being bred from the repulsive clown Captain Spaulding. Otis is the philosopher of the family, preaching venomous nonsense to the terrified cheerleaders he keeps tied up in his room. Baby is the only girl and wears it proudly, emulating her sultry mother and Hollywood vixens as she lures in passers-by (and cackling maniacally as she scalps them). The other Firefly children--bear-man mechanic Rufus and mute giant Tiny, plus the scattering of mutated fetuses that are preserved in jars around the house--lurk in the background, adding to the weirdness. The Devil's Rejects only brought us closer to the Fireflies when Otis, Baby, and Spaulding go on the run, taking us on the road with them as they evade capture from a sheriff with a grudge, with a few face-skinnings and familial spats along the way.

The contrast between the two films is stark and many fans will loudly proclaim their preference of one over the other. I feel they work as a series if you look at them as two completely different perspectives of the same thing. House of 1000 Corpses is a "normal person's" view of the family, a collection of grotesque figures who act completely unhinged in every conceivable way. The colors are harsh neons cutting through inky darkness, reality upturned by unexplainable visions. The experience of spending an evening with the Fireflies is not unlike Captain Spaulding's funhouse murder ride, over-the-top horrors popping out of the darkness to disturb and delight.

Meanwhile, Devil's Rejects takes a less spectacular approach. The Fireflies are the same people, only now we see them the way they see themselves--murderers, yes, but not cartoons. They're sloppy, grungy, regular folks from the sticks with questionable interests and zero social skills. Their reality isn't heightened because this madness is just what they do: manipulate those unfortunate enough to encounter them and take all they can get before taking flight again. Their actions are monstrous, but Devil's Rejects shines between the carjackings and taking of hostages when we get the chance to know them as people.

They defend their home and each other with a hail of bullets. Otis and Baby squabble like kids in the backseat. Otis and Spaulding maintain a palpable "fuck you Dad!" rivalry. Mother Firefly speaks of her children's exploits with all the gooey pride of a mommy blog. They're a real family, and it's endearing to see who they are when they're not putting on a spookshow for their captive audience. That's probably why it's a little heartbreaking that the inevitable shootout with the police ends in their bloody deaths, but it is interesting that in this moment, reality is heightened. Because if you were a murderous maniac from the boonies and your years-long spree finally came to the end at the wheel of a top-down car headed towards a roadblock, wouldn't you imagine yourself going out guns blazing and "Freebird" blaring as you speed into oblivion? Of course you would.

Spider Baby is one of those movies that may have been lost to time if not for a Blu-Ray release in 2015, and even now it's still not exactly revered. I wouldn't have known about it were it not for a small review I read that I can't even remember the source for, and thanks to my Shudder subscription (they don't sponsor me or anything, but seriously, it is SO worth $4.99 a month), I was treated to the mad delights of the Merrye family.

The Merrye children are afflicted with a disease so peculiar and rare that it's named after them. The beginnings of puberty are a difficult time for all of us, but imagine if it only got worse from there (well, worse than adulthood). Merrye syndrome kicks in during the early teen years, the victim's brain degenerating to childishness with further regression leading to a completely feral state. Unfortunately for the players in Spider Baby, the Merrye children are already well into the stages of their disease.

Eldest son Ralph (an explosively expressive Sid Haig in an early role) is the most far gone, regressed to complete muteness and his brain reduced to a primitive state (the language of the 1967 film is decidedly more colorful). Sisters Elizabeth and Virginia are more lucid than their brother, but the evidence of their degradation is even more eerily apparent. Pretty, soft-spoken Elizabeth is dainty and polite, an otherwise perfect debutante if not for her limitless capacity for hatred. Most fascinating of all is wild-eyed Virginia and her obsession with spiders, her favorite game being to sneak up on people and trap them in her web. My favorite moments in the film spring directly from Virginia: her dark features, vacant yet calculating expression, coquettish sultriness, and most of all, the delicious way she says "spiderweb."

The members of the family that have made it to adulthood--thus total savagery--are kept locked away in the basement while the children's father lies decomposing in the upstairs bedroom. All of this madness is kept under control by the family's loyal caretaker Bruno (Lon Chaney), but just barely: Ralph has the mind of a toddler and the appetites of a grown man, while Virginia has a habit of "stinging" people with butcher knives. Bruno is already reaching the end of his rope by the time distant cousins arrive sniffing after the family estate. He does his best to portray the children as innocent victims of a misunderstood disease. Despite his efforts, the children undermine his claims at every turn, offering their guests roasted alley cat and engaging them in games of "playing spider" before the really freaky stuff starts. Realizing the grim future for his beloved wards should the truth reach the public, Bruno knows the only thing to do is to finally end their suffering, and his own.

Spider Baby has certainly not aged well in a politically correct sense, with terms that we have virtually outlawed today being thrown around like confetti. But the heart of the film, and its entire appeal, lies in its preternaturally talented young cast, especially the two sisters. Elizabeth with her blonde hair and prim white dress, her kitten-soft voice cooing, "Don't you just hate her?" Virginia with her twitchy yet graceful movements and intense gaze, only showing her sweeter side in the presence of her spider friends. It's a shame that the actresses playing Elizabeth and Virginia didn't rise to the cult status of their male costars, because they truly shine as haunting icons on par with the Grady sisters as some of the greatest terror siblings put to film.

Despite and perhaps because of their condition, the siblings clearly care for one another, and their shared adoration for Bruno causes them to trust him completely, even as he tearfully leads them to their deaths. Their ending, like the Firefly family, is surprisingly bittersweet. The movie is still somewhat obscure, not showing up on as many "top ten" lists as it deserves, but it does still maintain a charming website that provides in depth information on the film itself as well as behind the scenes goodies. And, like all the great campy classics, it did inspire a musical adaptation.

And speaking of musicals...

Takashi Miike is responsible for some of the most traumatic horror films to come out of Japan in recent memory, and that's saying something given the wealth of nightmare fuel that wonderful country has blessed us with over the years. His most notorious works are Ichi the Killer and Audition, both renowned for their graphic depictions of torture, deeply flawed characters, and all-around insanity. My personal favorite of his work brings the agony and the ecstasy together in Imprint, a gorgeous installment of Showtime's sorely missed Masters of Horror series. Despite his talents in the horror community, Miike has never been a slave to genre, most notable in his home country for action films, which quite often veer into bouts of comedy, fantasy, and cartoon physics. This is to say that, if you know the man's work, then you know to expect the unexpected.

The Happiness of the Katakuris takes a detour from these other families in that they are not introduced to us as murderous outcasts, but instead must rise to madness. The Katakuris are a simple family with a simple dream of trying to get their isolated bed and breakfast off the ground. Patriarch Masao (Kenji Sawada) places all his hopes on the lofty promise of a highway being built in the area, but the reality of constant work and nothing to show for it hangs heavy on his family. Finally, one day, a guest appears--unfortunately, he's picked this as the site of his suicide. The family is devastated when they discover the body, but are even more distressed at the idea of word getting out that their first guest died on the property.

They bury the body and no sooner are they done than another pair of guests arrive, only to promptly drop dead during their stay as well. The Katakuris are innocent bystanders in the ensuing string of unfortunate incidents, trying desperately to maintain normalcy while cleaning up after their guests' tragedies. And what better way to keep a smile on your face than a rousing sing-a-long? The film doesn't reveal itself to be a musical until the bodies start piling up, but when the lighting changes and everyone starts singing and dancing their feelings, boy howdy.

Miike runs the gambit of any good musical, from the longing "I want" song to the operatic dialogue exchange set as lyrics. The soundtrack ranges from effectively hilarious to surprisingly touching. There are not one but two love ballads in this flick, which beautifully juxtapose one another in style and sincerity. The first involves single mother Shizue seeing a handsome naval officer and the two professing their instant attraction through song, literally flying on wires across a rose-filled ballroom. It's cheesy and completely over the top with no hint of reality, and that's entirely the point: the officer turns out to be a con man, and it's evident from the get go that his grand gestures are all bullshit. Meanwhile, the second love song is between Masao and his wife Terue, supporting one another at their lowest moment through a disco ballad that's shot with all the soft-lit loveliness the 70's could offer. It's still cheesy, but it's a more palatable kind of cheese: the cheesiness of true affection between two people who are going to stick it out till the bitter end. It ends up being kind of beautiful and awfully sweet.

Also worth mentioning, this clip is the film's opening scene, and it has absolutely nothing to do with anything that follows besides setting the bar for insanity.

Please, do yourself a favor. Just watch it.

We all think our families are crazy. We all watch the Hallmark movies every year and wonder how great it must be to be apart of a happy (white upper-middle class Christian) family like that, but we all know the hard truth. Nobody is perfect, so certainly a collection of people from the same gene pool forced together in one room can't even come close. But family is what you make it, and often that means setting aside your differences and coming together for a common purpose, from outrunning the cops to withholding a family secret to burying a body or five. Thankfully, for most of us, it can be as simple as avoiding another dinner that ends with Mom crying in the backyard.

"It's not quite reality" -- The Legacy of THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT

I was eight years old when The Blair Witch Project came out, and I knew from the first trailer that I was absolutely not interested in seeing it. Being a notorious scaredy cat as a kid, I steered clear from scary movies, despite my intense curiosity about them. The Blair Witch Project boasted being both terrifying and true, so there was no way in hell I was going near that horrorshow.

I may have gone my whole life without giving Blair Witch Project another thought if it wasn't for my childhood friend Hannah, who watched plenty of scary movies and of course had to tell me every frightening detail as soon as she could. I give credit to Hannah for introducing me to many awesome formative things during our childhoods, but her affection for horror movies were never something I could bring myself to follow her on at that age. (It probably irritates her how much now I claim to love horror when I was once brought to tears refusing to watch Darkness Falls.)

So our elementary school was in the middle of farm country, mostly surrounded by cow fields, with a small pine forest bordering the back of the playground that separated the school grounds from the farmland. The forest featured a path that was around two miles, and it was common for our P.E. period to take place hiking the trail. Usually it was a rather nice walk, even for an indoor kid like me. The forest was especially lovely in the early winter when the mornings were bright and cold and you could just enjoy a walk in the woods while chatting with your friends.

It was during one of these early winter trail walks on a cloudy morning that Hannah decided to share with our group how she had just seen The Blair Witch Project...and how much the woods around here reminded her of the ones in the movie. I brushed her off at first, but Hannah continued to explain more about the movie, and claimed to see more and more familiar symbols all around us. The forest grew darker as we walked, the air seemed to grow colder, and by the halfway mark of the trail, I was in a cold sweat and begging her to shut up.

It was around this point of peak jitters that the trees broke to reveal the neighboring farmland, where there just so happened to be the sunken, rotting carcass of a cow resting against the fence. Any other day, it would have been nothing. That day, it was a hideous omen from the witch of the wood, and we all ran screaming for our lives. It wasn't until we managed to tear past all of our classmates and burst out the other end of the trail into the thankfully bright playground that I felt safe again.

I will never forget being doubled over and out of breath, panicked for my very life, when I heard Hannah say, "Oh, guys. I just remembered...the Blair Witch is in Maryland."

I could have killed her.

Some years have passed now and I have since come to a place of peace about that embarrassment, but it's always stuck with me as one of my first brushes with true horror. It also remains my main argument when talking about the resonating potency of The Blair Witch Project. Even without seeing the movie, even in broad daylight with people all around me, I was still captivated and terrified just listening to a classmate's summary of it. Hannah had told me about plenty of scary movies, but this one was visceral, raw, absolutely within the realm of possibility, even in our own backyards. That's the power of a good scary story--the kind that gets under your skin and holds you tight in its clammy grip, no matter how safe you feel in your fluorescent-lit modern world.

It goes without saying that The Blair Witch Project is amazing, a fine specimen in the masterclass of horror. All the "true story"and "found footage" hubbub aside, the movie stands on its own as an amazing slow burn of paranoia and terror. I am naturally unnerved by spooky sounds at night, people yelling at me, and camping trips, so this movie is some of my deepest anxieties all mashed into one black-and-white nightmare. But it's not just the movie itself that spawned an obsession that keeps me coming back at least once a year...it's the ever-expanding, ongoing project of the Blair Witch.

It's difficult to put into words what a miraculous thing the web of Blair Witch lore is. The idea that it extends as far as it does is remarkable just given that it came out in the infancy of the internet, and still set the stage for Cloverfield-level ARG obsession. Aside from the original website , which is still accessible and delightfully archaic, there were several books as well as three video games following separate angles of Blair Witch lore. 

Most fans are aware of The Curse of the Blair Witch, the TV mockumentary that delved into the bloody history of (fictional) Burkittsville. The special was comprised of unused footage from the film--mostly talking head interviews with locals, detectives, and folklorists. It follows all the same beats of any of the Dateline and In Search Of-type shows that were explosively popular at the time, and lent just an ounce more legitimacy to the true story claims. As far as publicity stunts go, it's impressively produced, admirably straight-faced, and--if you didn't know any better--absolutely convincing. The special can be found in the features of the DVD, but it's just as easily accessed on Youtube.

Lesser known are the other mockumentaries floating around Youtube that make use of even more deleted scenes and dive even further into history, one even going so far as to veer away from witchy territory to explore the story of Rustin Parr, which frequently parallels (despite predating) Making a Murderer and Cropsey. All of these feature casts full of natural actors playing experts and witnesses, some making appearances in multiple docs. All of these people are so effortlessly convincing that it causes one to wonder where they are now (hopefully they're at least doing local theater because these folks got charisma).

So what of The Blair Witch Project's actual legacy--that is, as far as pop culture is concerned? It remains one of the most successful indie films and one of the most profitable films of all time, with its microscopic budget earning back $250 million worldwide. While it didn't exactly invent found footage, it set the standard for many, many movies to come in the revolution of shaky cam cinema. It remains one of the greatest tricks Hollywood ever pulled, as the film was able to retain its "true story" badge for quite some time. True enough, anyway, to harass the residents of the real-life Burkittsville, Maryland into completely disowning any connection to the movie, going so far as to change to design of their town sign to prevent fans from stealing it...again.

There was a sequel the following year that abandoned the found footage angle to adopt a slicker, more Scream style in an attempt to be in fashion with other horror movies at the time. Personally, I have a soft spot for Book of Shadows because it's just good fun, but I understand why it isn't fondly remembered among horror fans. Its meta-humor isn't exactly respectful to the utter grimness of the original, and it suffers from major schizophrenia in the editing room, but somehow despite abundant silliness, it ends up being kind of wonderful and I'm glad it exists. (Plus, seeing baby Dodd Gerhart be a stoner goofball tour guide is never a bad thing.)

As far as the "official" sequel is concerned....it's not great. Blair Witch (2016) attempts to literally follow in the footsteps of the original by having some teens trek into the woods where Heather and her crew disappeared, only this time there are more people and more cameras. I can appreciate what the movie is going for, but aside from the stick figures and passing mentions of familiar lore, it isn't much different from any other run of the mill, forgettable found footage ripoff. (Seriously, what was even the point of having a drone in this film?) I will give them credit for the fleeting reveal of the witch and how she looks pretty close to what I always pictured (despite being fairly derivative of the monster from [REC], but I'll let it slide). Unfortunately, it takes away from the perfect mystery of the original film, which drew a lot from what we didn't see.

See, there was always a plan to show the witch. Near the climax of the original film, Heather and Mike flee their tent in terror and take off running into the woods. At some point in the chaos, Heather looks to the side and screams "What the fuck is that? What the fuck is that?" The camera jostles all around, but all we see is darkness, trees, and Heather running up ahead.

What we do not see is the paid extra standing somewhere off in the distance wearing a spooky getup and trying to look menacing, because the camera simply didn't catch him on film. The failed effect managed to remain in the final cut because, despite itself, it becomes even more chilling when we don't see anything. It remains one of the film's most frightening moments, because we are forced to wonder what Heather is seeing, if what she sees is even real, what could make her scream like that.

That's the true magic of The Blair Witch Project, the same magic that sent me running for my very life through the friendly, familiar woods around my elementary school playground. It's because the simple horrors are always the most effective. The very idea that what we think we know can be utterly useless, that three people with maps and survival manuals and all the modern day know-how could wander into the woods and never come back. It's a giggle in the dark, figures made of twigs and twine, a thousand tiny handprints on a dirty wall. The idea that something ancient, "of the Old World," still lurks in the wilderness, undisturbed until some overconfident millennial stumbles into its territory. 

All About Steve -- STRANGER THINGS

SPOILERS AHEAD FOR SEASONS 1 & 2 OF STRANGER THINGS

Just like most of you, I devoured the second season of Stranger Things in a matter of hours and am now dealing with an epic hangover full of feels. There is very little in this world I'm not cynical about, but Stranger Things has a way of bashing down every one of my walls with thumping synth bass and homegrown nostalgia. If you're anything like me, you've already discovered the wealth of essays and thinkpieces online explaining all the many ways in which the show is so damn perfect, so there's no need to repeat the obvious power it has over its viewers. But it's not just about the inversion of tropes and fantastic music that sets Stranger Things so high in the ranks of great television--it's the characters.

At the end of the day, all these pitch-perfect 80's references wouldn't matter much if the people living within them were just as pastiche. And Stranger Things' greatest strength lies in that magic formula of the familiar turning into something new, just like childhood itself. That magic makes watching something as simple as a bunch of kids riding their bikes and sniping at each other over D&D lore a joyful experience--a vibrant feeling of nostalgia for our own childhoods as well as an almost parental pride in watching these kids grow up.

Even characters that start out as cliches slowly become something else entirely unexpected: ballet-pink Nancy realizes she is secretly a badass, known nutcase Joyce turns out to be seeing more clearly than the entire police department, and Scumbag Steve transforms into the world's greatest babysitter.

I need this Funko figure.

Steve is one of those characters that, when you're discussing the show with a group, the very mention of his name causes the whole crowd to stop and spit and scoff and say "Steeeeve" with such utter contempt that no further commentary is necessary. It was one of the absolute truths of Season One: Will Byers is trapped in a parallel dimension, the government is in on it, Hopper is not to be fucked with, and we all hate Steve.

Like anyone, I had a lot of feelings about Steve from the beginning, mostly negative. My first time watching the show, it was instant, intense hatred for this poofy-haired, over-confident King Shit who was really bad at interpreting the word "no." He was in every way the asshole we all knew from high school, some swaggering peacock that would only look your way if he wanted to fight or to fuck. So as much as the show calls to mind all the wonderful things from childhood, Steve served as a reminder of a lot of the crappy ones. This hatred for Steve soon dulled into mild irritation, as I was assured that soon enough he would be punished for his sins, hopefully by way of getting gobbled up by an interdimensional beast.

But then something happened: Steve got his ass severely kicked.

It was glorious.

After this severe spanking to his ego, Steve's more human side begins to emerge. He sees the error of his ways with surprising sincerity and immediately begins trying to turn things around, starting with cleaning up his slut-shaming graffiti about Nancy. It's this moment that beautifully illustrates the beginning of Steve's redemption: he made a big bombastic display of his hurt feelings for the whole town to see, only to realize how immature and hurtful it was towards a girl he genuinely cares about. Now he has to clean up his mess, and it's not coming out easily. For once, his popularity and charm will do him no good. He really needs to scrub in order to erase this mistake.

He follows this up by going to Jonathan's house and apologizes for his general shittiness with nearly frantic humility, only to stumble into a house full of booby traps and a very pissed off monster. And it was at this exact moment that Stranger Things busted through my last remaining wall of cynicism and I began to fall helplessly in love with Steve Harrington.

My thoughts exactly.

The Duffer Brothers recently revealed that Steve as a character was exactly the hollow douche he appeared to be until Joe Keery auditioned for the role. They said that his natural charisma and likeability instantly changed the way Steve was written, and you can see it as early as the very first episode if you really look for it. Joe is able to show through subtle expressions and delivery that some of his more dicktastic moments are tinged with just the slightest flicker of discomfort. Perfect example--when Steve casually destroys Jonathan's camera in what is ostensibly a defense of his lady's honor but in reality is just a dick move, you can see in his body language how instantly he regrets it. But, ever the tough guy, ever the King Shit, he walks away before his guilty conscience can chime in.

See, the thing with Scumbag Steve is that he is a scumbag because that is what he feels he is supposed to be. He grew up wealthy, he knows his way around a can of mousse, and he "kinda looks like" that guy from Risky Business (yeah, sure Steve), so he poises himself be That Guy. That Guy gets all the ladies. That Guy beats down anyone that steps to him. No one says "no" to That Guy. Maybe the reason we are so inherently bitter towards Steve in Season One is because we can sense that he's just a big phony. All that swagger, all that posturing--it's all fake, merely a performance of the kind of guy Steve thinks he should be. And for all intents and purposes, it's been working for him quite well, up until he begins courting Nancy Wheeler.

The full scope on my feelings for Nancy are for another blog, because I have a lot to say about how damn proud I am of my girl (actually, I probably have enough material gathered up in my head to write long-winded, overly emotional thinkpieces for every single character in the cast), but for our purposes today, let's focus on the profound effect she has on breaking down the thick layer of sleaze that coats Steve in Season One.

From the jump, Nancy is not swayed by Steve's usual tactics of seduction--you know, those old romantic gestures of shoving a girl up against the bathroom wall and interpreting a cancelled date as an invitation to sneak in her bedroom window. To his credit, for all his rapey vibes in the beginning, Steve does catch on pretty quick that Nancy is different from his former conquests, and what starts out as just another notch on his bedpost quickly slides into something more sincere. Nancy's sweetness and genuine decency begins to chip away at Steve's need to look cool in front of his friends, and when she blows him off to hang out with outcast Jonathan Byers, it is both an unexpected blow to his ego and a wake up call that maybe being a dick to everyone isn't the best way to show that you care.

But this is still gross.

The end of Season One shows Steve blissfully happy to be snuggled up with Nancy in his Christmas sweater watching It's a Wonderful Life with her folks, while she listlessly stares off in the distance, leaving us questioning just how long this relationship can last. Season Two wasted little time in answering us, since the second episode ends with Nancy drunkenly revealing her true feelings about their seemingly perfect union: "It's all bullshit."

To be fair, he had it coming. You do not fuck with a girl's white sweater.

As if this wasn't enough, Steve also has to tangle with new psycho in town Billy, who is aiming to be the new king of the senior class. If Steve was tempted to go back to his old ways after being dumped, any attraction quickly sours with seeing the ugliness that radiates from Billy and all his unhinged alpha male aggression. Heartbroken and humiliated, Steve is left to stumble around with a new identity that has made him a more decent person but causes him to lose his place within the high school food chain. Seeing no other option than to return to the only good thing he knows, he goes to her house to try to reconcile. But instead of finding Nancy, he runs into Dustin who says he needs the assistance of a certain bat armed with rusty nails, and suddenly, everything falls into place.

Scumbag Steve becoming Babysitter Steve is one of the most magnificent transformations of a character I've ever seen. It's on par with Jaime Lannister going from an incestuous bloodthirsty prick to a one-handed man of honor. In a season that seemed to pride itself on attempting new team-ups between characters, this one is the last thing you see coming and one of the most delightful surprises of a show that aims to shock. As much as I love Hopper being Eleven's new dad, there is little that compares to the feels of watching Steve and Dusty walk down the railroad tracks talking about girls.

And the benefits of quality hair care products.

If you're one of the non-believers that chalked up Steve's heroics at the end of Season One as merely an attempt to win back his girlfriend, then Season Two should put that shallow read to rest. Once again, Steve is inadvertently dragged into a second encounter with the Demogorgan(s), but this time it is undoubtedly selfless. He willingly puts himself in danger to help--and then fiercely protect--a bunch of kids that shouldn't mean anything to him. Not only does he square off against a gang of literal monsters, but he even throws himself in front of the testosterone-fueled freight train that is Billy when he comes looking for his stepsister. When he wakes up from his severe ass-whooping in a car being driven by a thirteen-year-old, he has one of the most fantastic freak-outs put to film. And come on, tell me you didn't get chills watching him swing that bat again like a goddamn superstar.

Come at me, bro.

Nancy's influence certainly contributed to Steve's metamorphosis, but ultimately, it does not define him. Because for all the softening the love of a good woman can do to a hard man, it is obligation and responsibility--these moments that we are sometimes accidentally thrust into--that reveal who we truly are. And, surprise, Steve reveals that not only is he a good person, but also the King Shit he always tried to be, only in a different way than anything he could have prepared for.

Stranger Things is that rare perfect show, striking the balance between exploiting our nostalgia and expanding upon it, teasing out unique perspectives on old tropes while introducing us to rich characters who are both comfortingly familiar and refreshingly new. But Steve Harrington stands out among this wonderful cast by becoming something entirely unexpected: a hero.

A Boy and His Doll -- PIN: A Plastic Nightmare (1988)

I would describe my reading habits as "fits and bursts." When I was younger, I was a definition bookworm, but these days I'm choosier and have a lot less spare time. Because of this, I've developed a fascination with pulp horror paperbacks from the 70's and 80's, those trashy little treasures with covers as bombastic and bizarre as their cousins at the video store. These dime store gems are pure entertainment from start to finish, written with breathless readability and usually short enough to tear through in an afternoon, leaving your brain scrambled with soapy drama and atrocious gore.

Some of these books had real talent behind the schlock and one of these is Andrew Neiderman, the pen behind the ultimate pulp novel success story, The Devil's Advocate. Along with his own books, he currently works as a ghostwriter for V. C. Andrews, continuing her saga of twisted aristocracy for generations to come. The seeds of that theme--morose wealthy families with mysterious allure and terrible secrets--perhaps even Neiderman's "audition" to take on Andrews' legacy, arrived in 1981 with his slim but powerful horror novel, PIN (which, full disclosure, I really did tear through in an afternoon). A film version followed in 1988, where it became lost among countless other Canuxploitation video releases at the time. But I'm here today to spread the glorious news of this pin I found in the haystack.

Leon and Ursula are the children of Dr. Linden (Terry O'Quinn), a small-town physician who keeps a skinless plastic dummy named Pin in his office as a teaching aid. To put his younger patients at ease with the unnerving dummy, the doctor throws his voice to make Pin speak, and the two exchange musings over the prognosis like colleagues. The doctor's children often sit in on his examinations, and have a timid friendship with Pin under their father's supervision (after all, he can't speak if Dr. Dad's not in the room).

Leon is especially fascinated by Pin, sneaking into the doctor's office after hours to speak to him alone--only to one day stumble upon a nurse taking advantage of Pin's anatomically correct features. Traumatized, seemingly more for Pin than himself, Leon makes it his mission to take Pin home to live with them, an obsession that carries on for years.

Who could resist those puppy dog eyes?

As they grow up, the children live fairly sheltered lives--Leon takes comfort in it while Ursula fights every step--until, in their teen years, both parents die in a car accident. Leon's first thoughts are to rescue Pin from his father's office and finally bring him home. Ursula is naturally against this, but Leon insists that Pin is part of the family and that families stick together. It doesn't take long for Leon to reveal the lengths of his devotion to Pin: dressing him in his dead father's clothes, covering his face and hands in latex skin, and of course, adopting Pin's soft, even voice.

Yeah, this is better.

While Leon writes bad poetry and languishes on their inheritance, Ursula wisely takes up a job at the library to get out of the house. There she meets Stan, a local student (in the book, a Vietnam vet) and a genuinely nice guy, and the two begin seeing each other. Leon feels that his sister is moving away from him and Pin, and he takes escalating measures to stop it, which--ahem--vary between the book and the movie. (More on that later.)

Things come to a head when Leon lures Stan to the house and attacks him, blaming his outburst on Pin's influence. Of course, because she's seen it coming from the beginning, Ursula is instantly suspicious and it doesn't take long for her to find evidence of Leon's sins. (In the movie, she finds Stan's watch under the couch and a wet spot on the carpet; in the book, she spots Stan's prosthetic leg in the fireplace.) In a whirl of emotion, Ursula runs out of the room and comes back with an ax, hacking Pin to pieces as Leon watches in horror. Leon is traumatized once again and regresses to a catatonic state--while book hints at his lingering nerve damage early on, the film portrays his paralysis as a direct result of the psychotic break. The book and the film end with Leon sitting in his wheelchair by the window, unmoving, the identity of Pin now having completely consumed him.

Whereas the novel is unmistakably psychological, the movie takes a cheekier approach, playing with the possibility that this family drama could turn into a living doll creepshow at any moment. When Pin speaks for the first time, the audience has a few moments of discomfort before its revealed that Dr. Distant Dad is a secret ventriloquist. When Pin sits up in the backseat, it's only briefly terrifying before being explained away as the results of plain old physics--hollow things move around in a moving car. It's a nice touch, and it works. Pin is in the eye of the beholder, and if you believe he is alive, then he is.

Alive enough.

One of the novel's more fascinating aspects is its sexuality, and all the messy, humiliating, inexplicable moments puberty brings. There's this notion, especially in film, that children are so delicate, so pure and innocent that the slightest depravity can warp them for life. It's not as if that isn't true--the world we live in is full of awful things that exist to corrupt our precious babies, so what is a terrified parent to do? Bubble them inside safe spaces lined with fear and ignorance and hope they never ever get out. In this sense, Leon and Ursula represent both the strengths and pitfalls of that parenting tactic.

Ursula is portrayed with a healthy sexual curiosity from the start. An early scene shows her, no more than eight, flipping through a dirty magazine and admiring a model's breasts, wondering aloud to her brother if hers will ever get that big. It's strangely touching by its very innocence, and all the more shattering when their mother walks in and rips the magazine away in disgust. Despite her sheltering, Ursula enjoys her sexuality as she gets older, until the inevitable happens: she gets pregnant. Dr. Dad performs her abortion, which pretty much destroys any notion of being with a man again...for a while, anyway.

Meanwhile, Leon is the polar opposite of a sexual awakening. Where his sister blossoms, he shrivels to almost manic asexuality, due in no small part to his own traumatizing first encounter with sex and his parents' stifling discipline. When his neat-freak mother finds muddy prints on her rug, she forbids him to invite friends to the house ever again. His stoic father is cold and unknowable--his soft side only comes out when he lends a papery voice to a horrifying doll. Leon's only confidants are the wise and gentle Pin, the only father figure he's ever known and Ursula, the beautiful little sister he adores and resents in equal measure. Leon denies he even has a sexuality and violently chastises Ursula for acknowledging her own. The film never directly addresses if Leon is overly protective or jealous of his sister, but the book makes it clear that he is very much in love with her, teetering on obsession.

"Pin, would you say grace?"

Their warped relationship is solidified by a couple of steamy scenes in the pages of the novel that were never going to make the movie. As curious preteens, they experiment with Pin under Leon's instruction based on his encounter with the nurse. As they grow older, Leon almost insists that Ursula use Pin exclusively to satisfy what their father called The Need, in an effort to keep her away from boys at school. When Stan enters the picture, Leon resorts to forcing Pin (and by extension, himself) upon Ursula, convinced that if she only remembers how good it used to be, she won't want to leave them. It's perhaps the most twisted scene in a very bizarre book, and it's definitely the moment that caught the attention of V.C. Andrews' estate.

The one thing that doesn't sit quite right with me is the film's focus on Leon's mental illness, and I do mean those italics. They go so far as to have Ursula tearfully diagnose him as a paranoid schizophrenic based on freehand library research. Portrayals of mental illness in movies rarely age well, but they are more tolerable if the film avoids giving the condition a name. Some may take issue with the "just plain crazy" explanation for various reasons, but to them I say this: Psycho is a masterpiece with the exception of that parlor scene at the end, where a smooth professional comes in to explain precisely what happened and why. For the sake of the story, it's better for the audience to draw their own conclusions from what the film presents rather than have a specific diagnosis.

He taught me how to please a woman and helps with my homework!

I have seen and read some wild stuff in my day, but few things have stuck with me like PIN. I have a soft spot for stories that take a concept and push it to the brink, unafraid to venture into the bizarre depths of human darkness. Both the book and the film are great campy fun with a streak of unnerving weirdness throughout, and they show just enough for the mind to chew on long after the credits roll. So if you have a rainy afternoon to yourself and wish to step into the world of the miserable incestuous upper class, then follow me into the doctor's office, and let Pin examine you.

Hidden Horror -- The Beaver

Some movies defy genre--others deliberately misrepresent themselves in order to appeal to a broad audience, only for the observant viewer to recognize them as dark, terrifying journeys into the human condition. I'd like to introduce you to one of the most unique horror films hiding in your Netflix selection, The Beaver.

Let me take you back to 2011, where Academy darling Jodie Foster and universally-beloved auteur Mel Gibson came together to produce a hilarious look at depression from a delightfully original angle that delivers a message just about anyone can relate to: when you hit rock bottom, sometimes the only thing to bring you back is the magic hiding inside your own diseased mind.

There are many incorrect statements in that last sentence.

How can I begin to describe The Beaver? Start with the atmosphere of What Women Want (troubling behavior played off as adorable comedy), plus Little Miss Sunshine quirk (look at this charming broken family!). Sprinkle in some light humor and some harsh truths, but apply both generously so that they barely compliment one another. Bake at 475 under Jodie Foster's unsettling gaze for 90 minutes, and you get something close to The Beaver. But be careful biting in...there's a secret filling inside.

It's very telling that the last exchange in that jolly little lie of a trailer is Gibson asking Foster, "Where do we start?" and she replies, "We start with the good part." Jodie has clearly learned a thing or two about marketing your passion project in Hollywood: fill the trailers with your fun elevator pitch and inject every frame with that fresh-from-Sundance feel, and you've got yourself the indie darling of the year. Very good, Clarice. So, let's do that--start with the good part.

The good part is that no matter how you feel about Mel Gibson, as far as acting goes, this is his best work in years. Granted, a good portion of that is owed to his ability to project a vaguely drunken Michael Caine impression through an eerily expressive beaver puppet, but still--if you can somehow break your gaze from the cold dead stare of those button eyes, you'll see the actor is still very much alive back there. And to the film's credit, that is clearly its ultimate purpose: to remind us all that Mel Gibson is still a shining talent despite being also being a racist lunatic. (Supposedly, production on the film began before the troubles, but was pushed back from release directly because of Gibson's ruined reputation.) The whole cast is solid, and includes Jennifer Lawrence and the late Anton Yelchin as the moody teen lovers a few years before their respective franchises took off.

Jodie Foster is pulling double time as director and actor, and she is predictably competent at both. I am not exactly a fan of her directing style--she has a taste for awkward moments that I (a lover of awkward moments) can't bear to sit through. But for every sour note she holds on for too long, there are many lovely scenes throughout her films that coax you back in until the next big cringe. A moment in The Beaver that sticks out to me is when Anton Yelchin catches a glance of Jennifer Lawrence between classes, looking positively dreamy in her pretty summer dress, beachy blonde curls swept to the side--moments later he receives a text from her, a triple-chin selfie with her tongue hanging out. It's only a few seconds and it's quickly lost within a montage of other cutesy scenes, but it's a charming moment that subtly communicates a great deal about Lawrence's character and their relationship.

That's just what we love about you, Jen.

Now, to address the beaver in the room. I would like to commend this film for being as sensitive as possible to the issues it addresses, taking the time to properly explain and define exactly what is being portrayed. There are many scenes depicting depression that feel experienced and honest, a lived-in kind of devastation that's palpable onscreen. The puppet therapy thread is somewhat less authentic, taking on more of a My Strange Addiction vibe than a legitimate (albeit rarely used) medical practice. Despite its flaws and the odd creative license here and there, they clearly did some research, and I have to give them props for that.

So...that's the good part. I wanted you to know that before we dive in. I want you to get marinated in that offbeat dramady flavor so we have some solid ground to start from. I want you to get the feeling I experienced going in, and that feeling is smug. I thought I knew what this movie was. I remember the buzz, all the snarky jokes we made at that cutesy trailer. We were all vaguely curious, but in the end no one saw it (maybe one of the copies Jodie had personally mailed out to members of the Academy got a watch, out of politeness), and it has become one of the few Gibson exploits we have collectively chosen to forget.

Years later, I was still smirking as I put on the movie for the first time. I was assured that I understood the way films work and what to expect from a movie involving whimsical alternative therapy. Well, just hang on, friends. I haven't even gotten to the synopsis yet, and I do mean the real synopsis, not the sweet morsels the trailer or some pedestrian critic's 2011 review will feed you. Nope, you're getting the whole plate.

Walter has a nasty case of rich white man depression. He runs a toy company that's on the rocks, he barely knows his kids, and his marriage is strained seemingly beyond repair. Not much is said on whether this is a result of the depression or the cause of it, but all are clearly deteriorating under Walter's mournful thousand yard stare. After being unceremoniously kicked out of the house, he stops at a liquor store on his way to a motel, where he discovers a beaver puppet in the garbage. The night involves a few clumsy attempts at suicide before Walter hears the puppet speak to him, channeling a grumbling Cockney life coach that motivates him to piece his life back together.

What a fun way to work through your devastating mental illness.

Walter returns to his home mere hours after being ejected from it, speaking through the puppet and bearing a stack of informative index cards stating that the puppet is a prescribed therapy tool and that any communication should be addressed to the beaver. His family's reaction is decidedly mixed--his younger son is enchanted while his eldest is repulsed, and his wife waffles somewhere in between. Meanwhile, Walter's co-workers are instantly accepting of and delighted by the beaver. The business is booming on Walter's idea for a beaver-themed tool kit, which somehow becomes a hot-selling item due to the sensationalism of the company's CEO speaking through a puppet. (And, I don't know, kids like building things? And beavers? Sure.)

Walter's life is making a dramatic turnaround with the beaver's help, but soon it becomes clear that he is having trouble disengaging from the beaver's personality. It eventually comes out that the puppet was never prescribed by any doctor and that Walter sort of came up with this method on his own. Despite lying to everyone and essentially using the puppet as a way to "switch off" for a few months, the beaver isn't wrong when he says that his methods are working. Oh, and there's a whole subplot about how Anton Yelchin hates his dad but loves Jennifer Lawrence, and she's this troubled popular girl/secret graffiti artist whose brother died. It barely matters.

Now at this point, I'm sure you're really starting to wonder where I'm going with all this. You're thinking this sounds like typical film festival fluff, a sugary vanity project hoping to mend an admittedly talented maniac's lingering popularity. This isn't horror, not even close. There is no way this quirky family drama could suddenly veer into violent unhinged insanity.

This guy wouldn't just go off on you like that.

Perhaps you best turn back now, keep your impressions of this silly little movie as they are and carry on living your life. Then maybe, one slow Sunday afternoon, you'll forget my words of caution and find the movie on Netflix, and out of bored curiosity you'll put it on. Then you can experience for yourself the profound horror of watching that innocence of yours shatter into screaming little pieces by the time the end credits roll.

There are signs fairly early on that something is amiss within the film. Walter's downward spiral happens in the first few minutes, perhaps to prepare us for the rough road up ahead. But we've all seen our share of funny suicide attempts in offbeat movies before--this is rock bottom, the darkest hour, nowhere to go but up. Surely, we will all learn something from this experience. We meet the beaver and things begin to improve. Work is great, home is great...it is a little weird that he keeps the puppet on during sex, but the music in the montage is telling us that all of this is going just swell.

But then, at about the midway point of the film, there is a scene in which Walter and his wife go out to dinner, and she requests that, just for tonight, he take off the puppet. It does not go well.

The dark underbelly of Walter's recuperation is quickly swept away as a standard mid-movie montage of sadness rolls by, but you sit there not absorbing it. You're haunted by what you've just seen, downright chilled. Things got real there for a second. All the whimsy got sucked out of the room and replaced with inexplicable dread. You can't just go back to caring about Anton Yelchin's girl troubles. There are dark clouds up ahead.

Walter eventually realizes that the beaver has become its own independent personality, and it has no intention of ending their therapy. The beaver considers him a lost cause and plans to completely take over his body like a parasite consuming the host. Walter finally wakes up and has a Tyler Durden moment, getting into a literal fistfight with himself. By the end, both man and puppet are bloodied and broken, but still breathing.

And then, dear friends, the moment comes when this movie reveals what it has been all along: a charmingly bizarre descent into utter madness.

He cuts off his arm.

He builds a tiny coffin measured to fit his arm, and then he fucking cuts it off.

In a movie where Jodie Foster weeps in a fancy restaurant and Chekov makes out with Katniss in front of a graffiti mural, a man banishes his alternate personality by hacking off one of his own limbs with a buzz saw. The film closes with a tender scene depicting Mel Gibson finally getting along with his son as a shiny new prosthetic lies across his lap, but you're likely too busy still screaming into your fist to notice because HE CUT OFF HIS FUCKING ARM!

If you're a normal person, you won't watch this movie, but supposing you do, you'll walk out of it saying, "Well it was a weird journey but I think he's really gonna turn his life around." But if you're like me--the horror fan--you'll come out gobsmacked and strangely delighted at having the rug pulled out from under you this way. Granted, it is slightly troubling that the ultimate message seems to be "Hey, maybe if you actually had something to be depressed about, you'd find more reasons to realize life isn't so bad," not to mention the implication that mental illness is as easily removed as a limb.

Thank goodness you took action before the infection could spread to your brain.

Nonetheless, it is hard to not be impressed how horror elements are placed disturbingly close to family-friendly sweetness. And I'm not just talking about a man who saws off his own arm in his goddamn garage sweet Jesus, but moreso the havoc depression can wreak on a good life from the inside out. These moments are sickeningly familiar for many people, and they're portrayed with dismal sincerity. Maybe you didn't have a panic attack in a public place, or punched yourself into submission, or began projecting a more charismatic personality in your daily life, but maybe you felt like doing it more than once, and that can be pretty frightening.

But don't let those tender truths distract you from the fact that this is a body horror film masquerading as a heartfelt comedy, in which a man is slowly consumed by a hostile spirit trapped in a puppet that wants to be human. It perfectly explains why Walter found the puppet in the trash, presumably dumped there by a former victim that managed to escape the beaver's seductive force before it was too late. Change the music and add some ominous shadows, and this easily becomes a horror film. As it is, it's another one of Jodie Foster's unsavory cringe-fests with a particularly bizarre edge. It does kind of make you rethink Home for the Holidays, although that movie hardly needs help being scary.

This movie is a nightmare for everyone in it.

You may feel you don't even need to watch the movie now that it's been thoroughly spoiled for you. Maybe this review was enough. Maybe it's enough just to know what happens in the final fifteen minutes of The Beaver. But should you find yourself faced with this innocent-sounding title during that kickback Sunday movie binge, remember my words of warning, and prepare yourself for a bizarre horror gem hiding under a cute poster in the comedy section.

Remaking -- He's a MANIAC (1980), MANIAC (2012) on the floor

The horror community is abuzz right now over the upcoming release of IT, the glossy remake of the iconic 1990 miniseries. The full trailer dropped recently and depending on your feelings about the original film, you're either optimistic or deeply cynical towards what the new version will offer. Aside from some of the inherent flaws of modern blockbuster horror (gritty filters, jump scares, etc), I find the trailer to be promising and I'm genuinely looking forward to seeing the new film. But then, I'm usually open-minded when it comes to remakes. My peers in the community are less trusting of studios to redesign a classic, as they should be. We've been hurt before and we have every right to be bitter, but that doesn't necessarily mean that we should write off every makeover of something familiar. After all, if we can tolerate 400 different versions of Alice in Wonderland, surely we can be open to a new point of view on a single film.

That is why I have decided to start a new segment centered around this redheaded stepchild of a subgenre that is so near and dear to my heart: the horror remake. Welcome to Remaking, where we take a look at remakes, reboots, and reimaginings without getting really mad about it.

We can all agree that the best remakes go after material that isn't that well known or successful, films that were lacking in some way but still memorable and could use a second draft. John Carpenter's The Thing and David Cronenberg's The Fly are prime examples of this and are usually the first to reference when talking about beneficial remakes. Both directors took schlocky childhood favorites and brought them into the 80's with incredible special effects and gutting new pathos. They recognized that a relic of the atomic age could be reapplied to a new generation, old imagery being paralleled with modern fears.

Enter Maniac, possibly the most demonized slasher film of its time, and its perfect reapplication to the internet age.

Both films tell the same story. Frank is a lonely man who has a nasty habit of compulsively murdering women. He keeps mementos of them by taking their scalps and their clothes in order to decorate mannequins in their image. Over the course of the film, he builds a collection that begins to crowd his apartment with bloodied plastic ladies. He eventually meets a beautiful photographer and they start a seemingly sweet relationship. But Frank's demons continue to eat away at him as he whispers to his mannequins and suffers flashbacks from his traumatic childhood. We learn that Frank's mother was a neglectful prostitute and he is haunted by abuse from his broken home. The climaxes of the two films are different--both involve his girlfriend realizing what he is and all hell breaking loose--but it all ends with a mortally wounded Frank taking shelter in his apartment, only to watch his mannequins to come to screaming life and dismember him. The cops find Frank the next morning having succumbed to his wounds, his doll collection looking on in silence.

Don't let anyone tell you that either film is a fun watch. If Maniac were a carnival ride, it would be one that broke down years ago, boarded up and covered in "do not cross" signs. We, foolish thrill-seekers, hop the fence and get in the cart anyway, only to be slowly wheeled through a dark tunnel that we steadily realize isn't a ride at all but a tour through the cavernous home of a psychotic bum, and somehow he's been expecting us. The experience of watching the movie is much like taking the hand of a lunatic and letting him show you around his world. Try to smile politely when he introduces you to his girlfriends.

If there is one thing distinctive about the original Maniac that sets it apart from other grindhouse fare of its time is that it never loses focus off of Frank. A lesser film would spend more time getting to know the pretty ladies he's stalking, maybe check in at the police station for any hot leads, leaving time for only a few terrifying glimpses of our killer before the big showdown where the monster is finally vanquished. Maniac does not follow the rules, let alone narrative beats. The only outsiders we spend any amount of focus on happen to be victims of his stalking, seen through windows or looming just over their shoulder. What little we know about these doomed women is learned all while we're biting our nails waiting for Frank to strike. We don't get to see them as people with lives--only prey completely unaware that they're being hunted. We are in Frank's head, and that is where we must stay.

Sadly, this innovative point of view is precisely what sank the film. The only thing most critics took seriously about Maniac was its somber depiction of violence, adding it to an already substantial pile of slasher films to play scapegoat for all the modern world's problems, and dooming the film to a vile reputation even all these years later. (It always amuses me how critics have skewered just about every psycho killer movie as uncultured trash, yet still maintain that Halloween--the demon seed that arguably started this whole slasher craze--is untouchable, a masterpiece never to be rivaled in all the history of cinema.)

They failed to recognize that Frank is a far cry from other crazed villains seen before. He's not Norman Bates, with disarming good looks hiding a split personality. He's not Michael or Jason, bloodless immortal machines who kill without passion or reason. There are no pithy one-liners or philosophical musings or peals of evil laughter. Aside from Tom Savini's head getting blown off, there are no spectacular kills designed to titillate the audience. Compared to its flashy contemporaries, Maniac may be the most utterly joyless slasher film ever made.

Frank Zito is, in a word, conflicted. Yes, we see him slaughter and scalp women, but we also see the emotional turmoil he goes through in the aftermath. One of the first scenes in the original movie depicts Frank strangling a prostitute, only to instantly vomit and dissolve into sobs just after the light leaves her eyes. When we hear his inner thoughts, they are an untraceable blend of guilty conscience, crazed motivations, and somewhere in there, the remains of a man trying desperately to hold on to the last shreds of his humanity. He knows what he's doing is wrong and he hates himself for it, but he feels he has no choice. He's compelled, he's addicted.

His flavor of crazy stands out from the rest because he is so human. He has no distinct personality disorder we can prescribe, nor any single traumatic moment we can truly sympathize with, yet we do. There are many painful little moments in Frank's life that are almost too familiar--a gentle rejection from a love interest, a flippant comment from a stranger, a late night alone in an empty apartment. Perhaps that's why Maniac is such a hard watch: there's a moment, maybe several, that cause you to stop and say "I can relate to that." Maybe you didn't go and kill anybody over it, but Maniac suggests that none of us are as far away from it as we would like to be.

The 2012 remake took this "portrait of a serial killer" a step further by making the camera Frank's literal point of view. We as the audience become Frank, and for the next 90 minutes, we take on the everyday life of a demented killer. We see the twitches of pity and discomfort in other people's faces as they speak to Frank. We reel in confusion when terrible memories come to him. We see every moment of horror that he inflicts upon his victims, we experience every crazed outburst in the guilty aftermath, and we endure the company of his macabre housemates. We look in the mirror and we only see Frank. We are in his head, and that is where we must stay.

The most interesting difference between the films is in the physical appearances of the actors portraying Frank. The 1980 version's killer was a schlubby sweaty oaf, bulky with a weird face and haunted eyes, intimidating in every conceivable way. The kind of man any woman would be wary of passing on the street. The kind of man that causes the whole audience to point and say "Ooohhhh, that's him! There's the creep!" (No offense to the late great Joe Spinell. He's a fantastic actor and he cleans up just fine.)

Meanwhile in the 2012 version, we get a skinny nerd with an unsettling gaze. It reveals a lot about what has changed during the years between the films, how we have realized as a culture that our monsters do not always initially appear to be monstrous. And I'll just go ahead and get this off my chest: I've always found Elijah Wood to be a little creepy. I love the man, I like his work, he's a talented actor and seems like a perfectly nice guy. But there's always been something about him that seems...off.

Maybe it's those icy blue eyes of his--beautiful and chilling in their intensity--or maybe it's the way that sometimes his laugh sounds like the cackling of a perverted goblin. Yet at the same time, he's such a sweet-faced, slightly-built, soft-spoken man. He couldn't hurt a fly...or maybe that's just what he wants us to think. Somehow the 2012 version is more frightening for me because Elijah Wood is such an unassuming killer. This is the creeper of the new millennium. I've gone to school with that guy. Hell, I've dated that guy. That sweet babyface that hides something darker, that at any moment could go over the edge. Wood's Frank is that boy next door who seems a little weird but is probably harmless, but deep down you hope you never end up alone in a room with him.

 
To say Frank has issues with women would be putting it gently, and it is here that both films' most stunning set piece is put to brilliant use. Both films share the common element of mannequins bearing the bloody scalps of dead women posed around Frank's apartment. Grisly and beautiful, the mannequins are totems of Frank's sins and witnesses to his misery. They are his stand-ins for true companionship as well as his ultimate undoing.

Frank can't deal with living breathing women--to him, they only exist to torment: "Fancy girls, in their fancy dresses and lipstick, laughing and dancing...I know how it is with their hairs and their looks and they...they can drive a man crazy!" He tries instead to recreate them to suit his needs, taking the parts he likes and filling in the rest, stapling their essence to a plastic body he can pose to his liking. Still he knows they're no replacement, merely imitations of the creatures he so desperately pines for, yet can't connect with. He can't meet a woman or even DIY one without seeing them through his own broken lens, sticking himself in a cycle of longing and rejection that can only be quelled through violence.

Much like American Psycho, Maniac telegraphs its feelings about misogyny by marinating the audience in the worst of it, an approach that can and has been misinterpreted as a celebration of violence against women. But just like Patrick Bateman, Frank is no hero to anyone. He is a pathetic human being, his toxic view of women stemming directly from his own insecurities and twisted self-awareness. It's hard not to watch either version of Frank and hear echoes of men's right activists, and suddenly we're looking in on the private life of one of these guys that believes he is personally persecuted against by all the women around him. The message of the film really shines in Frank's final moments: he sees his mannequins become their living selves as they tear him apart like a doll, ripping open his flesh to reveal a plastic shell beneath. Perhaps only in that moment does Frank discover what he truly is: a creature that only appears to be human but houses a hollow chamber filled with angry voices.

Maniac was seen as another tasteless slasher upon original release, and until fairly recently was obscured by the deluge of similar video nasty titles of the time. The remake enjoyed mild success on the indie circuit, and word of mouth combined with a run on Netflix Instant escalated it to modern classic territory. It is a shame that the film didn't get the attention it deserved in 1980, or even now since the 2012 version is still considered something of a hidden gem. Both films attempt to express something deeper than hacking up pretty girls, but are so brutal in their execution that they almost go too deep. They are not slashers in the Friday the 13th sense, but something closer to Henry, an unrelenting examination of the grimiest pits of humanity. They are certainly not for those looking for a rollicking good time at the talkies, but highly recommended for the horror fan who is more fascinated by the what goes on inside a person's head than what comes out of it when it explodes.

All that being said, who doesn't love watching a head explode?