by Kane, Paul
Original Frank make-up reference head (courtesy Phil and Sarah Stokes of the Revelations Web site www.clivebarker.info).
Most crucially there was this underlying ethos to spur him on: “The force of imagination behind these things is finally more important, I believe, than knowing the rules, because somebody else will help you with the rules. That’s what technicians are there for, to say no, no, you can’t possibly do that, it’ll be out of focus. And that’s fine—you learn as you go along.”39
Obviously, no production is all plain sailing, particularly a first time one. Bradley had trouble hitting his marks the first time in make-up because he couldn’t see through his black contact lenses, and he was also frightened of tripping over Pinhead’s skirts. He had a difficult moment on a wooden support that was being raised into the air above Kirsty, and tumbled off. There were reports of some tension between Robinson and Barker over how to play certain scenes, possibly not helped by the new director finding his feet,40 so much so that Barker described his job as being 50 percent diplomat. They had to rush a shoot in a Chinese restaurant between Kirsty and Larry because the man who was supposed to let them in was late, the consequence of which is one of the flattest scenes in the whole film. The Engineer creature, that Barker actually spent evenings with the special effects team helping to construct, proved cumbersome to maneuver—in fact, if you watch the scene closely where it runs down the hallway, you can see the men operating it and pushing it from behind. Additionally, there was little time and money to effectively destroy the house for the denouement. Handfuls of dust and a few bits of wood falling from the roof have to stand in for this. But, taking everything into consideration, it was a much easier shoot than some (The Exorcist comes to mind). There was also nothing like the misfortune that would plague Barker on his next movie as director (see Chapter 11).
Clive Barker on set (photograph credit Tom Collins).
When filming wrapped, the editors proved no less considerate: Richard Marden, who had worked with John Schlesinger and David Lean, and an uncredited Tony Randel. Marden, who started out in the business as sound editor on The Vicious Circle in 1957 (Gerald Thomas) and was responsible for editing such diverse films as Bedazzled (Stanley Donen, 1967) and Half Moon Street (Bob Swaim, 1986), was apparently the “soul of tact” when Barker sat in on the process.
Finally, the importance of Christopher Young’s music cannot be underestimated. Barker originally wanted the electronic band “Coil” because he claimed their music made his “bowels churn,” although unit publicist Stephen Jones tactfully suggested that cinema management might prefer it if he said “spine chill” instead.41 However, the idea was rejected by New World and it was actually Randel who brought New Jersey native Young into the Hellraiser stable. No stranger to working in the science fiction and horror fields, Young had provided the music for movies like Godzilla (Koji Hashimoto and R.J. Kizer, 1985) and A Nightmare on Elm Street Part 2: Freddy’s Revenge (Jack Sholder, 1985). Strangely, his compositions would mark Hellraiser out as distinct from such fare, in particular the slasher flicks of the Nightmare series, which was into its third installment by 1987. From the very opening bars of the movie the majestic signature tune speaks of deadly elegance, a much more classy horror film. And who can imagine Frank’s resurrection sequence without the celebratory waltz?
Hellraiser soundtrack by Christopher Young (cover courtesy Silva Screen).
Barker has said in retrospect about the musician, “In a sense he made a larger mark on the movie than practically anyone else associated with it, because his score elevates the picture with its scale, majesty, complexity and emotional richness. Chris is an old style composer, and a little crazy I think—and he’d probably admit to that. An extraordinary talent.”42 High praise, but then Young did give the director a crash course on spotting and scoring, continuing his involvement in the project at every level. Barker even pitched in with the people at New World’s publicity, marketing and distribution departments—unaware as he was at that time of the significance of a really excellent marketing campaign (it can make or break the picture, as he discovered later in his career). From the beginning, Barker was the driving force behind this project. And he was there right at the end when, upon its general release, Hellraiser recouped its production costs in just three days.
2
OPENING THE BOX
Deals with the Devil
Faustus, ah Faustus! Poetry, perversity, farce and damnation! What more could I ask for? I adored its rapid changes of tone, its sheer theatricality.
—Clive Barker, “Keeping Company with Cannibal Witches,” Daily Telegraph, January 6, 1990.
As befits a story based around the Faustian myth, the overriding theme of Hellraiser is the bargain, or pact. The tale originates from fifteenth and sixteenth century Germany where a Dr. Georgius Faust of Helmstadt encouraged the rumor that he had sold his soul to the devil in exchange for magical powers. This was transcribed as Historia von Johann Fausten (1587), and translated into English as The Historie of the Damnable Life, and Deserved Death of Doctor John Faustus. Around the same time, Christopher Marlowe reworked the story as The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus, in which a scholar trades his soul to the demon Mephistopheles for knowledge and is sucked into the pits of Hell. In Barker’s own words, “It tells of a shaman who touches an inner darkness—a forbidden place that promises dangerous knowledge—and is snatched off by the very forces he’s hoped to control.”1 But in Johann Wolfgang Goethe’s nineteenth century verse drama, Faust, the main protagonist escapes his damnation by cheating the demon Mephisto. Hellraiser’s story of Frank Cotton and the Cenobites, therefore, is a skilful conjunction of the last two. Although, this being Barker, there is no escape for long.
The very first scene depicts a deal in the process of being struck. Frank is asked, “What’s your pleasure?” by the merchant. The pleasure Frank seeks is not magical powers or knowledge, but the ultimate in sexual and hedonistic experiences. Frank is the quintessential thrill-seeker who has been constantly searching his whole life for something “more.” The small ivory ornament of a man and woman coupling and the photographs he leaves behind all point to his particular weakness for pleasures of the flesh. Unfortunately, “It’s never enough.” And his brother’s line about Frank never being one to kick cash out of bed denotes that he has always been willing to pay for his enjoyment. Later, Frank confesses to Julia, “I thought I’d gone to the limits. I hadn’t. The Cenobites gave me an experience beyond limits. Pain and pleasure, indivisible.” Frank strikes a deal for the box, hands over his cash, expecting his version of pure pleasure. It isn’t until later that he discovers not everyone’s idea of “pleasures of the flesh” are the same.
Desire and gratification are at the heart of the next deal we see, too; indeed, they intertwine with this theme throughout the film. In the attic flashback scene where Julia remembers her own sexual brush with Frank, two critical bargains are made. Just before they make love, Julia asks Frank, “What about Larry?” to which he replies, “Forget him.” This is the price she must pay for his favors. Incidentally, it must be pointed out here that the sex scene in the finished movie isn’t the original one Barker scripted and filmed. In this version, the act is longer and much more passionate, as this screenplay extract shows:
Their love-making is not straight-forward: there is an element of erotic perversity in the way FRANK licks at her face, almost like an animal, his hold too tight to be loving. The sequence escalates into a series of strange details from their locked bodies. Nails digging into palms; sweat rivulets running down their torsos. And once in a while we see their faces. JULIA watching FRANK, mesmerized and amused by his intensity.2
Barker wanted there to be no doubt in the viewers’ minds that she’d never experienced anything like this before; so intense it has stayed with her all these years. Interestingly, though, it was New World who forced the director to cut back on the sex and introduce the switchblade element—where F
rank cuts the strap of Julia’s chemise. “I lost the situation I’d written,” explained Barker in a later interview, “which was they fuck like crazy. I wanted to motivate her with this incredibly raunchy sex scene, they said, ‘sorry, we simply can’t use this material because you can’t mix sex with violence’.... I could only hint at that.”3 The idea was that Julia feels excited and alive rather than in danger—this is no rape—and that’s an important distinction when it comes to the second bargain the lovers make.
Julia and Frank. Hellraiser still (photograph credit: Tom Collins).
After the deed is done and he is about to walk away, she implores him: “Please, I’ll do anything you want.” This bargaining chip doesn’t work the first time, but Frank will hold her to the promise when he is the one who needs her. Essentially, he uses her longing to make good his escape and swindle the demons. The deal is simple: in exchange for luring and killing men to feed him, Frank will stay with Julia this time, or so he has her believe. If she’d felt overtly threatened the first time they’d met, there would be no way she’d want to bring Frank back.
A scene was actually shot of Julia and Larry’s wedding, which would have illustrated a further pact. Barker chose not to include this in the finished cut of the movie (it actually turns up in Hellbound), perhaps for running time purposes or because it was already quite obvious that the deal Julia made with Frank was always of greater import. The symbolism of Frank and Julia having sex atop her wedding dress, Julia’s fist crushing the material, and her flashback occurring just as Larry is hauling the matrimonial bed up the stairs, is enough. It makes a mockery of the legal and religious contract between Larry and his wife. Regardless of this, it would have presented a nice contrast to later parallel scenes where Julia and Frank exchange twisted wedding vows. In the first of these Frank asks if she’ll spill more blood for him and Julia replies, “I will.” In the next, Frank swears to Julia, “We belong to each other now. For better, for worse. Like love, only real.” Theirs is the only wedding that counts in Hellraiser—a warped bonding of a skinless man and a murderess. But just as pleasure and pain are indivisible for the Cenobites, so, too, are love and desire for Julia and Frank. This is something Frank substantiates when he kills Julia at the end. “Nothing personal, babe,” he sneers.
Cracks are apparent, though, in Larry and Julia’s union from the second they open the door to the house on Lodovico Street. Barker highlights this in the screenplay.
We see the pair on the doorstep. LARRY is an American in his early forties, an attractive man who has lost his edge in recent years. He looks harassed; he smirks too much. A little, but significant, corner of him is utterly defeated. JULIA, his wife, is English: and looks perhaps ten years his junior. She is beautiful, but her face betrays a barely buried unhappiness. Life has disappointed her, too, of late: and LARRY has been a major part of their disappointment.4
Thanks to the adroit acting of Robinson and Higgins, this is conveyed to the viewer. When Larry mentions the difficulties they had in Brooklyn and states unconvincingly, “We can make it work here,” it only confirms our suspicions. And when Julia agrees to Larry’s “So?” with a “Why not?” we realize that instead of strengthening their covenant they are heading for its complete dissolution. Furthermore, because Julia has stolen a picture of Frank we also know that he will be the principal cause of this annulment. Her powerful attraction to Frank means that any deal they made will always have priority, though both deals have serious repercussions. Her pact with Larry has left her trapped in a loveless marriage. Her pact with Frank might lead to transient sexual fulfillment, but it also forces her to kill and initiates her own death.
An unfilmed scene from the novella has a bleeding Julia wearing her wedding dress at the end, further emphasizing the hideous mistakes she has made and her wish to turn back the clock:
And there, in the middle of this domestic wasteland, sat a bride. By some extraordinary act of will, Julia had managed to put her wedding dress on, and secure her veil upon her head. Now she sat in the dirt, the dress besmirched. But she looked radiant nevertheless; more beautiful, indeed, for the fact of the ruin that surrounded her.5
More hopeful is the alliance between Kirsty and her new boyfriend, Steve (played by Robert Hines). The pair meet at her father’s housewarming dinner party and we sense immediately the first blossoming of young love. The eye contact and laughter is genuine, as opposed to Julia’s false smiles when placating Larry or luring her male victims to the house. There is a hint of sex when Steve wants to pour more wine and Kirsty insists she won’t be able to stand up. “So lie down,” says Steve with a grin. But compared with the animal passions of Julia and Frank this is all very tame, and when the couple kiss for the first time in the underpass we definitely feel there is potential for a real relationship. However, this shot then pulls back and dissolves to a scene with Larry and Julia in bed—a cynical extrapolation of how the romance might culminate. Barker himself has wickedly said of this, “We cut to Julia and Larry and what marriage actually is: someone lying snoring and farting on one side of the bed while the other one has a good smoke and curses the moment they ever got married.”6
We can’t help but contrast this with a more innocent, or naïve, pre-wedding Julia. “I’m very happy,” she affirms, talking about her impending nuptials, and it seems as if she really means it. What would have happened if Frank hadn’t come along is certainly cause for speculation. Would she have been a different person without his corrupting influence? Even though she denies any feelings for Larry, she still initially resists the idea of killing him for his skin.
There are signs that Kirsty and Steve’s association could last, nonetheless. They don’t yet share a bed, for one thing; when they wake from a nightmare about Larry dying, they are shown in two single beds. Steve comes to visit her at the pet store where she is working, and worries when he can’t find her at the hospital, enough to follow her to Lodovico Street. Here he attempts to rescue Kirsty, although it is she who ends up rescuing him. To all intents and purposes the dynamics of the relationship switch after their first date. Steve is the one who initiates the kiss after the party, but at the end Kirsty is definitely the one in control. There is a danger here that Steve might become just as weak and ineffectual as Larry, but it does at least suggest that Kirsty will not be forced into any deals like the one Julia makes with Frank. She has a mind of her own and is strong enough to use it; she won’t be manipulated by anyone—apart, perhaps, from her father, for reasons we will come to later.
One last thing to mention about the relationships between these couples is the significance of the kisses traded. Of them all, only Kirsty and Steve’s is genuine and seals what could potentially be a good partnership. But, as in Salome, the rest mark betrayal, deception, or even impending death. We do not see Frank and Julia kiss at all until the very end, and this is only so Frank can feed himself. The kiss Julia gives Larry is to distract him from investigating the Damp Room, then she shuns his attentions. And the one she shares with her first victim, angrily instigated by him and over in seconds, signals that his end is not far away.
The final pacts to be made involve Kirsty. Inadvertently, she opens the puzzle box in the hospital, thus unconsciously striking the same deal Frank made at the start. The Cenobites are summoned and verify what she has done. “The box. You opened it. We came,” says their leader. It doesn’t matter that she has done this in ignorance; her curiosity was the catalyst, just as Frank’s desire was his undoing. When Kirsty tells them to “Go to Hell!” the female Cenobite confirms her worst fears: “We can’t. Not alone.” The box has been opened and Kirsty must live up to her end of the bargain. Swiftly, she counters this with a deal of her own, offering them something they crave even more than her: Frank. The lead Cenobite barters from a position of weakness now, in spite of his apparent dominance of the situation. He argues that no one has ever escaped them, but all evidence points to the contrary. We have seen Frank, he has escaped them. The lead Cenobite
is forced to contradict himself seconds later, then reluctantly agrees to this new bargain. But they also close their end of the deal with a threat. If Kirsty deceives them they will tear her soul apart!
Just like the pact between Julia and Frank, this one is wholly unstable—and it is the Cenobites who ultimately double-cross Kirsty. She fulfils her promise and delivers Frank, but that is not enough. They want to take Kirsty back as well, their hunger for her just as great as Frank’s for survival or Julia’s lust. As a result, Kirsty is perfectly within her rights to send them back. They have the one soul as agreed, and so the puzzle box now complies.
Cotton Family Values
The second major theme running through Hellraiser is that of the family, or, more correctly, an undermining of the traditional family unit. Hellraiser was by no means the first horror movie to do this, and we can trace the concept back to genre films of the 1960s and ’70s. In earlier U.S. and UK horror films the moral supremacy of the nuclear family and all it stood for tended to be asserted. Heterosexual couples and stable family units fought against threats from the outside, like the overtly supernatural vampire, mummy or werewolf. This can be seen in the Universal and RKO movies of the ’30s and ’40s, and also in certain Hammer productions from the 1950s. By this time, though, American horror films were also considering the danger from within, fueled largely by the fear of communism, classic examples being Invaders from Mars (William Cameron Menzies, 1953) and Invasion of the Body Snatchers (Don Siegel, 1956). Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960) completely internalized the threat, fixing the attention firmly on the mother-son relationship and its effect on Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins). As we’ve already seen, Psycho was the first adult horror film Clive Barker ever saw and it had a huge impact on him.
