by Adam Rockoff
Moving on, to illustrate a “sleazy” movie for his audience, Ebert opts for a clip from When a Stranger Calls. He couldn’t have picked a worse example. Stranger is the absolute antithesis of the slasher film. Aside from a nail-biting opening, and an equally terrifying coda, Stranger is a languid character study of a rather pathetic and not entirely unsympathetic sociopath. If it can be criticized for anything it’s for being too subtle. Even more perplexing is the specific scene that Ebert chooses to show: it’s possibly the most frightening twenty minutes in the history of horror cinema. A bold claim, I know. But I can’t think of any phrase more fraught with dread, or more likely to make the blood of my babysitting girlfriends run cold, than “Have you checked the children?” (Not that I would have ever called them and uttered it in those glorious days before caller ID.) Following the clip, Ebert scoffs that this “basic scene has provided the premise for at least a dozen films in the last year.” At least a dozen in the past year? Seems like Siskel’s penchant for exaggeration is contagious. Aside from Black Christmas, which five years earlier pioneered the call-coming-from-inside-the-house device, I can think of only a handful of films in the entire slasher cycle that use threatening phone calls in any capacity whatsoever. But according to Ebert, 1979 was apparently a bumper year for prank calls at the movies.
Siskel has an idealized view of “strong women” like Jane Fonda and Jill Clayburgh and laments the fact they can only make one movie or so each year, while slasher films—filled with female representations of which he doesn’t approve—are bludgeoning audiences on a weekly basis. Apparently, someone forgot to remind him that Fonda won her Best Actress Oscar for playing a whore and, in his own example of An Unmarried Woman, Clayburgh is a woman who defines her self-worth, at least for a large portion of the film, by the men in her life.
Ebert then attempts to make a distinction between movies like Psycho and Halloween—which both he and Siskel liked—and the current crop of horror films. “These films hate women,” he thunders angrily about the latter. “And unfortunately, the audiences that go to them don’t seem to like women much either.” He complains about being forced to endure the films not in some cushy screening room, but in ordinary theaters with the hoi polloi, an experience he describes as “scary.”
Should anyone still be confused about which films specifically comprise this “disturbing new trend,” Siskel offers up the names of the worst offenders. Prom Night. Don’t Go in the House. The Howling. Yes, The Howling, which Siskel describes as “a new movie about a woman who goes alone on a vacation and is tortured by the locals.” Is he fucking kidding me? Where did he come up with this plot summary? Because he sure as hell didn’t see the movie. That’s like describing The Godfather as the story of an American man living in Italy who must decide whether to take over the family business following the tragic death of his wife. What’s ironic is that, had he watched it, Siskel should have loved The Howling. It was made by low-budget auteur and Roger Corman disciple Joe Dante and filled with flourishes of black humor. Furthermore, the script was written by indie darling John Sayles and lovingly references many classic horror films and horror film directors from the 1930s and ’40s. Siskel continues to drone on, listing additional films: Terror Train, The Boogeyman, He Knows You’re Alone (which he calls He Knows YOU ARE Alone, adding a touch of class by forgoing the contraction), Motel Hell, Phobia, Mother’s Day, Schizoid, Silent Scream, and I Spit on Your Grave, which “is easily the worst of this disgusting bunch.” About I Spit, Ebert concurs, calling it “the most violent, extreme, grotesque, nauseating R-rated picture I’ve ever seen.”
I’m no I Spit apologist. In Going to Pieces I described it as “truly a vile film” and “not even a film as much as a series of highly disturbing skits designed to repulse.” However, I’m also an enormous hypocrite. In 2010, I wrote the script for the remake of I Spit on Your Grave under a pseudonym, Stuart Morse.II My reasons for taking the gig were twofold. One, I needed the money. If it was a choice between my kids being able to attend summer camp and having some egg on my face, well, pass the salt and pepper. Two, there was something enticing about reimagining arguably the most notorious exploitation film ever made. Plus, if truth be told, I Spit is not nearly as irredeemable as I proclaimed in 2002. In fact, there’s plenty to recommend about it, not least of all its raw energy. This was just the twenty-five-year-old me trying to be cute and self-righteous.
My reasons for adopting a pseudonym were also twofold. At the time, I was working for a company that created educational programs for children. As head of sales, I was oftentimes the only point of contact that prospective clients had with our company. Were they to Google me, I didn’t know how good it would look to have this particular credit front and center. In addition, the year before, I had written another controversial film called Wicked Lake under my own name. I figured, okay, you write one rape-revenge film and nobody can pigeonhole you. It’s just a job. But you write two and suddenly people start looking at you like, “What the fuck is wrong with this guy?”III
Turns out, I picked the wrong film on which to use a pseudonym. Wicked Lake was released to nearly unanimously terrible reviews. Ron Jeremy called it the worst movie he had ever seen. The remake of I Spit, on the other hand, received surprisingly positive notices. Not from the mainstream press, of course. They’re basically a bunch of reactionaries who never understood the film in the first place. But from horror writers. And I say surprising because if there’s one thing that horror critics generally despise it’s remakes, especially remakes for which there is no discernible reason. I digress.
Suddenly, Siskel announces that he has a theory. He’s absolutely convinced that the prevalence of these films is a backlash against the women’s movement. Or as he puts it, “some primordial response by some very sick people.” As supporting evidence, he points out that the killer is most often a man who is “sexually frustrated with these new aggressive women, and so he strikes back at them. He throws knives at them. He can’t deal with them, he cuts them up, he kills them. Get back in your place. It’s against the women’s movement.” Ebert agrees: “I think you’re basically right, Gene.”
Siskel’s theory makes for good copy. It’s quite salacious to imagine that a cabal of demented individuals are playing out their repressed fantasies for mass consumption. But does it hold up to scrutiny? Let’s agree that the “sick people” to whom Siskel is referring are the directors, as they’re the ones whose creative vision is the driving force behind these films. After all, it’s not the actors, as most are just young thespians desperate for a break. Or any of the crew, craftsmen, or honest laborers, far removed from the message of the film. Or even the producers, bean counters who would just as soon make fine-art documentaries if that’s what audiences paid to see.
This is hardly a scientific rebuttal, but I’ve had the good fortune to get to know many of these “sick” directors. They’re some of the most delightful and kindhearted people in the industry. John (Halloween) Carpenter, while somewhat ornery nowadays, is generally beloved by his female stars. Sean (Friday the 13th) Cunningham is a clean-cut family man. Paul (Prom Night) Lynch is a witty Brit. George (My Bloody Valentine) Mihalka now makes children’s films. Joe (The Prowler) Zito is one of the nicest individuals you’ll ever meet. Even Meir (I Spit on Your Grave) Zarchi, who, judging by his films, must surely be the worst of the worst, was surrounded by his beaming wife and loving family when I first met him. The list goes on and on. For Siskel to claim anything to the contrary, based solely on these artists’ (and yes, Gene, they are artists) output, is not only fallacious but completely irresponsible. Remember, he doesn’t call their work sick—still untrue but at least a legitimate criticism—he calls them sick individuals who hate women.
What about the second part of Siskel’s theory, where he describes the motivation of the killer as a violent reaction to women’s lib? What evidence does he have for this? None, of course. But for the hell of it, let’s see if he has a point. Below I’ve liste
d ten of the most well-known and successful slasher films, followed by the motivation of the film’s killer. If Siskel is right, then at least some—if not most—of the films should support his theory.
Halloween: Killer is “purely and simply evil.” He has no sexual urges whatsoever.
Friday the 13th: Killer is a woman. Theory not applicable.
Prom Night: Revenge. Killer is avenging the death of his sister.
Terror Train: Revenge. Killer was humiliated by the popular kids.
The Burning: Revenge. Killer was disfigured by mischievous campers.
The Prowler: Revenge. Killer was jilted by his lover.
Night School: Killer is a woman. Theory not applicable.
Happy Birthday to Me: Killer is a woman. Theory not applicable.
My Bloody Valentine: Revenge/insanity. Killer saw his father murdered.
Graduation Day: Revenge/insanity. Killer’s girlfriend died tragically.
Not a single one of these slashers fits the paradigm that Siskel describes, that of a sexually frustrated man unable to deal with a new breed of sexually liberated woman. Again, not a single one. In fact, the only film from this time that might fit the bill is Bill Lustig’s Maniac, and even that’s a stretch, as the maniac’s psychosis is rooted in childhood abuse, not sexual frustration.
So what does this prove? Either, A) Siskel has never even seen the films in question (unlikely, but considering his description of The Howling, not inconceivable), B) Siskel has seen the films but possesses the cognitive ability of a sea cucumber (equally unlikely; I may disagree with every single thing Siskel says, but obviously he’s an intelligent man), or C) for whatever reason, Siskel is so caught up in the mission at large that he’s unable or unwilling to deviate from his pet theory, even when incontrovertible evidence to the contrary is staring him right in the face.
There’s no prize for the right answer.
Next up is the opening scene of Friday the 13th (not counting the film’s prologue). A bright-eyed counselor hitchhiking to Camp Crystal Lake accepts a ride with the wrong person. By the time she realizes her mistake, it’s too late. She jumps from the car, twists her ankle, and limps off into the forest, where the killer eventually slits her throat. According to Ebert, this scene “demonstrates a very common and probably very significant technique that’s used again and again in these films.” We see the murder—or at least the chase—from the killer’s point of view, whereas “traditional” horror films take the victim’s perspective. Or so says Ebert. It seems he forgot all about Peeping Tom, the essence of cinematic voyeurism, which he reveres as a masterpiece. Or more recently, the opening scene of Halloween, another favorite that he goes on to praise later in the show. Here not only do we see a brutal stabbing from the killer’s POV, but the killer also happens to be a six-year-old boy.
Ebert’s problem with Friday the 13th’s POV technique is that he feels it forces the audience to identify with the killer as opposed to the victim. He’s not alone in this belief. Hack film critics will tell you that in taking on the killer’s POV, audiences are transformed from passive viewers into active participants, as if we accept some culpability for the on-screen acts. I never bought into this theory because, frankly, it’s a load of crap. How does watching a film in which everything is predetermined by the filmmaker have any bearing on personal responsibility? Now, this isn’t to say that different shooting techniques can’t create a panoply of effects. After all, a POV shot, which by its very nature puts the action front and center, usually heightens emotion. I assume this explains the recent rise in POV porn (well, that and smaller cameras). But does it make us all a bunch of vicarious Jack (or Jane) the Rippers? I think not.
What’s especially surprising is that absolutely nowhere in the program does either Siskel or Ebert touch upon the most obvious, and accurate, explanation for slasher domination: the economic one. Slasher films made a shitload of money. If Sean Cunningham’s early film about a Little League baseball team, Here Come the Tigers, went on to make $30 million (or even $10 or $15 mil), maybe he would have made Here Come the Lions, or the Bears, or the Aardvarks, but certainly not Friday the 13th.
Early on in Blood Money, Nowell explains the main thesis of his book, which is in essence a refutation of the prevailing theories about the proliferation of slasher films.
Thus, where scholars have, to date, commonly applied psychoanalytic models to representation of gender in early teen slasher films in order to claim that they were formulaic, excessively violent exploitation films that were fashioned to satisfy the misogynist fantasies of male visitors to grind-houses and fleapits, by examining the commercial logic, strategies, and objectives of the American and Canadian independents that produced the films and the companies that distributed them in the US, this book demonstrates that filmmakers and marketers actually went to extraordinary lengths to make early teen slashers attractive to female youth, to minimize displays of violence, gore, and suffering, and to invite comparisons to a wide range of post-classical Hollywood’s biggest hits, including Love Story (1970), Saturday Night Fever (1977), Grease, and Animal House (both 1978).
I’m not sure what’s more impressive, that Nowell manages to obliterate the commonly held belief that slasher films were a reaction to something other than a desire to make a healthy profit, or that he does so in a single—albeit endless—sentence.
Critics love looking for complex psychological reasons for the creation of art, even when the obvious is staring them right in the face. Besides Wes Craven, usually cited as the slasher film’s reigning intellectual, and a few sporadic statements by John Carpenter (which truthfully feel like he’s just playing up to the interviewer), none of the slasher film directors have ever said their purpose was anything other than to make an entertaining and, more importantly, profitable movie. This is not to suggest that just because a film makes money it provides any benefit to society at large. But if this was the critics’ argument, why not explicitly state it? If, on the surface, popular culture is so morally bankrupt as to be self-evident, then why construct, and give credence to, a much flimsier theory?
But I guess I understand the urge to play amateur shrink. After all, let’s say you’re a freelance writer looking to grab your editor. What’s more compelling, that Michael Myers is a projection of sexual repression and stunted adolescence? Or that he was born to suck the teat of good old-fashioned capitalism?
The distributors, who only cared about putting asses in the seats, had a refreshingly sober view on the issue. “You can never go wrong with a movie that makes a girl move closer to her date,” said Jere Henshaw, a vice president at American International Pictures, a company that understood the youth market better than anyone. Henshaw couldn’t have been more right. I’ve seen A Nightmare on Elm Street close to fifty times. The only viewing I distinctly remember was in seventh grade when two of my girlfriends came over to watch it. For the entire film, I had one of them nuzzled under my left arm, the other under my right. It was the most memorable sexual experience of my life in which no fluids were exchanged.
The irony is that A Nightmare on Elm Street, with its themes of familial guilt and subconscious danger, practically begs for a psychoanalytic reading. But I’d just be trying to sound smarter than I am. Now, this doesn’t mean that there’s nothing percolating beneath the surface—no grand themes or deeper meaning. But it does mean that most people enjoyed Nightmare without giving an ounce of consideration to its subtext. In one of the film’s most iconic scenes, the teenage heroine Nancy relaxes in a warm bath. Seconds after she drifts off to sleep, Freddy’s finger knives break the surface of the water, right between her legs. It’s a chilling, unforgettable image rife with symbolism. I didn’t care about any of this. All I was focused on were the girls on either side of me. And if one of them decided to put something between her legs, I was going to make damn sure it was my hand.
Despite all claims to the contrary, Siskel and Ebert must have had a soft spot for Friday the 13th, as they keep
returning to it. In the next clip they show from the film, one of the characters, wearing only panties and a tight T-shirt, hears a noise and goes off to investigate. So as not to offend their more delicate viewers, we cut out before the climax—a graphic ax to her face. Siskel angrily declares, “In the past year I must have seen that scene one hundred or one hundred fifty times. Every movie of this kind has eight or ten scenes just like it. I am sick of them!”
In a weird little aside, Siskel wonders if viewers will watch these films and imitate the behavior of the killers. “Some people may, I don’t know,” he says dismissively. However, he doesn’t seem particularly disturbed by the idea. In fact, he seems a lot more freaked out about the film’s theoretical implications than about the possibility that people might actually be inspired to kill one another. For most critics, however, this is their main beef with the slasher: that on-screen butchery leads to real-world violence.
