Romero and Hooper

In barely over a month we’ve lost two directors who changed horror filmmaking: George Romero and Tobe Hooper. Romero’s Dead trilogy, particularly the first two films, is arguably the most influential piece of horror filmmaking since the original Dracula and Frankenstein films, and Hooper’s first film, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, introduced the icon Leatherface and his deranged family to unsuspecting moviegoers and inspired nightmares for years to come. Shot in black and white, the original Night of the Living Dead had a cinéma vérité feel that Hooper would extend to color in TCM; both movies feel almost like documentaries and capture the vibrations of their time as starkly as any piece of pop art from the era.

They are also the two scariest movies I’ve ever seen.

Now, such a reaction is of course personal and subjective. How scared a film makes you depends not just on how you are wired, but how old you are when you first view the film, the context in which you encounter the film, and any number of unique circumstances. I recently watched Night of the Living Dead with my 14-year old daughter, who is just starting to explore horror films, and while she was fascinated, she wasn’t particularly scared. When I saw it for the first time, I was 11 years old and alone in the house while my parents were gone for the weekend. We lived on a farm, and my grandparents had a trailer on the farm also. The plan was for me to stay alone in the house that weekend and join my grandparents for meals. Instead I ended up spending the night in their guest room. I would later repeat—almost to the letter!—this experience with Dawn of the Dead, though this time I was a couple of years older and forced myself to stay in the house alone overnight. But I didn’t sleep. No, I sure didn’t…

Frightening—and enlightening!—as these experiences were, it’s Texas Chainsaw Massacre that has always chased me in my dreams and is still the scariest of all time for me. I was older when I saw TCM—17—and while I was alone, it was a sunny afternoon at my sister’s apartment. TCM is shot almost entirely in daylight, one of the rare classic horror films to not draw its power from the dark. I remember being pleasantly chilled while watching it, but not unduly disturbed. And yet I started having dreams about being chased by a Leatherface-type figure with a chainsaw. Funny (or not) thing is, these dreams have never gone away. I still get them at least a few times a year, sometimes much more frequently. I’ve only had a few zombie dreams, but let me tell you, I’ve had hundreds of chainsaw pursuit dreams. The details change, but I’m always being menaced with a chainsaw. I laugh about it in the daylight, typing this now…but I don’t sound so cocky when the sun goes down. Especially if I’m alone.

Both directors had up and down careers. Romero has a wealth of underrated films just begging for rediscovery—Martin (the best vampire film ever), The Crazies, Season of the Witch (uneven but rewarding), Knightriders (not a horror film but maybe his most personal film and certainly one that demonstrates there was so much more to him than zombies), Monkey Shines, The Dark Half. Not all of these are great, but each one is at least interesting. Hooper had a far more uneven career…and in fact you could argue he never made another good film after TCM. Poltergeist is hard to rate since it will forever be up for debate how much Hooper directed and how much Spielberg did; the film is not a personal touchstone for me as it is for so many but it’s impossible not to acknowledge its influence. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 traded in horror for comedy and buckets of gore; it’s entertaining enough if you’re in the mood for that kind of thing but it doesn’t even live in the same universe as the original. Eaten Alive and The Funhouse—both made between the original TCM and Poltergeist—have their moments but are mostly footnotes. Beyond that, I’ll admit I didn’t follow his career (though I’ve always wanted to see Lifeforce and I intend to do so soon) but even in horror circles the opinion of his later work seems to be pretty low. And if you are remaking The Toolbox Murders, it’s pretty hard not to argue you have gone, as M. Gira once sang, as low as low can go.

But regardless of any such missteps, both will forever be remembered for their contributions to horror cinema and the horror field in general. Romero’s influence is unavoidable (having grown beyond the horror corner to infiltrate pop culture in general), Hooper’s is less visible but no more debatable. R.I.P. to both gentlemen. We were lucky to have them.