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.

Why I Will (Probably) Not Be Watching the New Twin Peaks

There are few works of art I’m comfortable bestowing the term “perfect” upon. Such a work must not only be great in its own right, it also must initially hit me at the perfect time of my life as well as continue to give through the years with repeated listenings/viewings. It must speak to me on multiple levels and become an integral part of my life. Experiencing it is a sacred experience. To be all these things and more that I can’t define with mere words means they are worthy of being called perfect: Ride the Lightning. Whiskey for the Holy Ghost. ‘Salem’s Lot. Spirited Away. Twin Peaks.

You may have heard that Twin Peaks is coming back. New episodes are set to air in May. Many fans, including some of my closest friends, are excited—this is something they didn’t think would ever happen. And I…I am not. This piece is about me trying to figure out why that is, exactly. I can’t quite put my finger on it, so maybe writing it out will help.

I watched Twin Peaks during its original run, alerted to it by my best friend. I think it was the fourth or fifth episode I first caught, and from there I did not miss a single one. Nights Twin Peaks aired were kept clear of any other plans. I’d take in each episode with the concentration of a student studying for a difficult exam and turn over each piece in my head for the following week until the next episode revealed more mystery. I was so taken by everything—the characters, the story/mythology, the music, the camera work. Since the show concluded, I still watch episodes regularly (first on VHS, then DVD.) Even during the period in the mid-to late 90s when I lost my taste for David Lynch altogether. (That taste would return, incidentally. I obsessed so hard on his work for a while that I simply had to take a break.)

And then the movie. I saw Fire Walk with Me twice in the theater (sitting front row in a virtually empty theater both times) and once or twice after. Last night I watched it for the first time in well over a decade. Panned when released, it seems to be getting some reconsideration now, as well it should—if it’s not Lynch’s best film (that is either Blue Velvet or Mulholland Drive) it’s damn close. I get why it bombed. It’s dark, dark, dark. There’s none of the quirky humor and far less of the quirky characters from the television show. It’s a different but related vision, one I think was there all along but the show gave you a chance to escape, while the movie makes you suffer. One of the first things I ever did on the internet was find a copy of the original screenplay (which would have been a 4-6 hour movie) and was a completely different but fascinating beast…FWIW, I think they made the right call to focus on Laura’s story for the film.

There were other gifts the series gave. The comedown hours of many acid trips were scored with the original soundtrack, Laura’s Theme in particular, which so tenderly captures the sadness of existence and inevitability of demise in a cold universe. The hilariousness of Real Indication and surrealism of The Black Dog Runs at Night from the movie soundtrack. The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer, while no great literary work, was one of the rawest things I had read up to that point, the first work I encountered to deal with incest. It does so in a devastating and frightening way (which the movie would take its cues from; perhaps that’s why I was more open to the movie?) Snatches of dialogue that became embedded into the conversations with many friends, even ones who weren’t a fan of the show. Etc. Etc.

So why will I (probably) not be watching Twin Peaks’ return?

Leaving aside thorny issues of what the show itself may or may not be, let’s start with something simple: access. The new episodes will be aired on Showtime. I don’t have access to Showtime. It’s not clear on their site if you can simply rent episodes or series, or if they will be available in other channels (Amazon, Netflix, etc.) I won’t be subscribing to Showtime simply to see one show when it premieres. I would assume that eventually the show will be available in other channels (like the resuscitated X-Files was.) However, all the discussion around it will happens as it premieres, as with any pop culture event in this here now, gone a second later hot take culture. There will be no slow growth, no considered analysis after the fact. I’m not stating that this is good or bad; it simply is. So, if you want to participate in a discussion of the show’s merits, you have to get instant access. And this is not something I’m likely to do, though I’ll reserve judgment until I see what the final options are.

Content and context: where to begin? Though readily identifiable as early 90s era production, Twin Peaks is not as beholden to its era as many shows are, largely because it eschews pop-culture references and creates its own dreamworld. That said, it clearly exists in its era: there are no smartphones, computer usage itself is comparatively rare, the internet doesn’t exist, five million dollars is exchanged via check. It is easy to believe this town can pull down the curtain and be cut off from outside influences when it chooses to. All of which is essential to making whatever is lurking in the woods—in the Black Lodge—terrifying. One aspect of the show that resonates deeply with me, as I grew up in rural, forested Washington State, is the foreboding darkness and isolation in both the town and its surrounding woods. The new episodes appear to be set in modern day Twin Peaks, 25 years after the original, and as such will need to contend with modern technology in some way or else the ability to immerse the viewer in its strange world is threatened by the inability to even partially suspend disbelief. This has defeated many a modern horror story, regardless of format (movie, book, etc.) The ones that succeed generally are smaller character studies (It Follows, for example) and Twin Peaks, by working with a broad cast of characters including law enforcement who would certainly be using modern technology, can’t do that. There’s probably plenty of Black Lodge information on the internet; piecing together the mystery is no longer a painstaking, mysterious process of physical clues and dream logic.

Well, maybe the mystery won’t be important, maybe there won’t even be a mystery. It’s all about the characters, right? The residents of that glorious backwater known as Twin Peaks? And it’s here I think the creators are making a crucial mistake by bringing (most) of these beloved characters back. Seriously, take a look at the returning cast. Where to start unpacking this? Let’s first look at the mix. That’s probably 85% or so of the key original characters. But a few of the absences are glaring. Michael Ontkean (Sheriff Harry S. Truman) and Lara Flynn Boyle (Donna Hayward) stand out. It’s not clear if either of these characters will be played by another actor or not used at all, and while there is precedence for using another actor (Donna Hayward was played by Moira Kelly in Fire Walk with Me) in general it doesn’t work. Sheriff Truman was an integral grounding presence in the original series. Other notable absences include Piper Laurie (Catherine Martell), Michael J. Anderson (The Man from Another Place), Joan Chen (Josie Packard), Eric Da Re (Leo Johnson), and Heather Graham (Annie Blackburn.)

The bigger issue for me is that so many *are* returning. In order for them to return, elements of the original series either have to be retconned (annoying) or explained in some manner (far worse.) Honestly, I don’t *want* to know what happened to Cooper in the Black Lodge. It’s far more powerful to leave one with the final image of the series, Cooper (or his doppelganger) looking in the mirror and laughing, trapped in the Black Lodge. And that’s just the most prime example. There’s also Audrey returning (so are they gonna retcon her getting blown up in the bank?) and Benjamin Horne (so he apparently didn’t die in the final episode after Will Hayward attacks him?) And I don’t even want to speculate on what kind of gibberish they are going to use to justify Leland and Laura Palmer’s presence. One can hope it’s just a historical, looking back context. If they actually bring them back…ugh. “Hey everyone! It was all just a dream! Ha!” I’m prejudging here, and ok, that’s not fair. We’ve had 25 years to ponder the ultimate outcome for these characters, and having them return trivializes that experience. Done wrong, it will wipe away much of the power of the original series.

Also critical is the high school age of many of the original characters. Bobby, Mike, Audrey…they ain’t gonna be in high school anymore. Their youth informed their actions; I don’t really want to see a bunch of haunted middle-aged folks, ravaged by years of drug use or born again or in denial. Is the series going to have a new set of high school kids, or will the setting be jettisoned altogether? Are we gonna have whispered conversations in the halls (“have you heard the tale of Laura Palmer?”) The one way I would be interested in a new Twin Peaks is if it featured largely new characters, perhaps just a couple of returning folks in more of a background role. Basically, creating a new story in the setting, eliminating the need to tie up loose ends from the original series and bringing all those characters back. I realize such an idea would probably not get financial support (and here we get into the thorny issue of whether this is more of a cash grab than a project with any kind of vision, but I’m not comfortable speculating on motive) and would probably annoy many fans. This is why I’ll never make it in Hollywood or TVLand.

Have you seen Inland Empire? To date it’s the last film David Lynch made. It’s fascinating, difficult and unlike anything else out there. I want to see new work by Lynch, even if it means waiting a decade for it, not a rehash of past glories. But Inland Empire more or less bombed, and the rumor after was that Lynch was burned out on making films. Will revisiting Twin Peaks rekindle that spark? If so…maybe this whole enterprise is justified, regardless of the quality of the new show. I just wish, if he must go back, he would do so with a largely new cast and new story. We just don’t need a continuation of the Laura Palmer saga. It might work if he focuses more on the Black/White Lodge mythology, but for Twin Peaks to truly work as a series we need those subplots to keep that large canvas of characters engaging, and if most of those characters did their dirty deeds 25 years before…it just starts to look like ruined magic.

The title of this piece is most likely a lie. I’m sure I’ll end up watching at least an episode or two at some point, if not right when it comes out (which becomes its own challenge, because if you want to avoid being influenced, you have to go into media blackout.) When that happens, I really, truly hope I look back at this essay and wonder why I was concerned at all. I want to be knocked out. The original Twin Peaks set an almost impossibly high bar, and if it can’t at least equal that bar, then let Laura Palmer rest in peace.

the two best things I watched in 2016

I’m working on my year-end thoughts on all the books I read in 2016 (warning: this it’s going to be a, uh, long post) and while I usually don’t do a year-end list of movies, music or other media, two things I watched this year impacted me profoundly enough that I really wanted to call them out.

The first of these is of little surprise to those who know my taste. The Witch has garnered much critical acclaim, all of it deserved. I don’t really have anything new to say about it—there have been many thoughtful articles on various aspects of the film, in fact this has been one of the pleasant bonuses of The Witch’s success. I can’t remember the last time a horror film inspired so much fascinating discussion, up to and including whether it’s really a horror film at all (which seems to be a point of discussion for any film that reaches a different audience than simply genre fans; see the other fantastic horror film of the decade, It Follows.)

Two things stood out to me in the film: the incredible attention to period detail, including language and a general lack of CGI (what little is used is tastefully done) and the performance of the cast. The journey of William, the father, from a man set in his beliefs to one utterly broken as he is unable to provide for his family struck me deeply. As the movie started, I was prepared to hate his character, assuming it would be another case of extreme religious views leading to doom, and yet by even the midpoint of the movie I felt empathy for him, even when his actions went against his own children. If The Babadook (the third in this trio of fantastic horror films from the last several years) spun maternal (and single) parental fears into a darkly devastating story, The Witch does the same with paternal fears. The look in William’s eyes when he knows he has failed his family: that is every father’s nightmare. That scared me more than anything in the movie because that is real, no matter the era. In a year that has been very trying on a personal level, and has also left me largely unable to indulge in purchasing non-essential material items, I bought The Witch DVD. Even after multiple viewings, the movie still has gifts to offer.

The other great thing I watched this year was not technically a movie (although I’d argue that the line between movies and TV has become largely non-existent—perhaps we need a new term?)  Two years ago I stumbled across the British anthology series Black Mirror on Netflix. A couple of friends had recommended it, so I gave it a go and was blown away. Though only two seasons long for a total of six episodes, it was fresh, thought-provoking and in the case of Be Right Back, emotionally impactful on a level that no TV had been for me since the halcyon days of Twin Peaks. Only Black Mirror was less fantastical and felt very close to real life, glimpses of the future that were just around the corner.

So of course I was overjoyed that Netflix financed another twelve episodes of the series, the first six of which were released in October. The fourth of those episodes, San Junipero, is the most moving and most beautifully done piece of speculative fiction I’ve seen in decades. And that’s not hyperbole—it’s been almost a month since I watched it and I still think about it almost every day. It’s a speculative fiction story and a complex love story. Watching it only a few days after the election, it helped me heal as only great art can do, reminding me of the beautiful potential in us all.

A brief digression: One evening in the spring of 1992, a friend and I drove through the graveyard to a lookout point where the small rural community we lived in (or close to; both of us lived out of town on farms) was visible. We got high, sat on the hood of the car, talked about philosophy and spirituality and girls and all the things young men talk about under clear night skies and under the influence. We looked out over the town, its tiny lights like pinpricks in a black screen. A bit later we sat inside the car and my friend pulled out an old Greenpeace compilation cassette. The first song to play was Belinda Carlisle’s Heaven on Earth. It was a song I already liked, but in that magical moment under those magical skies it transcended its cheesy origins to encompass all that was beautiful and truthful and hopeful about humanity. My life was extremely tumultuous at that stage (less than two months later I’d be in the hospital after a very bad drug trip) but for the length of that song everything was possible. It’s an experience that has never left me, one of the small moments that counteract the struggles and darkness.

So perhaps some of my emotional reaction to San Junipero is due to how it utilizes Heaven on Earth in a way that mirrors my emotional experience on screen: in a hard fought, uplifting way. But to suggest it’s only this factor would be a lie. The whole episode is emotionally complex, and if I have a compliant about some of the coverage I’ve subsequently read regarding the episode it’s that too much of it talks about the pop cultural touchpoints. I guess this is inevitable in any work of art that takes place in an earlier era that many of the audience grew up in. But to suggest this episode merely coasts by on nostalgia doesn’t only sell it short, it misses the entire thrust of the show. At best, it’s an extremely shallow reading that cheats the complexity of the characters and story.

I’ve intentionally avoided discussing the plot because honestly, you can’t say much about it without giving too much of the impact away. I can only say that if I could invent even more words to praise this episode—which brought me to tears several times—I would. You need not be any kind of genre fan to love this episode. And consider checking out the rest of Black Mirror. Like any anthology series, not every episode hits, but the ones that do hit hard. Be warned though: San Junipero is not representative in that it’s an ultimately uplifting story. Most of the other episodes of Black Mirror are not, and a few are bleak enough they may be hard to take (such as the second best episode of the current season, Shut Up and Dance.) Yet even the darkest episodes are thought-provoking explorations of a future that is just around the corner…or already here.