Every time I sit to watch a horror movie I think, “Gee, I hope this is as good as The Evil Dead.”  Be honest.  You do too.  Everyone does.  Everyone wishes Ash would show up and save the day when they are sitting through yet another Platinum Dunes remake that takes everything they love and shits all over it.  Ask yourself this: when you are watching Jason hold someone hostage (which makes no fucking sense, b-t-dubbs) or watching the family in Texas Chainsaw corrupted by the introduction of a mother, you just think, “Dead by dawn!  Dead by dawn!”  Don’t you?  Don’t YOU?  I know I do.  (Yes, I know that line is from Evil Dead II.)

The Evil Dead trilogy is where it’s at, y’all.  If you disagree, well, you’re a jerk.  I constantly fight with people over which film is best, in fact.  Of course, I am always right, and I say the first film is the best.  Because, after all, what is Evil Dead without a little tree rape?  These are the times before Bruce Campbell became a caricature of himself.  These are the times before CGI took over the horror industry and whenever anything is particularly nasty, you know some dude (oftentimes Tom Savini) actually had to make that gooey mess.  Aw, the good ole days.  How I miss them.  How I miss the days when the name Sam Raimi meant something to horror fans like me.  This is why my mind was so blown when I went to see Drag Me to Hell.

Yes, yes, I know this movie is not “new” anymore, but I think it should be recognized as being much more important than it is.  In terms of genre work, I haven’t seen anything better in years.  Drag Me to Hell is the re-introduction of a horror master.  God bless you, Sam Raimi, for returning to us just when we needed you.

Christine Brown is a loan officer at a California bank.  She refuses an old gypsy woman (never fuck with a gypsy, y’all) an extension on her mortgage.  When she goes out to her car that night the woman is hiding in the backseat.  Why?  Well, to curse her, of course.  Why the hell else would a gypsy sit in your backseat, duh?

The old woman curses her with the Lamia, a taker of souls, who will come to get her soul and “drag it to hell” in three days.  The Lamia will torment her for those three days until it comes to take her.  That’s the setup.  That’s it.  It’s nice and simple storytelling that goes unbelievable places in terms of jolts and enjoyment.

Drag Me to Hell is, without a doubt, the most fun I have had in the theater since the nineties when I got such a kick out of Scream (before it spawned all those lookalikes).  Sam Raimi has crafted a story that is by turns scary, exciting, energetic, and absolutely joy-inducing.  Like I said, you will never have more fun than watching this movie.  When Christine is in her home alone and all the dishes start clanging and the shots go frantic all about her kitchen looking for the invisible source of all this, you can’t help but think, “Aw.  That is so Sam Raimi.”

And that is why it works, my friends.  This is Raimi coming back to what he does best.  Let’s face it.  When we sat down in the theater, we all thought, “Oh.  Jesus.  This is going to be all big-budget-y gross.  I mean, he’s been making all this Spiderman shit.  And it’s rated PG-13.  Ugh.  I think this could be a disaster.”  And we have all never been so wrong.

So what is it, you ask, that makes Drag Me to Hell work so well?  Alison Lohman for one.  She carries this movie beautifully, somehow managing to be both likable and flawed.  She took what was coming to her with this film—getting brutally physically abused as an actress and pulling off her strength and terror in equal measures.  Alison Lohman is a find, y’all.  We should all be so lucky to see actresses like her in every horror movie we watch.

But of course, there are even more limitations facing Raimi in the production of this particular film.  That damned PG-13 rating.  Every time I sit down to a PG-13 horror movie, I think, “Can this even be called a horror movie?”  Well, let’s just talk about what is missing from a horror movie with this rating.  Namely, blood.  There is virtually no blood in a horror movie with this rating.  And you’ve all seen the Evil Dead trilogy.  You know that Sam Raimi with no blood, well, that can’t even be right, can it?

Yes, apparently, it can.  So here is what seems to have happened.  Sam Raimi got a requested rating from whoever gives that shit out, and he said, “Okay fine.  No real blood.  Fine.  I will give you ever other bodily fluid you can think of and some you can’t think of.”  And boy, is this absolutely the most magical thing in the entire world?  The things that come out of Lorna Raver’s mouth in this movie are astonishing and disgusting.  They are just as gross—if not grosser—than the stuff shooting out of the possessed people in The Evil Dead.  Way to skirt them rules, Raimi.

Now you’re thinking, “Yeah, but is it really scary?”  And to that, I have to say, well, it really depends what you’re looking for.  If you’re looking for jump scares and music video editing, turn away now.  (Besides, you clearly have no taste.)  Drag Me to Hell is the kind of movie that is more about the experience of excitement than the actual scares, but there are a few hidden in there, and they are quality.  For instance, the opening prologue of the movie is absolutely thrill-inducing.  And it signifies what the rest of this movie will be like—frenetic, unrelenting, abusive, and absolutely joyful.  If you are on Christine’s side, and I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t be, you will be scared for her.  You will want to save her.  You don’t want anyone feasting on her soul “while she festers in the grave.”

Okay, okay, I’ve been effusive enough, right?  So I will leave you with one more thing: who the hell doesn’t want to see a goat yelling, “You black-hearted whore!” and a floating man yelling “I don’t want your cat, you dirty pork queen”?

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

When the Christmas spirit is filling everyone at Macy’s on 34^th Street, I think of nothing other than severed limbs and gouged out eyeballs.  Yes, I am a Scrooge.

What better holiday is there than Halloween?  Christmas and New Year’s just pale in comparison.  So what should we do when our favorite day of the year has passed and we have nothing else to look forward to?  Well, we just have to turn these winter holidays in a Halloween reborn.  The best way to bring back Halloween is to find Christmas-themed horror movies!  Thankfully for us, there are plenty to be had.  What follows is a guide to movies (good and bad) that will make your holiday season just a little bit bloodier.

Silent Night, Deadly Night (1984)
Nothing gets me into the holiday spirit like a killer in a Santa suit.  Okay, so this movie is not the best in the batch, but it’s a damn good time.  This makes a good starter to a holiday horror movie marathon.  It won’t beat out the best, but it won’t bore you either.

Gremlins (1984)
Once you’ve begun your blood feast, you might want to take a minute to step back and laugh.  A blast from my generation’s lost childhood past can be found in Gremlins.  Little alien creatures turn up in a town and start to terrorize its residents.  No other movie made me so worried about what would happen to me if I ate after midnight.  No other movie made me afraid to take a shower.  Gremlins developed the only alien creature that I ever wanted to pet.  And hey, if someone gave me Gizmo as a pet, I would love him just like a child.

Terror Train (1980)
Okay, so maybe this movie is actually a pile of poo, but it’s a fun one to watch.  Jamie Lee Curtis plays a nice college girl who participated in a prank that leads to a train ride of murder during a New Year’s Eve party.  Things to look forward to in this flick are the varied costumes of the killer and as much time as possible with Jamie Lee.  She’s worth spending an evening with on any old holiday.

Inside (2007)
Okay, okay, I know this isn’t holiday horror in the way the rest of these flicks are, but come on, it’s gorgeous.  A young woman spends the night alone in her home before she is to go into the hospital (on Christmas) to have her labor induced.  But she doesn’t remain alone.  Another woman arrives at her home and wants the baby that’s inside her.  This is the first film in about fifteen years that has actually scared the pee out of me.  How long has it been since you sat in front of the television shouting, “Oh no!  They’re not going to—.  Oh shit, they are!  Oh God!”?  While Christmas is not the focus of this amazingly realistic French gorefest, the timeline of it gives you the perfect excuse to watch this beauty of a film on the oh-so-happiest day of the year.

Black Christmas (1974)
If you only watch one movie this holiday season, you need to make sure it’s this one.  A strange man climbs into a sorority house and stalks and kills the sorority sisters in between uber-creepy phone calls to the girls to freak them out.  Black Christmas has it all: slutty sorority girls, drunken old maids, a troublesome cat, and Margot Kidder.  That’s right.  I said it.  Margot Kidder.  Everyone needs a little Margot Kidder on Christmas—especially an asthmatic, alcoholic Margot Kidder giving booze to little kids after they sit on Santa’s lap. I have to admit that it took me until about two years ago to see this movie, and I have to say Bob Clark’s film is a masterpiece of 70s horror that actually chills the spine more than the weather outside.  (Disclaimer: There is a remake of this film, and unless you want to see a filmmaker destroy something beautiful, you should be sure to keep it off your list of films for the holiday season.  The killer is yellow, man.  Doesn’t that say enough?)

So this is a pre-designed holiday season in horror viewing that will manage to turn “the most wonderful time of the year” into the gore-filled extravaganza it should be.  Sit down, push play, and get ready to be scared into the holiday spirit.  These are films designed to carry you through to the next year.  Enjoy ‘em.

When I first heard about the The House of the Devil, my heart skipped a beat.  I thought, “This could be the movie!  This could save horror from the Michael Bays of the world!”  Naturally, I was excited.  I found the earliest opportunity to go see this apparent salvation of the horror genre.

The House of the Devil is a throwback of sorts, or so they say.  It’s an eighties period piece that relies on the format of those films, but only to a point.  In fact, during the opening credits I was time-travelling back to my childhood.  College sophomore Samantha wanders about in her puffy coat and high-waisted jeans with those old headphones attached to her walkman (yes, an actual walkman! How fun!)  For just a moment, during the opening credits as the screen froze on arbitrary images of Samantha on her college campus, I thought, “Hey, are we watching a Tarantino film?”  But no, we weren’t.  We were watching an eighties horror movie.  It just happened to be made in 2009.

Samantha is in need of money.  She’s trying to escape her horrible dorm room, which she shares with a turbo slut who apparently does not know how to put anything in the hamper.  She leaves socks on the door, and Samantha can never get into her own room to study, to sleep, to simply live.  Because of this, she finds herself the perfect apartment.  Dee Wallace (yay!  Dee Wallace!  World’s greatest werewolf!) likes her.  She knows she’s a little broke, but she trusts her instincts and tells Samantha that she will waive the deposit for her if she brings the first month’s rent on Monday.

Samantha walks away ecstatic.  But where will she get the money?  Her best friend Megan offers to get money from her family for help, but as we all know, pride is the killer, and Samantha declines.  She instead agrees to babysit for a family in the country that is more than a little on the creepy side.  Megan drives her out into the middle of nowhere, and she accepts the babysitting gig-even though the family has lied to her about having a young child (they don’t) and offered to pay her way more than the gig is worth (four hundred eighties bucks).  And yet, she doesn’t really catch the weirdness of this.

As soon as Mr. and Mrs. Ulman leave, Samantha begins her terrible evening torment.  At first the events seem to be the normal groaning of an old house-noises in the attic and basement.  And this is the stuff of super fun horror-viewing.  For the first time since the actual eighties, I found this whole location-based terror scenario totally terrifying.  I was legitimately creeped out on more than one occasion.  I even found myself uttering “No!  No!  No!” a couple of times.  It seemed to me that Samantha, bright young college student that she is, was one of the world’s less easily duped horror heroines.

Though, that’s not saying much.

This film has atmosphere.  From the moment Samantha enters the house, there is a majorly creepy vibe that just doesn’t seem to fade.  It’s one of the most tension-based films I have seen in years, and it totally succeeds in making the audience squirm in their chairs.  The moments of physical violence that happen in the rising action of the film are actually very minimal, but their execution is utterly shocking.  In fact, after someone was shot in the head with very little lead-in, I actually found myself turning to my buddy and saying “Well, that was fast.”

This sounds like a complaint.  But it is exactly the opposite.  Ti West does not pull any punches in his film, and he certainly doesn’t talk down to his audience.  He counts on us knowing exactly where he’s headed, and as such, he doesn’t bother with any of those ridiculous preambles that audiences have become so disillusioned with.  This is a film based on actual terror.

The House of the Devil taps into fears we’ve had for years.  In fact, the film opens with a black screen and white text informing us of the percentage of people in the eighties in the United States who actually believed that extreme Satanic cults existed and committed frequent acts of super-evil.  As such, it immediately connects to the notion of eighties excess.  As my friend mentioned while we were waiting on the subway platform, “Great horror movies all come out of oppressive regimes.”  And Reagan gave us such a regime.  And so the eighties produced mountains of good horror (and mini-mountains of awful horror).  And the film feels a lot like an eighties horror movie for the most part.  (Let’s face it.  Slashers are eighties.  The Devil is late seventies.  But okay.  We can let this go.)

While the film keeps its focus tightly on the feeling of being alone in this strange house, it functions beautifully.  It is truly terrifying on many levels, and it manages to keep the tone solidly until the last thirty minutes or so.

This is when the trouble comes in.  The movie drastically shifts gears in the last thirty minutes.  In truth, the last thirty minutes were like an entirely different movie.  This is not to say the plot changes.  It doesn’t.  Everything follows very logically.  But the film feels different.  The tone is changed completely, and there is suddenly a different visual to the film, and it loses its very subtle and satisfying feel.

The end result of this shift is a slightly less terrifying feeling than we had in the first two thirds of the film.  And this is a bummer.  The lighting of the climax is overdramatic, and the physical deformity of the “demon” is overdone.  That’s the problem, it seems, with the end of the film.  It’s overdone.  And this is the thing that keeps me from saying, “Holy shit!  This movie was amazing!”  Up until the climax, I was ready to say that I did.  I was ready to profess it the greatest horror movie of the last five years.  But I can’t do that.  I have to say that it’s simply one of the better horror movies of the last five years.

I feel like the Duke, and all I can say with great certainty is “Generally I like it.”  So when I am asked if I think people should see it, well, I have to “yes.”  They should see it.  It’s still better than any of the schlock that has come out in major studio release.  And for the most part, the film is totally rad and makes us crazy scared and happy.  So yes, see it.  But be ready the shift.  Be ready to change gears or you’ll be really disappointed.

In either case, Ti West is something to grateful for.  One can hope he’ll just keep this up, maybe he’ll be the savior of the horror genre from here on out.  Maybe he can slowly grow and develop into a new atmospheric horror filmmaker who understands those of who show up no matter what-even though we are too smart for most of the crapola that comes out these days.  Maybe he can save us all.

A sneak peek trailer of Nic Cage’s new thriller Season of the Witch has made its way onto the internet. The film revolves around a group of knights in 14th century France must transport a woman accused of witchcraft to a mountain abbey, where the monks attempt to understand and destroy her powers. The monks believe that her paranormal abilities are linked to the Black Plague.

My father called me a couple weeks ago and told me I had to see this new horror movie.  He told me that Paranormal Activity was an underground sensation that has been taking the country by storm.  Well, my dad is not particularly in the know, so I just ignored him.  Then I was checking the horror blogs (a Friday morning ritual in my office at the publishing house), and I discovered it.  There it was on the (web)pages of my favorite horror blog.  Final Girl’s Stacie Ponder says, and it must be so.  She says, “Yes!  This movie did make my eyeballs have heart attacks!” So of course, I headed to the theater immediately, best friend in tow.

As I’ve mentioned before, seeing a horror movie in New York can provide one of two experiences.  At a particularly bad (I mean bad bad and not good bad) horror movie, you are usually greeted with exceedingly irritating teenagers who wouldn’t know real horror if it walked right up to them and removed their left arms with an old chainsaw.  If you are attending a good horror film, then you are usually surrounded by people like me.  We take the horror-viewing experience seriously, and we don’t fuck around with bullshit talking.  We are not screamers, and we do not jump.  We simply experience the horror movie.

For some reason, Paranormal Activity brought both the douchebag losers (those teenagers) and the dork losers (me and my posse).  It was an interesting Monday night crowd at Empire 25 in Times Square.  And we settled in for a film that was sure to blow our minds right out of our skulls.

Well, it did not blow our minds right out of our skulls.  It did not make our eyeballs have heart attacks.  Yes, yes, I realize that I and my posse are impossible to really scare.  I recognize that most people are not so well-seasoned, and because of this, horror of this sort might be utterly terrifying to some, but no, it did not change my entire opinion of horror films, etc., etc., etc.

Now, this is not to say it has nothing to offer.  The film offers many good creep-me-out moments.  It boasts the least boring performances I’ve seen in some time-even if the dude is the biggest, dumbest, douchebag on the block.  I mean, really, why in the hell would anyone provoke the potential demon terrorizing his girlfriend?  But even though we hate him, we know he is realistic.  Every dumbass dude with a girlfriend with a demon on her back would act like he has control of the situation precisely because he is terrified of it.  The good stuff is present in the way it was in the good old days.  Strange noises are the things of terror in this film.  And they are quite frightening.  Unseen entities (no, not like The Unseen) are the things that fill your imagination and maybe even you nightmares.

Come to think of it, there is not much at all wrong with this movie.  It’s definitely creepy.  It’s definitely more “real” than any horror flick I’ve seen in ages.  The trouble is, it just isn’t that new.  And that’s the exact thing it’s supposed to be.  Yes, I know, I have given in to hype and my discussion of the film is largely based on what it did not do that was promised to me.  This is why I am countering my entire article by saying, yes, this is a good movie.

So what’s my problem, you ask?  Well, maybe I am just totally jaded, and I can’t be scared by anything that doesn’t live inside my head.  Maybe I’m an elitist asshole.  Maybe any movie that does not feature the death of someone I hate is just not good enough for me.  Maybe it’s just the lack of dead children.  But this movie is not one I will need to see again.  And that, for me, is the kiss of death for a horror movie.

There is nothing I like more on a rainy New York Saturday than being emotionally abused by filmmakers. And so I set out to see Lars von Trier’s new film at the New York Film Festival (trailer below). I arrived early, afraid of the lines that plague film festivals, and for the first time in years, I was nervous going into the theater. I had heard and read so much about the film that I honestly thought it was going to be the most shocking thing ever filmed. So says the hype. (Yes, I know giving in to hype is a mark of my social weakness, but I couldn’t help it. You wouldn’t be able to either.)

Antichrist is the story of a couple (known only as “He” and “She”) recovering from the death of their young son. Nick fell out of a window while they were having sex all over the house in all manner of positions in an extremely graphic fashion. She is utterly destroyed by the death of her son, and She enters what Freud would call melancholia, as She has great trouble working through her grief. He is a therapist and quickly passes judgment on her treatment by what we assume is a mental hospital. He removes her from their care and decides to take on the role of therapist in addition to husband. His solution? Exposure therapy. All manner of insanity and disturbance and gruesomeness ensue from this one bad decision (she is clearly not ready for this therapy).

You see, Lars von Trier makes films that I refer to as “anvil-on-the-chest” movies. You sit in the theater or your living room feeling like there is this unbelievable weight sitting on your chest, and you long for the film to end because you know you won’t be able to breathe properly until it does. You feel abused when you watch his films, but you watch them anyway. Why? Because no matter how much he angers you (and he does) or how judgmental and (sometimes) pretentious he can be, Lars von Trier makes a damn good movie.

The thing that ultimately makes his films work is that—no matter how exacting and stubborn and abusive he is—he trusts his audience. He expects (hopefully rightly) that we are as smart as he is. He asks us questions, but he never ever gives us answers. That’s our job. We have to bring something to the table. Watching Breaking the Waves, you are expected to be able to weigh in on the nature of sexuality, how it is different for men and for women, and how that plays out inside a marriage. Watching Antichrist, you are expected to know the allusions to the Bible and the history of gynocide. And you are supposed to be able to write your own conclusions to the arguments he presents. And what arguments they are.

At the heart of this film is a discussion on the nature of men and women. He is a rational and reasonable being. She is an irrational slave to Nature. Nature is representative (as usual) of the other. In this case the other is She. He is the primary point of reference for the film, so when She says that “Nature is Satan’s church,” we spend only a moment wondering if She’s right. He steps in to tell her that her grief-stricken mind is manipulating her thinking. She cannot act in a way that is outside her Nature. And if this be true, both He and She end up being exactly right. By the end of the film, we are left with the idea that Nature is, in fact, evil, and all that derives from it must be evil as well.

So we move away with the notion that women are evil, and in the end, so is Nick—the son that came from woman. Early in the film, She accuses He of being emotionally disconnected from them both. A person of reason is not capable of the passionate love She has for her son, so when we learn that She chose to come to Eden (yes, Eden) alone with her son, it comes as no surprise.  By this time, we’ve grown accustomed to the opposition Lars von Trier has set up. It is her illness that tempts him back to Eden, and one might guess (with no necessary reassurance) that this has been the conceit all along. Has She been feigning insanity?  Is this a conscious effort on her part to trap him? One cannot say for sure, but it seems that such a complete picture is not necessary for the film to function on the many levels it does.

Lars von Trier is not making a simple horror film. No, of course not. We would never expect that, would we?  He’s making a drama that relies on many of the conventions of horror to carry its message. It’s strange to see him break from his Dogme 95 style of filmmaking and take a turn toward the supernatural. He does this complete with the occasional jump cut, nightmare images, extreme brutality, and even a moment in which one person throws the weapon he’s managed to procure in the direction of the person who once wielded it (how very Jamie Lee Curtis).

What we get out of these moments, however, is something very different from those of traditional horror films. The brutality I mention is not, as you’d expect, physical. It is psychological. This is not to say there are no moments of physical brutality. There are, and they are definitely extreme, but von Trier shows great restraint in his use of them. This restraint then translates into a much more powerful experience of the physical brutality we do see.

The psychological brutality, however, is relentless and painful. As audience members began to become uncomfortable with the film (hey, not everyone has seen Inside), they were laughing at the change of chapter, at the computer-animated animals, at the final acts of physical violence. This was not the laughter of people who found these images humorous. This was the laughter of people who were barely able to comprehend the things that were flashing across the screen. This was the laughter of people who weren’t sure if Lars von Trier was right.

The audience was questioning all that rationality that controls their lives. They were questioning the nature of their relationships and their own sexuality. Sexuality is, again, a theme in his film, and he seems to continue discussing the power dynamics of sexuality with his audience. And who wins in this film and what does it say? These are questions no one can answer with certainty.

The nature of man and woman is familiar ground for him, but this is the first time it seems he has managed to have it play out so literally on film. The primary debate of the film is really just this: Does that which is natural to woman (Nature/Evil) and man (Reason/Good) hold true in the most extreme of situations?  According to von Trier, it does. In fact, it propels those extreme situations. It is the driving force of his narrative, and it is the driving force between men and women according to him.

In the end, there is not a lot to say about this film without destroying the experience of it for anyone who plans to see it. Questions abound walking out of the theater, but the most important ones are ones you can answer on your own—at least that is what the film counts on.  As a seasoned viewer of horror (more so than most people I know), I was not as shocked as others by the events of the last thirty or forty minutes.

The friends who attended the film with me came away with much the same analysis I have provided here (with a few notable quotations). One said, “I thought I knew why I had sex. Now I’m not so sure.”  Another simply said, “I can only say I have never seen anything like that.” It’s possible to walk away with both of these feelings. And no, even I have never really seen anything like this. I have seen many of Lars von Trier’s films, and I remember the dynamics between Bess and her husband in Breaking the Waves and between Selma and the cop in Dancer in the Dark. And then, of course, there is Grace in Dogville and Manderlay.  I know that Lars von Trier has the most disturbed notion of male/female relationships any filmmaker has ever displayed. This does not make it easier to take. The themes of the film are familiar to his audience, and they are taken to their end.

One cannot help but wonder where he can go from here. He cannot possibly take this concept any further, can he?  It would be foolish to assume he can’t. This may have been the most extreme of his arguments, but it is also the most honest. It reveals a side of Lars von Trier that has been hidden under the surface of his films in the past. He has said that he thinks this is his greatest film. I don’t know if I would agree, but I would agree that it is a kind of mandatory viewing for anyone who wants to go to the fringes of film and feel something they haven’t felt since they first saw A Clockwork Orange. This is a film for people looking for the edges of emotion when they reach that place where there are no longer words to describe them. This is terrifying precisely because it is pure experience. And it is its status as being predominantly unknowable that makes it as powerful as it is.

Dario Argento once said that he preferred to murder beautiful women on screen, that it gave him more pleasure.  And I have to say, as much as it pains me to do so, that I kind of agree.  I would rather eliminate the beautiful women of the world so there’s room for people like me.  That might be why I went to see Sorority Row-a little ugly girl’s revenge.  I thought, “Well, this is going to suck, but at least I’ll get to see some fun death scenes.”  I can’t begin to tell you how wrong I was.  From moment one, I knew I was going to be bored out of my mind.  I have never found myself wishing I had to pee so badly in my life.  All I wanted was an excuse to leave the theater.  Shit, I would have taken a head wound because, you see, I have a compulsion to finish things.  This time I really wish I hadn’t.

I have to say, you know you’re in for some shit when there is a synchronized dance scene less than two minutes into a movie.  Granted, it only lasted for about two seconds, but that was long enough for me to know.  It was long enough for me to see exactly where this stinkfest was headed and exactly what kind of message it would send to people like me-a semi-intelligent horror junkie who can see a formula coming a mile away.

Usually when you go see a movie in Times Square on a Friday night, you are smack in the middle of a crowd of teenaged douchebags who hoot, holler, text, and kick the back of your chair, but I was virtually alone in the theater.  So I pulled up the arm of the chair beside me and rested my legs on the seat.  If I was going to sit through this, I wasn’t going to be uncomfortable.  I settled in.  I was ready for whatever this had to offer.

And what did it give me?  Well, it started by giving me a butt.  That’s right, a butt.  A girl bouncing on a trampoline in the entryway of the sorority house is wearing pajamas with a trapdoor, and it’s hanging open.  Do they even make those anymore?  Next I see a girl standing in a bra and panties on a pedestal having her fat circled with black magic marker by her “sisters.”  All right, all right, she’s a pledge, but the little feminist in me (the one I usually shut down when I see horror movies) threw up in her mouth a little bit.  And then came boobs… lots and lots of boobs.  I say “boobs” in this case because that is what these kinds of silicone-filled mammary glands are.  They aren’t breasts or “the girls,” as I so lovingly refer to my own set.  They are boobs.  And they seem to be the major point of reference for the camera for the next hour and a half.

Now, I won’t bore you with the point-by-point details of this mess of a slasher film, so I’ll just give you the highlights.  In 1983, House on Sorority Row was released.  It was a sloppy but fun teen scream flick about sorority sisters who accidentally kill someone and are then stalked and killed during a party celebrating their graduation.  Everything about it is par for the course.  The sisters are as you’d expect.  There’s a good one, an evil one, a dorky one, a slutty one, and a few in between.  In the remake, we are treated to virtually the same cast list with one notable addition.

Carrie Fisher is in this movie.  For some reason, I did not know this before I sat down and the opening credits spilled the beans on the bottom of the screen.  When I saw her name, I gasped and whispered, “No!” A quiet scream of rejection.  I couldn’t believe Carrie Fisher would sink so low.  The girl boner I’ve carried for Princess Leia for nearly twenty years was instantly deflated by this terrible mistake.  I sure hope she’s broke because there is absolutely no excuse for this-not from movie royalty like her.  This woman was strong enough to stand up to Han Solo, and here she is stealing a page from the script of Black Christmas (the original-not that disaster with the little girl from Party of Five and a literally yellow killer) and playing a drunken house mother.  And as much as I love Carrie Fisher, she doesn’t hold a candle to Mrs. Mac.  (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you are really watching the wrong horror movies.)  As I watched the few scenes my first girl crush was in, I just kept picturing her shouting, “I sat around while my junk went bad!” to Liz Lemon as she sneaks out the door.  That is the middle-aged Carrie Fisher I will hold onto.  I will do everything in my power to erase her performance in this film from my memory.  And if I succeed in doing so, I am left with a dead-in-the-water slasher film that isn’t worth the New York theater price I paid to see it.

As I’ve said in the past, when you bore the shit out of your audience with a plodding plot filled with horror movie stereotypes (stupid girls, misogynistic dudes, blonde bitches, shower scenes, etc.), you should be able to give us some exciting gore.  I mean, they bothered to get an “R” rating for this movie, so I don’t really understand why absolutely nothing gory happened.  I know some people will disagree with this assessment, but these are people who have never heard of Herschell Gordon Lewis or Lucio Fulci.  And what a shame this must be for them.

Every killing in this film is generally the same.  Sharp object (often the same one) gets shoved through the victim’s mouth or throat.  Blah blah blah.  Seriously, how are you not going to fall asleep?  I needed fucking caffeine pills for these killings.  For about two seconds I was almost sure there was going to be a robbery from the original My Bloody Valentine; I thought some chick (yes, these are chicks) was going to have her head shoved onto the shower head and that blood would (imperceptibly) flow through it when the killer turned it on.  Nope.  Not the case.  I just got more boobs.  In fact, when this particular sorority girl finally got killed, it happened off-screen.  And we all know how I feel about off-screen violence in bad horror movies.  It’s fucking pointless.  If you aren’t going to show me the death, then I am going the fuck home.  Except I didn’t.

Here’s the rub when it comes to the violence in this film: You never actually see a wound being created.  I guess for some people (boring people), this is a good thing, but for any seasoned horror fan who knows how awesome it is when wooden shards get shoved through someone’s eyeball, this is just poor taste.  Any idiot can make a movie with some gore (see Hostel and Hostel II).

So why are we stuck suffering through characters we can’t identify with and a plot we can get into?  Well, it seems to be the growing belief that a horror-loving audience is not intelligent enough to know the difference.  It seems we’re being condescended to.  And this I will not stand for.  And apparently, neither will anyone else-as there was almost no one in a theater in Times Square on a Friday night.  It’s good to know even the teens (the same ones who keep showing up for those fucking Saw sequels) could smell the stink on this one.  It gives me hope that there are horror fans in this next generation who will grow up to be the clever, gore-loving adrenaline-junkies that make this world such a fun place to watch a movie.

Total Score – 2 out of 10

I must have missed this bit of news circling the webs, guess I need to check on Bloody-Disgusting more often when they aren’t hooking us up with stories on the Elm Street remake.

The 3-D sci-fi horror pic is about a half-human, half-alien creature who embarks on a murderous rampage after his alien mother is abused by two rednecks in the Deep South. The movie is from a script developed by Billy Majesticand is being directed by David R. Ellis, who brought us Final Destination 2, Snakes on a Plane and Cellular.

Anyway MySpace has revealed to us the creepy teaser posters for the film.

Pascal Laugier (director of the controversial horror film Martyrs), is in final negotiations to write and direct Dimension’s re-imagining of Clive Barker Presents: Hellraiser, one of Clive Barker’s best-loved creations.

According to The Hollywood Reporter, the original Hellraiser was released in 1987 and told the story of an unfaithful wife who attempts to assist her dead lover in his escape from hell. The movie introduced viewers to a race of demons called Cenobites, most notably Pinhead, who was summoned using an antique puzzle box.

Dimension Studios has been hoping to re-launch the franchise over the past couple of years, first hiring Julien Maury and Alexandre Bustillo to write and direct a remake but then tapping Marcus Dunstan and Patrick Melton to write a newest draft of the script.

“This is a dream project for me,” Laugier said. “I know Clive Barker’s work very well, and I would never betray what he has done. Fans are expecting a definitive ‘Hellraiser,’ and I don’t want to take that away from them.”

Laugier’s film, Martyrs appeared at the Festival de Cannes because of its unrelenting violent nature. The movie was hit with a 18+ rating — a rarity in France which is the equivalent of an NC-17 in the U.S.

I never saw Hellraiser as a kid but recently saw it a couple of years ago and I am glad this is being re-made not because I care but since the old one didn’t scare me that much I am hoping the new one will give me some thrills and chills.