Steeped in righteous social commentary and deeply rooted ordeals is The Lies of Our Confines. Enlisting the alarming fundamentals of horror, along with the genre’s innate platform for distinctive allegories to thrive is Leon Oldstrong’s latest film, merging epic supernatural components, with eye-catching cinematography and a witty narrative that will always leave the viewer guessing what’s going to happen next.
Oldstrong’s filmmaking methods, whether that be the exterior of sound, vision, and setting, or whether that be the interior basking in the film’s moral alignments and narrative compass, he belongs in the canon of the most exciting, indie filmmakers out there. The Lies of Our Confines is a refreshing take on creating authentic stories, made by black people that go against the grain, and oppose the need for creating cyclical urban narratives with contentious negative stereotypes. Films such as The Ritual (2017) and Midsommar (2019) are of course outstanding feats in their own rights, but a key development missing from the ever rising popularity of nature based horror is representation.
Continuously filling the screen with monotonous assemblies only weakens the potential for undiscovered talent to arise. The Lies of Our Confines breathes new life into neo-folk horror through re-envisioning filmic barriers and creating a form of escapism for an audience who are denied an identity within heavy genre cinema.
Oldstrong himself states that “I’ve had enough of watching content told by the same voices and always seeing the same type of people on screen”.
Additionally within the discourse of refreshing cinema is the film’s enigmatic scenery, enthusiastic visuals and polished cinematic value that goes above and beyond and proves that indie horror can be just as enriched and masterful as any widely funded blockbuster. The film understands the power within the woodland-based ambience to both highlight the intrepid advances that the natural earth holds; enhanced by the magnifying performances from the likes of Tobi King Bakare, Chadrack Mbuini, Braulio Chimbembe, Abdul Jaloh, and Enrique Borico. Even in accompaniment of contemporary discourses, the sheer stillness yet eeriness that rural auras hold is truly one of the many components that make The Lies of Our Confines so memorable and a must watch through to the core.
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The brutal Australian outback may be dreamy to the eye, but underneath the sunny skies the elements are beyond deadly. Throw in a brutish, savage, hungry, ginormous pig hellbent on becoming a mean killing machine into the mix and you have Boar (2017), one of the best indie horrors in recent years.
Creator of Boar, Chris Sun has become a staple within the Aussie horror scene, thanks to his features including the gnarly Charlie’s Farm (2014) and the nerve trembling Daddy’s Little Girl (2014), and of course Boar, which single handedly lays a contentious path for copious bloodshed to pour, whilst also remaining a fastidious eco-terror that pushes the battle of man vs beast to whole new level.
As with many features, a finished product has to go through its fair share of twists and turns, with Boar being no exception. Phoebe Hart, expert in all things cinema, first met Sun at a panel in Brisbane, where Hart was immediately drawn to his ambitious pitch of creating an Ozploitation flick following a giant pig. From that moment on, Hart extensively captured the entire journey, from the early days of production through to the very end credits, shaping a documentary that was made for filmmaking newcomers and full on aficionados to fully capture the strenuous, but rewarding efforts that go behind independent cinema.
At times it seems with the encyclopaedic wide web at everyone’s hands that every topic, subject, figure, or question has been covered, yet Bloody Sun unveils a whole new faction of moviedom that interprets areas such as the tragedy facing modern practical effects and how Sun actively combats that through keeping handcrafted elements at large, ensuring that the creature itself remains the focus amidst all the big screen cameos (including Bill Moseley, Steve Bisley, and Chris Haywood) and the tribulations of financing, and just how much self dedication goes into a final product.
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After a gunman holds a support group under siege, they must all confront their mysterious pasts to fight for survival.
Coming from the cinematically versed Will Higo is The Group, a claustrophobic, intense, and poignantly personal, cautionary tale encompassing the process of forgiveness, transformation, and most importantly deadly consequences. Higo, whose extensive credits include behind the scene work for The Crown (2016) and Spider-Man Homecoming (2017), as well as directing short films such as Nemesis (2010) and NSFL (2014), crafted The Group from the ground up, dedicated to showcasing a fast-paced, testing, and morally ambiguous feat.
What innately comes from indie filmmaking is a unique sense of creativity that utilises any natural constraints and molds them into key plot details that in the right hands can result in effective conclusions that push the film into unrepeatable and influential territories. The setting of The Group being an Addicts Anonymous meeting allows for an intimate narrative to unfold, and ultimately plunges a close-knit, character-defined story into the forefront. As the dynamic becomes more heated with the involvement of the gunman, they are urged to unravel their chaotic past, which is a task for anyone, but when those histories are rife with trauma and pain, a newfound need to escape both figuratively and emotionally comes into motion.
Blasting the vibrant roots of the story even further are the performances. The isolated boundaries that come from a one-room setting force the focus to immediately fall upon the characters and their actions. The pressurized situation acts like a boiling pot where the group waits on the edge of their seat for the torment as they decode and come to terms with their wrongdoings and misfortunes.
While all are important, the titular character of Kara (Evangelina Burton) takes the viewer’s hand in guiding them through one of the most chilling, and pulse-pounding 71 minutes of their lives. Burton’s portrayal of a person on the edge and at the point of defeat projects exactly what The Group is about. Burton positions the anger within as if the torturous meeting is just the tip of the iceberg for her. Alongside Burton is Dylan Baldwin who plays the ubiquitously sinister weapon-wielder, Jack. Baldwin encapsulates a dangerously threatening level of menace that really amps up the fear factor throughout, not at one point does his actions (that take control of the narrative direction) become predictable, making the experience even more action-packed.
The Group requires a tricky mix of personalities from different backgrounds whose varied experiences shaped their identity and why they are placed within the AA setting in the first place. As it stands, their anonymity to one another allows a shield to be cast around their individualised barriers, but when the situation turns ugly and Jack ups the stakes, the group’s commonplace differences come secondary to survival. Their dynamic changes from one of detachment to unity, in return pushing comfort away and instead spearheading vulnerability.
As with any horror that steps outside the box and infuses a delicate topic into the narrative, a keen urge to accommodate the fragile nature of the subject is made. Higo’s introduction of addiction into The Group does not aim to shy away from the harsh truths that are joined with such an illness. The chance to move on, apologise, and seek redemption is one that applies to everyone directly involved in that person’s path; the journey is rarely singular. The Group overtly holds it grip on the viewer through initiating a heightened level of violence and threat, whilst also under the surface permeating a dark level of trauma and personalised grief.
The Group dares to challenge. And more inadvertently, the film openly asks the audience what they would do in this situation on both ends of the firing line. Is Jack simply a man at the end of his tether, or are his actions redeemable? These are just some of the questions that Higo brazenly brings to the table, fleshing out the complexity of betrayal whilst still delivering impactful scares and memorable frights.
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After a tragic incident in her childhood, Anna (Riann Steele) has become distant from her estranged family for years. Due to her grandmother, Lucy (Jane Lowe) suffering from Dementia, Anna travels back home to become her caregiver. However, soon after she arrives strange ordeals begin to happen with increasingly drastic effects, leading to Anna discovering the connection between the sinister occurrences and a disturbing family secret.
The classic ghost story has made a home within horror for decades, seemingly the entire premise of ghoulish apparitions and dark entities have become entirely synonymous with definitive status within genre cinema. Yet, despite the traditional arrangement being so notorious, it is difficult to come across a modern horror film that is a streamlined quintessential ghost tale without unwarranted cheap scares and easy gimmicks. Jamie Hooper’s The Creeping is exactly what audiences have been begging for and precisely the type of cinema that horror has been longing for all these years. It’s that sense of habitats becoming infected with sinister otherness whose threat knows no bounds.
Director Jamie Hooper’s natural talents have graced many award winning short films over the years including Unto Death (2017) and Don’t Peak (2020). Joining Hooper in co-writing this gothic inspired story is Helen Miles, known for sound mixing on films such as The Gentlemen (2019) and His House (2020).
The familiarity seen within The Creeping is immediately a warming surprise, with sheet ghosts and dark hallways purposefully talking the audiences hand and promising a by-the-book haunted house legend where we know exactly what to expect, falsely creating a comfortable environment only for Hooper to brutally pull the rug out from under and deliver intensely frightening jumps and riveting jolts. In a formidable sense, The Creeping knows exactly when to take its sweet time building up ammunition and when to exactly pull the trigger. This push and pull layering method refuses to mimic similar filmmaking techniques seen by the likes of Mike Flanagan’s work in The Haunting of Hill House (2018), or travelling further back in time with Robert Wise’s The Haunting (1963); instead Hooper reinvents principles in a valiant and effective way that ensures The Creeping’s status within independent cinema will not be forgotten any time soon.
The cottage, English countryside setting belongs to an innately intimidating aesthetic where ominous bodies can lurk around every dark corner. Establishing the malevolent force strung over every scene is the deeply seeded character development that takes a keen precedence throughout, and for a very vital reason. A horror film can easily conjure a quick reaction with a scary visual combined with a loud sound, but it takes a lot more grafting for that trembling fear to come from a deeper place that plants its roots early on, meaning that by the final act the audience literally cannot catch their breath. The Creeping elaborates a theme of generational trauma that comes to light within Anna and Lucy’s touching relationship. Lucy’s withering condition pulls at Anna’s heartstrings, but it also unearths a frightening realisation that her place within the family is dwindling as Lucy’s memory diminishes. The performances by both Riann Steele and Jane Lower are not only crucial to the film’s effect, but they are also utterly commendable and richly authentic.
The Creeping is a methodical, wickedly dark, and effective horror that will indefinitely take indie horror to new heights.
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OJ (Daniel Kayuuya) and Emerald Haywood (Keke Palmer) have been making ends meet at their Californian horse ranch ever since their father died in a freak accident. With savings becoming dire and OJ selling the horses to neighbour/former childhood star Jupe (Steven Yeun) to get by, they discover a jackpot hovering over them. With the help of tech installer Angel (Brandon Perea), they venture out on a mission to capture evidence of a UFO.
The contingency of exploitation is an enigma that defeats logical explanations. Humans as a species crave that feed that comes from tragedy, a lustful but apprehensive desire to absorb terror like an uncontrollable need to blemish a chance of achieving a completely placid mental state. Shamelessly forming from the attraction of the spectacle is a myriad of threats, keeping the mind on alert, knowing that danger is just around the corner; Obsession is a blessing and a curse. Jordan Peele’s follow up from the acclaimed Get Out (2017) and equally applauded Us (2019) is Nope (2022), quite possibly the most jaw dropping sci-fi, horror, drama, mystery to enter the mainstream market in the last twenty years.
Just as the world was seemingly crumbling in 2020, many cinema aficionado’s were concerned over the future of film, with Peele belonging to the worried mob. It was at that moment that he knew his next film had to be a total pageant that deliberately dishes out way too much for the audience to handle, spiritually force feeding the masses as much onscreen swindling, distress, and catastrophe as they want.
In all of the tormenting comments made about the trajectory of human behaviour within Nope is the deeply enigmatic setting, performances, cinematography, and stupefying score. The dusty and desolate landscape filmed in IMAX comes straight out of an old fashion western, with monotonous beige dirt tracks absorbing any nearby signs of occupied space, as if the ranch is just a small pinprick in a grand vastness of nothing. OJ, Em, and Angel are made to feel insignificant, especially in comparison to what lies above them. This ignorance to their being doesn’t just open up the screen to stunning exhibition shots captured by cinematographer Hoyte Van Hoytema, but it also embodies the physicality of the situation. The beastly UFO isn’t necessarily a spaceship hoarding wide eyed, green skinned aliens, the saucer is the extraterrestrial product itself that chews people up and spits them out whilst also psychically resembling a biblically accurate angel. The sheer lack of respect Nope dishes towards its characters is just one step in the chaotic ladder Peele climbs in order to tyrannise the hierarchy. Not a single character feels untouchable, they all have an equal share of not making it through to the end, instead, the most innocent of all creatures and somewhat deserving of peace is the UFO.
Through distancing the ranch from common land, and detaching OJ, Em and Angel from others, the ‘being’ further obtains this status as otherness, and more importantly deadliness. Unlike in alternative alien features there are no throngs of weapons held by jacked-up Navy Seals ready to let rip an armour of projectiles. Instead, it treats the ranch like its playground, free to roam like one of Haywood’s horses.
Consequently deriving from the autonomy held by the UFO is the lack thereof shown within the lands occupants. A large factor of Nope’s narrative surrounds an incident that occurred on Jupe’s sitcom in the late 1990s surrounding its main character- a chimpanzee named Gordy. The events leading up to and following on from Gordy’s rampage is horrific to say the least, but what stands out most besides the visual escapades is the reality of the situation. Gordy was a wild animal that was treated like a ‘worker’ made to perform to appease a live audience, and like a ticking time bomb waiting to go off, it was only natural that a sudden change in scenario would cause Gordy to essentially ‘loose it’. Peele purposefully doesn’t show the massacre in graphic detail, in fact he doesn’t show the event (as it happened) in full length without interruptions at all. Somewhat, teasing the viewer knowing that they want to see Gordy go bananas ripping off faces and tearing into whatever flesh he finds. Peele’s dangling of the carrot firmly confirms his suspicions about the viewer, we may want to voyeuristically survey the primate gone mad, but we shouldn’t. Nope both tests the theory of spectacle and the greed for a show, whilst also denoting a sense of dignity back to the spectacle itself.
The same argument could be said towards Jupe, the childhood star who instead of discussing Gordy’s tragedy in a humane way, replays the tale through an SNL sketch that was held in its memoir. Jupe’s glassy reflection discussing the hilarity of the event, combined with the fact that he sits in his theme park profiting off of his childhood stardom is a deeply sad feat. Nope is a horror that shocks and scares, but more importantly it’s an emotional analogy of how fragility and empathy is only to be experienced temporarily, with grief to be fought off in an attempt to get back on the wagon as soon as possible.
Further clawing its way down to the bone is Nope’s unbeatable horrific elements that enforce an inescapable air of claustrophobia, enhanced by unspeakable imagery revolving trapped, bloody spaces and viscera soaked exteriors encased with a suffocating soundscape brimming with echoed screams and Martian-like humming. The internal UFO scene in question is a given for any viewer familiar with Nope, and for those that want a juicy infill before watching the future sci-fi staple, it can be guaranteed that the visual is nearly impossible to forget. Even harder to forget is that horrible sickly sensation that washes over you as you watch unsuspecting people meet the worst demise possible.
Joining the intense brigade of travesty is Peele’s signature mark of satire comedy that is veiled enough to not overpower the film, but still enough to share a chuckle, particularly the darkness of his humour. For instance, when OJ is asked by an actress what his name is, she cannot help but turn a judgemental eye towards his initials; of course, making an ill-informed nod to OJ Simpson, who in its entirety belongs to one of the media’s biggest spectacles in history. Exercising the brutal script to its maximum potential is the talents of Daniel Kaluuya and Keke Palmer, the film’s titular characters. As with many realistic family siblings, they are near complete opposites- a total extrovert vs introvert situation. OJ connects with the ranch’s horses with a sense of expertise because the peace within wrangling holds a devoutly vital equilibrium within his aura. In contrast is Em, who takes no prisoners in every situation she is placed in, lighting up the room and naturally drawing the limelight to her. The texture of having polar opposites join forces is a neat melody that Peele initiates. In a film about division from one another and the monetisation of adversity, perhaps Peele is making a statement showing that dissection and detachment is not the key to survival, but instead unity is.
Ultimately lying at the bottomless gut of Nope is the disgruntled commentary directly spitting back what society has become infatuated with. And in a cruel way, Peele stealthy knows that critics, vloggers, casual movie-goers, and diehard horror fans will all be commenting upon the spectacle and the need for dissection. The irony of digesting Nope’s message as fact, only to then perform exactly what Peele is commenting upon (via blasting the film all over social media) is such a stern example of the decisive layering that goes into his filmmaking.
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During the dreary days of the pandemic, a group of tight knit friends from the New York theatre scene gather together for their weekly online Dungeon and Dragons campaign. This time round a new member is introduced to the group, Meredith (Taylor Richardson). Part of the campaign sees them sharing ghost stories to set the scene and warm Meredith to the exciting evening ahead. However, after the drinks begin to flow and things get heated. The tales become sinister, little do they know that one story will change the course of events far more than they could ever imagine.
Rejuvenating the independent horror scene is Kevin T. Morales’s ultra nerve mangling horror Shadow Vaults. During the tumultuous era of quarantine periods, online gatherings, and panic buying the quest for fresh entertainment was a rocky road, but amidst all the cinematic lows was Morales’s future hit Shadow Vaults, which he belovedly directed, wrote, and co-produced.
The talent tree runs within Morales’s family line, with his uncle being the Academy Award winning filmmaker Victor Fleming, creator of Gone with the Wind (1939) and The Wizard of Oz (1939). With an already rich career within the industry for years, 2019 saw Morales make a jump to creating feature films with his debut Generation Wrecks, a touching and hilarious comedy brimming with nostalgic delight, also starring Heather Matarazzo, Emily Bergl, and Alice Kremelberg.
Desktop horror has bloomed in the last couple of years, with notable entries such as The Den (2013), Unfriended (2014), and Host (2020) bringing the horrors of the World Wide Web to screen. Shadow Vaults makes use of the familiar setting of internet chat rooms and video calls to encapsulate that intimate ambience that online engagement triggers, knowing that although you may be talking to people and have access to endless forums and fellow virtual users, the cold truth is that in reality it’s just you, alone, in an empty space vulnerable to anything and anyone…
Shadow Vaults exudes an eerie tension that thrusts the viewer right into the film, as if they are joining along with the meeting, like a phantom member. Further amalgamating this sense of personalness is the very socially rooted context and setting of the film. Set during a pandemic where company is rare and loneliness is the new tone, comes a great texture of isolation and abandonment where unprecedented times already have nations on alert. When combining this timely background with a malignant overtone steeped in trauma and biases the claustrophobic mood is enhanced, along with the ever classic element of uncertainty. Predictably is what breaks a film. No matter the genre or subject, obviousness is the curse. Shadow Vaults utilises the precariousness of its background to enrich a whole new level of extremity. For instance, the essence of Shadow Vaults belongs to a classic ghost story, one that starts off as sharing folklore, making easy entertainment for its listeners, wrapping the viewer up in a spooky but comfortable blanket, before Morales brutally snatches away the security to reveal a harsh ghostly pathos that dives into cycles of abuse, spirals of violence, and blissful ignorance.
Shadow Vault’s gripping hold on the viewer will have audiences sleeping with the lights on, thanks to the unstoppable sense of dread, chilling tonal portrayal of close bonds, and the all encompassing terrifying aura. As the film unravels we learn all sorts of sordid secrets that have been lurking under the surface for some time, bubbling under the pressure waiting to implode. And although Morales could have easily relied on shock to determine the mood, he meticulously embellished the characters to be so entwined with the inner workings of the horror that the terror becomes interwoven and malevolent, sneaking up on you before you’ve even had the chance to run. As the group holds a friendship dynamic that has been held strong for eight years, the threat level is always going to be more advanced than in an environment with strangers. And due to the enclosed online setting, naturally it’s impossible to not feel a part of the group; thus directly positioning the horror close to home.
The element of safe spaces being infected is not lost, even throughout the telling of the bone-chilling ghost stories. And it’s sufficient to say that the tales certainly hold up, namely through the staircase-like method Morales’s uses to escalate the alarm. The recitals begin off with formidable accounts of faceless otherworldly beings, legless ghouls, and haunted dolls nicely spicing up your senses, meaning that by the time you get to *thee* story (definitely to be experienced with no prior knowledge), the atmosphere is so taut that it would take nerves of steel to not shudder at the sheer thought of what’s going on.
Shadow Vaults travels far deeper under the surface than many of its kind, and in doing so dismantles the strict and disquieting truth of evil. Horror is indiscriminate, there is no shield to prevent the fear, instead trauma is universal. And that actuality is electrifying.
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Beth Conner (Lyndsey Craine), a vegan-goth student falls in love with her English teacher Miss Campbell (Lala Barlow), and soon develops a forbidden taste for human flesh.
Backed by Troma Entertainment’s Lloyd Kaufman and Michael Herz is Eating Miss Campbell (2022), starring Lyndsey Craine, Lala Barlow, Vito Trigo, James Hamar-Morton, Charlie Bond, Emily Haigh, Annabella Rich, Dani Thompson, and Laurence R. Harvey, with a cameo from Kaufman himself.
The film takes the likes of high school hierarchy flicks such as Heathers (1988) and Tragedy Girls (2017), adds a dose of epic lunacy made notorious by Troma classics, coupled with a whopping punch of cannibalism, adolescent suicide, mass violence, and an infectious sense of daring humour.
The Yorkshire born and bred Liam Regan grabbed the horror world by the horns with his full-length feature debut My Bloody Banjo (2015), chronicling a bullied desk worker on his revenge seeking mission. The film was met with beloved reactions by those brave enough to sit through the bloody spectacle which saw acts of brutality be taken to another level, even garnering enough attention to be shown at the Cannes Film Festival in 2015, as well as having its world premiere at the one and only FrightFest. However, although horror fans take this as a stern compliment, the film was at first rejected by iTunes and Walmart due to its ferocity. This badge of honour only pushed Regan to continue his filmmaking pursuit with the upcoming classic that is Eating Miss Campbell, which has no qualms in pushing the viewer through an intense roller coaster where the maximalist approach is at full blast the entire time.
The kinetically charged feast goes through its leaps and bounds against the backdrop of Beth’s turbulent journey of a more-than-forbidden romance story, all the whilst juggling her rambunctiously vicious parents, the coven-like mean girls at school, and a multitude of perverted ‘associates’. It’s this audacious cacophony of themes and events that truly places Eating Miss Campbell as a mighty force, with no controversial matter too dark to explore. Censorship may seem like a bygone past time, but the current consensus is far from being fully expressive, at times it seems that filmmaking freedom is near impossible. Troma films have always aimed to displease, shock even, and without being a carbon copy or testing for the sake of it, Regan puts up a valiant fight to keep the film down there with the most gnarliest, loathsome, and most importantly compelling horrors that tackles and triggers as much as it can.
As established, the zealous gumption really is a sight for sore eyes, but just as stellar as the fruitful narrative are the performances, setting, and effects that all render together to create a mini universe so out of bounds and unique to the film. Lyndsey Craine sealed her status as an upcoming scream queen through her powerful performances in Book of Monsters (2018) and Zomblogalypse (2021), and with Eating Miss Campbell, it seems that her horror heroine capabilities are only on the rise. The character of Beth Conner is so enriched in meticulous sarcasm and a sense of clever wickedness, especially when it comes to her sharp tongue lashing out the most hilarious insults you’ll ever hear. Craine’s ability to nail the razor edged persona is a standout feat, and joining her on the performance path is every single other character, whether that be the fiery role of Miss Campbell herself (Lala Barlow), or the beyond creepy (and deadly inappropriate) teacher Clyde Toulon, played by Laurence R. Harvey, who many fans will recognise as the barbaric antagonist in The Human Centipede 2 (2011).
Eating Miss Campbell is a stroke of much-needed absurd darkness amidst all the socially conscious films entering the market. Still, Regan’s enigmatic efforts in creating a boisterous display are not without its depth. In fact, underneath the veil of obscurity is a witty subtext that uses a brave and bashful temperament to comment upon the dramaticness seen within educational settings, which ranges from the brave but truthful idolism of school shootings, the influx in assault, and the arising generational divide pitting misaligned toxicity against one another. The sheer audacity of topics is a mouthful, but for hungry audiences with an appetite for contentious dispositions, Eating Miss Campbell is a dream!
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“Somebody in this camp ain’t what he appears to be” says MacReady (Kurt Russell) as he and his fellow researchers stuck out in the desolate Antarctica squabble over a shape-shifting parasite that takes no prisoners in the quest for power. Rose-tinted glasses are a great shield, but deep down the seedy underbelly will eventually swell, and before you know it, complete hell on earth will be released. The Thing revitalizes that sense of fear over unknown territory that lies beneath every individual to devise one of cinema’s greatest hits.
When it comes to such a classic, it’s assumed that the road to success was an easy sail, yet, whilst John Carpenter’s terrifying alien feature is a flawless rendition of sci-fi extremes, the production was filled with bumps and jolts. A string of everybody’s favourite filmmakers including Tobe Hooper (joined by writing partner Kim Henkel) and John Landis were all invited to recreate the novella Who Goes There? (1938), which had already been adapted in Christian Nyby’s The Thing from Another World (1951). The arrangements for production were made, but something was missing, that special touch, however, when Carpenter and scriptwriter Bill Lancaster put pen to paper and opted for a touchingly dark and menacingly brutal narrative arc, the cameras began rolling and the rest is history.
It’s no surprise to anyone that the 1980s were a whirlwind of a time for horror, flocks of people were either greedy for the startling nature that horror had to offer, whereas others were actively campaigning for the ‘nasties’ to be axed, done, and dusted. Needless to say, the appetite for The Thing was more than turbulent. And since the mainstream media (which at the time controlled the marketing and awareness of new releases) were not eager to sing Carpenter’s praises, The Thing stayed in the dark for many years.
The production was no walk in the park either. The twelve weeks of filming in the harsh Alaskan grounds with plenty of mishaps, including camera lenses freezing due to the cold, and actor Keith David breaking his hand the day before filming.
To follow on from the turbulent events that came across during production was the unfortunate reputation that clung onto the film thanks to the rocky reputation expressed by unfair reviews and a damning case of word-by-mouth. As soon as The Thing hit theatres the feedback from major outlets including Roger Ebert, Variety, The New York Times, and The Washington Post all obliterated the fine craftsmanship that had gone into making this genre defining classic. The bleak tableau of cynical mindsets and the void of formulaic arcs left a stain on those who were lucky enough to see it in cinemas upon its initial release. Ironically, for a time that would publicly blast horror for not being original and more like a gory slapstick, The Thing’s devotion to marrying intense character dynamics with an analogy-ridden path was simply ‘too much’. From a retrospective point of view, the only thing that was excessive about the film is how much it has to offer; whether it’s the masterful practical effects or the haunting atmosphere, The Thing aims to be *thee* ultimate spectacle.
The basis for The Thing surrounds an American research station in the faraway and foreign land of Antarctica where snow takes up every ounce of space, and where permanent habitation ceases to exist. The immediate vastness is a daunting facet alone, furthering the velocity of events the team eventually endures. With the aid of an anamorphic lens, the idea of an airy vacant setting is forced upon the viewer, with the stretched, wide frame providing ample space for action to be seen, also subtly showing ‘too much’ bare room around the characters, almost insinuating that there is bound to be someone or something imminently creeping into the frame all of a sudden.
This premise of suggestion is a theme that runs throughout The Thing’s veins, with uncertainty, precariousness, and ample amounts of delusion infecting the entire course of reason amongst the characters. Tiptoeing alongside the effectiveness of the atmosphere is the deliberately conspicuous and savage research team including the unpolished helicopter pilot MacReady (Russell), Childs (David) the in-house skeptic mechanic, Blair (A. Wilford Brimely) the paranoid biologist, and Nauls (T. K. Carter) the quick-thinking cook. In what can best be described as a motley crew of personalities is a variety of identities that outwardly play out as clashing souls whose inner dynamics pave the way for disaster to strike, however, internally a much more complex picture is being painted than what meets the eye.
Each character is assigned a general emotion that protrudes further than any other feeling, the characters are simply puppets in Carpenter and Lancaster’s plot to manipulate the viewer into a state of complete shock and fear over the unfolding narrative. The Thing invites the viewer to go on an emotional rollercoaster, with MacReady’s brash feistiness embodying our fight or flight response, Child’s uncertainty and mistrust representing the hastiness that we feel over every new spectacle, Blair’s irrationality epitomizing the panic experienced as we also learn of the parasite’s ferocity, and Naul’s curiosity sparking our need to unravel the origins and motives of the assimilation.
The Thing plays out with an air of fluidity that seems so natural, and whilst that was the goal, behind the scenes Carpenter meticulously plotted out every little detail to enhance the horror and ultimately conjure a trance-like spell over anyone brave enough to watch it.
Above everything, one aspect that will forever remain synonymous with The Thing’s cult classic reputation is the outstanding effects. Considering the entire premise surrounds a creature feature show, the design of the monster itself was of utmost importance to Rob Bottin, the lead effects creator. Originally, Carpenter wanted “the thing” to be of one design, a whole being, not a shapeshifting leech. In fact, when Bottin initially expressed his ideas of the various forms the monster would take, Carpenter was more than unsure about going down that valiant route. However, the surreal design soon won him over and the thirty five person team went to work in creating one of cinema’s most infamous creatures of all time.
The 1980s didn’t have mountains of technology to aid in the graphics, instead handy work and dedicated creative geniuses would spend hours moulding full body casts of actors and glueing together faux flesh to fashion severed bloody limbs. One of the most impressive scenes shows the crew’s dog assimilating into a gigantic extraterrestrial being complete with multiple snarling dog heads crowning the top of a bubbling pile of viscera filled with mutating blobs and more than enough blood and slime. To form such a grotesque but fascinating effect, Bottin enlisted the help of fellow effects artist Stan Winston to construct a large hand puppet from makeup artist Lance Anderson’s body. The puppet would then be layered with latex foam and hooked up to wired legs and radio controlled eyes to force the alien-like movements expressed by the thing. Even the mass pile sat below the creature was given its texture from mayonnaise, melted bubble gum and plenty of K-Y Jelly.
In true old-school fashion, no CGI blood spurts were to be had, instead, Anderson would have to wear a blood-squib suit which would eject plenty of fake blood on cue.
Blood, sweat, and tears went into concocting the visual feast that The Thing has to offer, with Bottin being hospitalised from exhaustion over literally working for nearly 24 hours everyday just to achieve the perfect aesthetic for the film.
Upon a modern perspective, the bumpy road The Thing traveled down for its first couple of the years wasn’t down to poor filmmaking or lack of inspiration, the sole reason was that viewers were just not ready for something so monumentally confrontational, a product that dares to end on a gloomy note and not succumb to the Hollywood flow of moviemaking. The legacy of The Thing is still felt to this day, forty years on. Comic books, video games, miniseries, and prequels have all come and gone within the last twenty years, with Blumhouse Studios even releasing a statement in 2020 confirming that The Thing is getting the now-standard remake treatment.
In a landscape where seemingly everyone’s true colours can be exposed and evil is more free than ever, John Carpenter’s 1982 showstopper is more important now than ever.
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An individual’s predisposition to fear is mainly connected to sound. The sudden appearance of a horror film’s threat, whether it’s a demonic creature or a knife-wielding boogeyman, their presence is always going to stir a reaction. However, it’s the audio cues that first unleash the terror and sheer panic amongst the viewer. Before Freddy Kruger makes an appearance in his victim’s dreams the faint scratching sounds of his bladed fingers arise to our attention, followed by the recurring twisted nursery rhyme of “One, Two, Freddy’s Coming For You”; the basis of reaction can all be traced back to the power of music within the film.
The 1990s were a time when horror films thrived in maximalism, ensuring that no theatrical stone was left unturned. The costumes were always exaggerative of the storyline, the background and setting were beyond dramatic, and the music was crucial in setting the tone, with an emphasis on curating a soundtrack that would be as impactful as the dynamic seen on screen.
The character of Dracula has gone through leaps and bounds of representations. The Count has been parodied and trivialized (e.g. The Monster Squad [1987] and Waxwork [1988]), and he’s also been made darker and almost feral (e.g. Dracula [1931]). Out of the countless adaptions, one film that is timelessly recalled is Francis Ford Coppola’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992). Coppola eroticises and sensualises the entire plot by granting a god-like capacity to Dracula where his power transcends beyond blood-sucking, instead his grandness is all-encompassing to the film’s entire environment as if Dracula surpasses the barrier of the screen and has a hold on the viewer. The deliberate hazing is accented by composer Wojciech Kilar’s enigmatic score that fuses large orchestral structures to be both melodically gentle but still ostentatious and lord-like as if the music was formulated by an immortal being, Dracula himself, a character both charming and deadly.
The boastful score takes over the screen and demands nothing but full attention. In what can be considered a bold move by creating a dominating score, a sense of might is pushed towards the horror movie soundtrack, allowing for future films to spiritually feed from Coppola’s and Kilar’s forcefulness in fashioning powerful music for further films to come.
Horror as a subject can be pliable, what works for some might not work for others, however, one factor that runs throughout is the means to jolt a fright, whether that be a playful fright or a deeply souring fear is totally individualised. As the early 1990s were shaping there was an influx in ‘family horror’, films where mature audiences would feel nostalgia for their discovery days of the genre, and younger viewers would be excited to be introduced to the world of horror. Films such as Hocus Pocus (1993) and The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993) saw phenomenal amounts of success across the board that still lasts to this day. Both of these films’ signature relies heavily upon the music featured. Hocus Pocus saw Bette Midler performing the Halloween classic “I Put a Spell on You” (Jalacy “Screamin’ Jay” Hawkins), which remains a spooky season staple for many. Alongside Hocus Pocus was Danny Elfman’s composition for The Nightmare Before Christmas which was awarded a Golden Globe for Best Original Score (1993) and also featured on the US Billboard charts at No. 64.
Skipping back a few years, no matter the genre cinema was thriving on big powerful movie ballads seen in the likes of Dirty Dancing (1986), Mannequin (1987), and The Bodyguard (1992). Amidst all these love songs came a rising popularity for creating movies that revolved around its sound. That isn’t to say that other cinematic elements were being surpassed, it just meant that a strong focus was also placed upon the soundtrack.
Quentin Tarintino is the perfect example of a filmmaker who uses music as a character. And when it came to his and director Robert Rodriguez’s From Dusk Till Dawn (1996), the music played one of the largest roles in the film. The irreverently charged horror is known for its chaotic characters, purposefully sleazy setting, plasmic-coloured green blood and gore, and a killer soundtrack. The dark southern score is laden with rock and blues anthems that keep the film from seeming like a peep show. The range of musical numbers features bands including ZZ Top, Tito & Tarantula, and The Mavericks. But the most quintessential tune that is synonymous with the film is “After Dark” (Tito & Tarantula), also known as the song that plays during Santanico Pandemonium’s (Salma Hayek) dance scene with an Albino Python. After Dark encapsulates the film’s entire ambiance, where the moody tones are spiked with velvety vocals and deadly lyrics that tell the story of forbidden wants and bumps in the night.
From Dusk Till Dawn is so engrained with the idea of music that even the scenes themselves are heavily based on the importance of music as a filmmaking tool. Particularly during the scene where the on-stage band (also played by Tito & Tarantula) start using a human torso as a guitar during a mass brawl at the infamous bar ‘The Titty Twister’.
Mary Harron’s American Psycho (2000) helped redefine and recontextualize the use of music in horror in the early 2000s. The film follows Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale), a murderous city swindler who has an odd penchant for music, especially whilst he is committing his deadly deeds. Artists including David Bowie, The Cure, Phil Collins, and New Order amongst many others appear on the bold and ambitious soundtrack that to this day is still used as a cultural reference. The film toys with the omnipotent power of Bateman who somehow carries out wildly violent acts in an open manner without much of a guise, with the film’s most fluorescent and upbeat songs (including Huey Lewis and the News’s “Hip To Be Square”) playing over his psychopathic killing/monologue scenes. To nicely meld the theme of desensitisation into the plot, the pop and New Wave music is strategically and continuously peppered throughout the film, making the surrealness of his dark actions being committed in a well-lit and mainly open environment seem even more dreamlike.
A couple of years down the line from American Psycho was 28 Days Later (2002), a rattling zombie movie that dials up the bloodcurdling terror to a ten from the very first scene. Director Danny Boyle leaves no room for air as the lightning-fast flesh-eaters are constantly on the hunt, and always capture their prey with ease. To go with such a heart-pounding, exhilarating narrative is the post-rock soundtrack that also combines orchestral swells to fill in the gaps. 28 Days Later’s setting ranges from a desolate London town to empty motorways and army barracks abandoned thanks to the ‘rage virus’ sweeping the country. The silence and stillness of the apocalyptic landscape are filled by the loud and ferocious songs composed by John Murphy consisting of electric guitars and bleak, depressive droning sounds, particularly “In the House, In a Heartbeat” which begins with deadly slow riffs before erupting into a stirring melody.
Although the following trend has been around for a while, it wasn’t until Insidious (2010) that the creepy remix of child-like songs became a popular sensation for horror marketing. Tiny Tim’s cover of the 1929 song “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” features in James Wan’s Insidious as the titular theme, playing during one of the most alarming scenes from the film, showing a mysterious ghost boy dancing to the ominous song before vanishing in thin air. The distorted wave of vocals in an oddly high pitched yet masculine timbre is genuinely haunting, like something that you would hear playing in your worst nightmare. Since social media has become a playground for dance and audio trends to thrive, “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” has seen a ressuragnce in popularity, particularly featuring on abandoned tour videos and paranormal excursion clips. The intense and petrifying song is rather ironically frigthening as it was originally intended to be a family friendly hit with no shadow of darkness intended. However, it just goes to show you that horror cinema really does have a power in deceiving the atmosphere with music alone.
Disasterpiece may not be a name familiar to the masses, but their scoring for David Robert Mitchell’s It Follows (2014) is a tranxfixing feat pushing the boundaries between screen and viewer. The film takes on a figuratively and literal attachment story where a curse is placed upon victims after acts of intimacy, akin to a ghostly STD. Naturally, the horror of the narrative remains closely fixated to the protagonists, keeping the terror close to home at all times, almost suffocating the audience. To meet the deep personable elements, the scoring too brings a sense of erratic tension to the forefront, where the ticking sounds reminiscent of clock chimes, combined with industrialised synth melodies mimic the overtly present themes of entrapment, doom, and unavoidable mortality.
It Follows avoids the traditionalised use of common soundscapes in favour of upsetting any sense of familiarity the viewer may have had. In a similar line to this is Jóhann Jóhannsson’s melodramatic score for Mandy (2018), which delivers a feast for the ears with every fibre of its being. The presentation seen in Mandy is on its own enough to be fully controlling and visually arresting; when the elements of music are incorporated, any means of affect are amplified to the extreme, with the tinny, industrial tones working alongside psychedelic chargings to create a phantasmagorical palette for the senses.
Powerful contemporparty soundtracks do have one goal in common, which is to stay true to classic genre scoring elements whilst employing a new flavour that is foreign to the listener’s personal soundscape. In a way, this consideration has always been the case. Take for example Fabio Frizzi’s work, the Italian composer and frequent collaborator of Lucio Fulci would consistently marry two polar opposite musical genres (band and orchestra) to birth a theme song so enriched in chaos and commotion that its impossible to break away from the horror unfolding on screen. Frizzi’s scoring for City of the Living Dead (1980) and The Beyond (1981) truly immerses cinema as an audiovisual medium, all in an ode to break away from traditionality and opting for refreshingly original scoring.
Within recent years the use of music within horror has reached a new means where the contextualisation of sound itself is a key plotpoint. This element has always been popular, with films such as The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) thriving in the notion of music. Essentially the subject of sound has always been an integral part of horror.
Additions from modern autuers including Gaspar Noé and Edgar Wright have always relied on the impactfullness of scores to survey the depths of terror, with Noé’s dance studio based extravangaza Climax (2018) using hypnotic numbers playing over extensively long movement shots, and Wright’s nostalgic score for Last Night in Soho (2021) enlisting the help of 1950s-1960s hits to convey a twisted narrative rife with equal amounts of terror and sentimentality.
This idea of reusing hit songs in a new light has been repeated throughout cinema for decades, but when it’s done correctly the effect can be significantly influential over a film’s finished result. One horror that utilises this aspect with flawless execution is Jordan Peele’s Us (2019). Us’s composer Michael Abels remixes the 1995 song “I Got 5 on It” (Luniz), quickly becoming the film’s official theme song. Abels flawlessly highlights the hard-hitting beat and rhythmic structure at the film’s most tense moments, including the heavy home invasion scenes, almost using the beat as a siren or pounding drum that emotively and psychically jolts even the most stern-faced of viewers.
The power of music in horror can be asphyxiating, it can be deliberately troublesome, and it can completely make or break a film. For decades music has been a contraption to manipulate and assemble whatever emotion the film demands.
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Cinema challenges…it moves, it motivates, it’s humorous, it’s frightful, but most importantly it challenges. The form of which moving images bond to create a film is one that has been studied for decades, particularly in the bounds of visual vs auditory importance. Whilst imagery is a key basis for the resulting composition, film is in fact a mere spectacle without musical arrangements and instrumental structures.
Announcing the history of sound within horror goes back to silent cinema, the time when seemingly noiseless dynamics were not important in regards to the power of music in contemporary cinema. Although the finished product did not emit sound, there were melodic compositions placed over the film to fill in the silent gaps and assist in creating a sinister ambience. As cinema progressed and creatures from the night made their stage presence clear, gothic arrangements utilising the roaring tones from organ instruments became more noticeable, particularly within the Hammer retellings of the reign of villanery seen from the Universal Monsters. Yet, despite the association that classic monster movies have with horror cinema’s sound legacy, it is arguably Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960) that fully opened the door for horror to be seen as an audio visual hybrid.
Hitchcock’s deceptive feat conquered the audience’s attention like no other film at the time, switching the entire plot up when it had just started getting juicy, resulting in a scene so memorable, so prolific that it will remain in the horror hall of fame for seemingly years to come. The infamous shower scene saw Janet Leigh at her most vulnerable state whilst a crazed maniac attacks her in a frenzied manner. The scene is brimming with quick cuts and various shots (over 60 of them) and is accompanied by Bernard Herrmann’s orchestral piece titled “The Murder”. Hitchcock originally intended Psycho to have a minimal amount of pieces playing, but his mind was changed once he heard Herrmann’s heightened soundtrack, equipped with screeching violas and violins screeching, almost mimicking the sound of a knife being sharpened.
Pyscho’s “The Murder” has become the theme tune for the entire film, with anyone recalling it immediately humming the slashing jabs made by the plethora of insrutments, somewhat becoming just as famous as the film itself. The idea that a film’s music is just as potent as the feature is an aspect that has continued within horror, particularly with William Friedkin’s The Exorcist (1973).
As the 1970s kicked in, the horror market was in full swing with the rise of slashers, possession flicks, and exploitation experiments disrupting the flow of family friendly entertainment. And one film that has kept its exceedingly bold reputation throughout history is The Exorcist. Now, to denote such a monumental film’s status on one particular aspect is nonsensical, however, when it comes to this nightmarish religious journey, the score is one of the most vital factors in its ranking.
The theme consists of a strange remix of Mike Oldfield’s “Tubular Bells”, which begins with high pitched tones followed by a falling low rhythm that goes up and down like a terrifying roller coaster of sound. What makes those ringing bells so touching is the use of asymmetrical sound. Just as Oldfield follows an off-sync beat to replicate a turbulent symphony, John Carpenter also employs this technique in what can be defined as horror’s most instantly recognisable themes.
Halloween (1978) has seen a dozen films follow on in the franchise, with all of them having a defining feature whether that be halloween masks, the classic Michael Myers boiler suit, or the various returns of Jamie Lee Curtis. However, Carpenter’s alarmingly haunting score takes the number one spot! The electrical ring that bounces in and out of pitch never meets a resolution, instead a disjointed movement is created, ensuring that a sense of peace is never once felt. Carpenter could have thrown in all the bells and whistles to heighten the score, but instead opted for a simple method that delivers just as much of a startling punch as any grand orchestra.
The 1970s was possibly one of the most experimental times for horror as no particular boundaries were set when it came to creative freedom. Horror filmmakers such as Tobe Hooper, David Lynch, and Wes Craven just went for it, creating an ethos reliant upon what they want to make, not what they “should” make. Aligning with that view are the soundtracks seen within films such as Jaws (1975) and Suspiria (1977), who respectively put horror movie music on the map. Jaws’s award winning score gets right under the skin, making the listener feel as if the flesh-hungry shark is genuinely after you, with the heartbeat-like rhythm intensifying the closer the beast gets to its prey and the high register melody being almost alien to the ear.
In a similar line to the unfamiliarity heard within Jaws soundscape is Goblin’s soundtrack for Dario Argento’s Suspiria. The loose giallo flick is instantly remembered by many thanks to the haunting whispers and witchy curses heard within Goblin’s pieces. The progresive Italian rock band comprises deep baselines and continuous synth notes to not just build up intensity, but to also keep that tension going for long after watching. The film constantly messes with reality, blurring surreal barriers with the film’s actual events, forming an elixir pot for chaos to ensue. Goblin’s continuous hazing of rhythm purposely distracts and contorts the situations even further, aptly aiding in the unearthly route that Suspiria takes.
This next film holds the title for being one of the most mainstream controversial horrors to date, with Cannibal Holocaust’s (1980) hidious excursions and unspeakable exploits still accompanying the film to this date. It would be easy to believe that the film’s composer Riz Ortolani would conjure a soundtrack filled with violently smashed together tones to even further disrupt the viewer, instead Ortolani created the most surprisingly dulcet soundtrack to have ever come from a disturbing horror. The melodies are gentle, almost akin to a lullaby, lulling the viewer into a false sense of security and distorting the overall narrative to be somewhat surreal.
Cannibal Holocaust’s airy juxtaposition is not the only horror to feature an overtly drastic difference between visual and audio, with American Werewolf in London (1981) being jampacked with carefully selected tunes to set the scene. John Landis’s upbeat soundtrack had no qualms in apperaning too on-the-nose, with songs such as “Blue Moon” (Bobby Vinton) and “Bad Moon Rising” (Creedence Clearwater Revival) playing over the werewolf transformation scenes, nicely pairing the cheery songs with the mabare body horror escapades being graphically presented on screen.
As time progressed so did movie music. The 1980s still dominates pop culture to this day; the soundtrack for the decade bounced between melodic ballads and free-spirited pop to punk inspired shredding and metal mania tracks. As film largely takes shape based on the environment surrounding it, it’s safe to say that 1980s horror was brimming with some of the most creative scoring ever seen, with The Lost Boys (1987) being true to this theory in every way possible.
The Californian vampiric beachside setting of Santa Carla sets up the perfect playground for composer Thomas Newman and director Joel Schumacher to take the viewer through a creepy carnival of 80s hit songs paired against dark and stirring arrangements. The film has become synonymous with Echo & the Bunneymen’s cover of The Doors “People are Strange”, INXS and Jimmy Barnes chart topping “Good Times”, and the film’s main theme original song “Cry Little Sister” that goes above and beyond in emulating the The Lost Boys moody, leather clad aura. Not to forget to mention the absolute iconic cover of “I Still Believe” (The Call) performed by Tim Cappello, or the shirtless saxophone playing bodybuilder as many may know him.
Another section of movies that saw an influx of interest thanks to music is comedy horror, particularly those who unlike Cannibal Holocaust stayed on the lighter side. Ghostbusters (1984) may not appear on every ‘horror movie list’ as technically the supernatural ventures won’t necessarily send shivers down your spine, yet, there’s just something so classic and synonymous with the Ghostbusters theme song and halloween culture that it’s impossible to not alert the film’s significance.
Appropriately named “Ghostbusters” is Ray Parker Jr’s. smash hit that was even nominated for an Academy Award (57th) for Best Original Song, where the catchy chorus will have even the most stern audiences singing along. On a similar note is Beetlejuice’s (1988) use of Henry Belafonte’s “Day-O” in which an elegant dinner party is ruined by the guests uncontrollably singing Belafonte’s hit in a bizarre and ultimately hilarious fashion.
Over time the use of music in cinema has metamorphosed to suit the times, whether that be the inclusion of classic songs from the thirty years prior to highlight a character’s personality, or even the addition of newer musical genres to spice up the screen. However, one thing has not changed at all, and that is the integral importance and power that music holds over cinema.
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