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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Creepshow is a highly regarded classic that hasn’t once been pushed aside in either popularity or cultural significance even after an entire 40 years. This timeless gem was created by two of horror’s most devilish minds, Stephen King and George A. Romero, with legendary effects artist Tom Savini also joining the macabre team. What inevitably works so well within Creepshow is the anthology method of filmmaking which allows for plenty of short films to unfold, all encompassed by an overarching story, which in Creepshow’s case regards a young boy, Billy (Played by King’s son Joe Hill) who is scalded by his domineering father for reading a horror comic, leading to the comic book’s host ‘The Creep’ coming to life and showing Billy what true horrors lie ahead. Over the years, Creepshow has inspired multiple sequels and a TV series on Shudder following the same anthology format.
The Thing (Directed by John Carpenter, 1982)
John Carpenter needs no introduction, with staples such as Halloween (1978),The Fog (1980), and Christine (1983) all residing in his densely rich filmography. However, one of the most important and groundbreaking entries to come from his work (and the 1980s in general) is The Thing, a body horror spectacular that shows off a plethora of fascinating practical effects like it’s participating in a gory pageant show. Quite surprisingly, upon its initial release the film was rather bashed by seemingly everyone, apparently it was too ‘nihilistic’ for audiences. However, just as Carpenter says himself, the film was incredible, but the cinematic territory of the time was just not prepared for something so intense, unpredictable, and electrifying. The film would purposefully take its time in setting up a cushty relationship with the characters and divulging into the backstory, only to disrupt any sense of harmony in the most shocking and gnarly way possible. As The Thing turns 40, it’s more important than ever to look back on how the land of film has changed overtime and how previously thrashed horrors have come back with a bigger bite than ever before.
Poltergeist (Directed by Tobe Hooper, 1982)
“They’re here”… That famous quote that terrified audiences for years still rings as eerie today, 40 years on. And whilst ghost movies have gone through leaps and bounds since then, Tobe Hooper and Steven Spielberg’s sensational collab is just as gripping and action-packed as it was when it was first released. Poltergeist transformed the ghost story from being one set in a grand manor occupied by Victorian spirits to one that shows an unstoppable force that fashions itself to suit its victims fears. Hooper takes his time is dissecting all of the madness and mayhem, leaving no horrific stone unturned.
Candyman (Directed by Bernard Rose, 1992)
Based on Clive Barker’s short story The Forbidden (1984) is Candyman, a legendary take on injustice through the lense of a meticulously startling premise. The entire idea that a creature from the great unknown will appear before you upon muttering their name is not an alien concept within filmmaking, urban legends such as the ‘Bloody Mary’ hoax all stir that urge to connect with something beyond reality; through Candyman implicating that this barrier can be broken in the comfort of familiar surroundings makes the boogeyman lore even more terrifying. But, rather than the film focusing too much on the above gimmicks, a tale of retribution and moral corruption is additionally explored, creating a narrative that stands the test of time.
Army of Darkness (Directed by Sam Raimi, 1992)
When Army of Darkness is reminisced upon 30 years after its release it’s easy to see it as a simple irreverent ride that has no trouble in standing out. And whilst part of that sentiment is true, this third entry in TheEvil Dead franchise also served as a stepping stone in creating the action horror hero, as well as cementing the franchises reputation of managing to deliver the rare combination of gory frights and absurd comedy all at once. As the years have progressed, Army of Darkness is largely responsible for all of the expanded works to come from The Evil Dead, including a span of successful comic books, a video game focusing solely on the Army of Darkness events, and a TV series titled Ash vs Evil Dead.
28 Days Later (Directed by Danny Boyle, 2002)
Zombies have enough potent power to knock spiny tingling fear into even the most ‘nerves of steel’ viewers, with their rotting skin, appetite for brains, and expressionless persona making for the perfect creature feature. The undead are visceral enough on their own, but when these attributes are combined with supersonic speed and senseless rage a recipe for gory success is created. Danny Boyle’s 2002 zombie extravaganza 28 Days Later brought the weakened, overdone genre back to life in what can be described as a chaotically violent and nail-biting display of how horror can both provoke a pure visceral reaction whilst also leaning in on the social disposition zombies originate from. The film expertly weaves in the common notion of morbid curiosity, and how the downfall of society is due to humanity, not some act of god. 28 Days Later is grounded in realism, making it beyond terrifying and a fright to remember.
Dog Soldiers (Directed by Neil Marshall, 2002)
Neil Marshall has become a horror extraordinaire with his features Dog Soldiers and The Descent (2005) creating an acclaimed ridden tidal wave amongst critics and viewers alike. And whilst The Descent reigns champion on nearly every genre list, it’s important to remember where Marshall’s journey began. Like all ghouls and goblins, werewolves have a long running history in the genre, with films such as The Howling (1981) and Ginger Snaps (2000) focusing on the bestial connection within the body, but rather than Dog Soliders placing the horror in second place to favour a story dripped in empathy towards the beast, Marshall emphasises the sheer fear and teeth-chattering terror that werewolf’s exude. Dog Soldiers quintessential Britishness, including plenty of dark off-kilter humour, combined with Marshall’s talent for grounding the dread in such a brutal way ensures that this lycanthrope masterpiece will remain of utmost cinematic importance for many years to come.
The Ring (Gore Verbinski, 2002)
Hideo Nakata’s Ringu (1998) perfectly displayed the early 2000s underlying fear of technology taking over through the guise of an Onryō ghost origin story. And whilst remakes receive a rocky reputation, Gore Verbinski’s retelling of Japan’s number one horror film was both a financial triumph and a kickstarter in the J-horror era of cinema. Summoning a beyond bleak atmosphere that surveys heavy melodramatics and themes of guilt and hopelessness is the film’s attention demanding cold palette that acts like a spell, positioning the viewer to unearth their own feelings of loss and doom. Above everything, what allows The Ring to be held as such a highly regarded 2000s horror is Verbinski’s dedication to retelling Ringu under his own unique interpretation without butchering or over-westernising the original’s motives.
Sinister (Directed by Scott Derrickson, 2012)
Scott Derrickson is hot off the press at the minute with his latest feature The Black Phone (2021) receiving endless deserving praise. However, let’s not forget his 2012 showstopper that has been named as one of the scariest films according to a 2020 study. Sinister wielded intensely disturbing imagery found within the reels of super 8 footage, alongside the hauntingly memorable character design of Bughuul (Nick King), the resident boogeyman for the film. Across the horrific journey that Derrickson takes the audience on is a keen sense of deliberate misdirection, where the origins of Bughuul and the third act’s fate remains very much in the dark until the very last minute, ensuring that plenty of hair raising tension is to be had.
The Cabin in the Woods (Directed by Drew Goddard, 2012)
Although it seems like yesterday when the movie scene was all about the latest meta-horror The Cabin in the Woods, it actually turns out that it has been a whole decade since this self-referential puzzle was released. The feast of raunchy humour, throwbacks to beloved classics, and overarching sense of pandemonium over the whole ‘world is ending’ commotion results in a film that is so complexly winded that it’s hard to not want to congratulate Drew Goddard for managing to put on such a circus so flawlessly. Amidst all the dynamic effects and scenes is the film’s way of throwing in something for everyone, whether it’s gigantic arachnids, zombie rednecks, or a merman, The Cabin in the Woods has it all!
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Audiences have become rather accustomed to quick-buck, bright and bloody horrors that come about every couple of months from large studios, where nearly every moment of tension is ruined by a falsely acquainted jumpscare, and a lack of believable performances. Honestly, this is exactly how I believed The Black Phone would turn out. Never have I ever been more wrong!
The Black Phone follows Finney (Mason Thames), a middle schooler who along with his sister Gwen (Madeleine McGraw) have become a form of careers to their widowed alcoholic father, Terrence (Jeremy Davies), making sure that he doesn’t cause too much harm once he begins bingeing. Together they fight through the hardships, especially as Terrence has a penchant for berating Gwen over her psychic dreams. Amidst their other daily struggles of school bullies and playground antics Finney is captured by The Grabber (Ethan Hawke), a local masked kidnapper. All alone with no help in sight, it seems that Finney is destined for death, however, a mysterious black phone and Gwen’s visions may hold the key to his survival.
Adapted from Joe Hill’s (son of genre proficianado Stephen King) short story of the same (2004) is Scott Derrickson’s latest feature that calls back to one of his previous horror’s Sinister (2012), in being a shockingly gut wrenching delight that will have you peeking through the gaps of your fingers as you sit on the edge of your seat. The boxes are ticked in all categories, whether it’s the creepy performance from Hawke playing the bloodthirsty local kid-snatcher, or the illustrious whodunit mystery that goes on in the background as the cops race against time to get to the bottom of the killings before it’s too late.
As with most classic auteurs in the making, Derrickson uses his common collaborators Hawke and writer C. Robert Cargill to plunge The Black Phone into a refreshing territory that holds up for the entire film. The film transports us back in time to Colorado circa 1978, where kids would play out on the streets unequipped with no phones in sight, feeling safe amidst the presence of strangers, however, it is this exact uniformed trust that The Black Phone uses as a backbone for terror to ensue, constatnly toying with our knowledge that times are no longer as simple and Finney should definitely not be walking home alone with an unknown boogeyman lurking about. And although we sit waiting for the ‘big surprise’ of The Grabber’s appearance, what we are not prepared for is how petrifyingly wicked the prowler truly is.
Hawke’s career spans across a plethora of films including Dead Poets Society (1989), Reality Bites (1994), and Boyhood (2014); Whilst these works portray his outstanding capabilities, his recital of a maniacal deranged serial killer in The Black Phone is a career-distinguishing extravaganza, exhibiting Hawke’s duality of being a deeply disturbed individual whose depravity also oozes a sense of childlike giddiness. Convoluting the story even further is the dark land that the film doesn’t neescarly assert, but is suggested throughout. Finney’s ghostly conversations with his captive chums allude to The Grabber’s motives as somewhat being connected to a regressive state of adolescence, where he doesn’t see himself as a grown man abducting little boys, but instead a fellow child. Here, Derrickson very much leaves further analogy and the dissection of what The Grabber is ‘capable’ of doing to the viewer’s imagination. Hawke’s performance is more than commendable, but it’s important not to forget all of the other characters that make the film what it is. Spiritually joining Finney in the basement is the titular gang of fellow victims who include a small town bully, a local baseball player, and most importantly Finney’s own friend Robin (Miguel Cazarez Mora), who over the course of the film becomes Finney’s ghostly sidekick, keeping him motivated to escape the cell and tackle his inner fears.
The surveyance of suggestion is another feature that is pushed constantly throughout the film. Gory imagery does not always equate to an overused gimmick to get a visceral reaction, instead it can be used as a rather quintessential and necessary plot device for cinema, especially in the works of zombie features or body-horrors. The Black Phone delicately works with heavy material without becoming too infatuated with the sensory elements. Yes, you will feel a shiver as you come to terms with how The Grabber has anihilated his victims, but the reaction isn’t thanks to a harsh show-and-tell, instead, Derrickson takes his time in unravelling the backstory and fleshing out the grounds to conjure a narrative that employs your own imagination, forcing the misdeeds to stay in your own psyche for long after watching. Through The Black Phone continuously telling not showing, we mould the story around our own fears and worries, making the film memorable and beyond personable.
In keeping in touch with Derrickson’s pathos of personalness is the setting and time that the film uses to force a further level of despair into Finney’s chances of escaping. During the 1970s and early 1980s there was an influx in abductions, raising the now too familiar saying of ‘Stranger Danger’ into public domain. During this time, milk cartons were plastered with missing posters, meaning that the threat and knowledge of alarming events were in the family home, not just a distanced and avoidable event on the news.
As with any major event, cinema took ahold of these panics and manifested the terror into works of media, with recent entries including Prisoners (2013), The Captive (2014), and I See You (2019). Films akin to these mystery dramas with heavy doses of horror have had a slight rehaul over the years, with studios opting to position the ‘missing kids’ narrative during one of the more notable heights of worry– during the 1970s/1980s. Rather than Derrickson using nostalgia and retro framings as an easy trick to hone in on the trend, the vintage aesthetic is used appropriately and to the film’s utmost advantage. In honour of the throwback vibes Finney becomes entirely hopeless, with zero social media to track his location, nor any savvy list to keep track of neighbourhood creeps.
Everything, whether it’s the dim layer where Finney is held, the retro style complete with grainy intercuts of 8mm footage enlightening viewers of Gwen’s visions, or even the foreboding score that knows exactly when to quieten before erupting into a thunderous peak- The Black Phone has it all, making it not only one of 2022’s most standout films so far, but also a strong contender for being one of Blumhouse Productions best releases yet.
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