The internet doesn't really need another essay talking about “American Psycho.” In the seventeen years since the film's original release, it's gone from financial disappointment, to cult favorite, to certified classic. Mary Harron's masterpiece has spawned internet memes, a barely related sequel, and even a Broadway musical. Hell, I've even already reviewed it, way back in the blog's first year. Yet, in the New Epoch of Trumpian Dumbness, when Bret Easton Ellis has seemingly forgotten the irony at the center of his own work, “American Psycho” deserves an umpteenth look. Besides, it's not like I really need an excuse to rewatch the uber-dark comedy, which is truly one of my favorites.
Patrick Bateman is twenty-seven years old. He's rich, due to a high ranking Wall Street position. His apartment is fancy. All his clothes and accessories are top of the line. He's engaged to a beautiful woman. He's also a brutal serial killer. At night, he rages on, murdering the homeless and prostitutes in increasingly elaborate fashion. As Bateman's night time activities go on, he has increasing difficulty hiding his true self from the respectable world he inhabits. Assuming, of course, that any of his murders are even real.
What really caught my attention on this re-watch was Bateman's treatment of women. Most of his victims are female. Even the women he doesn't kill, he treats with scorn. He yells abuse at female bartenders. He's exclusively condescending to his fiancee. He cheats on her for discerningly no reason, as he treats his girlfriend the same way. Bateman considers women strictly receptacles for his pleasures. Prostitutes are ordered around, abused, plied with money when they resist that abuse, and killed. Other women are also manipulated. Bateman hates effeminate men too. In an early scene, he claims to support multiculturalism. Yet he vehemently despises non-whites, non-Christians, and gays. When a prelude to the murder is mistaken for a come-on, Bateman's reaction is bumbling panic. This is despite Bateman's own homoerotic pampering. During a threesome, all Bateman focuses on is his own reflection. Bateman isn't gay, he's just in love with himself, the only real person in the world in his eyes. Anything that may even suggest he's gay though, that shakes his perfectly manicured image of masculinity, terrifies him.
“American Psycho” would also make Christian Bale into a star. He obviously wouldn't have gotten the part of Batman without this movie. Bale's performances are so typically blustery these days. You can forget what an electrifying actor he was originally. As Patrick Bateman, Bale speeds through the entire emotional cycle. Usually, Bale's appearance is calculated and patronizing. There's the killer's woozy heights, when in the throes of murder. This predates Bateman's crack-up near the end. As it becomes harder for him to hide his murders, Bateman falls to pieces. His tear-strewn telephone confession to his lawyer is both hilarious, for how unhinged Bale gets, and seriously unnerving, for exactly the same reasons. Bale is less hyper-real than Easton's Bateman, a human portrayal of an intentionally ridiculous character.
“The Slumber Party Massacre” is a nostalgic favorite. “Slumber Party Massacre II” is too insane to ignore. But you don't hear much about “Slumber Party Massacre III.” From all corners, it's widely considered the weak link in the franchise chain. I kind of doubt the world was demanding this drill-themed duo to become a cinematic trilogy, especially with the dawning of the nineties. Commerce, as always, would not be denied. The film would be produced for less than 500,000 dollars, gross over a million in theaters, and probably earned way more than that on video. At least Roger Corman, still the series' producer, kept the behind-the-scenes tradition. Part three would be directed by Sally Mattison, a long time assistant producer for Corman. It is also, it must be noted, her sole directorial credit.
“Slumber Party Massacre III” severs any connection with the original, save for the tradition of driller killers and lingerie parties. (And the apathetic cops and weirdoes next door, I guess.) It's not even set in California, like the others, but in a Chicago suburb. Jackie's parents are away for the weekend, leaving her in charge of the house. Naturally, she invites all her friends over for a party. While this is meant to be a slumber party, meaning no boys are allowed, a group of guys quickly show up. A strange man, armed with a giant electric drill, also appears. The girls go about stripping, snacking, and sleeping with their boyfriends, unaware that a killer stalks outside. However, that murderer ends up not being the most serious threat...
This darker tone allows the film to take its characters a little more seriously. Now, the cast is still way too large, full of generic slasher bait, for anyone to be too developed. Characters with names like Janie, Tom, Michael, and Frank are more-or-less interchangeable. However, I found myself rooting for this batch of fodder more than expected. The film was an early role for B-movie starlet/softcore regular Maria Ford, who plays the big-haired redhead. Ford's acting is unpolished but game and perhaps reveals why she would go onto a prolific career. Susie, played by Maria Claire, is mousier than her friends, wearing dowdy pajamas, and rather likable. Duncan, played by David Greenlee, is such a bizarre character. He's a horny guy that the others treat like a harmless little brother. This might also be the first film in the series to attempt genuine eroticism. A love scene between Juliette and Ken is pretty hot and heavy.
“Slumber Party Massacre III” is still, one hundred percent, a standard slasher film. It does not defy the cliches of the genre. The gore is not even especially inventive, if that's what you're in the game for. Compared to the mad heights of the second film, I can definitely see why this would be considered a disappointment. But “Slumber Party Massacre III” is kind of interesting in its own way. Director Mattison clearly had a vision and what was probably just meant to be a second act plot twist evens up shedding new light on the film's story. Each film in this series are very different from each other but they are all entertaining. [7/10]
When it comes to made-for-television Halloween specials, the only one that has really endured is “Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin.” Yeah, “Garfield's Halloween Adventure” and “The Paul Lynde Halloween Special” have developed real cult followings but Snoopy still reigns supreme in this category. One formally obscure special I've started hearing more about recently is “Witch's Night Out.” Produced in Canada, the half-hour cartoon aired on NBC in 1978. Most of its cult following comes from re-airings on the Disney Channel throughout the eighties and nineties. The special concerns Small and Tender, two eager trick-or-treators. Their parents decide to throw a Halloween party in an abandoned house on the edge of town. Turns out the house is abandoned, as a lonely witch lives there. Small and Tender accidentally summon the witch, who transforms them into actual monsters, leading to chaos at the party and abroad.
“Witch's Night Out” is immediately notable for its bizarre animation. The character designs are distinctive, to say the least. All the characters are in bright, primary colors. Their bodies are simple, abstract shapes. The mom, for example, is seemingly composed of fuzzy cotton balls. The kid's baby sitter has a square, blockhead. Even the more detailed characters, like the witch in her black gown and stocking cap, have simple outlines. Sometimes the details border the grotesque, like the witch's weirdly wrinkled face or Malicious, who has an ugly face but weirdly shapely breasts. The characters move in a fashion that is both weirdly fluid and slightly jerky. The backgrounds are highly detailed, almost looking like photographs at times. I haven't seen anything else that quite looks like it. The result is a film that looks way better than you'd expect a television cartoon made in 1978 to look.
I first came across “Roadkill: The Last Days of John Martin” earlier this year. An article described it as, essentially, a splatterpunk short story as a short movie. That caught my attention, even if I have zero exposure to the rest of director Jim Van Bebber's career. Van Bebbler has attracted a small fandom for his brutish, grimy shorts and features. It's also an accurate description. “Roadkill” follows a serial killer, who lives in decay and squalor at his home. While out for a drive, he picks up a couple having car troubles. He drags them back to his house, where he tortures, kills, and cannibalizes them.
“Roadkill” is one of those hardcore horror movies preoccupied with letting audiences know how extreme it is. The short is gross and abrasive. The opening scenes show John Martin in his kitchen, chopping up raw meat, mingling among rats, cockroaches, and maggots. He vomits and screams profanity at his television. Weirdly, this is more stomach turning then the torture scenes. Martin chopping off a guy's head and eating his flesh, while dangling a naked woman over a stove burner, is obviously fake. The vermin and rancid meat the guy was putting in his mouth in the first scene were probably real.
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