Inside, Teeth, and the Van Bebber box set Visions of Hell.  For horror fans, these titles are arguably all touchstones to seek out—unless, of course, you happen to shop at Wal-Mart.

That last remark is in response to the retail chain recently pulling Inside and Teeth from its store racks.  While it’s not difficult to make the case that other recent studio releases are comparable in explicit violence, it’s also pretty easy to see why the challenging thematic content of these films rubbed management’s superego the wrong way.  Still, one wonders why buyer-beware stickers weren’t applied instead.  For Teeth, for instance, why not add, “Warning:  Primal Freudian Fears—Not Appropriate for Neurotic Male Viewers of Any Age”?
 

Inside (2007) aka  À l'intérieur; release date:  April 15, 2008

The “French Invasion” of horror continues with another interesting film that, like Them and Frontier(s), sports a brief title yet packs quite a punch.  Incessantly, even gruelingly violent, Inside reminded me as I viewed it of The Evil Dead (1981), minus the playfulness and slapstick:  just when you think things can’t get more bizarrely bloody, or think you know the direction they’re headed, you’re given a change-up.  Then, as the closing credits rolled I was surprised (but maybe shouldn’t have been) to see the filmmakers thanking Sam Raimi, adding parenthetically, “He’ll never know why.”  So was his early work the inspiration for co-directors Alexandre Bustillo and Julien Maury?  Maybe.  But if so, the comparison offers us a nice case study in the difference between tone and mood—the films in question sharing hardly any of the former but much of the latter.

Certainly the no-holds-barred gore in both The Evil Dead and Inside can trigger the I-can’t-believe-just-saw-that reaction.  But what they share more deeply is a relentless single-mindedness that seems to catch lightning in a bottle:  like Raimi’s cabin in the woods, Inside’s suburban-house setting turns limited space and the most basic of floor plans to an unexpected advantage.  Namely, Bustillo and Maury use unexceptional, everyday rooms, hallways, and staircases to foster greater intimacy with the mayhem and of course to help us identify more strongly with our in-peril heroine (the talented Alysson Paradis).  Call this approach the “old small dark house” and contrast it with the labyrinthine interiors in a typical gothic mansion or haunted house, where the difficulty of navigating the shadowy corridors can be a metaphor for a wide range of fears.  Here, though, the gradual familiarity that’s built up with the surroundings serves another, perhaps sneakier, purpose.  After spending sufficient time in such a place, I believe that as an audience we start making associations to the home that we grew up in—a place from which we longed to escape, knew every inch of, and yet where we often felt besieged by powerful forces.  In filmic terms, you’d think that working within such confinement would lend a stagy feel to the proceedings or force an unwelcome claustrophobia on viewers, and perhaps those are some of the usual traps, but the makers of Inside cannily keep the camera set-ups, lighting, and action in play so that they create a space that seems to contain everything we “need” for our story.  Mostly dark and shot through with the red of viscera, not to mention being profoundly shut off from the rest of society, the setting of Inside is… well, kind of like a womb.

And if you’re unfamiliar with the film’s storyline, it’s largely concerned with matters in utero, as you might be able to tell from the title.  (What you might not be able to tell, and which you should now considered yourself forewarned about, is that the film pushes the envelope in terms of cinematic taboos around pregnancy.)  Moreover, following an opening tragedy, Paradis’s character seems to create a symbolic womb for herself, withdrawing from the world emotionally if not physically.  The story uses growing civil unrest and the resultant middle-class impulse to “cocoon” to reinforce this idea.  Indeed, her regression into an apparently benign solipsism provides the “moral” rationale for the trouble she finds herself in.  Although I suspected such was the case about half-way through Inside, we don’t really learn the motivations for the film’s monster—Beatrice Dalle in a fire-breathing performance—until fairly late in the overall scheme of things.

That may bug some folks, as might some of the other twists and turns that the plot takes.  For me, however, that’s one of the fascinating things about Inside:  regardless of the extent to which it’s intentional, the film plays out on a figurative/psychological level that occurs in parallel with the real.  The drama seems to take place in the mind-space of the house, but in addition to the familial childhood home the setting might suggest a movie theater itself—as the audience we are sutured “inside” the womb of the cinema.  Like that developing fetus that we observe courtesy of animation, we’d like to go along for the ride without events intruding too much on us personally:  we’d prefer to keep a thick layer of amniotic fluid between us and the carnage so that we can be in the middle of the excitement, but not “of” it.

Bustillo and Maury, however, want to rip us from the infantile comfort that all cinema—even horror cinema—provides while still staying in genre and not crafting something that is explicitly transgressive or postmodern (e.g., Funny Games).  From this perspective, it soon becomes apparent that what’s actually under attack here are certain cherished notions of passivity.  In fact, the protagonist’s inability to call for help in certain key scenes, which can be justifiably critiqued in terms of thriller conventions, makes perfect sense.  We are made to identify with her, yes, but Bustillo and Maury want us to identify even more strongly with an idealized “next generation” of moviegoers who are not content to remain in our childlike relationship to certain preconceptions about “good” and “bad.”  To that end, they do all that they can as midwives to ensure that we are delivered, ultimately, into the arms of that far more ominous, but undeniably loving, mother who has been waiting for us all along.

Teeth (2007); release date:  May 6, 2008

While both Frontier(s) and Inside begin with images of a developing fetus, writer-director Mitchell Lichtenstein starts Teeth even further back in the great chain of life:  the opening credits show simple, perhaps single-celled, organisms hunting more docile prey until one suddenly turns the tables on the predators.  Then the rest of the movie serves as an extended illustration of this conceit in the most stark gender terms imaginable.  On the commentary track, Lichtenstein draws attention to the thematic set-up this title sequence provides, and I can’t fault him for that; it’s the logical thing to talk about.  However, I do fault Teeth as a film for taking an engaging premise, one that could even serve as landmark in the genre, and in effect providing its own commentary track embedded in the narrative itself.  Yes, there are some nice insights throughout, but nearly every time Teeth becomes subtle it also takes pains to make sure you realize it, which kind of defeats the purpose.  And when it’s intentionally unsubtle, especially in the second half, it fails to provide the creativity in terms of genre expectations that must go hand-in-hand with its “cautionary” message.  In short, Teeth is one of the few horror movies I can recall in which the subtext engulfs the main text entirely.  Then again, maybe that’s another playing out of that biology-lesson opening.

Teeth certainly begins promisingly enough, presenting a tongue-not-quite-in-cheek Lynchian view of American suburbia as teeming with latent danger and sexual perversion.  The latter mostly takes the form of abstinence, which is portrayed as a self-inflicted, self-righteous mental illness in a way that would have made Wilhelm Reich proud.  Lichtenstein’s script initially does a very nice job of setting the stage by introducing a bit of family drama here, a bit of teen sex (black) comedy there, all the while keeping the horror elements simmering just below the surface.  And as a director, Lichtenstein is clearly gifted when it comes to working with actors—he not only manages to guide lead Jess Weixler to a justifiably celebrated performance, but also gets great work from John Hensley as her troubled brother, a role that would seem ripe for caricature.

But soon after the film hits its first turning point (its first death, natch), we move into the realm of the almost unbearably predictable—both for the text and the subtext.  The abstinence crusaders become largely irrelevant and in the end even the brother character is wasted.  We keep waiting for the big climactic scene with him that will deliver some kind of emotional catharsis, but when it finally arrives, it’s exactly as one might have imagined back in the first act.  Yes, Teeth is worth watching, but just go into it with your expectations properly calibrated.  As a film about vagina dentata, it bites off a bit more than it can chew.

Finally, I’d like to hear what the gender studies crowd thinks about this one.  While ostensibly a critique of male predation, Teeth is nonetheless extremely efficient when it comes to backing female sexual identity into one of two corners—shrill virgin or castrating succubus.  Of course the male half of the species is presented as “responsible” for this transformation, but it’s interesting to note the lack of will or self-creation on hand here.  Yes, I realize the fact that Weixler’s character is named “Dawn” in an ironic jab that demonstrates the twisted take on a “coming of age” story that Teeth is supposed to represent.  The message we’re left with is that she is what she is because of both beasts from without and, more importantly, that one single autonomous beast that keeps guard within.  But if that’s the case, aren’t we stuck with the same “biology is destiny” ideology that has served patriarchy so well through the ages?

Visions of Hell:  The Films of Jim VanBebber; release date:  May 27. 2008

In you’re interested in a work that mirrors Teeth’s concerns about group-think, sexual politics, and the dark links that dwell within the human libido, may I suggest Jim Van Bebber’s remarkable 2003 film, The Manson Family?

Issued as part of a four-disc retrospective from Dark Sky Films, the film treads what may at first seem like familiar territory—“based-on-true-story” salaciousness, sub-Nick Zedd ‘80s style “downtown” trangressive modes, and a docu-style framing device that contrasts nicely with horror’s natural rawness.  I fully understand that some viewers may choose not to look beyond these superficial similarities to other genre titles, but if you do, I think you’ll discover a true original.  For me The Manson Family brims with incredible artistry and self-assurance, demonstrates a breathtaking meticulousness in terms of creating its media assemblage, and sports a very strong moral stance to boot.  So strong, in fact, that the film does not shy away from presenting the fundamental attraction Manson held for his followers... for if we paint the Family's members solely as one-dimensional ghouls, what have we really learned of any value?  Yet when it comes to the crimes themselves, The Manson Family makes sure that your sympathy is powerfully with the victims:  Van Bebber in no way makes the murders look "cool."

Certainly The Manson Family is not a flawless movie—for me the “present-day” storyline is far weaker in concept and execution—but rarely does one get this kind of ambitious vision in horror and the commitment to execute it so impeccably.  As an example, consider the terrific textual quilt that’s sewn from the mock interviews—they’re edited for maximum dramatic, visual, and factual value all at once.  Attempts at such narrative structures in other horror movies come off as simplistic in comparison.

But it’s not as if Van Bebber is solely concerned with his film as a visual construction, or as an artsy kind of atrocity exhibition.  There is a pulsing sense of humanity—and humanism—in nearly every shot of the movie, which may be difficult to see for those who equate any horror based on real events with exploitation barely above the level of a snuff film (interesting how war movies never have this charge leveled at them).  You learn what the residents of the Spahn Ranch were looking for in Manson, what they got, and how they gradually lost their footing on a blood-slicked slippery slope.  How did Van Bebber pull this off?  As I learned in the various enlightening extras that Dark Sky has included here, he apparently built a strong rapport with his actors.  The result is not only disarming performances from screen newcomers but also terrific work from long-time Van Bebber collaborators Marc Pitman, as Tex Watson, and Marcelo Goames as Manson himself.

The other feature included in the box set is Deadbeat by Dawn (1988) a movie that, for all its homespun energy and invention, would probably not merit attention today had Van Bebber not moved on to more accomplished work.  Devotees will see hints of his later efforts, with the red lighting washing over everything, the expressive close-ups, and the anti-hero protagonist.  A crime-martial arts hybrid, Deadbeat also works as a heartfelt homage to Chuck Norris-vehicles—Van Bebber gamely does his own stunts, often in impressive fashion.  The only crime here is not the inclusion of this title in the collection but rather that Van Bebber hasn’t made more features in the two decades since.  Nearly every director has his or her early learning efforts; there’s just usually a more extensive body of work for them to hide out in.

This collection really earns it title “Visions of Hell” with the short films included on the final disc.  Roadkill:  The Last Days of John Martin (1994) is truly hellish on multiple levels.  Yes, the impact of the imagery and situations may have been partly blunted by some high-profile movies of the past five years, but it’s hard to hard to name a film that exudes the same overall feel of malign dementia that this one does.  John Martin is a killer and a cannibal.  The movie is about fifteen minutes long.  Now imagine the blunt object trauma that can be done to an audience with that content and within those time parameters—and then double it.  My Sweet Satan (1994) sports a bit more in terms of dramatic amenities—hey, there are plot motivations and characters who interact—but is still chilling in its sheer viciousness.  This film is also notable because, as the lead character, Van Bebber the actor extends his range and turns in a fine job in the process.

Not all of these films are horror, though.  Doper (1994) evokes the early films of Errol Morris, and is certainly scary in some moments, but more often sad and funny.  Kata (1990), directed in collaboration with Samuel Turcotte, is a clever one-liner of a movie that is as precise and as efficient as the martial arts routine that it depicts.  Into the Black (1983), on the other hand, is a decidedly unpolished teenage effort with a rock-only soundtrack (i.e., there’s no spoken dialogue, just intertitles).  It’s really just a long highlight reel of backyard stuntwork and gore that shows the influence of Bruce Lee flicks and early ‘80s action fare such as The Road Warrior (1981) and Escape from New York (1981) and, somehow, also manages to recall Kenneth Anger’s Fireworks (1947) and Scorpio Rising (1964).

In short, this box set perfectly showcases the work of a director who deserves much wider recognition.  And for those who already know Van Bebber, these discs work as a much-needed, and very thoughtful, retrospective.