I entered a wonderful time in my life during 1979. I was out of high school and enrolled at a community college in Vancouver, WA. My fellow students were more interested in learning that forming cliques, sports were not the normal focus of attention and I was accepted as a fan of horror and fantasy films.
And, as a horror fan, I was finally old enough to see R-rated movies. My parents felt viewing such films would be detrimental to my emotional development. To be fair, I do not feel any ill will towards their decision, as they did what they felt was right for me as a child, something every parent wrestles with. And they did let me watch horror films when and if it came appeared on broadcast television in an edited form. Anyway, I met several new friends with similar interests and, to my delight, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre came to the local tri-cinema that year.
I knew what the film was about, and seen a few pictures from it. Though my parents would not take me to such films, I could read anything I wanted, including horror magazines like Famous Monsters of Filmland and Fangoria. So I was aware of the basic plot and the fate of some of the teens who run afoul of a cannibalistic family deep in Texas. Full of confidence that my knowledge about the film would shield me from being frightened, as the magazines called it one of the most horrifying films ever made, a friend and I split a pizza, downed a pitcher of beer each (things were a bit more lax back then), than walked into the theater.
And for the next 84 minutes, I encountered the cinematic equivalent of being hit in the face with a shovel. Repeatably.
I'd seen a few slasher films before, where you knew the characters were doing something that would incur the killer's wrath. But this was the first horror film where they weren't engaged in behavior leaving them open to an attack, or doing the wrong things at the wrong time. Everything seemed so real, so documentary-like. And damn, the movie was the most brutal I'd ever seen, despite the lack of gore.
Since that night in the theater, I became a fan of Tobe Hooper's work. I saw TCM2 on video (that one never came to a local theater), transfixed by the over-the-top insanity and sexual innuendos. As a young man, I loved Lifeforce for obvious reasons, but was also engaged with the energetic, maniacal story unfolding on the screen. And let's not even get into Salem's Lot, one of the scariest made-for-TV movies to grace the tube.
Of course, the roller coaster ride that was Poltergeist always leads to the controversy of who really directed the film. For me, I can see the "Spielbergian" touches in the family interactions with each other and their neighbors. But the maniacal, wild moments, of which there are plenty, came straight from Hooper.
His films are a wild, crazy ride on a broken down carnival house of horrors. The story might not make sense, but the intensity he brought to a film, his ability to make the nonsensical probable while the projector is running, makes his work a tribute to insanity brought to life. That was Hooper's gift to me. Watching his films, I had no choice but to believe such possibilities.
What makes his films work so well is that, after the credits roll, one can laugh at being fooled into considering such madness might be happening in your town. But Hooper plants the seeds of doubt in your mind, and you likely spent the drive home wondering if you might fall into the hidden madness that he brought to life in the theater.
RIP, Mr. Hooper. I'll never forget the night I first saw your vision of insanity within the rational world. And I'll always remember that feeling every time I re-watch one of your films.
No comments:
Post a Comment