Jenifer (2005) / Pelts (2006) dir. Dario Argento

Jenifer (2005)

Logline: Frank Spivey (Steven Weber), a police officer, saves a horrifically disfigured young woman, Jenifer (Carrie Fleming), from being murdered by a meat cleaver-wielding madman. Discovering that she has nowhere else to go and finding himself inexplicably drawn to her, Spivey invites Jenifer to stay in his home, despite his family's reservations. When Jenifer begins to reveal her true sinister nature, Spivey's life spirals out of control as he attempts-- against all rational judgement-- to protect her.

From 2005 to 2006, Argento kept himself busy with TV work. His muddled, visually nondescript Italian made-for-TV feature, Do You Like Hitchcock? (2005), proved through its amateurish slog of far-from-clever intertextual references and scenes of near anti-suspense that one can revere Hitchcock without necessarily emulating him. Lacking even the absurdity of an earlier turd like The Card Player (2004), Do You Like Hitchcock? is perhaps the worst film Argento has yet made, and-- at the time-- it seemed to signal a concerning descent into TV-budget schlock. The film hinted that Argento was content to slum it on the small screen (which he hadn't done since early in his career, with 1973's Door into Darkness), where he could ineptly and lazily fumble around in the general wheelhouse of his past glories without necessarily having to please producers fretting about potential box office returns and international sales. Rather than exploiting these relative freedoms and becoming a vessel for experimentation, Do You Like Hitchcock? smells of nothing more than a quick paycheck rooted in the name recognition he'd built from the product of better days. For the handful of months between July and November of 2005, things were looking grimmer-than-usual in the career of one of Italian horror's perennials. 

For Argento to follow-up this ill-conceived TV venture shortly thereafter with yet two more TV ventures only served to make the state of his career appear increasingly desperate, at least initially. Fortunately, the two short films that Argento contributed to Mick Garris's Masters of Horror anthology program for the Showtime network, "Jenifer" and "Pelts," aren't quite the harbingers of obsolescence that Do You Like Hitchcock? was. What they are is decidedly mixed bags of (somewhat shockingly) new tricks. Neither film is quite like anything Argento has produced in the past, perhaps due to the fact that they are the first time that he's shied away from working on the screenplay of one of his films. Both shorts are about supernatural subjects, but they possess little of the breezy surreal fantasy of an Inferno (1980) or a Phenomena (1985). Rather, they're gory, morbidly humorous morality fables in the tradition of 1950s horror comic books. (Not coincidentally, "Jenifer" was adapted by star Steven Weber from a short in a 1974 issue of the horror anthology comic Creepy, a long-running EC knockoff.) Moreover, their major point of departure from the dulling visual blandness of Do You Like Hitchcock? is that both "Jenifer" and "Pelts" look good. Though they carry that unmistakable made-for-TV glow, it's apparent that these weren't sloppy or careless productions. The cast and crew behind Argento turn in fine work on both shorts, resulting in the most competently put together Argento films since Sleepless (2001).

But there is a problem with these Masters of Horror episodes, beyond their moral simplicity: they are above all else achingly misogynistic pieces that construct their female characters as nothing more than demonic sirens leading hapless men to beastly ends. These females' only currency-- both as characters and as narrative devices-- is sex, and they trade in it for their own selfish gain at the expense of the men, who are drawn about helplessly by their groins. What's worse is that the "moral message" of each film is tied into the dangerous temptation that these women pose, urging men to avoid contact with them or else prepare to face the bloody consequences. This is a crude old sexist moral gong to bang (and I mean really old, like Proverbs old), and it results in the films being about as subtle as a witch burning. True, Argento didn't write either of these tales, but he did film them. His culpability can't be totally brushed aside.

The first tale, "Jenifer," is the most egregious offender on this count. Steven Weber's family man police officer, Frank Spivey, is seduced away from said family and into covering up heinous acts by the vile Jenifer, resulting in his own downfall. Jenifer is an interesting character, if only for how far she's been reduced into a gendered narrative device. She's a mute demonic entity of unclear origins (perhaps, in the film's logic, being a woman is demonic enough) and her dual nature-- as seductress and devourer-- is inscribed physically, as physicality is all that she's been provided:  her face is horrifically disfigured-- equipped with a monstrous, snarling mouth-- but she sure does have a rockin' bod otherwise. She is the promise of sex and the hardly concealed "dangers" of sex made flesh. Throughout the film, Jenifer feigns supplication and gratitude (usually of a sexual nature) to Spivey for his efforts in saving and protecting her. In truth, she's using him to cover up her mess, as she tends to destroy (and eat) all that she encounters. The mallet-to-the-head subtlety of the circular ending reveals that Jenifer has been cycling through men for some time now, using them up until they've cracked before replacing them with new saps. The darkly comedic tone of "Jenifer" doesn't earn it a pass for its repugnant formulation of women and male-female relationships, and Argento proves his old detractors right through his association with it.

Pelts (2006)

Logline: Magic raccoons with beautiful pelts are trapped and killed by John Saxon who then sells them to Meat Loaf who himself hopes to make these beautiful, magical pelts into a fur coat for a lesbian stripper who will then (being grateful) allow him to have sex with her. Unfortunately for these folks and their selfish desires, dreadful events befall anyone who chances into contact with these magical pelts.

"Pelts," Argento's second season contribution to Masters of Horror, is only slightly less misogynistic than its predecessor, partly because it has another moral message to jackhammer home: killing animals for their pelts is wrong. Yes, that is exactly as complex as this one's political message aims for. It accomplishes this lofty message by giving just desserts to those folks involved in every step of the fur trade, magically forcing them to commit on themselves the same atrocities they commit on helpless animals for a living. This scenario leads to some rather gory fun, but you'd refrain from calling it an intelligent critique of a bloody business enterprise. Adapted from a story by writer F. Paul Wilson, "Pelts" was apparently "tarted up" by Argento and screenwriter Matt Venne in its journey to the small screen. Because its misogynistic content crops up in that added sex and strip club sequences, we can probably blame its sexist attitude on them rather than Wilson. See, lustful fur trader Jake Feldman (Meat Loaf) will do anything to have sex with sultry stripper Shanna (Ellen Ewusie), regardless of the fact that she's gay. When he encounters the magical raccoon pelts in question, his first thought is to make them into a stunning coat that Shanna can model in exchange for the opportunity to get it on with her. When presented with the fur coat and Feldman's offer, Shanna agrees. (This is, according to what Wilson writes in his above linked post, in direct contrast to the outcome of his story.) Shanna betrays her own sexuality and lowers herself to have sex with Feldman, whom she quite dislikes, for the mere privilege of wearing a more-or-less useless material good. Women, of course, are always seduced by signs of wealth and will do anything to achieve them. Didn't you know this? Similarly to Frank Spivey in "Jenifer," Feldman is presented as a victim of his uncontrollable desires (though a far less sympathetic one, in consequence of the "fur trapping is evil" angle). This whole business with the furs might not have happened if Feldman didn't need to impress Shanna in order to convince her to sleep with him, and his total effort to give her everything she wants from him is rendered, graphically, at the conclusion of the film as him literally giving her the skin off his back (his skin, in this instance, standing in for his shirt). Gee, what a noble, selfless guy.

Sleepaway Camp II: Unhappy Campers / III: Teenage Wasteland (1988; 1989) dir. Michael A. Simpson

Loglines: Five years after she racked up quite the body count at Camp Arawak, Peter/Angela Baker has received a sex change, been released from psychiatric care, assumed a new last name, and taken up her favorite hobby: creatively murdering naughty teens at summer camps. Let's all sing the happy camper song.

Sleepaway Camp II: Unhappy Campers and Sleepaway Camp III: Teenage Wasteland are the well-titled late '80s direct-to-video sequels to 1983's Sleepaway Camp. Both share the same creative team (director Michael A. Simpson, writer Fritz Gordon, star Pamela Springsteen) and, despite being low-budget slasher productions in the era of video, have the distinction of being shot on 35mm. Neither film is particularly good, though their attempts to elevate Angela to the top-tier of the pantheon of slasher villains is admirable (if flawed and partially unsuccessful).  

Unhappy Campers is far more enjoyable than its continuation, Teenage Wasteland.* The relentless stupidity on display in this first sequel is just about matched by the relentless entertainment it provides. The film is brisk and perfectly watchable; one of the more enjoyable latter day slashers I've seen (while still in no way equaling the quality of the dawn-of-the-'90s slash epics like Soavi's Stagefright (1987) or Spiegel's Intruder (1989); this is decidedly cheap art, after all). The film is gory with a bile black sense of humor (a drunken young camper waking up tied down in a barbeque pit next to the charred corpse of her sister is played for laughs), and of course needlessly crude ("Tit Patrol"; "Shit Sisters") and exploitative (unsurprisingly, most of the featured campers are female and around 20 years old. This may make it difficult to accept them as realistic campers, but makes it very easy for the film to encourage them to repeatedly flash their chests). Moreover, it looks and feels about as scrappy as a film can, and the visible talent-- both in front of and behind the camera--is paltry. Pamela Springsteen, as Angela, is probably the best case for why this absence of talent does not necessarily make the picture a bad one: an almost sublime non-actor, she monotones through her numerous one-liners and zingers with the enthusiasm of dried sap, and yet we still find her appealing. She, and the film itself, exude a certain je ne sais quoi attitude towards the whole affair, as if they are keenly aware that their endeavor is a silly one and so are able to squeeze every bit of deadpan fun out of it without possessing formidable skills or the desire to try hard. This is, whether consciously or not, a postmodern film, and it benefits from its metareflective moments (say, for instance, when Angela admits that she really ought to have killed her top adversary first, as if acknowledging the restrictions of her narrative) and, more importantly, its intertextuality with the slasher canon.

This leads me to a brief discussion of what I found most interesting about these sequels: their attempt to launch Angela as the first bonafide female slasher villain. Now of course, there are numerous instances wherein the killer in a slasher film is revealed to be a woman (Happy Birthday to Me (1981), Friday the 13th (1980), Curtains (1983)), but none of these killers would go on to recur in their own franchises--it seems absurd to imagine the Friday the 13th sequels featuring a reanimated Mrs. Voorhees donning the iconic hockey mask. But why does it seem absurd? Why do we need a hulking, monstrous male as the unconquerable madman? Carol Clover's theories on the slasher film and their interactions with gender provide us some help here: the rage and brutality of slasher killings is most easily embodied by a form of masculinity in crisis and run amok. It would be tough--though, as we'll see, not impossible--to capture that same masculine confusion in the body of a woman. Unless, of course, we are presented with a situation akin to what the original Sleepaway Camp's coda left us with: a boy ideologically trapped in a girl's body. And so in saunter the Sleepaway Camp sequels, attempting to rectify these gendered matters with curious results. Besides some more subtle touches (like the graffiti wall at the opening of Teenage Wasteland that reads "Angela is Back!" as if we were all patiently waiting), this attempt is explicit: a scene in Unhappy Campers plays out as a nascent Battle of the Slasher Titans, as Angela (dressed as an amalgam of Michael Myers and Leatherface) quickly dispatches two boys dressed as Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees with some finger blades and a chainsaw, respectively. As this scene and the VHS box art (above) make abundantly clear, in the Sleepaway Camp films we are presented with a villain exactly if not more monstrous than the baddies we're used to, but all the more threatening because of the disarming external appearance she presents to the world. Angela is a pretty young woman, not a beefy, scarified zombie killer--you might actually invite her into your cabin. Yet the films also take pains to remind us that Angela's homicidal tendencies derive from her transgender status--it is the male raging within her that compels her to kill, or so we are led to believe. While her transgendered status allows her to at least present the image of a memorable, recurring female slasher villain, it's unfortunate that this also leads to some curt vilification of transgendered people (as Angela's story is being told around a campfire, one camper spits that her doctors "gave him a sex change... and our parents' taxes paid for it!"). We may never be blessed with an uncomplicated female slasher icon, but (her troubling origins aside) I believe these films amply demonstrate that such an icon is feasible. In the end it's not her conflicted masculinity that makes Angela such an appealing villain, but her hokey clear-cut moral compass--only she would make a statement like "weeding out the bad kids" and mean it literally. All that, plus her quips are funnier than Freddy's.

 *I have nearly nothing to say about Teenage Wasteland, and so will relegate it to a footnote, out of spite. The film carries over the appealing elements of Unhappy Campers (the groan-inducing humor, the creative bloodshed, the Angela myth-making), but everyone present seems to be simply going through the motions. Where is the inspiration or enthusiasm behind the shoddiness? With only a little over a year separating it from its predecessor, it's possible that the team behind these films didn't really have an idea for a proper third entry but rushed this one out because Unhappy Campers had been a rental success. Everything feels like an afterthought. The campers are older and more deplorable than ever. Springsteen plays Angela as over-the-top nutty, rather than the slightly-more-restrained and sympathetic moralist of Unhappy Campers (unraveling the second film's development of her wise-cracking Norman Bates persona). Worst of all, it's dull: while almost exactly the same length as Unhappy Campers, Teenage Wasteland crawls like a grievously wounded camper to the end of its running time. It does, however, have a couple good lines, which I will now repeat: 1) "You look older than the rest of the campers..." "Massive drugs." 2) "I like films that really make America look great. Like Rambo III."

Piranha 3D (2010) dir. Alexandre Aja / Piranha 3DD (2012) dir. John Gulager

Loglines: Prehistoric piranha attack college spring break vacation town. Then, primordially insatiable: prehistoric piranha attack tacky "adult" water park. 

Last night I curated a private double feature of the recent Piranha 3D and its even-fresher sequel, Piranha 3DD (both of which serve as remakes of the original Joe Dante and James Cameron films, which to begin with were cheeky take-offs on Jaws. Therefore, this duology comes to us through more layers of irony than most). Despite every attempt of Dimension Films' advertising campaigns to convince otherwise, the films are reasonably entertaining and contain only about one half of the crass, lewd, meatheaded worldview that their titles and premises imply. I'd stop far short of calling them intelligent entertainments, but they are extremely self-conscious pieces of nouveau-exploitation cinema and almost always use this awareness to their advantage. In numerous scenes, the films demonstrate their cognizance of the total ridiculousness of what's being displayed; they're not only poking fun of the audience's expectations for and enjoyment of what's on screen, but their own roles in putting it there. We might call it "ashamed filmmaking," rather than "shameless." It's amusing how often the films choose to interrupt the buildup during scenes of sexuality or titillation: tequila body shots are interrupted with projectile vomiting, topless hang gliding with legs being munched off, the loss of virginity with a less-than-literal form of vagina dentate. Moreover, neither film celebrates its degenerate partying fraternity brothers and coeds, but slaughters them mercilessly. Yet this obvious loathing is offset by the incessant ogling: kill 'em all, but gawk at 'em first. But, again, the voyeurism seems more perfunctory than genuine. You want breasts, the film says, so here's the biggest breasts we've got. Seeing such sights so banally displayed, we start to wonder whether we ever wanted them at all. In a twist that would set Laura Mulvey's head spinning, the women of the Piranha films are objectified without being sexualized. It's as if the sexual potential has been evacuated from the women based upon both the context in which they exist (incessant piranha-induced bodily carnage) and the manner by which they're presented. The films put nearly zero effort (stylistic or narrative) towards rendering women sexually: they are shot flatly with no definition, bobbing as fleshy, plastic buoys in the water. It's telling that the most prolonged scene of nudity in either film is Piranha 3D's "naked mermaid water ballet," which, set to its score of the Lakmé "Flower Duet," is almost tasteful. I wouldn't call this direction for female representation in trash cinema a positive one (after all, the distinction is a slight one; what we're talking about is the difference between women being "sexy" fish bait rather than sexy fish bait). It is, however, an interesting one.*

The larger topic that these films sparked up in my thoughts was the continually sad fate of the comedy horror film. Historically, the comedy horror subgenre has been one to suffer extraordinary blows both critically and financially (for example, Piranha 3D barely made back its $24 million budget domestically, while Piranha 3DD is only playing in 86 theaters during its opening week of release); the biggest issue seems to be that films classified in this manner simply don't connect with audiences. It's no surprise that those few comedy horrors that have broken through to achieve mainstream success (Ghostbusters (1984), Beetlejuice (1988)) are more easily labeled as pure comedies in horror set dressings. Others (Shaun of the Dead (2004), An American Werewolf in London (1981)), while successful in blending the two genres and deserving of their reputations, only gained them after the fact-- these films didn't particularly storm the box office, instead being the beneficiaries of home video. Regardless of financial success (rarely a clear indicator of anything other than the filmgoing audience's current tastes), there do appear to be a few different approaches to staging a comedy horror film, which we can see the Piranha films wading around. Films like the aforementioned Shaun of the Dead, An American Werewolf in London, and others like Trick 'r' Treat (2007), Return of the Living Dead (1985), and Hatchet (2006) fare the best: they balance their laughs with genuine scares and thrills (even the exceedingly goofy Return has the horrifying Tarman and the queasy notion of zombies eating brains to relieve the pain of death; Hatchet, perhaps the closest to the Piranha films in its lowbrow humor, never fails to make its villain Victor Crowley a legitimate agent of terror-- in this regard, Hatchet 2 (2010) is a miserable followup). Some comedy horrors take a slightly different track: being uncertain of their ability to provide genuine scares, films like Tremors (1990), Fright Night (1985), and Night of the Creeps (1986) frame their comedy around a general tone of lighthearted adventure that, if handled with the appropriate care and jocularity, can almost always carry them through. Still others go the gross-out route: something like Dead Alive (1992) is composed entirely of goopy punchlines and visual gags, and is clearly less concerned with the horror (and sometimes even the comedy) in deference to the excess of ludicrous carnage. 

No approach to the comedy horror is necessarily better than another, but the trouble lies in when a film fails to commit to or understand these options. Piranha 3D seems to hover unsteadily somewhere between all three-- it can't be taken too seriously or build much suspense with its silly, poorly-rendered CGI piranha, but the scenes attempting tense rescues (or adventurous ones; see: Adam Scott on a skidoo, Ving Rhames with a motorized propeller) clash with the chum-filled mayhem that it simultaneously nails. Such a blend places an uneasy tone over the film, allowing it work only intermittently. This is an issue mostly resolved in Piranha 3DD, which absolutely understands what it wants to be: a trivial, preposterous bloodbath. More Troma than Corman, the humor takes precedence, and its hokey tenor was more amiable than I had expected (how did Ving Rhames afford a prosthetic leg that can double as a shotgun? asks Paul Scheer. With all the money he saved on socks, Ving answers dryly). Not unexpectedly, the more creatively conscious and successful of the two is the one that won't even have a chance to recoup its expenses or gain wide exposure (recall: 86 theaters on opening week). But the studio was probably right. Who would want to see smirking junk like Piranha 3DD anyway? 

You and me.

*To their credit (I guess), both films do feature strong female protagonists in Elisabeth Shue and Danielle Panabaker. These women are independently assertive and headstrong, requiring neither the impetuses of men or adversity to become that way. While both characters are still about as flat and thick-skulled as the plot demands, this is a more welcome representation.