A Nightmare on Elm Street 5: The Dream Child (1989)

Until last night, I had never seen A Nightmare on Elm Street 5: The Dream Child.

I don't know how I could have gone this long without watching it. I'm a ravenous fan of franchise slashers. Friday the 13th is basically scripture to me, and I've watched each of the films dozens of times. Halloween marks another favorite, and I've viewed all the movies, including the extended editions and alternative cuts, on multiple occasions. I even screen the Rob Zombie versions with some frequency. I love Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers, and my feelings are much the same for Freddy Krueger. I've seen most of the Nightmare films several times. But for some reason, The Dream Child slipped through the cracks.

I can only hypothesize why things turned out the way they did. While I'm very fond of what Robert Englund brings to the Freddy experience, I found Krueger's increasingly quipster-ish behavior in the later films somewhat grating. In parts three through six, Freddy seems more like an insult comic than a horror icon. (By Freddy's Dead, he's an outright cartoon character.) And while I've generally enjoyed the imagery in the Nightmare films, I've often found the metaphysics perplexing. I know we're dealing in dreams here, but in almost every Elm Street movie, there's some point where Freddy crosses into reality, and I'm like, "wait, what?" (Part 2 is the most egregious in this regard.) The dream sequences make for the most creative and horrifying elements of the series, but by the time the plot of any given Elm Street movie resolves itself, it usually does so at the expense of coherence, I find.

But with that said, I've bracketed more serious issues in watching the later Friday the 13th and Halloween films. All told, the lacuna in my Elm Street viewing may simply be due to the fact that it's hard to find a good box set for the series. For years, the 8-film DVD box set has hovered around the same price as the 7-disc Blu-Ray collection. And while that Blu-Ray collection spent years on my Amazon wish list, it was sparse in nature (2 movies per disc and no Freddy vs. Jason) and generally overpriced. 

Finally, last week, Jeff Bezos dropped the price markedly, so I picked up the Blu-Ray box set. My first order of business was to watch The Dream Child.

This put me at a unique juncture. For all the other Friday the 13th, Halloween, and Elm Street films, my first viewing happened between the ages of 12 and 21, often on VHS. So now, at age 40, I had a chance to delve back into my youth, screening a franchise horror film for the first time. Perhaps the promise, wonder, and mystery of inserting a rental into the VCR would be recreated. Certainly, the anticipation was palpable as I pressed play on The Dream Child.

As it turns out, I was disappointed, but only mildly so. Regardless, a lot of my expectations were fulfilled. You see, a big part of renting horror movies in my youth was building up my preconceptions and then being moderately disappointed. Horror films, after all, rarely live up the cover art and screenshots on the back of their case. In this sense, The Dream Child helped me relive my youth.

What was the issue with A Nightmare on Elm Street 5? Well, once again, overly complex metaphysics bogged down a Freddy picture, and in the worst way. The Dream Child was a goulash of bizarre imagery and mythologies, overcooked in some places and undercooked in others. The writers gave every indication that they were making up the rules as they went along, pulling a means for defeating Freddy out of their asses at the very end. This is somewhat par for the course in Nightmare films, but in this case the end contrivance involved the combined efforts of the pregnant lead character Alice, the dream-manifestation of her future son at age five, and Freddy's deceased-nun mother, all in the dream world. There may have been other elements I've forgotten. There were simply too many variables for my simplistic, movie-reviewer mind to keep up with.

But the film has its strengths, too. Kudos go to the director and screenwriter for having Alice do what she wants with her baby in the latter third of the Reagan-Bush era. She spurns others' attempts to urge her toward abortion and adoption. Further to that, a lot of the nightmarish birth-canal imagery deserves some praise, as it takes viewers right into the Fallopian tubes, though the filmmakers go to the well a little too often. I also detected some effective Lynchian influence in the depictions of the cretinous infant Freddy, which is reminiscent of the baby in Eraserhead. The set-piece deaths generally deliver, as one expects from Elm Street films. The car-accident kill scene that takes out the father of Alice's baby is fantastic, as skeins of wires on a Knight Rider-esque talking motor bike piloted by a robotic Freddy entrap the victim in his dream, leading to a real-life car crash. Additionally, the kill scene where the comic-book fan gets eviscerated by "Super Freddy," a jacked super-villain Krueger in a cape, is particularly memorable. In these scenes, I felt some of that sense of wonder and awe I experienced as a teen (though I wouldn't have been able to designate filmic imagery as "Lynchian" at that age).

But the feeling that won out was disappointment. And this is okay. Because for me, I think disappointment provides its own brand of inspiration, and this is an important component of my creative process. For every horror movie I rented or bought or viewed on Tubi that didn't deliver on the promise of its box art and/or blurb, I felt the urge to sit down and write something that did meet my expectations. So maybe there's a nightmarish birth sequence in my literary future. 

Rocky Jones, Space Ranger: Crash of the Moons (1954)

"Crash of the Moons" is a two-part episode of the 1954 television series Rocky Jones, Space Ranger that, when watched in sequence, makes for a 72-minute, movie-like experience. This episode finds titular hero Rocky getting word that two "gypsy moons," which are mutually locked together and drifting through outer space, are going to crash into one another. On one of the moons, Posita, the denizens are willing to relocate. However, on the other moon, Ophecius, the waspish female suzerain Cleolanta is set upon destroying Posita (and its inhabitants) before it crashes into her home. It's Rocky's aim to set things aright.

Richard Crane, seen here in
another role, plays Rocky

It might seem like what we have here is boilerplate black-and-white 50s TV sci-fi, and, for the most part, that assessment adequately characterizes this episode. But watching this last night, I will confess that this episode moved me nonetheless. When Cleolanta's minions start bombarding the moon opposite them with missiles, the camera cuts from an outer-space perspective of explosions on the surface of the planet to the ground-level happenings on the planet itself. Infrastructure clatters down and roofs cave in and Rocky Jones' female assistant and his twelve-year-old ingenue, Bobby, scramble for cover. And as they do so, the infant prince of Posita wails and shrieks.

Hearing this crying baby last night, I thought of the babies in Gaza—the Palestinian babies and the Israeli babies. The leaders of men can come up with all kinds of reasons why they should bomb their neighboring peoples, but the babies can only cry. Listening to those straining screeches, my chest seized up and my mouth became pinched. We have destroyed one another in the past, we destroy one another in the present, and we will destroy one another in the future. In fact as in fiction, too many babies are doomed on arrival, born into the insoluble and perpetual conflicts of angry rival cultures locked in one another's gravitational pull. Gravity's a metaphor here, of course; hate is the real and abiding attractive force. Destruction of another gets conflated with self-preservation. Perhaps we should listen closer to the babies' crying. Babies shriek the same way, then and now and forever. 

I guess what I am saying is that this boilerplate black-and-white 50s TV sci-fi legitimately affected me. This vision of the future from the past put me in the immediate present. I was moved enough to have my heart teleported 6,290 miles from my watching location to the Gaza Strip. So I'd recommend you watch and listen to the crying baby in this two-part episode of Rocky Jones, Space Ranger and in life. Maybe it will move you, too. But probably not enough to make you do anything.

Babies cry and the skeletons smile.

Thanksgiving (2023)

John Carver, the new face of American Horror

With Thanksgiving, director Eli Roth has succeeded in creating a slasher film that feels authentic to the early-80s "Slasher Cycle." Thanksgiving accomplishes this feat by refusing to fall victim to the endless subgenre metacommentary that has clogged up neo-slashers ranging from the 90s Scream films to Scream VI or even the recent trilogy of Halloween sequels. Instead, Thanksgiving recaptures the vibe of true ur-slashers—that is to say, the ones based on days of sinister significance (to borrow a phrase from Vera Dika) such as Friday the 13th (1980) and Halloween (1978). More than a few scenes in Thanksgiving legitimately feel like Halloween II, with a pinch of Graduation Day's fuzzy detachment thrown in for good measure. All told, Roth effectuates the feel of a go-nowhere town racked by murderous brutality. The whodunit elements are well-executed and compelling, as they benefit from a healthy helping of red herrings to keep audiences guessing. I screened this film in a half-full theater, and all the teeny-bopper couples in attendance spent much of the runtime incessantly whispering to their squeezes with speculations as to who the killer behind the John Carver mask would be. All that said, the film doesn't take itself too seriously. Rest assured, my associate and I laughed uproariously for both the abundant one-liners and the uncompromising kill sequences (though we were the only ones in the theater who saw comedy in the latter, apparently). In 2023, guffawing at a depiction of abject slaughter feels far more satisfying than snickering at some "meta" wisecrack—the murder-laugh is just more honest nowadays. The jokes and absurdity do not compromise the gravity of the horror, though, as the gore and body count are taken very seriously. Of course, some of the kill sequences aren't entirely new, as we got glimpses of them in the supposedly standalone trailer for Thanksgiving that Roth produced for inclusion in the middle of 2007's Grindhouse double-feature. If you've viewed that brilliant piece of schlock, then you know exactly what's coming when you see the trampoline appear in Thanksgiving's much glossier 2023 fleshing-out. And if I do have one lasting criticism of the feature-length Thanksgiving, it's how sleek the cinematography looks. It's a far cry from the stark, grainy footage in the 2007 trailer, thereby eschewing the unsettling straight-to-VHS aesthetic. Nevertheless, Thanksgiving is an otherwise bona fide New Testament for the slasher canon. Eli Roth has solidified himself as a doyen of contemporary horror, and he deserves a place alongside Jordan Peele as one of the preeminent scare-slingers of the 2020s. I just hope that, over the remainder of the decade, we'll get invited back to dinner for Thanksgiving 2 through 8. 

CODA (with mild spoiler alert):

One of my favorite parts of this movie is when the credits roll to "Where Eagles Dare" by the Misfits—that is, the genuine, Danzig-era Misfits. The leap from turkeys to eagles might be a bit of a stretch, but the throaty, bellowing strains of Glenn Danzig never hurt in the context of horror. In the end, the choice of song and band makes for a well-earned victory lap, as Thanksgiving rekindles the Slasher Cycle's legacy of brutality.

Alex Israel: Art as Lorem Ipsum

"gettyimages", by J.A. Gosham,
depicting Alex Israel.

Alex Israel’s exhibition “Fins” just recently ended on July 28 at the Gagosian gallery in Rome. “Fins” features an installation of sleek plastic surfboard fins presented as sculptures. The fin imagery evokes a rather rudimentary cross-lingual pun on the French “end” referencing the “Finish Fetish” that typified 1960s Southern California artwork in which artists (among them Judy Chicago) used industrial processes and materials such as fiberglass and resin to create glossy finishes for their abstract art. 

As an added bonus, Isreal has garnished the installation with text written by ChatGPT and other large-language model programs. ChatGPT even wrote his press release. Herein, Isreal (or rather ChatGPT) commented that “A.I. has become a medium in and of itself. By using A.I. to generate the press release, I’m commenting on the intersection between technology, art, and media.”

Seriously, this is all it takes to make it in art? All I need is some scrounged-up surfboard pieces and some text from ChatGPT? I really don’t want to sound like a philistine here, as I much prefer conceptual art to Marvel movies, but I’m not especially impressed by what Israel brings to the table. I can handle the surfboard fins, but the utilization of ChatGPT as if it’s some profound commentary isn’t very inspiring. The cheap pun on “fin” offends my sensibilities almost as much as the use of AI for generating the text. All told, Israel seems like the fine art equivalent of Lorem Ipsum. Regardless, his work graces the permanent collections of MOMA and the Guggenheim. Regardless, “Fins” caught plenty of buzz and brought in a sophisticated, well-dressed audience.

I don’t think it’s unfair to call Israel’s artistic ability into question. He’s also dipped his toe into filmmaking. His first and only film, 2017’s SPF-18, centres upon a host of surfing teenagers, one of whom is debating between art school and a life of surfing. Apparently, these effete existential debates didn’t resonate with the viewing masses, as the film boasts a 3.3 rating on IMDB. One IMDB reviewer writes “I'm pretty sure this movie was written by a 13 year old girl with rich parents who could bank roll [sic] the entire thing.” This comment is partly in error, as SPF-18's co-writers, one of whom is Israel, are both grown men. However, the reviewer tenders a tenable hypothesis about how this picture got made—namely, that its creator came from wealth. Packed with scenic locations, a gorgeous cast, and celebrity cameos from Pamela Anderson and Keanu Reeves, SPF-18 took resources, no matter how bad it is. Those same resources also powered “Fins.” The secret, then, to Israel’s success and international appeal in the art world would appear to be assets, along with a dose of beauty and expensive clothing, rather than talent of any sort.

If I'm being honest, I'm willing to bet I've got more artistry in my little finger than Alex Israel has in his entire trim, fit body. In the time it takes Alex Israel to get out of bed and prepare avocado toast, I've probably had more legitimately creative thoughts than he has in a year.  But because I'm flabby, shabbily dressed, and don't have rich parents, most or all of my works will never be seen by more than a few semi-interested friends in my hometown on the plains. If I was better dressed and moneyed, all I'd have to do is hoard surfboard fins and hit up ChatGPT, and I'd be an internationally successful artist. No wonder so many people in the backwater where I live dismiss art (not that the studio-wrought, IP-driven drivel they prefer in movies is much better). It really goes to show how much “fine art” and “aesthetic sensibilities” are intertwined with wealth and a vision of upper-classness.

But I don’t think art necessarily takes money for everyone, or at least not a ton of money. Give me $5000 dollars—hell, $1000 dollars—and I could make a film that gets at least a 4 on IMDB. Fin.