It was a midnight screening debut of Hatchet in Hollywood, and your own Bamf was there doing everything in his power to not close his eyes.
Bamf here rematerializing from the void..
Before screening Hatchet, I found myself thinking about what scared me. I was sitting at the bar enjoying a Newcastle Brown Ale at the Arc Light waiting for the midnight picture show to begin. Horror films are just not my genre, much like Chinese food—it just doesn’t appeal to my tastes. The majority of exposure I have had to Horror films was what appeared on USA’s Up all Night fares with Gilbert Godfried and Rhonda Shear respectively. There on the USA network was a nice tent of censorship and commercials to shield my fragile psyche from possibly disturbing images (I’m the kid who had nightmares for weeks after seeing the trailer for Troll at age 8). American Horror plays on fear like a flash in a grease pan fire. As I understand the slasher genre, the formula goes: build up suspense, break with sharp music/fx cue, then show something bloody, broken, and disgusting—rinse repeat. None of this is scary to me, oh I will jump, but the images don’t spark any inner torment. So what does scare me? The thought continued swimming in my head as I was half way through the pint.
Living alone-Not so scary
Dying alone-Scary
Sex without meaning-Not so scary
Sex with meaning-Scary
Failure-Not so scary
Success-Very scary
As you can see, a zombie outbreak or ghost’s in my pants are not high on the scare list, nigh, they are not even present, so why see Adam Green’s Hatchet? You see it for Parry Shen having a blast playing the mis-guided entrepreneur from Detroit, and Deon Richmond’s Marcus having a scene stealing moment in a tree, or for as Green said before our screening,
“You don’t rape the girl; you ram her F’ing face into a belt sander!”
Ok, not my thing. I mean really not my thing. But the horror crowd loved it. And that is how I gauged the film. The hard core love this film, it seemed like it was something they had been wanting to see for some time. The general banter before the film was filled with reflections on Zombies Halloween. Nothing but disappointment could be heard, but something interesting was happening. Zombie would be mentioned, but dismissed quickly as the fans recounted impressions of their first horror loves. Movies like Creepers, Fright Night and even Monster Squad were spoken of with such reverence. Sure, I had no point of reference for any of these save the last—but I understood the passion they had for the genre. Green delivers for this audience. The camera moves quick, has a life of its own, and the framing of shots throw a feint from time to time as to when you think someone is going to be taken down by the twisted Victor Crowley. Often in the pop-corn thriller, a murder will be telegraphed from a mile away. I point to Sam Jackson’s last scene in Deep Blue Sea. As the camera pulls back, I recall saying to my fellow viewers, “oh, he’s about to die” in a very cynical I’m bored tone. And then the shark pops out, grabs him and his fate is sealed. Green keeps everything fresh, and gives some good(?) horror dialogue to compliment it all. And yes, lots of obligatory scenes filled with god’s good work on the female body. I am not one that really cares about seeing a nude celebrity, so Mr. Skin won’t be seeing my cookies anytime soon, but I did have a very shallow, self gratifying moment when Mercedes Mcnabb of Buffy the Vampire Slayer fame bore her breast to be seen. I sent a note to a friend who loves the Buffy like I do and he responded “So what? She was in Playboy a few months ago.” I guess I’m slipping. This brings us to a crossroads of the sexes. Men get a certain satisfaction from observing breasts. Yet women in my estimation do not have a desired body part they would like to see a man expose on screen. What I mean is, there are actresses who will never do a nude scene, they have it in their contracts, but I am not so sure a male actor would ever have such a clause (unless you are Kevin Bacon, his svance gets about doesn’t it?). I think a woman would get more aroused by a man making furniture, or coddling a baby, then sporting wood.
Like Behind the Mask, Hatchet is a film done by those who love the genre. This affection would not be stopped by a studio pass, and I love that these films were made in spite of that. It took two years for Hatchet to reach a Hollywood theater, and the personable Adam Green deserves every bit of success that comes from it. I envy him, I really do. He took an idea that was born from his head at age 8 (as he tells it) to scare the other kids at camp and put it to the screen in such a way that shows to me that he has talent that will go beyond just one film, and at the same time created a new chapter in the American lexicon of horror. I may not be able to fully appreciate the genre like you, but then you may not understand why a night viewing The Little Mermaid or Kissing a Fool for me is better than an hour on the therapist’s couch. So horror fan, find Hatchet. Engulf yourself in blood splattered trees and arms being ripped from their sinewy sockets. Delight in an Adam Green massacre where he will do everything to make sure no one survives, and independent cinema thrives.
Editors Note:
The things that scare you might be more truly the things that make you anxious rather then inspire fear, anxious in the face of being as Heidegger would say. -B