Category: 1980s

A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)

Wes Craven | 1hr 31min

Before there was Freddy Krueger, the wise-cracking slasher monster that flooded every corner of mainstream pop culture, there was Fred Krueger, the stealthy, dream-haunting bogeyman, cloaked in shadows and supernatural mystery. It is a little surprising just how much Wes Craven hides his killer’s face from view in A Nightmare on Elm Street, especially considering how much he indulges in the sort of gory practical effects that 1980s horror became so notorious for, but it is a very fitting creative choice – not just in playing on the horror of the unknown, but also to emphasise the bewildering, intangible nature of Krueger’s greatest power. To invade one’s dreams as they sleep is to target them at their most vulnerable, and to evoke an intimate sense of terror. All it takes is the image of Krueger’s knifed fingers reaching up between the legs of our heroine, Nancy, as she closes her eyes in the bathtub to induce those sorts of uneasy chills.

Justifiably one of the most iconic shots from the film, as Craven keeps his camera at this low angle and sits on Krueger’s hand rising from the water.

Of course, the perverse nature of it all is hard to ignore. Given how sexually active many of Krueger’s targets are, the innocence which he ruptures is not so much tied to their chastity as it is to the naïve belief that these young adults are at the invincible age where they have nothing to lose. As much as they would like to think otherwise, they are not yet fully grown up and have not experienced the same horrors as their parents. There are still parts of their minds and bodies that have been untouched by others, and Krueger probes deeper into those areas than anyone has been before, violently pulling his surviving victims into adulthood in a disturbing coming-of-age metaphor. It is just too fitting that the older generation who knew about Krueger all along have kept him as a shameful secret as well, thereby leaving their own children entirely unprepared for his attacks.

While Craven’s allegorical screenplay does the heavy lifting between each new scare, his direction only really manages to lift off to new horrific levels when indulging in the visual power of his characters’ nightmares. His influences are all too evident, with the levitation of bodies being drawn directly from The Exorcist, and some particularly effective POV tracking shots inspired by Halloween, but he is also unmistakably a fresh voice in the horror genre. Freddy’s eerie nursery rhyme as sung by three young girls playing jump rope echoes in instrumental minor intervals all throughout the film, the image itself bookending the film beneath a dreamy white filter. As for Craven’s practical effects, there are few creepier than the shot of Krueger’s face pressing through the wall above Nancy’s bed, or her feet sinking into the stairs as she tries to run away.

A musical motif attached to these disquieting bookends.
Fantastic work with practical effects from Craven, creating some truly frightening imagery.

A Nightmare on Elm Street tends to suffer more when it comes to the performances outside of Robert Englund’s Freddy Krueger. There is a young Johnny Depp here who makes an impact in his relatively minor supporting role, but Heather Langenkamp is no great scream queen on the level of Jamie Lee Curtis, and neither is her character Nancy Thompson as compelling as Halloween’s Laurie Strode or even Psycho’s Marion Crane. Nevertheless, the strength of Craven’s fresh approach to horror filmmaking stands, playing into the genre’s conventional corruption of innocence by directly attacking deeper, more vulnerable areas of the human subconscious than any film had attempted before.

A Nightmare on Elm Street is available to stream on Stan and Paramount Plus, and available to rent or buy on iTunes and Amazon Prime Video.

A Fish Called Wanda (1988)

Charles Crichton | 1hr 48min

What looks at first glance to be a reunion of sorts between two members of Monty Python only delivers on that promise in the final act, and in a relatively brief moment. The restraint is admirable – John Cleese and Michael Palin may be two of the greatest British comedians of their generation, but A Fish Called Wanda is far from a rehash of the chemistry which launched them to fame in their younger years. Top billing here is also given to Jamie Lee Curtis and Kevin Kline, both of whom display a pair of comedic acting chops that see them go toe-to-toe against Cleese and Palin, and often come out on top. This blend of dry English humour and the brazen smarminess of American comedy makes for a delicious mix of character interactions, setting up the patriotic egos of both countries and then knocking them down a few pegs purely through their hilarious, bitter distaste for each other.

Kevin Kline often lurking in the background, setting up some great visual gags.

When a plot to rob a bank quickly devolves into treachery and back-stabbing, the four thieves at its centre find themselves in direct competition with each other to recover the stashed diamonds. Finding himself mixed up in this chaotic sequence of events is Archie Leach, an attorney who falls for one of these felons, Wanda Gershwitz, while defending her co-conspirator in court. The cultural clash is evident – in an early scene we watch the two Americans, Wanda and her lover, Otto, getting hot and heavy in bed, comically intercut with Archie’s own dull, dispassionate nightly routine of clipping his toenails, getting undressed, and then slipping into his single bed, separate from his wife. Charles Crichton is clearly a much better director of actors than he is a fully-rounded filmmaker, but in moments such as these he clearly delights in manipulating our perspective of the characters and their relationships, finding rhythms in the comedy beyond what is already present in the performances and screenplay.

Crichton’s creative camerawork literally turning this scene on its head.

And then there is the plotting, so formally intricate in its farcical construction of lies, secrets, and MacGuffins, but never letting these characters stray from their idiosyncratic pursuits of clear-cut objectives. Through the frequent pairings of characters who haven’t yet met, there is a freshness that is kept alive in the emerging dynamics. What sort of friction will we see when the insecure, Anglophobic thief Otto rubs up against Wendy, a posh, judgmental Brit? What about when the usually-patient Archie needs to extract important information from Ken, who possesses an intense stutter? How far can Otto’s jealousy be pushed when his scheme to recover stolen goods necessitates his girlfriend seducing another man? What A Fish Called Wanda ultimately delivers from this delightfully ridiculous onslaught of petty conflicts is an ensemble of Americans and Brits frustrated by the obstinance of those who stand in their way, not realising that they too possess the exact same qualities, and eventually being driven to the brink of sanity in their dogged, selfish pursuits.

A Fish Called Wanda is available to stream on Stan, and available to rent or buy on YouTube.

The Big Chill (1983)

Lawrence Kasdan | 1hr 45min

With an absolutely stacked cast featuring up-and-coming names including Jeff Goldblum, Glenn Close, Kevin Kline, William Hurt, and Tom Berenger, there was no way The Big Chill wouldn’t leave a mark on its audiences, even just for the acting alone. Kasdan mixes and matches different combinations of these great screen talents from scene to scene, always finding fresh, vibrant character interactions within this group of former high school friends. It creates tension between some, and sparks of romance between others, but binding them all together is the reason for the gathering – the death of an old comrade, which in turn comes to represent the death of an entire era. Both joyful and painful memories of their shared pasts are brought back to the surface after years of dormancy, this familiarity revealing itself in their unexplained inside jokes, communal habits, and even just the way they groove along to the music of their adolescence while preparing food in the kitchen.

A brilliant 60s Motown soundtrack, being put to good use here as the friends dance to “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” by The Temptations.

Most of all though, these friends are all haunted by the grief felt for the suicide of a man they thought they knew so well. Kevin Costner was originally cast in the role of Alex, the deceased friend, and although all of his scenes were cut from the film, that feeling of emptiness remains, leaving a great deal of ambiguity in our minds around his character. What prompted this act to begin with? Did he realise some great, despairing truth about the hopelessness of living in modern America that hasn’t settled in for the others yet? Why didn’t he share his pain with them? Could it have even just been a freak accident?

Kasdan smartly playing the physical gag of Sam’s failed stunt in this terrific long shot.

While many of his friends are happy to distract themselves from the tough questions for a while, the lack of answers forces them to turn inwards to consider their own insecurities. Sam, a famous TV star, is the one to prompt this contemplation, as he in particular feels the great weight of a reputation that he can’t live up to pressing in on his life. All throughout The Big Chill, he finds that he is only ever celebrated and respected for the accomplishments of the character he plays on television, despite not even being able to smoothly leap into a convertible like he is so famous for. It is in this group of friends who have seen him at his most awkward and vulnerable, as a young adult, that he finds genuine acceptance. Though it is far from a permanent fix, this insular world that keeps alive the spirit of a bygone era is the one he, and the rest of his friends, wish to live in. Eventually the cynicism and meaningless of a nihilistic, contemporary American culture will creep back into their lives, but for now, this brief return to a hopeful past is all they have to cling onto.

The Big Chill is available to stream on the Criterion Channel and Binge, and available to rent or buy on YouTube.

The Dead (1987)

John Huston | 1hr 23min

A poignant but fitting end to an illustrious directorial career, John Huston’s adaptation of the James Joyce short story ‘The Dead’ brings the esteemed Hollywood director together with his children, Tony and Angelica Huston, in an ode to those loved ones who have passed on and who patiently wait for the living to join them. Though he was both a key influencer in some of America’s most significant genres from the noir to the western, and one of the few filmmakers to make the smooth transition from Old to New Hollywood, his final outing, an Edwardian period piece, doesn’t push many artistic boundaries so much as it breathes cinematic life into a piece of classic literature.

Elderly spinsters Kate and Julia Morkan host their annual Feast of the Epiphany dinner for family and friends every January without fail, and this year is no different. Within the ensemble of guests who come streaming through the front door is their nephew Gabriel, a teacher and book reviewer. The events that unfold through the night imply a distance between him and the other partygoers, most of all his wife, Gretta, who seems to be caught up in poetry and music recitals that transport her mind to a different time and place.

Excellent blocking all through the Dead, Huston smoothly transitioning from private to public conversations as we witness here.

There is a delicate grace to the way Huston moves his camera through the rooms of the Morkan house, wandering from private conversations to communal dances, and weaving around crowds and furniture. In one moment when Aunt Julia stands up to deliver her off-pitch rendition of the opera piece “Arrayed for the Bridal”, we track into a close-up of this once-great singer, as if to offer our pity for the damage that age has wreaked on her voice. But then, as she reaches the end of the first verse, Huston lets our attention drift from the living area into her bedroom, where a gentle montage dissolves between her accumulation of possessions. Tiny ceramic angels, embroidered messages, war medals, family photos, a rosary – there is a rich history to this woman whose warbling voice continues to ring in the background. One day, possibly quite soon, she will pass away to join those who are framed on her dresser, and yet memories of her life will be contained in these items and those people who she will leave behind.

The memorabilia of a fading life, accompanied by its frail, warbling voice.

Indeed, the melancholy recollections of those who have departed from this world plague the minds of many of Huston’s characters, and the haunting conclusiveness of mortality hanging thick in the air between them. Perhaps Gabriel’s lack of engagement with this notion is what sets him so far apart from the others, as his class hubris keeps his sights firmly focused on his material existence. Gretta, meanwhile, seems to be caught up in wistful trances throughout the evening, most of all when Mr D’Arcy, a celebrated tenor, sings “The Lass of Aughrim” to close out the night.

In picturesque cutaways to the frosty streets outside, Huston lets his snow settle all across the carriages and houses of Dublin. When Gabriel is inevitably forced to consider the memories left behind by a previous lover of his own wife, we too are moved with him, contemplating how these fresh blankets of snow preserve buried bodies like memories in a frozen chrysalis, and how close he is to joining them. As he reaches this epiphany, Huston marks the moment with a voiceover, letting us into the mind of this man at the same moment he finally lets himself in.

“Like everything around me, this solid world itself, which they reared and lived in, is dwindling and dissolving. Snow is falling. Falling in that lonely churchyard where Michael Furey lays buried. Falling faintly through the universe, and faintly falling like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”

Peering through the “veil”, so to speak, as Gabriel contemplates those souls which have departed this world.

As he looks wistfully through the curtains at his hotel window, Huston conjures up images of a snowy moor, a ruined church, and a frozen cemetery. These evocative pictures of deathly stillness effectively turn what was already a stirring passage lifted straight from James Joyce’s short story, into something transcendent. As a mild flurry of snow settles on the mortal Earth below and brings light to its dark shapes, this piece of visual poetry also poignantly closes out the career of a truly inspired filmmaker, reminding us how close Huston still remains to the living through his art.

A transcendent closing montage, snow falling from a dark night sky “upon all the living and the dead.”

The Dead is available to stream on The Criterion Channel, and available to rent or buy on YouTube.

The Outsiders (1983)

Francis Ford Coppola | 2hr 16min

It is hard not to attribute much of Francis Ford Coppola’s success with The Outsides to the source material, S.E. Hinton’s pivotal coming-of-age novel of the same name, which took a thoughtful interest in the male bonding and vulnerability of its characters. While Coppola’s adaptation is not without its beautiful directorial flourishes, perhaps one of the more impressive parts is its cast, stacked with famous faces at the start of their careers including Tom Cruise and Matt Dillon, as well as some core members of the Brat Pack. Most of them are up to the job of balancing the toughness and sensitivity of their characters, even as some patchy, awkward line deliveries from the younger actors stick out above the rest.

With Bob Dylan featuring heavily in the film’s soundtrack, The Outsiders is well-grounded in the cultural turmoil of 1960s America. When Coppola strays from needle drops and starts using original music to underscore scenes, the drama doesn’t mesh quite as well. The use of a pumping, rock ‘n’ roll guitar riff after Darry hits Ponyboy for the first time undercuts a moment of sincere sadness, and one can’t help think that dead silence would have better served this scene. The same goes for an upbeat rock track that plays during the ambush of Ponyboy and Johnny, which ends in an awful effect of red blood pouring down the screen.

A fantastic use of a split diopter lens at a crucial moment.
Another nice piece of blocking and composition here, fragmenting the frame to separate characters.

Still, Coppola’s eye for composition hasn’t completely disappeared since his golden years. There is a great use of a split diopter shot opening the attack scene with Ponyboy in the foreground and the Socs’ car rolling up in the background, and another similar shot that captures Johnny and the dead body behind him to end the sequence, both of which serve to separate him from the rest of the world. When the two boys escape to the church the narrative slows down, and Coppola matches the shift in tone with long dissolves and languid montages showing the bonding taking place. Coppola brings some nice touches to this novel adaptation, but even as it stands today as a cultural touchstone for a generation, the odd misstep marks it as the beginning of Coppola’s descent into less-than-outstanding filmmaking.

Male bonding and vulnerability set in a splintering American culture.

Grade: Recommend (Outside top 10 of the year quality but still worth study and appreciation)

The Outsiders is available to rent or buy on iTunes.

Brazil (1985)

Terry Gilliam | 2hr 12min

Describing a piece of fiction as Orwellian has become some sort of vague platitude to acknowledge a scathing attack on totalitarianism, yet few films fit the descriptor better than Brazil. The very concept of a man and a woman escaping an authoritarian government, making love, and falling right back into the government’s clutches is no doubt a familiar narrative to those familiar with ‘1984’. Where George Orwell’s Airstrip One was ruled by the indomitable force of Big Brother though, Terry Gilliam’s dystopian city envisioned in Brazil is a hilariously incompetent bureaucracy, far too caught up in its own procedures and trivialities to run a functioning society.

Overhead shots, always turning an eye of surveillance down on Sam.

Jonathan Pryce’s protagonist Sam Lowry is introduced via his own dream as a winged knight, soaring through clouds and seeing visions of a mysterious woman. Later, he dreams of monsters roaming city streets, and a large robot used to subdue citizens. These fantasies may suggest an imaginative man out of step with his surroundings, yet their manifestations in reality also suggest something more surreal at work. Is Sam prophesising the future? Do his dreams actually have power to shape reality? Perhaps if this city could put its mind to something other than blunt commercialism and nonsensical data he might actually get answers.

The machines that this society has built to assist humans in their quest for rigidity are barely efficient themselves. Sam’s coffee machine swings around wildly, pouring boiling water over his toast. The elevator at his work malfunctions at the worst possible time. Even the catalyst for Brazil‘s entire plot stems from a fly falling into a teleprinter, causing it to stamp an incorrect name on a form. Few people are able to look past this clerical error and see the truth. Whatever is printed on a form becomes law.

Nothing signifies the distortion of something meaningful into a consumerist spending spree like the birth of Jesus Christ, and Gilliam is all too aware of the implications in setting this story at Christmastime. Tinsels, trees, and fairy lights are pathetically scattered around this depressingly grey city, and even a sign that hilariously reads “Consumers for Christ” mocks a society that has become stupidly aware of its own vapidity.

Of course, everything is constructed as one giant distraction though, and the utter disconnection between citizens and the social issues that surround them are milked for all their comedic value. There are terrorists on the loose, yet their explosive activities are nothing more than background noise to restaurant patrons who continue chatting away. As a string trio play a rendition of Hava Nagila, emergency responders gather quickly to put out the fire and rescue the wounded, and all the restaurant manager can do to maintain the feeble illusion of normalcy is place a partition between the his customers and the surrounding fuss.

Maximalist clutter through the foreground and background, all in the name of absurdist comedy.

This absurdist comedy was perfected by the Monty Python troupe, but Terry Gilliam simply extends on that in Brazil with his audacious visual gags and maximalist production design. In cluttering his frames with clunky machines, metallic pillars, and ducts, he traps Sam behind these enormous constructs, making him a prisoner of his own life.

With the urban scenes in particular marking a tremendous feat of sci-fi world building, Brazil very much seems be Britain’s response to Blade Runner, building on its cyberpunk noir aesthetic with a heavy dose of surrealism and comedy. So convincingly detailed are the square block miniatures of this futuristic civilisation, it is easy to forget that these skyscrapers aren’t hundreds of metres tall – at least until Gilliam plays his own trick on the audience by pulling the camera back, amusingly revealing the falsity of one such miniature.

Surrealism and visual gags through miniatures – this is Metropolis, Blade Runner, but also distinctly Gilliam.

Most impressive of all Gilliam’s maddening set pieces though is the torture room – a large, cylindrical space that drops down into jagged, metal spokes fanning out from the centre. To lift this lunacy into the realm of complete insanity, Gilliam’s wide-angle lens distorts everything that little bit more. Jonathan Pryce’s face is the perfect canvas for these warped, low-angle close-ups too, as everything around him seems to spread outwards from his bulging eyes.

From here on, Brazil descends further into chaotic surrealism, with Sam making his eventual escape to live a content life in the countryside with Jill. It is suspiciously rushed and unearned, though everything falls into place with the crushing reveal that this entire sequence has only unfolded in his lobotomised dream state. As witless as the state is, their blunt power more than makes up for their incompetence, leaving Sam to happily indulge in his own imagination. Terry Gilliam’s construction of a futuristic Britain is visually daunting, but Brazil never shies away from the dark comedy of a government desperately out of touch with reality.

Maddening wide angle lenses only intensifying Gilliam’s formidable production design.

Brazil is currently available to stream on Mubi Australia, and to buy or rent on iTunes and YouTube.