Nightbreed: The Cabal Cut (1990/2012)

“I wanted to see more of Midian,” said Russell Cherrington when asked why he decided to restore Clive Barker’s Nightbreed (1990) to its original length of 155 minutes. It was a good answer, as far as I was concerned. He might as well have said, “I really like monsters. We all do, and that’s why we’re here.” The occasion was the July 13th screening of the long-awaited “Cabal Cut” of Nightbreed at Chicago’s Portage Theater. Cherrington, who attended the screening with actress and singer Anne Bobby (who plays Lori in the film), has spent years assembling the most complete cut of the film possible, using workprints and rough cuts, some of which were discovered, he states, buried behind some books in Clive Barker’s bookshelf. (I would like to imagine he pulled the horn of gargoyle and the shelves slid aside, revealing a secret alcove of Barker’s lost treasures, but this was probably not the case.) He had to work from cassettes of inferior quality to stitch together Barker’s original vision of the film, using the screenplay as a guide. And it’s a patchwork object, rough to say the least, with some moments of sound dropping out, and the rare footage washed-out and grainy. But when he showed the author/director/artist the final product – just recently revised and expanded from earlier “Cabal Cut” screenings – Barker was moved to tears. There was his film. He’d forgotten what it was.

Boone (Craig Sheffer), at the gates of Midian, encounters two of the Nightbreed, Kinski (Nicholas Vince) and Peloquin (Oliver Parker).

When Nightbreed was released in 1990, it was a foregone conclusion that it would find its audience over time, and over home video, rather than on its initial theatrical run: it had “cult following only” written all over it. Barker, having struck gold with Hellraiser (1987), was taking the opportunity of success for a film that would stretch the limitations of horror cinema even further. Both were based on novellas he’d written; Nightbreed would adapt Cabal, the tale of a man named Boone who discovers Midian, the subterranean realm of an ancient race of shapeshifters. But the true monster is revealed to be his psychiatrist, Dr. Decker, who has a secret life as a serial killer, and frames his patients for his crimes. It was an ambitious project for a genre film, not just in its scale (constructing an underground city of monsters) but in its unconventionality. Much more so than Hellraiser, Nightbreed is representative of Barker’s fiction – violent, sexual, with strong elements of the fairy tale, and a fascination with the wonders of transformation. To that latter point, Barker has something in common with director David Cronenberg; so it was only natural to hire Cronenberg for the role of Dr. Decker. (He’s excellent.) Craig Sheffer, with an uncanny resemblance to David Boreanaz of Angel, was cast as Boone, and Pinhead himself, Doug Bradley, was once more buried under elaborate makeup to play the Nightbreed’s leader. The score was supplied by Danny Elfman, at a creative peak following his work on Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure (1985), Beetlejuice (1988), and Batman (1989), not to mention his memorable TV themes for The Simpsons and Tales from the Crypt. Ralph McQuarrie of Star Wars fame provided matte paintings and designed the opening credits mural.

David Cronenberg as Dr. Decker, psychiatrist and serial killer.

Barker’s sophomore effort effectively balances its shocks with the more challenging ideas of his fiction; there’s gore for the gorehounds, but the story and characters are more nuanced than your typical slasher film or monster movie (and this film incorporates elements of both). The Nightbreed aren’t sinister, but neither are they harmless. They can be genuinely beastly, when roused, and they don’t take kindly to strangers. Many of them are physically repulsive and frightening, a fact from which Barker doesn’t shy, but he nonetheless emphasizes the attraction of Midian for the humans who seek it out. “To be able to fly, to be smoke, or a wolf?” one of the Nightbreed tells Lori. “To know the night and live in it forever? That’s not so bad. You call us monsters, but when you dream, you dream of flying, and changing, and living without death. You envy us, and that which you envy…” …we destroy, and the second half of the film picks up on that theme with a siege of Midian by a cast of humans both hateful and jealous, including a mad priest, Ashberry (Malcolm Smith). Ashberry’s presence underlines one of the film’s leitmotifs, fanaticism, and likely points to Midian’s origin as an obscure Biblical tale, a city whose population was slaughtered at Moses’ command for tempting the Israelites into sin. (Numbers 31, 1-2: “And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying, ‘Avenge the children of Israel of the Midianites.'”) Barker seems to be indicating that the most righteous rage is rooted in the most intense envy. But what’s clear is that Nightbreed, like much of Barker’s fiction, places its sympathies with the Other when pitted against the status quo; just as the surviving Midianites have been hunted, tortured, and executed over the centuries, Barker seems to invite the viewer to compare the “Cabal” to any traditionally maligned minority group. A queer reading is obligatory in light of the author’s sexuality, but – again – what makes Nightbreed so interesting is that the Other has teeth.

Lori rescues one of the Nightbreed children from the harmful rays of the sun. In the "Cabal cut," we learn of Lori's developing psychic connection with the child.

Nightbreed was heavily cut by Twentieth Century Fox upon its release, a pointless endeavor since they didn’t really understand the genre-bending project in the first place (Barker was deeply upset when he saw how the studio misrepresented the film through its marketing). The final 102-minute cut is a drastically simplified version of the new “Cabal Cut,” but for decades it was the only film the fans had, and it developed an earned following among horror fans. As someone who came to Barker through his novels and short stories instead of his films, I always liked Nightbreed but never loved it; something seemed off, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it (admittedly, the film got better with each subsequent viewing – there’s a lot of heady material to unpack in 102 breathless minutes). Now having seen the Cabal cut, I can attest the film is both greatly improved and more flawed, if that’s possible. To the good news: much of the excised material is valuable character development between Boone and Lori – we get to see them as lovers so their separation feels more tragic. (Anne Bobby also loses a nightclub musical number in the final cut, which is unfortunate given her splendid voice.) We do see more of Midian, but the most significant loss to the Nightbreed sequences is Lori’s relationship with the shapeshifter child she’s seen rescuing from the daylight in the finished cut. In the Cabal edit, we watch as she develops a psychic connection to the child, suggesting that she, too, is one day destined to join Midian. (This also gives her a stake in Midian’s fate.) Much of the material is simply extended versions of existing scenes, such as some additional dialogue between Boone and Narcisse (Hugh Ross) in the hospital, which helps develop their relationship while establishing the importance of Midian. There’s more of Ashberry and the final siege on Midian, but too much, I fear: the climax now seems to drag on forever. At 155 minutes, Nightbreed overstays its welcome, and viewers are likely to feel exhausted by the time the credits roll. But if Russell Cherrington were to now trim the film back some more, he’d find a happy middle ground between the “Cabal Cut” and the too-brief theatrical version. This quibble doesn’t really matter; there’s time for that later, if we can just convince Fox and Morgan Creek to go back to the vaults to find the original footage (rather than the rough-quality workprint tapes Cherrington used), and then perhaps have Barker himself edit his own cut of the film. Cherrington is screening Nightbreed: The Cabal Cut at select venues to raise interest and money for the endeavor, and if we’re lucky, we’ll see Barker’s original vision on Blu-Ray someday soon. It’s not a perfect film, but it’s becoming more evident than ever that it’s a significant one. You can find more info at Occupy Midian.

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Double Feature: Conquest of the Planet of the Apes/Battle for the Planet of the Apes (1972/1973)

Producer Arthur P. Jacobs just couldn’t leave his monkeys well enough alone. Escape from the Planet of the Apes (1971) picked up the saga right where it seemed permanently roadblocked – Charlton Heston had detonated the entire planet, and every ape, human, and atom bomb-worshiping mutant with it. But thanks to some handy time travel, Cornelius, Zira, and the doomed Dr. Milo were able to travel to contemporary America and (accidentally) spread the word of an ape-dominated future leading to a global apocalypse. Escape ended with another downbeat climax, but this time left open the possibility of another franchise entry: in a massacre led by government scientist Dr. Hasslein, it seems that the child of Cornelius and Zira has been killed along with his parents…but an epilogue reveals that the murdered baby was just (just!) an ordinary chimpanzee, the true offspring having been delivered to their trusted friend, circus ringmaster Armando (Ricardo Montalban). The low-budget film was enough of a hit that, sure as the sunrise, another year brought another entry in the saga, Conquest of the Planet of the Apes (1972). These were essentially the Saw or Paranormal Activity films of the day, except that moviegoers clamored to see more of Roddy McDowall in an ape-mask, rather than torture-traps or self-moving furniture.

Armando (Ricardo Montalban) and Caesar (Roddy McDowall) witness anti-ape violence in the streets.

But here’s the thing: Conquest of the Planet of the Apes is far from being tired, overworked material. The series finds a second wind, takes some risks, and easily earns its place as the best of the sequels; in fact, unlike Beneath the Planet of the Apes (1970) or Escape, Conquest finally justifies the notion of continuing the story past Heston and the Statue of Liberty. Conquest isn’t commercial; it’s political. The film begins many years after Escape, with the now-grown son of Cornelius and Zira, Caesar (Roddy McDowall, again), bearing witness to a United States that’s beginning to resemble a police state. An improbable series of events has led us here, prophesied in the previous film: Cornelius’ space capsule contained a virus which contaminated the planet, killing all the cats and dogs. Mankind began to domesticate apes and raise them as pets and, eventually, servants. The subservient apes have begun to evolve at a rapid rate. Some humans complain that the apes are putting them out of a job; protestors seen at the opening of the film are carrying signs which read “Hire Men Not Beasts,” “Go Human Not Ape,” and “To Err is Human, To Serve Should Be.” Apes, meanwhile, go about their menial chores. They’re bred and distributed by the government like slaves. Caesar, the only ape with the gift of speech, entertains thoughts of revolution following Armando’s tragic, martyr-like death.

MacDonald (Hari Rhodes) pleads with Caesar during the bloody climax of "Conquest of the Planet of the Apes."

Decades before Rise of the Planet of the Apes (2011), Conquest essentially tells the same story: you root for the apes as they turn against their human captors. Both films reverse the formula of the original Heston film and draw ironic parallels, as the humans are now the sadists and bigots, refusing to see the apes as possessing intelligence or feeling. The fascination of Conquest is watching how Caesar transitions from an innocent – just out of the circus, seeing the big city for the first time – to a violent revolutionary, organizing his apes as they gather a formidable collection of arms and explosives right under the noses of their masters. When the revolution finally begins, it’s not cathartic, but uncomfortably brutal. First the humans open fire on the apes, ruthlessly slaughtering their ranks. Then the apes retaliate by summoning their bestial side, bashing the faces of the soldiers into bloody pulp, in startling shots restored to the film in its “uncut” print on DVD and Blu-Ray. The only human who has the ear of Caesar is MacDonald (Hari Rhodes), an aide to the governor, and the only man, apart from the deceased Armando, who has shown Caesar kindness and respect. But in the final, fiery moments, Caesar refuses to listen to the pleas of his friend: “We can’t be free until we have power. How else can we achieve it?” Caesar asks. And this film does not dismiss his question, ending before it can arrive at an answer. Conquest is undoubtedly flavored by events of the late 60’s, and reflects them through the prism of science fiction more organically than the previous two films. It is comparable to Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956) and Night of the Living Dead (1968) in its intelligent treatment of contemporary anxieties using genre-ready metaphors; and it continues to echo through events of today: living in Wisconsin under a Republican governor who, famously, has stripped public employee unions of their collective bargaining rights, I was surprised and amused to hear the soldiers bark at the apes, “The labor demonstration on the south plaza will be terminated in five minutes…failure to comply with this order can result in the one-year suspension of your rights to bargain collectively.”

The last vestiges of humanity declare war upon the apes in "Battle for the Planet of the Apes."

It’s a disappointment, then, to arrive at the series’ final entry, Battle for the Planet of the Apes (1973), which dulls the edges of the commentary and satire and substitutes rote action and large swaths of tedium. Some years later, in a post-apocalyptic Earth, Caesar (McDowall) works to keep the peace in the fledgling ape society, fending off the militaristic and destructive tendencies of the gorillas. (As established in earlier films, the gorillas are soldiers, the orangutans are politicians, and the chimpanzees are scientists and intellectuals.) Meanwhile, irradiated humans in the ruins of New York plan a final attack on the apes. That’s about it. What’s most interesting in Battle is the casting: apart from the ever-loyal McDowall, the film introduces us to the monolithic Lawgiver, played by John Huston in sequences which bookend the story, and Virgil, an orangutan played by singer/songwriter/actor Paul Williams. Maintaining some continuity, Natalie Trundy returns as Lisa, Caesar’s love interest from Conquest; and Austin Stoker (Assault on Precinct 13) takes over the role of MacDonald. Claude Akins (Rio Bravo) and Lew Ayres (All Quiet on the Western Front) have roles, and John Landis plays an ape extra (he will tell you of his experiences over at Trailers from Hell). The film seems to be an afterthought, with the texture of a 70’s TV movie; which is appropriate, since it was television that the series was headed next. But Battle doesn’t really have to be any good – it succeeds only by existing, bringing the series into a kind of Möbius strip that thrives on its own paradox. Theoretically, you can jump into the series at any point, and watch them in a loop. For science fiction cinema, this was a considerable accomplishment. The genre had its first epic saga.

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Videodrome (1983)

It was announced last week that Videodrome (1983) would be remade, most likely as a PG-13 film and with a screenplay from the man who wrote the last two Transformers movies. This news – yet another 80’s cult classic will be reworked, watered down, and spat out indifferently into theaters – is disheartening, to say the least. But I actually believe that Videodrome is a movie that could be successfully updated to the new millenium. (I thought this of Tron, as well, given how prescient that film was for the perpetually-online generation. But the unimaginative Tron: Legacy was not what I had in mind.) Think about it. Think about the Atari cartridge sitting upon James Woods’ bulky, early-80’s television set; I sincerely believe director David Cronenberg intended this as something ominous: video games – and Atari 2600’s – allow for users to plug into a virtual world in the privacy of their own home (never mind the frustration of actually trying to play an Atari game). Later in the film, Woods will lean into the flexing, breathing screen of his television to bury his face into the giant, red, beckoning lips of Debbie Harry, as the “viewer” transitions into a “user” in a more sensual (and creepy) experience than 1980’s video game technology could deliver. But Cronenberg was (and is) a visionary, and revisited these concepts in the underrated eXistenZ (1999), an overt Philip K. Dick homage which could also double as a Videodrome sequel, and one, I’ll wager, more engaging and creative than the remake Hollywood is now inevitably preparing.

On a first date, Max Renn (James Woods) discovers that Nicki Brand (Deborah Harry) cuts herself for pleasure.

The mere notion that a remake could be PG-13 is laughable given that the script Cronenberg originally wrote would have garnered an X. Not that his script was ever really finished; it was more of a purging of his subconscious, David Lynch-style, unfiltered onto the page. It was being constantly rewritten during filming, and the ending was altered at the last moment, giving us the abrupt but highly memorable climax with Woods, a television, and his literal hand-gun. Videodrome unfolds like a nightmare, escalating into illogic – or dream-logic – very quickly, and the ending we now have is appropriate for a nightmare that has reached its ugly termination point, when you might wake up suddenly in a cold sweat. (Then again, maybe that does describe the Transformers films.) The final version of the film is cohesive but effectively surreal, an adult fable for the video age. Woods plays Max Renn, the equivalent of a film noir detective: amoral, ironic, jaded; only he’s not on the trail of missing persons, but the edgiest possible content that he can broadcast on a crass channel called Civic TV. He becomes fascinated by an S&M program called “Videodrome,” broadcast on a pirate channel discovered by his tech-geek friend Harlan (Peter Dvorsky); in the 40’s, this character might be played by Peter Lorre, and Renn might meet him in a smoky club or a dark alley for his contraband goods. The concept of “Videodrome” is crude: a single camera filming a room with rusty-red walls and masked men whipping and electrocuting their naked victims. Harlan says, “There’s no plot. It goes on like that for an hour: torture, murder, mutilation.” Which Max interprets as: “It’s absolutely brilliant. There’s no production costs. You can’t take your eyes off it.” (In other words, reality TV.) At first Harlan thinks the signal is coming from Malaysia; then he discovers it’s actually being broadcast from nearby Pittsburgh. As with so many Cronenberg films, the enemy is within.

Max hallucinates his television reaching out and offering him a weapon.

Renn doesn’t realize that his dark journey begins the moment he starts viewing the pirate broadcast. Even to watch is to be implicated; that’s how “Videodrome” functions, like being exposed to radioactive material. And his journey is hastened, somehow, by becoming interested in Nicki Brand (Harry), whose cold, reserved exterior hides a secret life of sadomasochism; she is destined to be the first to dive down the rabbit-hole of “Videodrome.” Rather than being repelled, Renn is fascinated. He is the typical Cronenbergian protagonist: an explorer into the unknown, regardless of the risk. That risk, of course, is biological transformation. Cronenberg’s characters flower into something remarkable – frightening at first, but new, and the director treats these transformations and mutations with obsessive interest. “Long live the new flesh.” But there’s a fine line Cronenberg walks in Videodrome. We learn, as the plot unfolds, that the program emits a video signal that produces a tumor in the viewer (which, in turn, causes hallucinations); the broadcast is a weapon. The script could easily turn into a condemnation of the effects of sex-and-violence programming on the viewer, like those news reports which describe a mass murderer by the films he watched and the video games he played. But Cronenberg refuses to succumb to anything simplistic. He expects an eventual merging between man and his technology (thus, eXistenZ). It’s not that merging we should beware, but how it’s used; Max becomes a puppet of greater forces, literally programmed like a VCR: a vaginal slit opens in his stomach, where pre-recorded cassettes can be inserted and which produces a gun that merges with his hand, firing cancer at his targets. In the wild final half-hour of the film, Max ping-pongs from one manipulating agency to another, helplessly enacting their causes. Sex and violence prove to be nothing more than a smokescreen for the real danger: government mind control.

Max hallucinates that he enters the world of "Videodrome."

But what a smokescreen! Videodrome gains its electric charge from the taboo world Max explores, starting with the “tame” softcore entertainments of “Samurai Dreams” and advancing into some queasy and violent realms (Is it for real? Are these political prisoners? People snatched off the streets of Pittsburgh?), until finally the television is reaching out for Max, and he finds himself drawn into its world (whipping a screaming television, in one of cinema’s strangest moments). The effects, by Rick Baker, Michael Lennick, and Frank Carere, are occasionally gruesome but wondrously tactile, in the pre-CG era for which many of us are now nostalgic; this, and John Carpenter’s The Thing (1982), demonstrate how creative FX artists could be without relying upon computer graphics. I also found myself nostalgic for television sets with dials, and the now-forgotten possibilities of discovering some strange, fuzzy transmission high up in the UHF dial. If you adjust your rabbit ears just so. If you don’t grow those fleshy appendages right out of your head in the effort. Remake this? Videodrome? Better to reach into the darkest corners of your own brain and produce an original waking nightmare for the internet age; only that approach would honor Cronenberg’s intentions.

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