Last House on the Left

Last House On the Left

100 Minutes

A delicate science, this business of reinventing a horror classic. Way back when, folks would dress up before attending “the moving pictures.” The entire theatre rose to the national anthem before the film could begin, and narrators of movie trailers used to say things like, “To avoid fainting, keep repeating to yourself: It’s only a movie… a movie… a movie...” But today’s world-weary audiences have seen it all- they just shout at the screen a lot, and if anyone passes out in their seat, it’s more likely a direct result of diabetes than sheer terror. Dennis Iliadis’ remake of Last House on the Left accomplishes knuckle-whitening suspense, but might leave classics fans wondering where all the good times have gone. It’s not that the movie doesn’t do its job in the way of gore, believability and retribution. There’s just something amiss, and a new generation of moviegoers might not care, unless someone sits them down in front of Wes Craven’s 1972 original. For starters, they’d probably agree that nothing says “far out” quite like David Hess’ original rock ‘n’ roll soundtrack, or the rec-room banter over whether or not it’s appropriate for forward-thinking young women to go braless. But the modern age has extracted its toll in all sorts of other, more sinister ways.

Limber 17-year-old Mari Collingwood (Sara Paxton) and her folks take a trip to their bucolic summerhouse on a forested lake in near-total seclusion. We know that baddies are at large in this neck of the woods- we’re privy to a band cop-brutalizing hoodlums in the masterfully choreographed opening scene. Meanwhile, mother and daughter’s sunny, blonde world is underscored by the recent death of Mari’s brother, which has left the Collingwood family in a sort of emotional vacuum. On their first afternoon back at the cottage, Dr.Collingwood (Tony Goldwyn) agrees to let Mari go out with townie friend Paige (Martha MacIsaac), in spite of his wife’s hesitance (stormy weather forecast, separation anxiety). Indeed, wife knows best. Teens will be teens, and an innocent pot-run turns out to be the worst mistake Mary and Paige will ever make. Enter Mealy-mouthed Justin (played by an ever-evolving and believable Spencer Treat Clark), who lures the girls into his motel room for a smoke and some chat. When his deranged family returns from an outing, they hold Mary and Paige hostage, kidnapping them and driving to the woods. Fans hoping for substance in addition to style will find satisfaction in how well-developed and convincing Justin’s relationship is to his bloodthirsty father Krug (Garret Dillahunt), brutish uncle Fred (the deliciously scuzzy Aaron Paul) and wicked tagalong Sadie (Riki Lindhome, who shines here as an oft-topless backwoods sociopath). Will the whipping boy come through and stand up to his lunatic relatives? Time reveals all.

It doesn’t take long before this untoward encounter gives way to one of the more devastating scenes, à la Deliverance, in recent horror-flick history; blood is shed, near-getaways ensue and things are not looking promising for Mari. Our villains come knocking later that night at the door of a cozy cottage, hoping for respite from the pouring rain and maybe some more criminal kicks. Whose house should they have chanced upon but that of Dr. and Mrs. Collingwood? Good Samaritans that they are, Emma and John provide fluffy towels, tea and bedding for the motley crew. Tension gains as a few key clues lead our well-to-do middle aged heroes to the realization that they have invited a pack of wolves into their fold. Here begins an astonishing, drawn out revenge sequence, complete with domestic weaponry (wine bottle, garbage disposal, hearth poker, shower-curtain rod) and glib punch-lines.

The tagline sums it up nicely: If bad people hurt someone you love, how far would you go to hurt them back? For those who fantasize about taking the law into their own hands, here are the makings of a gratifying 100 minutes. Other tasty ingredients include agile camera work, a solid cast and two remarkably well-shot automobile crashes. The film score takes a few cues from Krzystof Penderecki (who brought us The Shining soundtrack) but, like so many contemporary thrillers, subjects us to unconscionable pop once the credits roll. Iliadis proffers a sleek, modern number with Last House, and the spirit of brute fear within is alive and well. Which is more than we can say for the victims of such a fateful bloodbath. So how come nobody’s fainting?

These days, cousins fear and shock go head to head with a vengeance in nearly every mainstream thriller. It appears that the far-reaching culture of torture-porn is here to stay. Seeing the antagonist take a bullet in the eyeball or get their face cooked can be gratifying, but there comes a time when the artistic exertion of these ‘fight’ scenes eclipses what should be the simple, old-fashioned dread of cat-and-mouse hunts. If there’s nothing to fear but fear itself, do we really need to take in all this eye-gouging? One yawning socket will do, thanks.Tacked onto the final scene (a sort of ‘directors cut’ that they couldn’t resist including) is a particularly gross revenge moment which sums up exactly why contemporary horror falls short of its predecessors: it insists upon taking the implicit and making it explicit.

by Joan Wolkoff