At the Waterfront After the Social: Sleepaway Camp

            “Dear Mom and Dad, I’ve been at Sleepaway Camp for almost three weeks. And I’m getting very scared…”

            So begins the theatrical trailer for an obscure, unassuming entry in the pantheon of slasher films from the 1980’s, Sleepaway Camp (1983).

            Michael Myers. Jason Voorhees. Freddy Krueger. Everyone knows the heavy hitters. Halloween (1978), Friday the 13^th (1980), and A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) are such pop culture phenomena that anyone would instantly recognize the hockey mask or glove with knives for fingers.

            For the casual viewer, these films are about all there is for the slasher subgenre of horror. But for fans of this sort of thing, the early to mid 80’s offer an extensive, if somewhat unknown catalogue of backwoods butchers, suburban stalkers, and high school hackers.

           

One setting in particular stands out because of its ideal suitability to the genre: summer camp. Friday the 13^th was the first to employ this template, and to great success. The isolation from civilized society combined with the eeriness of the empty woods certainly provides an effective setting for the “and then there were none”-styled mystery of slasher films. Another advantage of the summer camp location is its familiarity. Every teenager in America knows what going to camp is like; an experience that hasn’t changed much in the past thirty years. This inevitably results in a terrifying identification on the part of the audience, one that hits right in the childhood.

            There are plenty of great examples of slasher pictures that took us to camp besides Friday the 13^th. The Burning (1981) is a notable effort. It featured special effects by Friday’s Tom Savini, and showcased breakout roles for actors Jason Alexander (Seinfeld) and Fisher Stevens (Short Circuit), and actress Holly Hunter (Thirteen). The film also built the careers of the Weinstein brothers and their new independent production company Miramax, much in the same way A Nightmare on Elm Street would for New Line Pictures just a few years later.

            Another example, Madman (1982), is a lesser known entry in the stalk-n-slash canon. Practically a student production, the film is a take on the ghost stories and cautionary campfire tales that tend to permeate the teen culture at summer camps. A young camper disrespects the name of a local urban legend, Madman Marz, and causes the supernatural slayer to invade the woods once again.

           

But of all the films that take on this setting, perhaps none grasp the attitude, experience, trials and tribulations of camp quite as well as director Robert Hiltzik’s Sleepaway Camp.

Sleepaway Camp is probably best known for its remarkably inspired ending that still manages to shock audiences today. Without spoiling anything for first time viewers, the continued power of the finale lies both in its ingenuity, and a profound relevance that has only become greater since the film’s release over thirty years ago.

It’s also just crazy as hell.

But you’ll have to watch it for yourself to find out what I mean.

In truth, it’s a bit of a shame that Sleepaway Camp owes its notoriety to that one spectacular final frame, because the journey it takes to get to that point proves to be one of the most entertaining and thought provoking movies of its kind.

One of the key weaknesses of other camp-oriented flicks is the distinct lack of… campers. In The Burning the counselors don’t look any older than their supposed teens, an obvious attempt at solving the problem of reconciling the ages of the characters with requirements of the film’s content. Unfortunately this makes trying to tell them apart quickly begin to feel pointless. The Friday films don’t feature campers at all until the sixth installment Jason Lives (1986). And even then, the script takes great pains to assure the audience the young’uns are never truly in danger.

Sleepaway Camp roundly dismisses both such notions by casting thirteen year-olds with real thirteen year-olds and summarily picking them off in ways more creative than Jason Voorhees could ever come up with.

It would be tempting to criticize the acting abilities on display. But when considering the actual ages of most the actors, their talent becomes widely apparent. Felissa Rose was only 13 when she gave her career-defining performance as Angela, the confused, traumatized survivor of a camp boating accident where she lost both her father and sibling. And Jonathan Tiersten, in the role of Angela’s cousin Ricky, fifteen.

Rose, Tiersten, and their supporting cast act just like kids because they are kids, a fact that proves to be one of Sleepaway Camp’s greatest strengths. Boys chase girls, girls chase boys. They bully and fight each other for social supremacy. They have mouths that would make a sailor blush because they think swearing makes them seem older and cooler, and in the end they aren’t fooling anyone. All of this goes a long way towards creating an atmosphere of realism, something rarely grasped in a genre about indestructible masked serial killers.

Camp Arawak, located in what we assume is upstate New York (accents don’t lie, and the production was in fact shot there), is an instantly recognizable personification of summer camps everywhere. All the benchmarks are there: guys vs girls cabins, mess/rec hall, a boundary of evergreen woods, and of course a sparkling blue lake. Since it really was a summer camp that director Robert Hiltzik had visited in his youth, all he had to do was fill it with rowdy kids and a few tired counselors for it to spring to life in convincing fashion!

Against this backdrop is a bizarre murder mystery that is more akin to a camp legend- a fairytale- than a horror film. In fact, in the zany sequel Sleepaway Camp II: Unhappy Campers (1989), that is exactly what the story has become. Rather than photogenic teens being mercilessly done away with one by one for having sex, smoking pot, or partying too much, Sleepaway Camp’s victims are really reaping what they have sown. The question starts to be, “who are the real victims here?” It’s certainly hard to feel bad when these obnoxious bullies get their just desserts. We watch Angela, and other characters such as the nerdy Mozart, get hassled and tormented by the older or more popular campers, who then expire at the hands of… someone. One of the clues we are given that the killer is a camper themselves are the progressively creative, yet juvenile ways these bullies are dispatched. From boiling water, to bees, to a curling iron shoved somewhere God never intended, this is far from your typical hack’n’slash.

The special make-up effects bear the signs of a low budget, even for 1983, but that doesn’t diminish their impact. The camera lenses every moment carefully, much more carefully than the ramshackle method employed in the likes of Friday the 13^th, The Prowler (1981), or My Bloody Valentine (1981). The frame is sparing, so that we only glimpse just enough of every gruesomely satisfying moment.

The glue that holds all the mayhem together is Angela’s blossoming relationship with Paul, her cousin Ricky’s best friend. He is one of the few who is kind to her, and the first one to help her come out of her shell enough to talk at all. Watching their romance grow in the face of her personal trauma is really the core of the film, and all of the bullying and death stands pretty much on the periphery of the goings on.

Their interactions together are when the story is at its best. We learn more about Angela’s psychological hang-ups, while Paul gamely sticks with her (for the most part) even as their relationship causes him to painfully transition from popular to pariah. And although we know on some level that this Romeo and Juliet love affair must be doomed from the start, it is impossible not to root for the emerging couple.

Hiltzik also uses the duo to convey some of the most powerful social commentary in the slasher movie subgenre. Sexual confusion, subliminal conditioning, and post-traumatic stress are all deeply explored through Angela’s damaged psyche, and Paul’s attempts to show her love and affection regardless of her problems. This makes the film, and especially the ending, all the more shocking, affecting, and profound by the time the credits roll.

Of course, no discussion of Sleepaway Camp would be complete without some mention of how… weird it is.

The obvious standout is Angela’s aunt, who is nothing short of a loon. Actress Desiree Gould charges full speed ahead into the most befuddling character of the film. Her awkward dialogue, garish makeup, and gloriously hammy delivery are guaranteed to leave you either in fits of laughter or quizzically scratching your head. It’s no wonder Angela has so many issues, but it really begs the question- how did Ricky turn out so normal with a mother like that?

But Aunt Martha isn’t the only character more than a little off-kilter. Arty the head cook is a pedophile whose predilection for young campers seems to be blithely accepted by his coworkers. A dozen guys are ditched by the girls and decide go skinny dipping with each other anyway. And the audience is asked to simply accept that young, nubile counselor Meg would be in any way remotely attracted to an old-as-dirt camp director?

The oddity of the characters is matched pound for pound by the utterly jaw-dropping dialogue. At times the exchanges can be rather witty:

“Eat shit and die Ricky!”

“Eat shit and live Bill…”

At other times, it makes no sense whatsoever: “Yeah, she’s a real carpenter’s dream. Flat as a board and needs a screw!”

In the end, these eccentricities make the film all the more endearing. Sleepaway Camp is for everyone who craves something just a little bit more special than the average horror picture. I first saw it when I was just discovering my love for horror films, slashers in particular. I was snapping up every flick I could with an insatiable, ravenous appetite for karo syrup and prosthetics on the promise of gratuitous practical effects bloodshed. I had read online about the infamous ending and couldn’t wait to see it for myself. By the time the final frame graced the screen, I was caught by surprise in spite of knowing what to expect. I had become so engrossed in the story, characters, the obvious energy and heart put into the production.

Sleepaway Camp is much more than the sum of it’s *ahem* parts. And if you want to discover it for yourself, meet me at the waterfront after the social.

The Mask of Satan: Mario Bava's Black Sunday

            If ever there was a film that embodied the collective unconscious fears of the male species, it would have to be Mario Bava’s 1960 directorial debut, Black Sunday. Known under various different titles, as Italian horror films are prone to be, this spine-tingling little picture launched a renaissance of filmmaking in its native country, while simultaneously setting the bar abroad for what would be the new standard in the genre. What’s more, the film actually deserves the reputation it enjoys (something that eludes most of its successors).

            In the 17^th Century, Princess Asa Vajda is accused of consorting with the Devil, along with her accomplice (and possibly brother) Javutich. She is put to death by her own second brother, the Grand Inquisitor, by having an iron mask lined with spikes hammered over her face. But before the sentence is carried out, she speaks a curse over him and all his family. As the inquisitors attempt to burn her body in order to prevent her return from the grave, a storm thwarts their efforts.

            Two centuries later, around the year 1830, she is inadvertently awakened by a doctor and his assistant, and proceeds to wreak havoc on her own descendants, including Princess Katia, who bears a remarkable resemblance to the witch herself!

            Released in the United States as The Mask of Satan, Black Sunday marked the announcement of a number of new talents to the world of cinema. First and foremost is the director, Mario Bava, who would go on to be regarded as the definitive master of Italian horror. Though his later film A Bay of Blood (aka Twitch of the Death Nerve [1971]) would be arguably the most influential of his career, becoming the direct inspiration for slasher films such as Halloween (1978) and Friday the 13^th, Part 2 (1981), Black Sunday remains his absolute best.

            The other major talent gifted to us by the film is that of actress Barbara Steele. Her unconventional beauty, combined with an incomparable screen presence, makes it impossible not to be fixated upon her as she embodies both the innocent Princess Katia, and the evil witch (or vampire? The film never makes a distinction between the two…) Asa Vajda. Steele’s career would see her working in wide variety of genres; from Federico Fellini’s masterpiece 8 ½ (1963), to Joe Dante’s campy creature-feature Piranha (1978). Ultimately, her lasting impact originates from her turns in Black Sunday as both horror heroine and villain.

            Much of the effectiveness of the picture can be found in two aspects. The first and greatest of these is the overwhelming atmosphere generated by Bava’s unique, arresting black and white cinematography. Mario Bava began as a painter, and his shot composition bears all of the requisite birth marks. Every set piece is orchestrated to evoke the space, the shadows, and the breadth of the surroundings. The film even goes so far as to stage the audience from the perspective of the evil invading force in Castle Vajda. As shots pan forward, it seems the camera itself is sinister, knocking over candles, suits of armor, and portraits hanging on the walls; gusting through tapestries like some demonic whirlwind.

            The atmospheric mood is so pervasive that the film becomes a sort of tone poem- giving impressions of darkness, of love, and all-consuming hatred. When the end titles appear, we are left with many indelible images embedded in our subconscious: Asa bearing a devilish grin upon her ghastly, yet beautiful visage, beckoning us to “Stare into these eyes!”; Princess Katia standing in the doorway of a monastery in ruins; and especially the gruesome opening sequence, complete with branding and perhaps the most unique execution of a witch ever committed to celluloid. Even here in his first theatrical film, one can see the forthcoming influence of Bava’s visual sensibilities on the upcoming generation of directors such as Dario Argento, Lucio Fulci, and Jean Rollin.

            The second – and perhaps more frightening – aspect is the way that the film preys upon the sexuality and confidence of masculinity. Men are the principle victims in Black Sunday. But that is not nearly as scary as the way they are victimized by the witch. At first glance, femme fatales employing their sexuality in order to lure men to their ends may seem like an old hat. Indeed the trope finds its roots as far back as Homer’s The Odyssey; in which nymphet sirens use their beauty and song to draw in sailors and wreck their ships on shoals, where they would then be easy prey. What makes this theme so terrifying in Bava’s film is that these men do not simply give in to lustful desires, nor do they act foolishly. They are often powerless, utterly incapable of resisting Asa’s treacherous charms. She makes no attempt to hide her intentions, freely admitting that death waits in her embrace, and still Dr. Kruvajan is ensnared, his life force drawn out of him with a kiss. A man without control of his situation, without the power to overcome temptation or beauty, is truly in terror.

            In fact, this terror is not limited to the characters in the film. As the audience, we find ourselves in an alarming confusion of feelings in the presence of Steele’s allure. We are threateningly attracted to her bizarre sex appeal even as we are repulsed by her evil and the face grotesquely punctured by the mask of Satan.

            This says something about the nature of horror films in general, and why the mass appeal of the genre has stubbornly refused to ever die since the birth of cinema. Humanity’s attraction to the dark and dangerous, our love affair with the macabre, frightens even ourselves. Consider the conservative right with its angry parents crusading to eradicate such movies as Silent Night, Deadly Night (1984), or even Billy Graham condemning The Exorcist (1973), going so far as to claim that an actual demon was possessing the film reel. Kick and scream as they may, genre pictures never fail to pack theatre seats and explode the box office.

            Barbara Steele’s two-faced siren song is the embodiment of Black Sunday’s power over the viewer. Her performance as Katia isn’t necessarily anything special. It is Asa that we come to see, and here she delivers with gusto. Darting, twitching eyes… Ear-to-ear, lustful grin… She is quite plainly fun to watch, and this role alone makes the movie worth the price of admission.

            In his indispensable commentary, Tim Lucas (co-editor of Video Watchdog and author of the essential coffee-table tome Mario Bava: All the Colors of the Dark) discusses at length the film’s prominent motif of eyes and sight. And it certainly is everywhere, from the gaping black voids of Asa’s interred corpse to the inventive camera zooms through the titular mask. But there is another theme, this one perhaps more insidious, and at the very least more multilayered: the concealing of something evil and ugly behind an exterior of beauty.

            Consider the quaint farm sitting adjacent to the old cemetery. Even the graveyard itself seems beautiful, with exquisitely shot woods surrounding a remarkably well-rendered set. But from underneath a rotting hand replete with maggots claws its way out the earth as Javutich emerges to wreak havoc on the world once more.

            Another obvious example is the fireplace in the castle’s great hall. At first glance, it is an expertly crafted sigil set in classic gothic architecture. Perfect for a black and white horror story. Nevertheless, it is a secret passage way leading to the dark heart of the mausoleum. Much in the same way that the painting of Javutich does, and this is only discovered when it burns…

            The film is full of pleasing facades: the stark gothic architecture of the tomb housing the witch’s body, the iron masks obscuring the faces of the fiends, and perhaps most famously, the beauty of Steele’s resurrected countenance hiding the reposing skeleton beneath! This exact moment is the best shock Black Sunday has to offer, combining all of the momentum and suspense that has been building over the past hour into the ultimate reveal. The true nature of the devil finally unveiled.

            The resolution after the fact is a non-issue. Rarely does such a moment leave a lasting impact, yet it is the image of Asa’s living, yet decomposing body that stays with us after the film is over. The ghastliness of it leaves the audience, for lack of a better word, traumatized, so that whether or not the witch is burned seems of little importance. That a movie can accomplish this feat is a truly special thing.

            Ultimately, Black Sunday itself possesses a façade. In this case however, it is a presentation of ugliness masking a work of beauty underneath. Bava's work in general holds a sort of notoriety. Horror and a style that is long on atmosphere but short on plot. The stigma often prevents many would-be viewers from experiencing the greatness the director has to offer. It is certainly unfortunate that Black Sunday does not have a wider audience. For those who have seen it, the treasures to be found in multiple viewings are boundless. And for those yet to have it thrust upon them, STARE INTO THESE EYES, and behold the cinema of Mario Bava.

Venus in Furs: Jess Franco and Sexuality in Cinema

            Sexuality has been a part of art since its beginning. In fact, in many ways sex is synonymous with art itself. From the very earliest writings of King Solomon to the celebration of the human figure by Renaissance painters such as Leonardo Da Vinci and Jacques Louis-David, eroticism has permeated creativity. And, from the banned writings of the Marquis de Sade to the very latest polarizing film Blue is the Warmest Color (La vie de Adéle) [2013], it has engendered controversy.

            De Sade isn’t the only artist to have been imprisoned for ‘obscenity’. Author Oscar Wilde, comedian Lenny Bruce, and filmmaker Ruggero Deodato are just a few other examples. Much more common is censorship, whether in the form of imposed ratings, limited release, forced cuts, or even the wholesale banning of works á la the UK’s Video Recordings Act of 1984 – a bill that labeled many films as video nasties.

            Sometimes it is the depiction of graphic violence that incurs censorship, but by and large it is the free and frank portrayal of human sexuality that brings the hammer down. Sex is undeniably the most profitable and yet also the most controversial subject in art, media, and education. We live in a peculiar, prudish age where graphic violence and the taking of life is considered appropriate for general audiences aged 13 and above, while the very nature of humanity that is responsible for the creation of life is labeled inappropriate and NC-17: No One Under 17 Admitted. Why is the ugly okay and the beautiful obscene?

           

Obviously this is a far-reaching topic that has been the focal point of endless discourse, argued and pontificated over and over again by doctors, professors, authors, filmmakers, musicians, ministers, politicians, teenagers, and generally everyone. There is not much new to be said, really. But this author and film fan would like to relay his own newfound outlook to all of you, my dear audience, if only to make it clear in my own mind and to achieve some degree of satisfaction in the act of sharing it with someone, anyone at all.

I wish to examine sexuality in cinema by taking a look at a director whose body of work has encompassed nearly every perspective possible on the subject: Jess Franco.

Jesús Franco Manera, publically known as Jess Franco, was born in Madríd, Spain on May 12, 1930. He died this year on April 2, 2013. In his eighty-two years, he directed nearly two hundred films. Most of these, if not all, deal with the themes of sexuality as it relates to every sort of area in life. Franco marries sex with violence, horror, obsession, politics, history, romance, crime, spirituality, and a variety of different cultures – from contemporary Europe, to Istanbul (a seeming favorite of his), to South America, to the islands of the Caribbean.

His films run the gamut of sexual expression. At times sensual (Venus in Furs [1969]) and surreal (Vampyros Lesbos [1971]), and at others violent (99 Women [1969]) and deviant (Eugenie de Sade [1974]).

Many critics have labeled Franco a hack, describing his pictures as sleazy, trashy exploitation. Yet many also praise the way he managed to frequently turn low grade grindhouse fair into psycho-surreal arthouse erotica.

With such an extensive catalogue of films to his credit, Jess Franco must at least be considered the master of prolific output. During a career that spanned half a century, he would routinely complete three to four films per year, at times six to seven during his high period of the late-1960’s to early-1970’s.

Naturally, such a vast filmography yields movies of widely varying quality. One has to wonder, when viewing such treasures as Eugenie… Philosophy in the Boudoir (1969), what could Franco have produced given ample time and budget to really focus on a picture? Even so, each film, good or bad, deals with the enigma of sexuality. Perhaps wrapped up in the inexplicable draw of these forbidden cinematic fruits is an insight to the need for sensuality in film, and even in art itself?

When one hears about Jess Franco, inevitably two films always get mentioned: Venus in Furs and Vampyros Lesbos. Each stars a muse of the director’s. In Venus in Furs, she is the seductive Maria Rohm; and in Vampyros Lesbos, the charismatic and gorgeous Soledad Miranda. Both turn in gripping and intensely vulnerable performances for their respective films. But their acting talent is clearly not the focus. Instead, it is their presence.

It is no secret that Franco is a dominantly visual storyteller. Everything the audience needs to know is held in the way he shoots these beautiful ladies. The camera follows their movements; almost as graceful as the actresses themselves. The close zooms on their faces and slow pans across their elegantly clothed figures are almost impossibly erotic, more so even than the abundant nudity so often on display elsewhere in the films.

While it may seem obvious, so many directors tend to forget that cinema is a visual medium. They tell their stories with dialogue and exposition, paying little attention to shot composition and color placement. Not so with Jess Franco. He fills his frames corner-to-corner with lush images and eye-popping colors. Every tiny bit appears deliberately designed to stimulate, titillate, and enthrall.

Such visual audacity is the key to his successfulness with surreal eroticism. Another is the comparative restraint he demonstrates in his best pictures. Not showing too much is the name of the game in truly effective erotica, and it is when he is teasing us with fleeting glimpses and drenching set pieces with moody atmosphere that Franco is at his brilliant best.

This is made even more apparent when such restraint is absent, as in his harsher films like Women Behind Bars (1975) and Sadomania (1981), where the content includes sadism, extreme deviancy, and nearly hardcore moments. Even these pictures, though distasteful to some, have their place as Franco explores every vestige and nature of sexuality.

In Vampyros Lesbos, as well as other movies like Count Dracula (1970) and Succubus (1967), he constructs our view of eroticism through the lens of horror. This may be a particularly apt setting because it speaks directly to that singular symptom of Western society: the fear of sex.

It is an undeniable truth that we suffer from a sort of cultural brand of erotophobia. The evidence for this is everywhere! Schools use the threat of venereal disease to encourage abstinence, while churches unabashedly employ the fear of God and damnation to hell in order to frighten youth into submission. The State sends a contradicting (but no less destructive) message by funding abortion clinics while forcing employers to provide health care that covers contraception. Sexuality in our society is muddled and confusing at best, dangerous and evil at worst.

These attitudes, and others, are reflected, satirized, and exploited unashamedly in Franco’s films. Men are often devious fiends with the goal of plundering a young starlet’s virtue, where a woman may be a seductress, laying traps for the protagonist with all of her wiles and sensual cunning.

Yet, while in life the pitfalls of sex are pressed on us in fear, in these pictures the darker side of mischief is incredibly alluring. The danger is erotic. Quite often, the downfall of Franco’s characters is not due to their sexuality, or even to their all-consuming obsessions, but to the inability of society to be reconciled with their existence.

Can we reconcile our own sexuality with the freedom and beauty of the world we live in? Or will society – with its religion, politics, repression, and fear – forever keep us from embracing the joy of this God-given gift?

What would such freedom look like? Certainly not the freedom of the Summer of Love that produced hippie culture and little else. And hopefully not the shameless objectification resultant of Victorian England, nor the repression of puritanical thought.

Hopefully, it will be a frank and honest freedom. And a respectful and responsible one as well. It may seem far off, but thankfully until that day comes, we have Mr. Jess Franco to explore it for us!