Let me tell you a little story. You may or may not remember it as well as I do. Maybe you remember it better. In any case, beware, for this is a temporally situated tale. Let me lay the foundation for you.
It was the vainglorious 80s. An era by and large that was all about being rich, getting shitty haircuts and doing a lot of coke (or Quaaludes, if you preferred) - the milieu of trickle down economics, teflon coated figureheads and Cyndi Lauper. One of the few things that actually, from time to time, kicked the generally stagnant, homogeneous culture in the happy-sacks, was horror films (and yes, I'm aware of how homogeneous they could be as well, but at least they had a picante flavor). The most prevalent of these was the slasher - reigning overlord of 80s horror. Love them, loathe them, shove them up the MPAAs ass, you couldn't avoid them. They were omnipresent. They shook their gory junk in your face - The Burning, Friday the 13th, Evil Dead, Nightmares in a Damaged Brain, etc., etc. The type of film that gave Tipper Gore PR hardons to go with her nightmares (despite the fact I've never actually met gore hounds that actually went on to KILL someone!)
But sadly, as the mullets receded into small towns, as hair metal fell to seattle sound and political correctness ingratiated itself as newspeak, horror films of this variety split for the crotchety hills Kandarian demons came from. Occasionally, during the 90s, splatter would rear its ugly head. Dead Alive, Darkness, The Johnsons (Neatherlands) - films like this stoked the fires as best they could, but for the most part, horror was flapping in the breeze like a Central Park pervert. Cheesy thrillers and weak sequels weren't enough (although I still have a soft, squishy spot in my heart for Jason Goes to Hell - unrated of course). Scream, despite varying opinions, did help renew latent interest in the genre, but it was limited to smart-assed, yawn-inducing knock-offs of the ...Last Summer variety. But somewhere in our collective cinematic unconscious, ancient tape-based chants were playing. The woods would fill with blood once more. Of course we had to wait for tame PG-13 "fright" films and lame J-horror remakes to slough off, but the red tide built steadily off-shore.
Hooray!
I heartily thank the new perveyors of B & G & T & A. Suddenly, those of us who grew up on grue, struck back from directors chairs and typewriters (well, word processing programs anyhow). The crimson surf hit with full force, taking our entrails with it. Amongst the many responsible was Adam Green. He represents the true believers of the splatter world and his film Hatchet resounds with homage, pastiche and resplendant love for a much-maligned genre.
Unfortunately, it never came to a theater near me. I thereby missed out on surround sound squishiness (and the entertaining to a point audience participation). I was stuck with my couch and my off-color television, late New Years Day ('08). I was nursing a brutal hangover on top of it - ironically from New Years Day rather than Eve. But I was far from deterred. I sat there all alone, laughing, squirming on occasion and yelping 'Fuck yeah' as the blood gushed.
The story is simple, to the point. Students partake in the standard Mardi Gras festivities. Our protagonist Ben, is nursing his aching heart (after a recent break-up) and bores with the festivities. He convinces his friend Marcus (reluctantly) to voyage into the haunted bayou with a ragtag gaggle of touristas. According to local legend, a deformed child was accidentally killed by his father some years ago. Now he prowls the woods, filled with malevolent, spectral rage, searching for any unfortunate trespassers. As you may have guessed, the folklore is anything but, and things go awry - big time.
Hatchet is a slasher film with its rudimentary elements in place, but also well aware of their surroundings. While it eschews the trite, hyper self-awareness of late 90s slashers, it maintains its brain along with its guts (mmm...brains). And what guts it has. This is not a movie for those shy of the sanguinary arts. It reaches down your gullet and garrotes you with your own intestines - in an SFX manner of speaking. Hatchet also has a fair share of suspense and good old jumps, elevating it far above numerous other slashers of a similar ilk.
Admittedly, not all the gags work to perfection, but it mingles low brow with insider winks and dry humor rather well. Its sensibly self-aware, tossing in juicy nuggets for horror fans without being off-putting to the casual viewer. But let's face it, even though the neophyte can enjoy it, this movie was made for us ravenous splatter fans. It contains some marvelous genre cameos and bit parts - Robert Englund as a redneck, Tony Todd as, well, Tony Todd in a top hat. Another bonus is solid casting (I know, I was as shocked a you were). While some of the actors are better than others, the main cast is well above average - especially for a slasher. But most of all, this film makes me misty for those cool, spring afternoons spent waiting at the old IGA for my friend's mother to finish shopping. We'd sift through the spinning racks, lusting after the most carnage-drenched titles, hoping we could convince her to rent them. Hatchet invokes the little ghoul inside me that never forgot the bountiful joys that a few practical effects and a shitload of Karo syrup brought. For that, I salute you Mr. Green, from the bottom of my fiendish heart.
Now, where did I put that machete.
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