Category: Caution: I break for geniuses!

I totally relate to Miriam Blaylock (CATHERINE DENEUVE) in THE HUNGER. How many times has someone told me that they will love me "forever" only to transform into something resembling the contents of an ashtray a mere 200 years later? Speaking of ashtrays, if you're trying to quit smoking (or Venetian blinds for that matter) I advise you stay well away from TONY (brother to ALIEN mega-genius RIDLEY) SCOTT's neo-noir, gothadelic new wave eye-sorbet rendering of WHITLEY STRIEBER's novel of the same tag. On the other hand, if you are a fang-fan who has never stuck their teeth into this influential a-vamp-garde chic-er-than-thou milestone then take a gander in the mirror at a life half lived.

When it was released in 1983 the brain dead zombie critic chant was, "Style over substance"! Seriously, I just read a slew of reviews for this classic and nine out of ten drop the exact same go-to complaint. Lazy viewers! If a film is kind enough to ladle out the "style" then the least you can do is bring your own "substance." Just because a movie is drop dead gorgeous doesn't mean it's empty headed. C'mon, this is one of the few vamp movies that actually dives into a major source of the lasting power of the undead mythos, the universal fear of mortality and liver spots. If you want to say it kind of falls apart at the end, I'll back you up on that but time has proven that this baby's bite leaves a legit mark.

As much as I'll admit that the films final chapter is a tinge too dry and flaky (blame the crunchy past-love corpses!) THE HUNGER's divinely aggressive opening is one of the most fantastic and instantly enthralling I can think of, so let's not be greedy. If you are not instantly snookered by BAUHAUS' severely apropos BELA LUGOSI'S DEAD then you too must be a dried husk in a coffin waiting for oblivion to commence and that's coming from somebody with no black clothing in his wardrobe. It's not just the song itself, but the way the film thunders back and forth between the tune, the titles and the revving action and synth-sorcerous sounds of the film… OK, I admit I used to play this opening bit on VHS over and over again and now every beat of it is branded into my brain…

Much slobbery attention has been given to the semi-sappy Sapphic love scene between CATHERINE DENEVUE and SUSAN SARANDON and it is attention well earned. Anyone can present a cinematic montage that pushes the validity of a homosexual union but this assemblage of images presses the feared superiority of one. Y'all can keep your FROM HERE TO ETERNITY and the sand in the cracks it implies; if you're not hearing "lakme" while you're sealing the deal you're doing it wrong. I know it's "artsy fartsy" and therefore threatening to knuckle draggers and mouth breathers everywhere but it's also lusciously transcendent. I say kick RICHARD GERE off the fire escape, if any genre is brave enough to venture into the romantically sublime, my money will always be on horror and THE HUNGER is my proof that I'm backing the right pony.

Personally my pet favorite scene involves noted gender annihilator DAVID BOWIE enacting an episode from everybody's life in a doctor's waiting room. Realizing the old gray mare just ain't what she used to be and she ain't what she used to be at an alarming rate, he seeks out the advice of accelerated decrepitude specialist Dr. Sarah Roberts (SARANDON…and yes that was a BLADE RUNNER shout out! He ain't heavy, he's my RIDLEY!). Magazines are their usual zero help as the clock ticks and he is hit over and over again on the head with DICK SMITH's famous LITTLE BIG MAN stick. The set up is excruciatingly familiar yet horrifically exaggerated and there's a vaguely comic, "It's funny because it's true" element as well. Oh TONY SCOTT you were so very good when you tried to replicate your brother RIDLEY! I usually recommend that artists find their own voice but in your case I'll make an exception. (OK, that wasn't necessary,, but it will surprise no one that I have no use for TOP GUN.)

I love THE HUNGER, smoky SCOTT-isms and RIDLEY-aping aside, it ultimately stands as its own sleek beast. It may loose some steam in its final lap but as it is only too happy to point out, don't we all. I have an inkling that it might be dated but as my head exists in 1982, it is actually one year in the future for me. There's style to burn for sure but behind the non-stop artifice and unlikely attic doves, I contend there's plenty of existential gristle to gnaw on and a time to pay the piper addiction parable too. Just because this sculpture wasn't carved with axe blows don't underestimate the boiled down bleakness to be found bubbling beneath the polished surface. Oldster BOWIE's bloodletting of a trusting, young gum-smacking sidekick is alarmingly vicious and disturbing and, conscious or not, the films screeching death-throe lab monkeys and post-tryst, flesh betrayal must have squeezed lemon juice on the then fresh rug-burn knowledge that cupid could carry a scythe. THE HUNGER is only speaking of the fleetingness of human life after all. Don't be fooled by a pretty face.

Folks shouldn't forget to invite THE BEGUILED (1971) to the horror party. Just because nothing supernatural is going on and hardly anybody gets killed, doesn't mean it won't bring any bean dip. Directed by DON SIEGAL (INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS ‘56) and starring frequent collaborator CLINT EASTWOOD, THE BEGUILED spins a delicate, deleterious web adapting the southern gothic novel A PAINTED DEVIL by THOMAS CULLINAN. If you appreciate the ominous beauty of NIGHT OF THE HUNTER or the psychosexual undercurrent of THE INNOCENTS you should get along with this movie just fine. Its blade is sharp enough that you may not realize that you've been cut until the film is over.

EASTWOOD (in his prime, I must say) plays injured Yankee soldier John McBurney who is discovered and drug home by a young girl (ubiquitous seventies child star PAMELYN FERDIN.) He finds himself being nursed back to health in an all-girl Confederate school and, although the ladies present express their trepidation about allowing the enemy in, it may be he who should be apprehensive as their bedside manner ends up being more Annie Wilkes (MISERY) than Florence Nightingale. A handful of the women instantly establish designs upon McBurney and he, operating as a blank slate, allows them to project whatever they like upon him. It isn't long before romantic fantasies are clashing and colliding and amity is thrown to the curb. Events eventually come to such a head that manipulative "McBee" pays for his underestimation of the fury of a woman scorned with a rather symbolic and wince-worthy loss of an appendage.

EASTWOOD showcases murkier depth than is usually associated with him and the supporting players are equal to his best. GERALDINE PAGE, as headmistress Martha, is chilling in her self-deceptive rationalizing and RAPE SQUAD's JO ANN HARRIS plays the perfect pouty vixen. During my last viewing though, I came away more impressed than usual with ELIZABETH HARTMAN who portrays the fragile Edwina. Turns out the Academy Award nominee voiced Mrs. Brisby in THE SECRET OF NIMH and tragically took her own life in 1987. The way all of these characters are represented with their own inner voices and personal flashbacks is unusually keen. There are no specific bad guys here really, just a group of people whose motivations and aspirations don't mesh. Outside of the alarming operation scene, THE BEGUILED treads softly but the mood established is cozy-creepy and the film has a rather luxurious candle lit glow. No, the supernatural does not come out to play, but thanks to cinematographer BRUCE SURTEES (whom EASTWOOD would wisely borrow for his own PLAY MISTY FOR ME later the same year) the movie feels legitimately haunted anyway.

THE BEGUILED is precise in its understatement and it's one of those movies that refuses categorization and therefore tends to get lost in the shuffle. Perhaps too, it was difficult for audiences to except EASTWOOD as such a calculating character who uses his masculine charms to get his way. He's no mere "womanizer"; he blatantly exploits romantic expectations to his advantage and yet still evokes sympathy like a wounded bird. In any case, this is one of EASTWOOD's best performances and further indication of what a fine, thoughtful artist SIEGAL could be. With one foot in the lovely and one foot in the grotesque, THE BEGUILED may not be traditional horror fare but it if you ask me, it does fall into that smaller category of a "great film."

One of my favorite supernatural horror films is 1962's BURN, WITCH, BURN! (aka NIGHT OF THE EAGLE.) It's been a notoriously difficult film to track down for years but lo and behold it's currently available on Netflix streaming. (Can I just say that Netflix streaming may be the best thing to happen to horror fans since Karo Syrup?) Based on the novel CONJURE WIFE by FRITZ LIEBER and adapted by folks like RICHARD MATHESON and CHARLES BEAUMONT, BURN, WITCH, BURN! possesses the artistry and psychological depth to stand proudly next to the best of the genre. Like so many of the most enduring movies dealing with the occult and the unknown, it can be said to pulse with its own magical power. If putting a movie together is anything like casting a spell, this lone film of interest by director SIDNEY HAYERS measures the ingredients in its witch's brew adeptly and ends up hitting its mark square on the nose.

Norman Taylor (PETER WYNGARDE) lives the life of Riley as a big fish psychology professor in a small college university pond. He's got all the answers to life's mysteries and believes neurosis is caused by a cowardly avoidance of the concrete facts. Faith and superstition are his personal pet peeves; if something can't be proven (or perceived by him) then it simply doesn't exist. Little does he know that the high horse he perches on is crafted from juju charms and that his dutiful wife Tansy (JANET BLAIR) has been messing with mojo to keep envious backstabbers and life's little pitfalls at bay.

According to Tansy, what Norman doesn't know could fill a spell book. His friendly colleagues are sharks itching for the sent of blood to go in for the kill and the only thing that separates him from the chum is her knowledge of the way things really work. His ego in the balance, Norman pulls a Darrin Stephens and insists that Tansy scrap her witchery and convert to his approved logic. Tansy reluctantly agrees but without the wifely back up, Norman goes from stud to dud overnight. A once smitten student accuses him of rape and her enraged boyfriend threatens him with a gun. There's more to worry about than his occupation/identity falling to shambles though, there seems to be an ominous force unleashed and rustling about that won't be satisfied until Norman is fitted for a pine box.

BURN, WITCH, BURN! is often compared to JAQUES TOURNER'S CURSE (or NIGHT) OF THE DEMON (1957) and it's not difficult to see why with its tug of war between the scientific and the magical. Both rack up the chills by exploiting the meat of superstition, the idea that once you're on the universe's shit list your days are numbered. Their visual tones compliment each other as well, both sharing a ravenous appetite for inky, amorphous shadows and a proud debt to all things VAL LEWTON.

BURN, WITCH, BURN! may fall just short of CURSE OF THE DEMON's more majestic feel but in some areas, like special effects, BURN stands superior. The climax of the film, which relies heavily on miniatures and forced perspectives may look quaint to the youngins but all things considered, it's still an impressive, nearly seamless, spectacle today (and if you ask me, it's also saluted heavily in sister-witch movie SUSPIRIA.)

The implication that men are manipulated like marionettes by deceitful, sorceress women may smack some as misogynistic but there may be a bigger truth here to explore. Who could argue the fact that those who appear to glide through life may have someone who toils in the trenches unseen to thank? Removing gender from the equation, BURN, WITCH, BURN! presents, with married couple Tansy and Norman, two distinct personality types, one grounded and analytical and the other connected to the spiritual and unseen. The film may spotlight dark forces at play, but Tansy's magic is protective by nature. She sacrifices her very life for her husband and can't really be associated with the malevolent force that seeks to destroy them. In any case, I think it's possible to read the concept of "woman's intuition" presented here as less to do with the female of the species ability to practice covert magic and more to do with the male's limiting literal mindedness.

I'm especially fond of BURN's cast (although the general style tends toward the melodramatic.) JANET BLAIR as Tansy brings the needed worried agitation and is exceptionally sympathetic, MARGARET JOHNSTON as the not-giving-too-much-away baddie, Flora, does twisted freaky creepy like nobody's business and PETER WYNGARDE is phenomenal.

I love this guy PETER WYNGARDE!

How did I never realize that one year earlier he played Peter frickin' Quint in THE INNOCENTS? He teeters toward overboard but it's sensational seeing such a go-for-broke turn. In addition, his handsome gargoyle mug seems sculpted for this type of film, as it tends to attract and capture every shadow slinking by. Years later he would play a T.V. character, so flamboyant (JASON KING) that he inspired AUSTIN POWERS, but in BURN he's just so photogenic and wildly intense that he ends up delivering something truly memorable. As stuffy as his character is made to appear upon introduction, this ends up being a rare supernatural spook show with a manic male rather than female lead. (Adding further to my fascination with WYNGARDE is the fact that he had a ten year relationship with ALAN BATES and played Ming's right hand man, Klytus in 1980's FLASH GORDON!)

Black and white film adds something unique to the movie viewing experience overall but it adds something super unique to horror films and something super special gonzo incredible unique to the supernatural horror film. How can anyone wonder if witchcraft exists? Black and white film IS witchcraft! You just can't get this effect with color film (unless your name happens to be MARIO BAVA.)

Like THE HAUNTING (if you think I'm referring to the 1999 version, punch yourself in the face for me) and THE INNOCENTS, this is a Rorschach flick that you can catch different fish in every time you visit the pond. With my last viewing I encountered a figure in a lightening flash that never materialized for me before. I don't know what it means or if it's a mistake but to me that's like getting three ravens in a row playing slot machines.

BURN, WITCH, BURN! opens with Norman scrawling, "I do not believe" upon a classroom black board. It closes with him backing up against that same board in horror and smudging out the word "not" leaving only "I do believe." It's a clever, classic moment that illustrates just how far he has traveled without moving an inch, as if belief and skepticism are separated by little more than a light switch. Like everything magical, the revelation isn't forced on you but it's there if you want it. Like Norman, all you have to do is open your eyes.

Oh the majority. There's a reason why the majority should not have the power to vote on the civil rights of others. The majority has a crappy track record. The majority thought slavery was a super idea and this one time, at band camp, the majority thought that women shouldn't be allowed to vote. Who has the audacity to both nail groovy Jesus to a cross AND burn witches at the stake in his name? That goobly gobbly gelatinous blob the majority that's who! Benefits of joining this club include never having to feel shame or remorse and never having to feel personally accountable for your actions. Jump on in, the water is oblivious! How's that whole "people are basically good." thing working out for you Anne Frank? My mistake, the majority didn't snag you, you died of Typhus. Even the best concentration camps can do little to curtail a typhus outbreak.

The majority of the students at Carrie White's school think she's creepy. Strawberry blonde is just a polite way to say "borderline ginger" and ick, she's all insecure and shy. Don't you just hate people who don't reek of their own self-satisfaction? Her house is a joke, her mom is a loon and her dad, somehow unclear about the sanctity of straight marriage, abandoned her ass years ago. She's vulnerable, she bleeds and she's all alone. What choice does the majority have but to take advantage of the situation and rip her to shreds? Remember, if you want to be all safe and snug in the majority you better be able to identify who's NOT in the majority. Just look around for somebody who's having a harder time in this world than you are and proceed to make their life worse.

Speaking of majorities, let's say you gimme some of that old time religion (it's good enough for me!) Please don't be offended my devout friends, I know not all believers are hypocrites who wear the mask of God to do the devil's work. Personally, I bring a basketful of faith with me to every funeral I attend. (Lye has many wonderful uses too but it's not recommended that you throw into someone's face.)

In Carrie White's world we're not talking about religion but the abuse of religion, the way religion is used as a tool to keep certain people underfoot. Momma White has a clear "don't ask don't tell" policy about telekinetic powers and the idea that Carrie is a sinner due to her sexuality is constant. Thanks to mom's favorite book Carrie spends a lot of time in a closet. Yep, it may be more than strong female characters and campy dirty pillow talk that keeps the gays coming back to this STEPHEN KING story.

See what's happening here? Maybe I shouldn't have watched CARRIE right after I read about yet another bullied gay teen committing suicide. It keeps bleeding into my piece! On second thought, I doubt my timing was a random accident either. After reading about yet another bullied teen committing suicide some spark must have ignited in the back of my head that said, "Time to watch CARRIE!" BRIAN DePALMA's eternal asshole roast always makes me feel so much better.

Not only does the majority of the cast deservingly die horrible deaths in CARRIE but it's also just such a brilliantly crafted film. I swear the score alone makes me levitate. Is there even a weak link moment in CARRIE? I used to think it was the fast forward tuxedo purchase scene but I've come to appreciate that bit as a needed bubble of relief between the torturous Christ crawl beginning and the cathartic flaming blast of divine retribution close. When did this movie stop being a horror movie to me and start being my very own gospel? If Carrie White burns in hell then hell is located in my heart.

Back to teens gay or otherwise being bullied to commit suicide. Oh wait, I'm sorry one recent kid who killed himself was only 11 so he was not really a teen at all. Let's just say kids, kids in our schools that go to our churches and live under our roofs killing themselves because we fail to instill within them the basic self love not to. Kids killing themselves because they live in a world where it's acceptable to believe that some people have more worth than others, a world that tells them that outnumbering is the same as being right and that morality is measured by the pound.

Sorry, sometimes I forget my second class citizen status and I get all, what's the word? Uppity. It's only that I can see the graffiti on the wall from here. Eventually one of these bullied kids is not going to be satisfied politely offing themselves in a corner and are going to spin their torrent of rage outwardly. Then when enough of the "worthwhile" kids are lying in their own blood we'll start that conversation again about the effects of violence in movies and video games. Frankly I'm sick and tired of my favorite genre being in the hot seat because a majority of people spoon-feed hate to their offspring for breakfast every morning. Hey, I don't mind jumping off the sidewalk for your twin pod cloud car baby carriage but if we're going to dumb down our entire culture for the sake of "the children" can I at least have some insurance that your lil' entitlement dolls aren't just more bigots in training?

NOTE: I have many friends with kids and I'm consistently impressed with the progressive values that they consciously instill in them. If you are a responsible parent, I'm not talking about you. In fact, I thank you and recognize you as THE MOST important factor in the solution to this fucked-up epidemic.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah CARRIE. Am I the only one (God forbid) that watches CARRIE as revenge porn? Scratch that, "revenge" is such an ugly word. I should say "retaliation" porn. "Retaliation" sounds more like designer perfume. Why does this movie that I found so frightening in my youth now only feel empowering? Even the film's hand from the grave ending, which once upon a time nearly made me piss my pajamas, I now read as a triumphant promise that Carrie's fury will remain long after her death. By film's end Sue Snell, the lone survivor has amassed far more than the gruesome memories of prom night; she is now and forever acquainted with the depths of Carrie's previously unacknowledged torment. (According to CARRIE 2: THE RAGE, Snell took that knowledge and put it to good use becoming a high school guidance counselor.) Sue Snell and her problematic empathy, whatever did Tommy Ross see in her?

So where does the horror lie in CARRIE? This ship doesn't sail by the power of our fears of not fitting in does it? That seems lame. Overzealous religious folks like Carrie's mom are off-putting but they're pitiable more than anything else. Maybe CARRIE works because it ignites the collective mob's cowardly worry that someday they'll pick the wrong witch to lynch and it is they who will burn. As far as I'm concerned Carrie White should be the patron saint of every bullied teen (or kid) out there. She may have ended up crushed beneath the wheel, but what religious figure worth their Red Sea salt doesn't? Yes, she brings down a world of destruction but every decent Bible story ends the same way. I believe it's truly tragic that the wonderful Miss Collins gets shortened at the hip but I can't blame Carrie for her perceptions being a bit off. Having your dreams met with a bucket of pig's blood is bound to distort your view.

I don't (officially) condone violence as the answer to anything and I'm aware of the contradiction of pushing Kumbayah sentiments while watching P.J. SOLES' eardrum get ruptured by a wayward (and pregnant with Civil Rights movement history) fire hose but sorry, I can't help but get giddy when oppressors reap what they sow. Thank you Carrie White for getting me through the rough patches (no matter what my age) with your cathartic house cleaning skills. At this point, if you ever pop your hand out of the grave around me, I swear to God, I'm only going to want to shake it.

Tommy Ross, close us out with your awesome (and Carrie White approved) poetry!

"What are you going to leave for us,
you people in your cars,
spewing pollution into the air?
You people with heavy feet
trampling down the wilderness.
You people who peer into the back seats of our cars,
hours after you come out of the back doors of your motels.
Soon, all we will have is each other,
and that could be enough.
If you will let us have room enough,
and air enough, and peace enough
to love each other as you never could."

The HOOPER posts, they just keep on a' coming! I can't blame some folks for not cuddling up to EATEN ALIVE. It's scattershot, brutally blunt and sometimes feels like it's held together with spit and crossed fingers. Like the run down hotel it takes place in, the overall structure comes off as flimsy and second hand and the walls literally wobble. Yet it's also strangely eerie and I don't know what your nightmares look like but mine don't look too far off from the random, nausea-toned whirlwind found here.

There's not much as far as plot goes, sad sacks line up to be scythed and fed to a crocodile, but genuine sense-defying horror hovers about like an impenetrable wall of humidity. Bottom of the barrel country tunes bleed together with manic music box chimes (and a chorus of wails) and even as the whole package plays with pointlessness, it's so darn expressive that you have to take a step back and gawk. EATEN ALIVE's commitment to chaos makes it a slippery fish and hard to get a handle on but as a surreal horrific mood piece, it works big time for me.

There's really no identifiable reality to cling to here for comfort. EATEN ALIVE, with its makeshift, puke-toned, sets comes off as a hellish high school stage production or a cancelled Satanic soap opera. HOOPER, having just exited the bleached bone dust bowl dimension of THE CHAINSAW MASSACRE, flipped a switch in his head and got down to experimenting with garish unnatural color and lighting, a proclivity that will come to full fruition with THE FUNHOUSE.

The film texture itself is collage-like sometimes stark and brazen, sometimes shrouded and hazy. Maybe it's just grindhouse sloppy but it jars regardless. I can't help comparing it to the mash-up, psychedelic roulette wheel visuals that ROB ZOMBIE puts to use in his films. HOOPER may have been paying a bit of an homage to horror comics with his color palette but I'm also reminded of the plethora of neon-soaked eighties music videos that EATEN ALIVE predates as well (or stranger still, ROBERT ALTMAN's FOOL FOR LOVE). The clash of "real" weathering and grit and "unreal" otherworldly color may throw some off but maybe that's the point. So much of what is going on here comes off as a slap attack on the viewer.

Speaking of the ROB-ZOB, EATEN ALIVE definitely digs dumping its ladle in hillbilly sleaze and stirring the white trash gumbo. It's not only the local yokels like the TARANTINO-quoted Buck (a young ROBERT ENGLUND whose, "I'm Buck and I like to fuck" resurfaced in KILL BILL) who come off as less than noble characters. Even TCM survivor MARILYN BURNS is difficult to relate to or rely upon completely. First of all, she's not a very good mother and second of all, I still can't for the life of me figure out why she wears a "new Jan Brady" wig at the start of the film and then discards it without ado. Her husband is bat-shit crazy for what purpose to the story I don't know and her daughter (a pre-HALLOWEEN KYLE RICHARDS) does little more than scream at the top of her lungs (not that that didn't work for BURNS in TCM).

If you want to know how much EATEN cares about your sensibilities just check out how it milks poor RICHARD's peril. I won't reveal her outcome but her safety is not the usual assumed "given" based on her child status. That's really one of EATEN ALIVE's biggest strengths, the fact that you can't trust the film or anybody in it at any time. Everybody we meet is crazy, duplicitous or falling apart in some way and weirder still, the victims all but take numbers and volunteer for their savage fates.

The crocodile is paper mache phony and the sets are about as convincing as a SID AND MARTY KROFFT production. Nobody, not MEL FERRER (who is presented as little more than an animated portrait painting) or THE ADDAMS FAMILY's CAROLYN JONES (made up for the most part like a hunch backed cartoon witch) or main loon Judd (a wild-eyed and mumbling NEVILLE BRAND) is identifiable as an authentic human. I guess these are all reasons enough for some viewers to put up their hands and decline. When presented with wild arbitrary violence such as this maybe it's instinctual for some to automatically comb for any evidence of falsehood to keep their footing and/or distance.

Perhaps it's a cop out on my part but I don't think a film like this needs to be bound by rational laws. In fact, I think its main agenda is to stick its tongue out at rationality in general. The truth is, when real horror does find its way into your life that old pal rationality is the first to yell, "Check please!" Real horror really can render everything senseless and the familiar world a false cardboard stage.

There's an intense (though relatively short-lived) chase scene within EATEN ALIVE that almost takes place on a fairy tale page with prop trees bending to impossible winds amidst swirling, machine made mists. It's a raging, Southern gothic storm and it's cheap and lovely like a plastic champagne flute. Whether you buy into the situation or not HOOPER does orchestrate a multi-layer cake of suspense with several floors of his Starlight Hotel reaching fever pitches of the grotesque simultaneously. If EATEN were a dream this is the moment of crescendo right before the sleeper wakes. No, it's not very believable at all but every dreamer knows it's quite real enough.

I love character driven psychological horror; I love expertly timed set pieces too but there is a special place in my heart for films like EATEN ALIVE that rattle and run on simple unleaded insanity. The adult me protests and throws down barriers but the primal me rolls over like a sniveling dog. I suggest watching EATEN ALIVE alone without the distracting voices of sense and reason, preferably late at night when the walls between "awake" and "asleep" grow soft and blur. I've come to see it as a blood-stained music box with a headless, spinning hillbilly ballerina inside. Sure, this is some frayed, imperfect jacked-up business and it's no TCM but when baby Leatherface has a bad dream, it just might look like EATEN ALIVE.