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Welcome to Artcetera. Arts-and-entertainment writers and critics post movie news, concert updates, people items, video, photos and more. Share your views. Check it daily. Remain in the know. Contributors: Mary Abbe, Jon Bream, Tim Campbell, Colin Covert, Laurie Hertzel, Tom Horgen, Neal Justin, Claude Peck, Rohan Preston, Chris Riemenschneider, Graydon Royce, Randy Salas and Kristin Tillotson.

Dissecting slice & dice movies

Posted by: Colin Covert under Books, Movies Updated: May 30, 2012 - 6:19 PM

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Piercing insights

Piercing insights

For a thick, pulsating slice of the stalk ‘n’ stab film genre, J.A. Kerswell’s encyclopedic “The Slasher Movie Book” ($24.95, Chicago Review Press) is the ultimate treatise of terror. It’s a loving appreciation of classics (including genre-defining masterpieces like Alfred Hitchcock’s “Psycho” and John Carpenter’s “Halloween”), Italy’s giallo gorefests and macabre memorabilia. With scholarly clarity, Kerswell traces the roots of the maniac-with-machete film cycle to the Grand Guignol Theater in gaslight-era Paris. He presents the often-dismissed cat-and-mouse horror films as audacious outsider artworks that pushed the boundaries of studio-dominated screen entertainment.

 

Kerswell, a 43-year-old English fan who calls himself “perhaps the only vegan gorehound in existence,” is perhaps too restrained in his commentary. He’s loath to criticize even the cheesiest offering so long as the poster artwork features coeds skewered on a kebab or a madman thrusting a hatchet at the viewer.
Nor does he revel in the sense of schadenfreude that makes slasher films perennially popular. His thumbnail critiques don’t exude the feverish revelry of the now semiretired drive-in movie critic Joe Bob Briggs, whose work was syndicated a couple of decades ago. Briggs’ analysis of “Mountaintop Motel Massacre,” a 1986 effort by “Jim McCullough, the second greatest filmmaker in the whole state of Arkansas,” noted “What we got here is: One breast. Seven dead bodies. Three quarts blood. Electro-heart massage. Sickle in face. Sickle in chest. Sickle in neck.” And that was before Briggs got his typing fingers warmed up.
Still, the luridly illustrated book evokes the musty smell of grindhouse cinemas and the “don’t run up the stairs” thrills of days gone by. True fans of the genre will treasure it like a garage sale VHS of “The House That Screamed.”

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