What if Christopher Guest directed a screenplay by Charlie Kaufman? What would have occurred had Rob Reiner been given the reigns for Man Bites Dog? This is the type of philosophic girth which Behind the Mask brings with it as rookie director Scott Glosserman and screenwriter David Stieve does nothing short of providing the horror equivalent to Federico Fellini’s 8 ½. Think Woody Allen’s Zelig and The Purple Rose of Cairo wrapped into one and helmed by one of–if not the–most threatening serial killer set to screen. These are just a few reasons why Behind the Mask is being lauded by critics as the greatest work of horror to appear in the last decade or, as proclaimed by Film Threat’s Jeremy Knox, the last quarter century. Going one more, I will humbly, simply offer Glosserman’s production as possibly the greatest horror film ever made.
Leslie Vernon (Nathan Baesel), a professional serial killer, permits a film crew helmed by Taylor Gentry (Angela Goethals) to document the proceedings, as well as the actual execution, of his next series of slayings.
By rationally, cleverly, and ingeniously deconstructing the standard interpretations of the genre in the form of the Puritanical cautionary tale as posited by the virginal final female, Glosserman not only forces Sigmund Freud to swallow his cigar as feminists blush and coyly giggle in hopes of distracting and distancing themselves from their previous grievances with the field, the director makes Craven’s critically-approved postmodern Scream look like a standard expository tale cut from the mold of the 19th century British novel while accomplishing the Herculean task of substantiating the aesthetic and social worth of what most everyone considers the bastard genre of film (second only in its depravity to porn). “Remarkable,” “Astonishing,” and “Astounding” are hereby moot labels in respect to Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon.
Sheer, utter, irrefutable radiating brilliance–the type all too rarely witnessed in one’s lifetime–rears its mythical head once again and, to the embarrassment of most every cinematic ringleader of note, at the hands of a first-time director. It is during such occasions that a filmmaker reinvents a genre and, in so doing, casts a revisionist light upon a rote idea so as to breathe new life–as only Henry Frankenstein would have it–into the whole of an entire theory, movement, or medium. Such is the case with Glosserman and Co. for they do what many deemed to be the impossible, so much so that most every horror fan had given up hope of such occurring and, in so doing, makes the shock of having accomplished just that that much greater as a consequence. When Wes Craven took the archetypical in New Nightmare and, projecting it through a postmodern lens, made a played-out horror icon genuinely menacing, we applauded his creativity and daring. He did so by masterfully abandoning the need to have his audience suspend disbelief after collapsing the fourth wall between the action onscreen and the viewer.* Somehow, someway, Glosserman manages to one-up the horror master at his own game.
Behind the Mask hurls us into a world in which the events in Sean Cunningham’s Friday the 13th, Wes Craven’s A Nightmare on Elm Street, and John Carpenter’s Halloween are rooted in historical fact (thereby eliminating, early into the feature, the question of his central character’s sanity). After this convention-bending fact is established, we are met by Leslie Vernon, a “professional” serial killer who shares such a kinship with the legends of horror lore that he refers to them as “Jay, Fred, and Mike.” It is with this, equal parts straightforward horror and mockumentary, that Glosserman not only legitimizes his own work, but authenticates every preceding horror cliché, thereby making even the most mundane, by-the-numbers 1980s horror sequel, not only plausible (talk about doing the impossible), but–something which an entire decade of film could not accomplish on its own–truly terrifying for the first time.
By fashioning a world in which mass murderers have become so commonplace that no one takes notice outside of its victims and bored graduate students desperately seeking a thesis (a comment upon modern day society if there ever was one), we watch as Vernon expounds upon the genesis of horror formula and, to countless mainstream critics’ chagrin, shatters all preceding criticism by establishing why convention is actually necessity and how, by obliging protocol’s strict legislation, such is the only method by which to achieve optimum effect. By turning on the camera prior to Gregor Samsa’s metamorphosis, we disconcertingly discover that the predestined events enclosed in every stock serial killer flick were actually prefaced by the assassin’s meticulous research efforts and excessive attention to detail during the tentative slaying’s preparatory stages. For example, how can a killer casually strut as he stalks his prey, the latter fleeing at a breakneck pace, and logistically catch his victim? Easy, an elongated gait atop a rigorous daily cardiovascular workout regimen. Is the manner in which a mythical back story just happens to fall into place an all-too-coincidental plot devise seen one too many times? Nonsense, fabricated articles by the exacting murderer who supplemented the originals in the local archives has long been the culprit. What of the bastion of stock victims which consistently follows stereotypical quotas? Such is the consequence of a tedious screening process conducted months in advance by the criminal mind with an eye upon quantity as well as quality as figureheads are as much of a concern as fodder for purposes of pacing and the ambition of achieving a historic number of homicides in one outing. And what about the eye-rolling gimme of the seemingly omnipotent supernatural killer who always comes back one last time? Preparation, preparation, preparation in the form of flame retardant chemical creams and bulletproof vests. Thus, not only does the filmmaker issue us a tongue-in-cheek exposé of the history of slasher horror, he forces us to reconsider our perhaps haphazard dismissals of every horror film which came before. Most would concur that–before Glosserman made his directorial debut–only God Himself could convincingly present Rob Hedden’s Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan as a movie which houses the capacity to prompt even the remotest twinge of fear. After Behind the Mask, every slasher film, both before and since, will automatically–even at their mere prospect–evoke inescapable anxiety and dread.
While learning that the opportune appearance of Murphy’s Law in every teen slasher film is actually the result of gross amounts of forethought–as seen in the replacing of dead batteries in all of the flashlights in the doomed locale prior to the teen aggregation’s arrival, half-sawed tree branches in case someone attempts to break their fall from a second-story window, and conveniently placed and rigged weapons deposited to assure narrative fluidity as well as metaphorical import–Vernon further elucidates upon the serial killer’s code of ethics as established by the famous, and not so famous, names in the field (the latter taking the form of a retired serial killer by the name of Eugene, played by Scott Wilson, and his loyal and perpetually supportive and appreciative wife, Jamie, played by Bridgett Newton). For example, the reason that killers never enter the tool shed/attic/etc.–in short, “safe place” in which our final female has momentarily fled–is due to the fact that the murderer is serving the public good by attempting to do the figure a personal justice via catalyzing character development (atop instilling meaningful, inherent worth in the concept of Good by selflessly instituting its polar opposite within the world–every purveyor of death is cognizant of the fact that one is voluntarily eschewing a life of normalcy for the profession inevitably leaves one either on the lamb, committed, or dead). By politely observing that the cinematic stronghold symbolizes the Freudian womb, the heroine will inevitably be allowed to travel through the corollary birth canal, i.e. enclosed dark woodland region surrounding the secluded murder site, in order to reemerge–born anew after having shed her childhood innocence–as she debuts, at the thematically consistent break of a new day, as a woman. This motif is always paralleled by the character having assumed one of the killer’s weapons (metaphorically depicting the stripping of the killer’s power–which will indubitably be phallic), thus indicating that she has taken control of the situation (and her life) for the first time.
It is with this–the first horror antagonist who is, not only conscious of the basis for his malicious drive, but understands and appreciates the philosophical and aesthetic implications of such, drawn perilously close to the viewer via the character’s physical aptitude and verve for the craft atop his amiability by way of uncharacteristic affability–that Glosserman fashions what is arguably the most dominating, horrifying figure in all of film. Imagine the patience of David Fincher’s villain in Se7en, John Doe, as guided by Hannibal Lecter’s cognitive ability and plotted with Jigsaw’s fastidiousness, directed with Jack Torrance’s single-minded focus and manifested by Brundlefly’s agility and stamina. However, the filmmaker’s terrific masterstroke, both on a logistic and pathological level, is the manner in which Leslie Vernon transcends his scenario not unlike Friedrich Nietzsche’s Ubermensch rising above his plight. Yet, the success of the character is due in no small part to Nathan Baesel in his first starring role in a feature length film as his titular performance nearly bests Christian Bale’s tour de force portrayal of Patrick Bateman in Mary Harron’s phenomenal American Psycho while eerily recalling the ominous undertones espoused by Laynard Gates, the vastly underrated nemesis found within Mark Herrier’s Popcorn.
Upon their premiers, Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane, Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now, Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange, Nicholas Ray’s Rebel Without a Cause, Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho, Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction, Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver, James Whale’s Frankenstein, and Mike Nichols’s The Graduate irrefutably altered the face cinema forever. However, distinct from such pivotal moments in cinematic history, Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon doesn’t just raise the bar. Instead, it does nothing less than eradicate the evaluative basis for which all film had previously been judged. By comparison, if we contrast Scott Glosserman’s debut work with the proverbial shot in the dark, literally defined as a flash in the pitch-black darkness with nary a hint of even the subtlest glow by which to defy the source’s anonymous existence, this blinding production is nothing short of a solar flare. We often speak of masterpieces but this, my friends, is something more, something beyond itself and–due to its various psychological, aesthetic, and philosophical implications–in many respects, beyond art.
*–for more philosophic mobius stripping on film, see such epistemological gems as Julian Richards’s The Last Horror Movie, Mark Herrier’s aforementioned Popcorn, Lamberto Bava’s Demons, William Castle’s The Tingler, Bigas Luna’s Anguish, and John Carpenter’s In The Mouth Of Madness
– Egregious Gurnow
- Interview with J.R. Bookwalter - January 22, 2015
- Interview with Andrew J. Rausch - January 22, 2015
- Interview with Rick Popko and Dan West - January 22, 2015
- Interview with Director Stevan Mena (Malevolence) - January 22, 2015
- Interview with Screenwriter Jeffery Reddick (Day of the Dead 2007) - January 22, 2015
- Teleconference interview with Mick Garris (Masters of Horror) - January 22, 2015
- A Day at the Morgue with Corri English (Unrest) - January 22, 2015
- Interview with Writer/Director Nacho Cerda (The Abandoned, Aftermath) - January 22, 2015
- Interview with Actress Thora Birch (Dark Corners, The Hole, American Beauty) - January 22, 2015
- Interview with Actor Jason Behr, Plus Skinwalkers Press Coverage - January 22, 2015
