Like Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, Jaume Collet-Serra’s House of Wax shares the name of André De Toth’s 1953 film though it houses few plot similarities, while the latter is a literal remake of a 1933 film by Michael Curtiz, Mystery of the Wax Museum, despite the (obvious) fact that it bares a different title. Interestingly, Collet-Serra takes elements from both his predecessors in order to create a new vision, one that thrills and entertains in lieu of fighting a perpetual uphill battle.
En route to Baton Route, Louisiana via Gainesville, Florida in the hopes of catching a football game, a group of friends–Carly Jones (Elisha Curtberth); her boyfriend, Wade (Jared Padalecki); Carly’s brother, Nick (Chad Michael Murray); Paige Edwards (Paris Hilton) and her boyfriend, Blake (Robert Richard); as well as Dalton (Jon Abrahams)–opts to camp out after breaking the state line. It is here that the collective realize that the fan belt in one of the two vehicles is broken, which obliges Carly and Wade to voyage into the nearest town, Ambrose. Desolate for over 40 years, Ambrose is still dominated by the visage of Trudy’s House of Wax. It is here that the couple locate the local garage owner, Bo (Brian Van Holt). Upon the inquiry of a replacement belt for their car, Bo leads them back to his home, which is where stunning revelations will begin to be made before they extend to everyone of the travelers.
I once had a philosophy professor who had passed the Bar exam. When asked why he left the study of Law, he replied that he didn’t like the people he had to work with. Of course, he allowed the class to meditate upon his response before adding, “The lawyers that is.” Every so often I sympathize with my old Logic instructor for, though there are many films which make me question my choice of profession, more frequently I find myself at frustrating odds with critics. Such is the case with Collet-Serra’s debut feature, for the work was prejudged long before its release and, after the first “Yes Man” review appeared, the gate was subsequently opened for every slated, unrepentantly subjective evaluation.
The a majority of the reviewers’ biases is due to cultural saturation. Though no fault of their own, it is nevertheless the critic’s responsibility to remove oneself and to compensate when a professional degree of distance cannot be readily obtained. This said, after Planet Earth slowly metamorphosed into Planet Paris circa 2003, one can well understand that any work which casts the hotel heiress-cum-porn star-cum-socialite is doomed from Day 1. Furthermore, Collet-Serra’s picture is a remake (albeit a very loose one), which debuted amid a surge of terrible horror reduxes–thereby further tainting expectations-cum-observer bias. In short, his picture never stood a chance, and, as such, has never been given its critical due.
With this in tow, “Knowing” the film to be bad before entering the theater, critics sat, nay crouched, waiting to pounce any and every molecule of the work which they deemed a misstep. In respect to the horror genre, cliché is the poison of choice for anyone demanding a failure. Granted, as par a slasher-esque outing, fornicator bait via (natch) Hilton is provided. Yet, as part of Warner Brothers promotion for the film, t-shirts were sold which stated “On May 6th, Watch Paris Die,” thus, to hold the director accountable in this regard, intentionally misses the point. Moreover, aside from our requisite Final Female and our promised death, all other characters become a raffle as to who will live and who will die. (Can we really complain that Hilton was cast seeing that the production company wanted some insurance with a first-time director whom, being such, didn’t have the leverage to quibble? Keep in mind that Orson Welles, even after Citizen Kane, was forced to cast Charlton Heston as a Mexican in Touch of Evil and, in respect to Spartacus, control was still a pipe dream for Stanley Kubrick. Moreover, what of cinema being an avenue for catharsis, an opportunity afforded us in which we are permitted to experience scenarios vicariously and without the ramification and, as such, we in turn get to witness Hilton’s demise? Thankfully, Collet-Serra never attempts to get blood from his turnip as he treats the character of Paige and Hilton’s performance flippantly. Yes, we do have the cliché of running up the stairs but, in respect to this narrative faux pas, detractors have never taken into account that, when in immediate danger, the first open door is typically the one which most of us take for we do not have the liberty to deliberate in respect to better options. Others cite the event of a car’s fan belt breaking overnight (thus, when not in use) as a non sequitur. However, given the general populace, how many critics knew this beforehand? Furthermore, the rebuttal that the gearhead who houses the automotive acumen would innately realize this inconsistency overlooks the fact that the character has been in a blind rage since Frame One because he doesn’t want to be involved with the proceedings. Thus, can anyone legitimately claim that he or she hasn’t overlooked the obvious before, especially when enraged? Lastly, when an ominous truck appears in the clearing where the individuals are nestled, the complaint is lodged that stupidity accounts for the characters remaining after the vehicle departs given the danger due to their established exposure. However, this conveniently eschews the note–especially when one takes into account the machismo which has been evidenced by a figure throwing a beer bottle at the truck–that herd mentality is in affect, goaded by peer pressure, as the singular focus of the final destination culminates in dogged tunnel vision. In short, what many quickly defer to in order to validate their low opinions of the film are, in ironic retrospect, signs of a controlled, well thought-out and executed premise which takes into masterful account the psychology and circumstances involved.
Fascinatingly, the party responsible for the writing are the twin screenwriters Chad and Carey Hayes. In only their second feature-length script (after D.J. Webster’s 1990 production, The Dark Side of the Moon), the duo not only reshape their source material and make it their own via removing the mystery facet of Curtiz’s feature and placing it alongside Toth’s emphasis upon the horrific, they admirably apply their biological plight as mirror images of one another as House of Wax encompasses the tale of twins as well as siblings, not one, but three times over (talk about your intertexual reinforcement), the most commendable instance being the conceit of Robert Aldrich’s Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? wherein Blanche Hudson (Joan Crawford) and her sister Jane (Bette Davis) battle between one another for the duration of the production. In respect to allusion, the screenwriting duo also pause to tactfully include references to Rupert Julian’s The Phantom of the Opera as a mask is removed before the director cuts to a chandelier falling to the floor, a character is named Vincent as on homage for Price’s character in the 1953 rendition of the tale, as Wes Craven’s A Nightmare on Elm Street is also given a nod à la a set of oozing, murky stairs.
Yet the true strength of House of Wax does not rely upon witty historical citations but the manner in which the director creates and sustains tension. Contrary to popular opinion, the work shirks cliché as frequently as it seems to harbor it. For instance, when we are greeted by an extra from John Boorman’s Deliverance, a redneck figure named Lester (Damon Herriman), we prepare ourselves for the inevitable which, like the last-ditch effort of the trumped killer, never comes. Coyly, no sooner than we realize that the menacing-looking Lester is a babe in the woods does the filmmaker give us the clean-cut character of Bo who, contrary to his appearance, is what we expected his predecessor to be. Hence, even before the inevitable first mask appears, we quickly learn that appearances are not what they seem. More importantly, suspense runs high for we are unable to discern whether one or two killers are at work and, to exquisitely exacerbate matters (and symbolic of how well the plot is presented), Collet-Serra has our duel figure played by the same actor.
The director goes the whole nine yards for he fleshes out his story in that, in every case in which a dubious action, proposal, or event takes place, such is immediately succeeded by a plausible explanation (which, if true to horror mediocrity, such would be flippantly left to its own unaccountable devices). For instance, after Bo informs us that the fan belt needed is to be found at his house instead of alongside all of the other replacement parts surrounding the trio in the owner’s garage, he coolly announces that he has deliveries sent to his home in case they arrive on a day in which he isn’t working. Similarly, Collet-Serra’s veteran attention to detail is also witnessed in a freshly severed head blinking as the last surges of blood filter through its veins while the bed of a pickup which frequently transports animal corpses is lined in coagulated crimson in order to establish its long-term commitment to the activity. In addition, though the work’s running time falls just short of the two-hour mark, the director posits a genesis for the evil contained within as, perhaps most deliciously, he stays one step ahead of his viewer so as to continue to build suspense while simultaneously garnering admiration from his audience. For example, we catch a brief glimpse of a minister in a church before we realize the entire town is populated with wax personages. However, upon this epiphany, another quickly follows as we shake our finger upon the recollection that the Reverend was seen moving his eyes. No sooner than we make this deduction does Collet-Serra then provide an explanation and, at that, a very chilling one. It should be no surprise that a very succinct irony occurs during the finale, thereby closing a very notable feature.
Lastly, even if one does not appreciate genre history or the aesthetics of cinema, in the most astonishing of places–a summer throwaway remake–the gore hound is to be appeased as some of the most gruesome deaths and malevolent events take place within the confines of Ambrose as lips are Superglued together, hot wax is applied to a character’s goatee and eyebrows just as it would be for a Brazilian wax, while the tip of a finger is maliciously, via the matter-of-fact manner in which it is executed, snipped off. Yet, even the diligent naysayer cannot argue that this frequently arbitrary component of the work is without merit for, aside from being dauntingly original, it lends to the foreboding atmosphere as well as the devastating nature of Collet-Serra’s antagonist.
Appearing during a time in which every other production is a gratuitous remake, and housing an actress which sallies forth everyone’s bitter distain, rookie director Jaume Collet-Serra and his House of Wax, with the aide of the laudable sophomore effort of twin screenwriters, does the seeming impossible: They fashion a tale from two previous sources, while making it its own, atop doing so at no one’s expense ( . . . well, perhaps Hilton’s but, of course, the director knows no one truly cares . . . ). It is unfortunate that no everyone gave the work a fair chance for with what the filmmaker accomplishes at such an early stage in his career, such negativity might well thwart an entire canon of potential masterpieces. But, hey, don’t blame me . . . I voted for JCS!
-Egregious Gurnow
This film provided by Cape Video, the premier supplier of hard-to-find and out-of-print horror films. Check out their website at http://www.capevideoonline.com.
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