Twelve years after directing Cool Hand Luke, television-cum-Silver Screen director Stuart Rosenberg created what many label the iconographic haunted house narrative. In 1974, Ronald DeFeo killed his family with a shotgun before declaring that the estate’s voices were the culprit. After Jay Anson turned the tale into a best-selling work of “historical fiction,” the Amityville legacy grew in that, a year afterward, the Lutzs–a newlywed couple and their children–purportedly witnessed and experienced ghastly “happenings,” the consequences of which left them fleeing from their new home, their possessions abandoned.

As Stephen King astutely observes in respect to Rosenberg’s feature, the work’s merits are not to be based upon the veracity of the events contained therein, but rather how the artist treats the inevitably fictionalized events (considering any retelling is a version of historic record . . . ). As such, The Amityville Horror joins the ranks of its “adult” horror brethren of the period–Richard Donner’s The Omen and William Friedkin’s The Exorcist. It is not so much that, like its peers, The Amityville Horror is a patient work with little gore and nary one death, but rather, it symbolizes mature, real world concerns while presenting them in a medium which aptly labels them for what they are: horrific.

Considering the film is, on the surface, a rote, perhaps uneven, narrative which is ultimately hollow at it core in that it evidences no true concern for its characters, why did The Amityville Horror gross more at the Box Office than Stanley Kubrick’s vastly superior haunted house effort a year hence, The Shining? Quite simply, the latter encompasses matters which the average adult can readily ignore and still successfully make it throughout one’s day as psychological reflection and philosophical inquiry serves as icing on the metaphysical cake. As such, though life would be of greater value if we were to take heed of what is being presented in The Shining, we can nevertheless not ignore or merely passively humor what is being metaphorically conveyed in Rosenberg’s feature.

Just as Friedkin gives his audience an all-too-real look into the life of a prepubescent girl (bad skin, poor temperament, raging hormones), Rosenberg hurls his audience into a scenario where a newly married couple accept several mortgages, which all but paves the way for a divorce further down the road. Moreover, our protagonist, George (James Brolin), has also taken in three stepchildren as part of the deal as, no sooner than the ink dries on the deed, his Dutch colonial begins falling apart. In short, the real-life horror that audiences continue to react and relate to in The Amityville horror is the fear of economic and familial collapse.

Indeed, Roger Ebert wry notes that “We’ve all made bad real estate investments,” yet we hope that we can nonetheless weather the initial nightmare period of getting our new home in order before our bank accounts run dry, thereby forcing us to cut our losses. Unfortunately, this dread is poignantly realized in The Amityville Horror along with all of the insanity-inducing nuances along the way. For example, we can hear the cash register ring up as a fly infestation demands an exterminator bill at the offset, walls which seep blood calling for a trip to the paint store, a very pricey medical tab will invariably follow after an eve slams upon on of the young Lutz boy’s fingers, the latter seconded only in its number of obligatory figures via a psychiatrist for young Amy (Natasha Ryan), whose invisible friend is creating potential lawsuits after “telling” her to not to release her babysitter from the closet.

Rosenberg has no qualms with highlighting his agenda as the film’s premise is succinctly epitomized during what would at first appear to be an arbitrary sequence where 1,500 in cash disappears, leaving the financially-driven caterer having to begrudgingly consent to accepting a check on George’s behalf (to make circumstantial matters worse, George is having to shell out his own dough, in the wake of a new home which is already collapsing, for his brother-in-law). Of course, the check bounces, thus further exacerbating matters by way of an otherwise avoidable overdraft fee as George returns to 112 Ocean Avenue where the heating bill continues to rise even though the house was billed as being well insulated. “They’ll nickel and dime ya’,” George pithily complains to his young wife, Kathy Lutz (Margot Kidder), whose idealistic youth writes off George’s rising temper as his newfound machismo, an effect of having a home he must now protect like a cave. Predictably, shortly thereafter, the stairs literally cave in, thereby placing the local handyman on speed dial.

There is a very fine line between comedy and tragedy, as Richard Benjamin’s The Money Pit attests. Benjamin’s film, which bares the same premise as Rosenberg’s, opts to take the “Keep from Crying” route with the same material whereas The Amityville Horror steadfastly breeches the nightmare of homeownership head-on. Unsurprisingly, the consequence is a literal nightmare. However, the director’s masterstroke in this regard is the manner in which Kathy reacts to everything around her. Confused at George’s growing anxiety, we sympathize for the character as she stands dumbfounded, her inexperience keeping her from acting, as she is left anticipating the worst: Her loved one, not only crumbles under economic pressure, but transfers said stress through violence. Thus, yes, Rosenberg does issue us a haunted house whose malevolence is channeled through its paterfamilias, but, sadly, this is perhaps the all-too-real reality of what occurs on a day-to-day basis in the world.

However, though The Amityville Horror has a finger on the pulse of universal existence, it nevertheless baulks at times as its unnecessary back story detracts from the proceedings (financial nightmares just are, no rhyme or reason outside of “shit happens” required) as the house’s second-story railing gives the anthropomorphic estate’s facade a comical effect by way of a unintentional mustache. Conversely, Rosenberg’s patience as he gradually compounds the Lutzs’ woes is commendable as, for historical puritans, Brolin’s casting as George–who is said to be the spitting image of DeFeo–is exactly that. Brownie points are subsequently allotted as a copy of The Intruder appears over George’s shoulder on a library shelf as the potential quibble which could be had with the missed opportunity for the director to skirt question of whether the house is truly influencing George as opposed to whether the culprit is merely the character’s diminishing sanity is thwarted in the presence of Rosenberg’s sociological agenda.

In lieu of critics’ frequent renunciation that Stuart Rosenberg’s The Amityville Horror is a par horror performance, we must nonetheless take into account that the feature struck, and continues to strike, a Jungian chord. Invariably, once the seemingly arbitrary sequences in the film are reviewed, the audience comes to understand why we sit strangely fascinated with the picture as the fear of a 30-year mortgage gone awry is unrepentantly made manifest in the parable of a “haunted house.” In short, The Amityville Horror should not only be applauded for causing a very understandable, gut-churning reaction in its audience, but its director should be congratulated for having the mind to adapt what could have been another gratuitous myth into a socially-conscious work of terrifyingly real dread.

-Egregious Gurnow