01x03 - Unholy Dreams

[bunniefuu]

America in the '60s and '70s

was defined by chaos.

Senator John F. Kennedy

is the 34th president
of the United States.

The flare-ups between
whites and Negroes.

The escalating w*r in Vietnam.

Struggle with the communists.

An oil crisis

that resulted in the
rationing of gasoline.

The lines are lengthening,

supplies are dropping,
and reports...

Demands for women's liberation.

Equal education and job
opportunities, equal pay.

A growing civil rights movement

and a general distrust
of institutions

like organized religion and
government with a capital "G,"

these defined the times.

Rioting in a n*gro
section of Los Angeles.

Profound changes
to cultural norms

created intense anxieties,

leading many to
fear that society,

as we knew it,
was falling apart.

The largest
generation in history,

the Baby Boomers,
were coming of age.

And that youth quake
shook the world

as millions of teens
and young adults

took to the streets
protesting the w*r,

demanding equal
rights for women...

- Women!
- And joining the fight

for civil rights.

Struggle together to
go to jail together,

to stand up for freedom...

This episode

of Blumhouse's
Compendium of Horror

looks at how films of the era

reflected the real
and tangible change

the Baby Boomers demanded

and how a new generation

of auteur directors
and their films...

President Kennedy has
been shot in Dallas.

Pushed the envelope of
what was acceptable.

It has been established that
persons who have recently died

have been returning to life.

I think if I had to come
up with my Mount Rushmore

of horror directors,

you'd be like John Carpenter,

Wes Craven.

Tobe Hoover definitely belongs.

Definitely got to be Romero.

Night of the Living Dead

is in my DNA and in the
genetics of my work, as well,

because, you know, you've
got George Romero going like,

"You know, we got two
bucks, and we got a field.

Let's make a zombie movie."

Boy, you used to
really be scared here.

Johnny!

You're still afraid.

Stop it now. I mean it.

They're coming to
get you, Barbara.

I was scared in
my mom's basement,

this one back part
of her basement.

It was a damp and dark place,
and that's where I used to go

to fire up an old projector
and watch old reels of film.

One day, I found this
old print of this movie

that I'd never
obviously heard of.

I guess I was about seven.

And it was Night
of the Living Dead.

My mom found me
like, I don't know,

end minutes before
the end of the movie

and tried to, you
know, turn it off.

But by that point, I was f*cked.

Good Lord.

It took me a long
time before I was cool

to go back in the basement.

And then I realized
what my dad did.

I realized the
creativity of it all.

To me, it was like
it was the first time

I ever really kind of
had an understanding

of what he did as an artist.

And I think most good directors
that really have a grasp

of the medium can do horror.

And now that they're
becoming venerable

in the eyes of the
studio and so forth,

a lot of those people
are going into it.

The idea that corpses
could come back to life

as bodies without souls

originated in 19th
century Haitian folklore.

Stories of the dead
being reanimated

usually involves some form
of religious ceremony,

such as voodoo.

These stories of the
undead walking the earth,

along with a book
called I Am Legend,

inspired director
George A. Romero

to turn those concepts

into the flesh eating,
slow-moving zombie

that shocked audiences in
Night of the Living Dead.

I had met George Romero.

We were on a family vacation,
and we were in Italy.

My Love for Night
of the Living Dead

had sort of reached
its pinnacle.

I'm happily typecast in a
genre that I've always loved.

And I have an opportunity
to work on Day of the Dead.

Day of the Dead was one of
the greatest experiences

that I had ever had.

I mean, talk about just being
plucked from a little kid

in his basement, watching
horror movies, to standing next

to one of the greatest horror
directors of our generation.

And watching him film a
zombie movie and being in it.

I was actually in it, too.

I got decapitated. My
head came back to life.

I mean, I could have retired
at 19, for f*ck's sake.

Aah!

I remember George Romero
talking about movies

and the roller coaster
ride, the adrenaline.

You know, you have people
that may not want to ride

a roller coaster for real,
but they'll go see a movie

and they'll go on
the same journey.

Night of the Living Dead

is probably one of the few films

that actually gave
me nightmares.

Saw it at a horror festival.

It was a couple of
years after it came out.

So it already had a reputation.

It was heavy.

It was that really crude
black-and-white photography

which gave it an almost
semi documentary feel

and made it feel more realistic.

That's what really got to me.

The Night of the
Living Dead made money

and lots of it.

Shot for just $114,000,

the movie grossed
more than 12 million

during its initial
release alone.

To hype the movie, a
$50,000 insurance policy

was offered to anyone who
died of a heart attack

watching the film.

A marketing stunt that
made seeing the movie

an irresistible test of
courage for true horror fans.

Night of the Living Dead was
groundbreaking for everything.

They made a movie in a town
where movies weren't made.

They bucked the system, and
they showed people images

that made every
single person in 1968

who saw those
images uncomfortable

at a molecular level.

Horror films to that point
were cause and effect.

Actions have consequences.

Then here, these guys
come with this film

that you could just be in the
wrong place at the wrong time,

get bit, and the next thing
you know, whoever you trusted

with your life and your
heart and your spirit was now

turning on you and was a
creature that was going to

not only k*ll you and eat you...

but turn you into another one.

The notion of the
dead not dying,

coming back and turning
you into a dead person,

infecting you with more death.

This zombie looks like
your f*cking girlfriend

or your husband who just died.

And then they're
going to wake up,

and they're going
to try to eat you,

and then you're
going to f*cking die,

and then you're
going to become one.

Relatively new notion.

There are a lot of choices
that people have to make

in the zombie
apocalypse mythology.

I'm sorry, Mum.

Do it!

And when you realize
that surviving

means having to do things

that you couldn't imagine
that you would have to do,

and what this kind of
thing does to a person,

it just shows you
the drastic change

that people can
undergo when dealing

with these tremendous
outside circumstances.

And the distrust, man's
distrust for other men.

Obviously, Night
of the Living Dead

is a very, you know, low budget,

but it's about the beginning
of the breakdown of society.

We have to look at the
different iterations

that have been put on
screen of the, you know,

post-apocalyptic living,
whether it's, you know,

Mad Max, or 28 Days Later.

George Romero had
a great handle on,

you know, the decay of society.

Ideas for the the zombie
films that I've done anyway,

the idea always comes first.

I have to know what
the movie's about

because they're not really
movies about zombies.

I mean, the zombies are almost
just minor annoyances, you know?

It was an extremely
turbulent time,

and the civil rights movement
was huge, and Vietnam was huge.

And the film itself is just
chock full of messaging

about all of that.

But the messaging about it
that I personally took away

was that times were changing.

Night of the Living Dead was
released in the fall of '68

when America was experiencing
profound tragedy and change

in the area of civil rights.

Just six months earlier,
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Had been assassinated
in Memphis.

The reaction in the streets
was swift and furious

because equality seemed
more unattainable than ever.

Horror films had always
put social tensions

front and center, and
George Romero's choice

to put a Black male
lead in his movie

sent a loud and clear message.

To actually have a
Black protagonist

in Night of the Living
Dead was pretty cool.

It was pretty revolutionary.
We had never seen it before.

And a heroic Black character.
I mean, he was the hero.

He was the only one that
knew what was going on.

The cellar is the
strongest place.

You box yourself in the cellar

and those things get in
the house, you've had it.

At least up here, you
have a fighting chance.

You know, usually
in a horror film,

the Black folks are
the first to go.

There were a lot of instances
where George had said,

"Look, I cast Duane Jones

because he was the
most talented actor

that he had met at the time.

You know, was George
subliminally telling a story

by putting a Black
man in the lead?

Subsequently, all of George's
movies from that point on

had an African-American lead
and a female lead, you know.

So whether it was by
accident or subliminal,

George definitely was
making a statement.

Night of the Living
Dead definitely changed

the horror genre

because it kind of stretched
what's permissible.

You didn't see so much
viscera in movies.

You know, it
definitely unleashed

what was possible visually.

You know, you could now see
intestines being pulled out

and being eaten up by a zombie.

Now you could see the
possession of a child.

The idea of the evil
child, the demon child,

you know, that little
girl, she comes back

after she'd been k*lled,
and she comes back

and tries to eat her
mother in the basement.

Oh, baby.

So that made a lot of
things permissible.

In the '60s, there was a
huge trend in the occult.

You had people
leaving the church.

Church membership was down.

People were saying
they were atheists.

You had a godless Catholic
in the White House.

I mean, people hated that
JFK had been Catholic.

That was like viewed with
such alarm across America

that this invidious
pope worshiper

was in the White House.

Suddenly it seemed like
all religious faith

was up for grabs in America.

It wasn't the country we told
ourselves we thought it was.

Hail Satan!

Hail Satan!

We weren't just a country
of white Protestant men.

There were women
who wanted rights.

There were Black people
who wanted rights.

There were Catholics, there
were Jews, there were Hindus.

There were all these
other people out there.

It was terrifying
to white people.

And so Rosemary's Baby really
jumps in with all four feet

right on that pressure point.

Oh, that's nice. What is
that? That's the TV room?

Well, only temporarily.
It's going to be a nursery.

- Oh, you're pregnant?
- No, not yet.

I hope to be as soon
as we're settled.

Wonderful! Well, you're
young and healthy.

You'll have lots of children.

At their most basic,

horror movies have
been allegories

for the fight between
good and evil.

Rosemary's Baby
was no exception,

opening in theaters in the
summer of what turned out

to be a pivotal year in history
and in the movies, 1968.

Women were on the march,
rejecting marginalization

and demanding that
their voices be heard.

They were moving into
corporate offices, boardrooms,

and into the political
center of power.

Against that backdrop
of societal change,

Rosemary's Baby was a
sophisticated horror film

that reflected the
paranoia of the era

and asked complex questions
about female autonomy,

marital abuse, and
the role of women

in a rapidly changing world.

I've spoken pretty
openly about the fact

that I am somebody who can
speak back to the screen

when Rosemary's Baby is playing.

It's a cornerstone film
for me for so many reasons,

but I just find it that
deeply entertaining.

This is for you
from Roman and me.

For me?

It's just a little present
is all, for moving in.

There's no reason...

Real old. It's over 300 years.

And scary for a lot
of different reasons.

It's lovely.

You know, not just about
sort of the literal story,

but for all of the subtext
I think underneath it.

In Rosemary's Baby,
director Roman Polanski

used themes of religion and
the occult as a backdrop

for questioning the role
of women in society.

Rosemary's Baby kind of
came out of nowhere in '67.

Before, movies were
gothic stuff from Hammer,

vampires in Ancient
Europe, Victorian Times,

old timey places.

Universal Monsters.

On TV was The Addams
Family, The Munsters,

laugh track horror.

We don't want any child
of ours going to school

and being stared at.

With Rosemary's Baby,

you suddenly had this
contemporary horror story

set in modern-day New York.

He's an actor.
She's a homemaker.

They're young kids in love,

living in an identifiable,
recognizable,

modern-day setting.

With Satan.

This is no dream. This
is really happening!

I have a memory of just feeling
like this movie is unreal.

You know, I mean, Ruth Gordon.

Are you kidding me?
This performance.

Listen, I won't let
you go to no Dr. Hill,

nobody ever heard of.

The best is what you're
going to have, young lady.

Where's your telephone, huh?

Just the vividness
of the filmmaking.

The assuredness of every
passage, every shot.

I still watch it with a
sense of awe. I really do.

Dr. Hill prescribed
vitamin pills.

No pills. Minnie
Castevet has a herbarium.

I'm gonna have her make
a daily drink for you

that will be fresher,
safer, and more vitamin-rich

than any pills on the market.

Rosemary's Baby is about the
complete lack of autonomy

and control that a woman
and or women societally

have over their bodies.

I think just the general
feeling of powerlessness

in Rosemary's Baby, how no
one would listen to her,

how she was constantly
being gaslit,

how she was listening
to these men,

and as a result, literally
gave birth to the devil.

I just remember that
pervasive feeling of like,

"No one will listen to me,"

being something that really
shook me emotionally.

Has an under taste.

A chalky under taste.

I don't get it.

That's silly, honey.
There is no under taste.

I think Rosemary's
Baby is haunting

because, one, this
is her husband,

the person she's
supposed to trust

more than anyone in the world,
who's supposed to love her.

The dismissive pat on the head

and extreme gaslighting
behavior on stark display

in Rosemary's Baby were
all too familiar to women

ignored by their bosses, and
even by their own husbands.

Like all the best horror
films, Rosemary's Baby was

a resonant, riveting echo of
its time and its portrayal

of a vulnerable woman exploited
and betrayed by the men

she trusted made an
indelible impression.

A scene that I love in
which late in the game,

Rosemary realizes, "Oh,
my God, something terrible

is happening to me."

And she goes to her
original gynecologist,

played by Charles Grodin,
and begs for help.

And maybe all of
this is coincidence.

But one thing is for sure.

They have a coven,
and they want my baby.

Certainly seems that way.

And he listens to her,
and he's really patient,

and he says, "Why
don't you lie down?

You must be exhausted. I'm
going to get you some help."

And he leaves, and
you see her say,

"Okay, little Andy or Jenny,
we're going to be okay.

This nice man is
going to help us."

God bless Dr. Hill.

And then she wakes
up from her nap.

And similar to The
Texas Chainsaw m*ssacre

scene I love so much, she
is returned to her captors.

And you realize that

whether Charles Grodin
was in on a scheme

or just simply thinks
any woman with this story

must be utterly insane, he has
done the absolute wrong thing.

And that moment is like the
fulcrum of the whole movie.

Somebody help me!

I think it's a great
allegory for sort of

the "my body, my choice" fight
that has been happening forever.

I think the most brilliant
thing about Rosemary's Baby

and why it stood
the test of time

is because we're still fighting
for control over our own bodies.

That is a fight that is sadly
still going on to this day.

The early '60s were when
back-alley ab*rtion

were sort of the unmentioned
elephant in the room.

Reproduction was huge in
the '60s and in the '70s,

and, in fact, you had a ton of
childbirth horror coming out,

and a lot of that finds its
roots with Rosemary's Baby.

I won't have an ab*rtion.

Nobody's telling you
to have an ab*rtion.

Just go to see another
doctor, that's all.

Films like Carrie
or Rosemary's Baby

are films often made by men
that are struggling with

the notion of femininity
and femaleness,

as both societally and then,

for some of the filmmakers,
personally monstrous.

Rosemary's Baby was
not only a reflection of

America's reaction to
the women's movement,

but a reflection on director
Roman Polanski himself.

Polanski's subsequent
statutory r*pe charge

and flight from America
sent many women back

for a second look at the film

about the takeover
of women's bodies.

So there's something
really interesting to me

about seeing those
filmmakers forcing themselves

to be empathetic with
female characters

and a female point of view
and female experience.

With women demanding
power in society

and in their homes, horror films
continue to grapple with that

shift by taking it into
the spiritual realm.

The graphic depiction
of demonic possession

unnerved a country steeped
in religious belief.

The Exorcist was ahead
of the cultural curve

with its depiction of
God versus the devil

in a spiritual fistfight
for the soul of a child.

And audiences, already
questioning the role of religion

in modern society,
well, they were ready.

For me, 'cause I was
an old Catholic kid,

the devil will still always
be the absolute worst

because the devil
could be anybody,

and the devil is a
supernatural force.

Well, then let's
introduce ourselves.

- I'm Damien Karras.
- And I'm the devil!

Now kindly undo these straps.

If you're the
devil, why not make

the straps disappear?

That's a much too vulgar
display of power, Karras.

I think I saw the original
Exorcist in a theater,

which is still, to this day,
one of my favorite horror movies

ever because of the
approach that they took.

They were like, "This
is real. I'm Friedkin,

very intense filmmaker,
and I'm going to hire

like Ellen Burstyn as the
mother, who is a completely

believable actress,

like Academy Award-winning
type actress.

I'm gonna put her in
this horror film."

As a Catholic, I wasn't
allowed to watch The Exorcist

because it would possess me.

So by the time I recovered
from Catholicism, I watched it,

and I go, "Oh, yeah. I can see
how this messed up some people."

The first time I saw it,

I actually went to
see it in the theater.

It's a super scary movie
to see in a theater.

And one of the most
shocking moments in my life

in a horror movie is when
she does the spider walk

down the stairs.

And I remember
starting to see it.

And then the next thing I
know, I'm standing on my seat

in the theater, like, crouched.

Like, I don't know how I got
there or how fast it happened.

But I remember my friend,
he's like, "Get down."

And I was like, "Where...
Where am I? What happened?

How long have I been out?"

Which is like, I don't
know if that's flight...

It's flight, I think.

It's freeze. I would have...

The tiger would have eaten me.

I was 10, eleven years old
when The Exorcist came out.

Everything about The Exorcist
felt like it was happening

in the house next door to
me, and that was terrifying.

And that was what was
terrifying for most people.

I mean, there were
lines around the block.

Despite being banned by
most organized religions,

including the Catholic Church,

The Exorcist was a commercial
and critical success,

partly because it was
so subversive at a time

when Americans were questioning
their own spiritual beliefs.

The Exorcist won two Oscars
and placed horror films

and horror fans
into the mainstream.

You know, walking
backwards down the stairs,

making a kid's head turn
around and stuff like that.

Vomiting pea soup.

Ah!

All of that sh*t is
pretty horrifying.

But, you know, I
don't even think

you have to be Catholic
to truly be unnerved.

The taboos that were
explored in the early '70s,

no one ever would have
imagined a movie like

The Exorcist, that
explored the violation

of a 12-year-old
girl by this demon

and everything that it did
for the Catholic Church.

Well, we as Catholics,
we were told every week,

"You're not allowed
to go see that movie."

And I don't know
a single Catholic

that didn't f*cking
eventually go see that movie.

The Exorcist is
considered the scariest

horror film ever made because
it strikes into the heart

of a very religious country.

You know, that's the last thing
we want to do is mess with

the devil and have it
show up in our homes.

That's why we put, you know,
the crucifix on the wall.

That's why we go to church.

And then when it just shows up
because a demon wants to have

a good time, it's super scary.

I feel The Exorcist hit
the nerve that it did

because at that time, nobody
had seen anything like it.

At that point, people found
a lot of comfort in religion.

And now all of a sudden,
this movie comes out

that's like... people's beliefs
were being stirred in terms of,

oh, why would a God let
something like that happen?

And in such a dramatic
and horrific fashion.

The 1960s introduced America to

the counterculture
movement and the hippies.

America's youth wanted change,
and the hippie movement,

well, they wanted it yesterday.

Young people protested
against the Vietnam w*r.

They rebelled against
commercialism.

And they fought
sexism and racism.

They pushed the needle
of progress so far

that it made their
parents' generation squirm.

And what the hell's the
matter with you kids?

But if the hippies
saw love and peace

as the goals of their movement,

older, more traditional
Americans saw chaos.

And after Charles Manson
and his murderous family,

even evil in the movement.

The 1960s were
incredibly idealistic.

There was the idea that the
world really could change

because this new
generation of young people

who thought so differently,
they were going to be in charge.

And by the time we
get into the '70s,

the system is fritzing wildly.

They were rebelling
against the government.

They were rebelling against w*r.

They were rebelling
against racism.

They were rebelling
against everything

that we continue
to rebel against.

There was an
insanity in the air.

There were always serial
K*llers throughout time,

from Jack the Ripper and
centuries before, I'm sure.

But it was somehow,
I don't know,

it was in the air in the '70s,

whether it was Son of Sam
or a chainsaw m*ssacre

or the Hillside Strangler.

Like, it was out there.

There were people out there.

And The Hills Have Eyes
and I Spit on Your Grave

perfectly bring the horror
of w*r and the chaos of w*r

to your front door.

And they show you that
there is no escaping

from the unseen evil
in your neighbor.

You know, in the
mid to late '70s,

horror movies were
very punk rock.

There was an edge to them.

Most of them are made with no
money in that era whatsoever.

You know, Texas
Chainsaw m*ssacre

is like, it puts Clerks
to shame in terms of,

like, use of minimal budget.

Like Psycho before it,

The Texas Chainsaw m*ssacre
is believed to be based

on the true crimes
of a serial k*ller.

And the origin of Leatherface
could also be traced back

to the violence inflicted by the
Butcher of Plainfield, Ed Gein.

The Texas Chainsaw
m*ssacre was cheap to make

and grossed millions
in its first run.

Low-budget indie
films took note.

I love Texas Chainsaw m*ssacre

because it is like,
we've got no money,

but we'll scare the
hell out of you.

It is very proto Clerks for me.

If they don't make that movie,

I don't get inspired to
make mine, even though

they're two completely
different subject matters.

Oh, my God. The scariest movie
I've ever seen, hands down,

is Tobe Hooper's Texas
Chainsaw m*ssacre.

I remember being shaken
to my core by that film.

And it's definitely
one of those movies

you don't feel the artifice
or the seams of filmmaking,

though it's an extremely
sophisticated movie.

You feel sort of just
like plopped in real life

in some horrible way.

That movie really stuck
with me and stays with me,

and I consider it one of the
greatest horror films ever made.

Generated by
sensational coverage

of anonymous serial K*llers
that seem to be lurking

in every suburban neighborhood,
a polarized America was becoming

increasingly frightened.

That sense of dread had
movie fans primed for films

that brought the faceless,
senseless, evil k*ller to life.

Tobe Hooper elevates the art
form in this incredible way

and makes a movie so terrifying

that any time I try to
make a horror movie,

that's the movie I
was trying to make.

When I tried to do Red State,

that's me trying to do
Texas Chainsaw m*ssacre.

When I tried to make Tusk,

I was trying to do
Texas Chainsaw m*ssacre.

That movie still lives
in my heart and soul.

It's a movie I still
watch once a year.

It still f*cking works.

The mastery of what Tobe did
was that he made it completely

on what you thought
was happening.

It was considered the most
violent film ever made.

But there's no blood in it.

[ Woman screams ]

And then just the title alone,
Texas Chainsaw m*ssacre.

You know, you're expecting
to see m*ssacre by chainsaw,

but you don't see it.

You know, so it's a
pretty subtle film.

When I think of Texas
Chainsaw m*ssacre,

I definitely identify
with the kids in the van.

And I look at the
world out there

that you're just
driving cross-country,

minding your business, and
there is fear of everyone else.

A genuine xenophobia
that I have experienced

when I'm driving in any town
where I don't know people,

but I don't know what
evil lurks there.

The film was so successful
because it went to dark places

that other films just
weren't gritty in capturing.

There was a conspiracy of evil

so that you could walk
into a spider's web

where everyone agreed
that this was okay.

You know, not just Leatherface,

but ma and pa and
everybody and the sheriff

and whoever you run
into were part of it.

What could be more
terrifying than that?

I think Leatherface is scary
because he's made of flesh.

That's dried skin that he's
sewn a face together to wear.

It's really terrifying.

It sort of predates Hannibal
Lecter in that regard,

and we'd just never
seen that before.

Leatherface is scary because
he's dumb and he just...

He's told what to
do and he does it.

So it's really... he's a
tool for this family that

makes him do terrible things.

Clearly Leatherface is
kind of a tragic character.

I mean, he's obviously
mentally disabled

in some sort of capacity.

You know, he's not having
fun either, you know.

Like, he's being
abused just as much.

You know, like his family
are the real evil ones

because they're
abusing Leatherface.

And, you know, I don't
think Leatherface on his own

would have necessarily
been a m*rder*r.

He's also pretty funny.

I mean, like, there's that
sequence where they're

getting ready for dinner,
and he changes his skin mask

to be like the mother figure.

You know, when he's
putting out dinner,

he's got lipstick
on and everything.

It's like there's a real sick,

hilarious sense of
humor to that movie.

Internationally, the
film was a success

despite being banned in
more than a dozen countries,

including France,
Brazil, and Australia.

Its success was a combination
of fear of the k*ller next door

and the humor of an inside joke.

Horror films were
like a relief valve

for the tensions Americans
were feeling in 1974,

when the film was
released as the U.S.

was winding down
yet another w*r.

I think that wave
of horror movies

with Texas Chainsaw m*ssacre,
I Spit On Your Grave,

and The Hills Have Eyes all
did follow the Vietnam w*r.

I don't think you could
separate one from the other.

Vietnam was such an ugly,
bloody, nonsensical, chaotic w*r

that I think all of those films

sort of lived in
the undertow of it.

I mean, I think Texas
Chainsaw m*ssacre

depicts a world where
we are witnessing

what it means to
lose our humanity

and to no longer see
other people's humanity.

And to know that Tobe
Hooper was making that movie

and probably metabolizing a
lot of feelings about Vietnam,

about what it means
to be an American,

a patriot, an artist, a weirdo,

all of those things
end up in that movie.

The first time I watched Carrie,

my worst fears ever were
displayed on screen.

You know, I think growing
up as a teenage girl,

the absolute horror
of trying to fit in,

of trying to belong amongst your
peers is already hard enough.

But to then be sort of
like an outcast or a loser

who's then horrifically
tricked into feeling

like she finally belongs,

only to be cruelly
pranked with pig's blood,

that was not only horrifying,
like on a, you know,

horror-genre level, but also
horrifying as a human being.

Carrie is just a perfect
manifestation of how high school

is a horror movie
in and of itself.

It taps into this
very, very primal thing

of being in high school
and how horrifying

that can be, how
terrifying kids can be

to other kids in high school.

I was a child when I saw Carrie,

probably not when it came out,

but when I was old enough
to be allowed to see it,

and I was afraid to
go to high school,

and it definitely didn't
calm my fears at all.

Carrie is cool 'cause
that was the first book

that Stephen King ever wrote.

And I think, like, he threw it
in the garbage, and his wife

took it out of the garbage.

Did you know that?

Maybe not the whole book,
but like a chunk of it,

and thought it was so bad,
he threw it in the garbage,

and his wife, like, took
it out of the garbage

and was like, "No,
no, no, dude."

Carrie was rejected
by 30 publishers

before it was released in 1974,
becoming a runaway bestseller

and catching the attention
of director Brian De Palma.

This story has resonated
with generations of women

looking for ways to
harness their power

when they felt they were
at their most powerless.

Carrie was quintessential
to my generation,

and I loved it because, as
opposed to Rosemary's Baby,

where it's about a woman who
has no agency over her body,

Carrie is all about
this girl who is

coming into her own
power while she's getting

supernatural powers
and how she's going to

take agency off her identity
and take control over her body.

But in the most
precarious time there is,

which is when you're
going through puberty

as a teenage girl.

My favorite scene of that
that I feel like encapsulates

the movie is when... you
know, she's 16, she's 17,

she's in the shower, she gets
her period for the first time.

Isn't she a bit
old for her, uh...

Her first period.

And then she's
mocked mercilessly.

But I don't know why
that should surprise us.

I mean, knowing
that mother of hers.

And I thought the sort
of thematic structure

of showcasing this is the
moment she becomes a woman,

only to be completely
rejected by her peers

and then have them
pretend to love her.

And then dump blood on her.

I was like, "Wow, this is every

teenage nightmare
brought to life."

And the fact that she has
powers and then can take control

and give those m*therf*ckers
what they had coming to them,

I was like, "This is a
villain I'm rooting for now.

I want her to
m*rder all of them."

Carrie was sort of the
first time you had a movie

where your protagonist was also
your antagonist, so to speak,

and you sympathized with
Carrie as a young teenage girl

trying to find her
way through the world.

We're all sorry about
this incident, Cassie.

It's Carrie!

But then you are also
terrified of her ability.

Please sit and talk to me!

And that movie is so special
because it's like a female

lead character who
has super powers.

Ah!

I guess someone who maybe
got bullied in high school

like plays into our
fantasies of like,

what if I could do that?

Carrie came along at a time when

internalized misogyny was
ingrained in our culture.

The scene where Carrie's
protector blames her

for not fitting in reflects

a brutal reality
for too many women,

a world in which they're
not just preyed upon by men,

but are pitted
against each other.

The coach wants to help Carrie,
and you see her say, you know,

"If you put on a little mascara

and we get you a
beautiful dress,

you know, you're just
going to be so beautiful."

And that's a pretty
girl. Look at your eyes.

Little mascara to
bring it out. Little.

Your lips. Try some lipstick.

You have nice, pretty lips.

And in some respects, a
lot of what she's saying

is uncomfortably
mirroring the world

that Carrie's in
in the first place,

where it's kind of all about,

well, if you were just pretty,
it would all get simpler.

And that is then met by
the fact that she, too,

is, consciously or not,
brutally k*lled in that gym.

Carrie!

Oddly enough, the film says
that being a teenage girl

is really f*cking hard

and that anyone who has
the sort of callousness

to reject people or bully people
who otherwise don't deserve it

should probably be k*lled.

Carrie, for instance, is a story

about a young girl
with a secret,

and it's a great source of
shame and guilt for her.

And she can't let anybody know.

And she lives in terror of her
classmates finding out about it.

And, I mean, Stephen King even
gave us a religious mother

who's trying to
pray it out of her.

I mean, what better
allegory for being g*y?

You know, and also, I
think for me as a g*y man,

I always bonded
with the final girl

because she's such a survivor.

But she's also the one who
has to fight for her life.

And what g*y man
doesn't understand

the daily struggle of survival?

Certainly for me,
growing up a small town,

it was all about survival.

So I truly bonded
with the final girl

of all these horror movies.

That's why I think I fell in
love with Jamie Lee Curtis.

I did a TV series
for a year called

Operation Petticoat,
and then I was fired.

I thought my life was
over. It was a disaster.

I was devastated.

My manager said,

"There's this low-budget
horror film being made.

I've put you up for it."

They wanted to
meet me for Laurie,

the quiet, intellectual,
virgin, brainiac babysitter.

I auditioned three times.

The auditions took
place in John's office.

The third audition,
I did the scene

where Laurie's on the
phone with her friends.

Annie, was that you?

Of course.

Why didn't you say anything?
You scared me to death.

And then she hangs up,

and then she looks out the
window and sees Michael.

And then she talks
to herself and says,

you know, "Don't be ridiculous,
this is ridiculous" whatever.

And then somehow I got it.

Jamie Lee Curtis, she
was perfect for the role.

She was absolutely ready to go.

She's really a fine actress.
And I'm really proud of her.

All I knew was that it was
a part that my name was on

every page and that I got
to actually not be me.

So I got to actually
create a character.

So I was thrilled about that.

What about the boogeyman?

There's no such thing.

Halloween is an iconic film,

hugely successful,
both at the box office

and as an influence on
horror films to follow.

The slasher movie often
depicted sexualized teenagers

on the run from a faceless,

deranged k*ller brandishing
a knife, chainsaw, or ax.

But Halloween
deepened the mythology

and planted its psychosexual
horrors directly in suburbia,

exactly where much of
America was living.

And as with all
things Hollywood,

a wave of slasher
movies hoping to be

the next Halloween
soon followed.

But Halloween represented
something new at that point.

Think about your average
horror movie, right?

Not the high concept ones
were the devil's involved

or special effects
and stuff like that.

Something as simple as like,

hey, this lady's babysitting
and her friends are

babysitting, and a
psycho has come to town.

And he's gonna peer
in their windows

and then maybe go in and k*ll
them in interesting ways.

That don't f*cking
cost anything.

We didn't have any
money for Halloween.

We didn't have anything.

So we had to decide what
to do about this mask.

It was written as
a Halloween mask,

but it was written
as a blank face.

So Tommy Lee Wallace,
the art director,

went up to Bert
Wheeler's Magic Shop

on Hollywood Boulevard
and bought a mask.

It was a Captain Kirk mask.

Looked nothing like
Captain Kirk, okay?

But spray painted it white and
fooled around with the hair,

and that's the mask.

Let's put him in a white mask,

which is human, but it
has zero human features

so that it becomes the thing
you project your own fear on to.

You've been told about him.

He is the essence of
evil. He's pure evil.

And now we know that,
and let's collide

Laurie Strode and Michael Myers.

And I think that's
why it was so good.

It's an absence of
humanity in a human.

That's the whole
essence of evil.

You strip the humanity
away in the human being,

and that's what
you get, is evil.

John and Debra sat
there together and went,

Okay, what's the most
ubiquitous image of Americana

of a smalltown life
but a high school girl

who's a virgin, who's
smart, who's a babysitter,

and let's collide her with
the most evil creature

we can come up with.

Michael!

A child who m*rder*d his sister.

Michael?

It's even more terrifying
if the movie you're sh**ting

looks like the real world.

You know, when you looked
at the movies of the '50s,

they were shot on
back lots and stuff.

So there's a separation from
the material for the audience.

When you're looking at
Halloween, you're like,

"That looks like
my neighborhood.

That looks like a house that's
down the street from me."

So the more you can
reflect the real world,

the more terrifying I think
you can make it for people.

And I think that's
what Carpenter

did best with Halloween.

- Bye.
- Bye.

There's a very simple
effect on Halloween

where the camera will linger in
the distance and watch somebody.

f*cking scary.

And it's also like, well,
what's going to happen?

Like, well, who is that?
What are they doing?

Are they going to
move in there soon?

You know?

All of it is unnerving.

Silence is very
important in horror.

Be quiet before the
horror strikes you,

and it will be frightening.

The music... well, the theme
came from something my father

taught me when I was
younger, when I was 13,

this 5/4 time on
a pair of bongos.

And I just picked up the time
and played around the piano.

When you hear "a
low-budget film,"

you don't have any money for
an orchestra or a composer.

I had three days, so I did
the score for Halloween.

John was very clear
what he wanted.

He kept saying, "I want her
to be really vulnerable."

Now, I was 19 and uneducated,

so I actually thought the word
"vulnerable" meant "weak."

I just like associated the
word "vulnerable" with "weak."

And I was kind of like, "I don't
really want to be weak, John."

When I saw the movie for
the first time in a theater

after the movie had come out...

Hello?

When Laurie gets the
call from her friend,

she's being strangled, she
thinks she's playing a joke,

she goes up and
checks on the kids,

and then she leaves the house.

And it's that wonderful
Steadicam shot going

back and forth, either
the P.O.V. of Laurie

or the shot on her as she's
walking across the windy street

with the prop guy throwing
the only dry leaves

we had kind of
next to the camera,

you know, that
beautiful sequence.

It really builds the
tension because you,

the audience knows what's
happened in the house.

Laurie doesn't.

And in the middle of that walk,

a woman in a crowded
theater in Hollywood

stood up and screamed,
"Girl, don't go in there!

There's a k*ller in there!"

And the audience was screaming.

And I realized in that moment
that's what John meant,

that you cared about her and you
didn't want her to go in there.

And that's all that
he wanted to create.

Jamie Lee Curtis is
the ultimate final girl

'cause she was the final
girl in a handful of

Halloween movies and Prom Night

and f*cking Terror Train.

You know, that was her genre.

She was our first horror
movie star of our generation.

You know, I guess
if you consider

the black-and-white era,
Fay Wray in King Kong

to be the genre's star.

And then later on, Jamie
Lee Curtis' mother,

Janet Leigh, in Psycho,
as the lady in the shower.

I think final girls
are unwitting heroines.

They started out that
day being something else,

and they end up a final girl.

All I know is that Laurie
Strode woke up that morning

worrying about her chem final,

worrying about the fact that
a boy didn't ask her to prom,

worrying about, like,
teenage girl stuff.

And by the end of that
night, she became a warrior.

She didn't intend
to be a warrior.

She didn't want to be a warrior.

She ended up a warrior.

They personified evil
with this omniscient force

that could not be
f*cking stopped.

You can throw b*ll*ts
at these f*ck,

man, throw off roofs and sh*t,
like, they can't be stopped.

Like death.
They're relentless.

Once you get into
sh*t like that,

you can start doing
slasher movies.

Was that the boogeyman?

As a matter of fact, it was.