Death House Movie Premier
On Sunday, March 4 – on the late, great gentle giant, Gunnar Hansen’s birthday – I walked a mile to the Sherman Theater in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania to catch the World Premiere of B. Harrison Smith’s Death House.
The film’s based on a story idea from Gunnar Hansen, who had wanted the film made for horror fans.
The old theater, normally a venue for bands, has a gritty feel that complements the horror genre. About fifty people, mostly friends and family of the director, filled the seats. I sat off to the side in the third row.
Harrison and his producer, Rick Finkelstein, opened the movie. Both were kind and happy to see their work on screen. Harrison stated he’s “proud” of the end result, which only revved the crowd up even more.
After all, the movie’s been getting much buzz. Not only due to having Gunnar’s final wishes made real, but because the movie inhabits a litany of horror favorites: Dee Wallace, Barbara Crampton, Debbie Rochon, Felissa Rose, Adrienne Barbeau, Brinke Stevens, Genoveva Rossi, Bill Oberst Jr., Kane Hodder, Sid Haig, Michael Berryman, Danny Trejo, Bill Moseley, Tony Todd, and Lloyd Kaufman, among others. And, of course, the gore.
Once the house lights went down, the movie got underway – and within three-minutes, my heart sank, my body crumbled, and I looked at the emergency exit to my right to escape. In that short amount of time, Death House had already become the equivalent of a SyFy made for television no-quality picture – but without the laughs.
I had to be wrong. Even though the first few minutes were stiff and clunky, though Tony Todd did his part as he always does, things had to improve.
Things only got worse.
Boredom Beats Bad Guys
The movie became heavy with exposition forced into already stiff dialogue, delivered by cardboard characters. Convoluted and confusing, with flat scenes full of talking heads, the picture never got off the ground. Every actor seemed stoic and withdrawn. The lack of emotion remained palpable from scientists to agents from an unknown organization, to cookie cutter serial killers and mass murderers. Each character a bland copy of the last.
None of the dialogue proved to be idiosyncratic or even remotely genuine, and did nothing to drive the action forward. Every line dragged the story down and only muddied the waters to what the movie meant. In fact, there was little to no action. And if any did arise, it was disconnected and disjointed, and bad editing only added to the disorganization.
We’d be with characters talking at Death House, then find ourselves with Nazis, then with Sid Haig’s “Icicle Killer,” then a jihadist cutting through someone’s throat, then Danny Trejo committing murder in a woman’s bed, and then back to people talking at the prison again.
In most scenes, a multitude of actors stood around as if not knowing what to do, and even the great Dee Wallace delivers lines as if she’d over-dosed on muscle relaxers. The lovelier than ever Barbara Crampton tries to rise above the staleness of it all, but her fist pump to Cortney Palm felt lame, uncomfortable, and ill-conceived.
The only other actor who brought any flair to his role is the always on-point, Richard Speight Jr. in another confusing scene where actors mill about, or stand perfectly still, with nothing to do.
The Death House is apparently some government experiment where only the baddest of the bad are held for scientific exploitation. There’s some sort of cyber invasion taking place as well, but this never makes sense. If the other five films in this fledgling franchise take flight, we may get some decent answers, though they’ll arrive far too late.
Emmy award winner, Bill Oberst Jr.’s talents are limited to sulking on a bench with his head down stating he created Satan, while others on the bench declare that they are either Satan or the Antichrist, with voices slightly above whispers. Once again leaving us with a disconnected scene of talking heads.
There’s no power or push from any of the “bag guys,” though Debbie Rochon swings her chainsaw as Leatherlace with flair while Kane Hodder’s murderous character leads with the vibrant passion of a meter maid. The guards of the facility, emotionless in their riot gear, hold their rifles up high, and you could feel their arms getting tired.
In a unisex shower sequence, Cody Longo, one of the few actors who at least did something with body language in the drawn out talking head scenes, speaks with Cortney Palm in such a detached fashion, boredom ensues. There’s no attraction between the pair, and no inclination they’ll work together in any fashion.
I began to yawn, and so did the woman near me, and many rows back I could imagine how others were feeling. Only on two occasions was there a laugh to a semi-witty line, but with a series of disjointed scenes – like free jazz without a foundational note or rhythm – nothing added up, and connecting to any of the characters proved impossible.
When the prison’s brought down by an EMP (elector-magnetic pulse), flashlights somehow work as a riot erupts. Regardless of the heavy firepower, the guards are over-whelmed (probably because their arms are tired) in a decent fight scene that’s often too dark to see what’s happening at times.
The gore’s reduced to bodies covered in blood, and some half-eaten dead child (that’s intense to see), along with torn skin on bodies or stab wounds, but nothing new or memorable.
For a supposed horror film, there’s no suspense, no intrigue, no emotions, and no thrills. Other than our hero agents (I guess they’re heroes) wanting to get out alive, though they didn’t seem too concerned about it, there’s not much happening. Worst still, with the odds stacked against them, as they wait forever in a stuck elevator, there’s no sense of danger or even determination on their part.
Only Barbara Crampton’s scientist seemed to show any fear of the doomsday set upon her, but everyone else should have sipped tea as they stood around for their number to be called at the DMV.
I began watching Death House through my fingers solely out of embarrassment.
No Death House Pardon
The only other action sequence involved our nonchalant agents jumping together down the elevator shaft. It was a nine-story drop, though it seemed as if they had leaped from a skyscraper with heavy metal music trumpeting along for the fall. Somehow, they landed safely on top of the elevator instead of dying on impact. Then again, the visual effects were mundane, and along with the poorly structured narrative, it was impossible to buy into the idea that any of this could be real.
In the end, the agents are confronted by the kings of the badasses, “The Five Evils,” who appear to be a cheap recreation of Pinhead’s cenobites – but without the charm. More talking and more explaining ensues as everyone stands around in the equivalent of a town hall meeting discussing zoning changes.
The fault lies in Harrison’s script, the foundation for a mess of a lame horror venture. One line near Death House’s end serves as a great launching point for what the movie and franchise could have been. There’s no subtlety or logic to the enterprise, making the most mundane slasher seem like literature on celluloid.
Whether you enjoy the following films or not, each of these independent features worked because of the two items that make every decent movie resonate: character and story. Characters we can relate to, and love or hate, and a story built upon suspense that keeps our senses engaged with the screen. Mortal Remains, Crawl or Die, Red Victoria, The Blair Witch Project, The Last House on the Left, Basket Case, Paranormal Activity, and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, were all created for pennies on the dollar. Yet they are vibrant tales inhabited with compelling characters. Death House didn’t capture any of that independent filmmaking magic.
As the credits began to roll, to only a smattering of applause, I marched out. I couldn’t sit for the Q-and-A session, and didn’t care about my free popcorn from Popcorn Buddha, or the opportunity to buy a movie poster. I needed to breathe and curse to the night sky as I stormed on home.
Death House is supposed to be a send-off to honor the endearing Gunnar Hansen, but this wasn’t it. Not by a long shot.
0 out of five stars
The Plot Sickens: Also for “Women in Horror Month,” take a look at Billy Crash’s review of Last Girl Standing!
Billy Crash
Also known as William D. Prystauk, he loves great, in-depth characters and storytelling in horror, and likes to see heads roll, but if you kill a dog on screen he’ll cry like a baby. Billy co-hosts THE LAST KNOCK horror podcast on iTunes, and can also be found on Twitter, LinkedIn, IMDb, Amazon, Behance, YouTube, Instagram, and Google+.
(Photo of Death House from Bocado Inferno.)