House of the devil

There are many reasons why many horror films are made by movie industry tyros. The reasons are called dollars. Apart from angst-filled documentaries and angstier gay coming-out mini-melodramas, horror movies are the cheapest genre in which young directors can work. Small casts. Unknown actors. Few sets. Limited dialogue. Low lighting. Splurge the budget on special effects (in the 21st Century, gore must be seen to be showers of spurting gore, not mere splodges of ketchup).

Horror films also have a better chance of getting a mainstream distribution, and they can generate critical buzz at film festivals. Think Spielberg, and remember The Duel. Recall Henry, the Serial Killer. Roger Corman leaps to mind? And Hammer Films in the UK. Think of low-budget box-office triumphs of recent years and wish you'd had a co-producer cut on the net take for The Blair Witch Project, various European blockbusters such as Let The Right One In, the Hostel and Saw series, Cloverfield and Paranormal Activity [PA].

The last-named B&W movie utilised the Internet well, as low-budget films (and non-Republican political campaigns) must in order to get their heads above the expensive media ramparts. I thought it was a technical and dramatic mediocrity while I watched it. Now I know it was. I've seen a meaningful comparison, and the best-crafted horror movie from a newcomer this season is surely The House of the Devil [HoD].

PA rated at 82% on the Rotten Tomatoes register, and grossed US$110 million in North American theatres. Its creator, Oren Peli, has already been optioned by Spielberg, the Peli PR machine boasted. Although HoD received less than half as many reviews, because it only managed to be given a very limited distribution, it rated slightly better at 86%. Watch them both if you can, and weep and gnash over American movie distribution systems and mass media critical standards.

HoD is technically perfect and in vibrant colour. Its writer-director-editor, Ti West, uses most of the tricks in the film academy guidebook for horror movies, and does so effectively, rarely ostentatiously. His virgin heroine is a breakout role for Jocelin Donahue. She's backed up by a trio of horror movie stalwarts in engagingly evil supporting roles. At times, admittedly, there are longueurs, when West froze on just a few too many closed doors or window panes. Overall though, the tension builds as it should (relentlessly), and is punctured violently only when least expected. The ending settles on a note that could have led, but won't, to a sequel called Sam's Baby Omen.

One last thought about the clear cineplex appeal of horror movies. Market research undoubtedly shows that blokes merrily invite birds to them, and birds cheerily agree to go, because social custom allows them all to squeal, grasp and comfort each other in a dark venue. But what about groups of bird-less teenage blokes? I suspect the only acceptable way for them to sit through horror movies is to make mock squeals and pretend to grab and poke each other. On the arms only, boys.