Confessions of a Movie Junkie

By Jesse Bullington

What could strike more terror in a sensible heart than the upcoming November elections? What horror is more chilling than the recent proof that Tallahassee’s voters are so unappreciative of that rare beast, a commendable public servant such as Bob Rackleff, that they failed to deliver him even 50 percent of the votes in the primary election? Thus forcing our finest commissioner into a runoff with a rival whose first name undeniably rhymes with “wank”?

Only one thing terrifies me more. That Richard Matheson’s finest novel, I Am Legend, is to be adapted into a Will Smith vehicle. While not the first film adaptation of the book, this promises to be the worst. The first (and best) adaptation, The Last Man on Earth, starred the Sultan of Scares himself, Vincent Price. A low budget Italian-U.S. co-production, this moody nugget from 1964 captured the essence of Matheson’s creepfest. It strayed from its source only when budgetary issues raised their scaly heads.

Far less enjoyable, faithful or watchable was 1971 version The Omega Man. Starring Charlton Heston as our stalwart hero, just about everything good from the source material was discarded in favor of Heston doing what he does best: firing guns, acting like a twit and spouting decidedly un-kosher dialogue. That they had the budget and ability to better serve Matheson’s vision makes the end result all the more painful.

If we set up a chart plotting the descent in quality from a low-budget 1960s film starring Vincent Price to a big-budget 1970s film starring Charlton Heston, where could we guess would lie this mega-budget, new millennium picture featuring the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air? By definition, can something be below “the bottom”?

At least this time they’re keeping the title intact. I Am Legend: perhaps the coolest title for a horror story ever. The book has been pillaged without actually giving the author and his creation their due. Even George A. Romero, writer and director of the original Night of the Living Dead acknowledged at a recent lecture that his masterpiece is a “rip-off” of Matheson’s novel.

While I would love to recommend films Matheson himself scripted, such as The Comedy of Terrors or The Raven, the goal is to chill you with frights unparalleled even in local politics. I can think of nothing more foreboding this Halloween than Hollywood’s continuing defilement of the horror classic, The Omen. (This summer’s fans were quick to dub the remake, “Lamien.”)

The creepy original remains the least impressive of the three classic Devil-in-children movies from the era, the others being The Exorcist and Rosemary’s Baby. I don’t know if I should be thankful the other two haven’t been similarly exploited. Last year’s two Exorcist sequels don’t count; any horror aficionado expects the obligatory cheddar-constructed sequels – it’s the remakes that really get one’s tri-horned goat with black hooves and pentagram-patterned birthmark.

Then we have films so damn weird and unique that any such attempt to remake them is doomed to the point of high comedy. The worst offender of all, as anyone who’s read Christopher Lee’s autobiography can attest, is the recent misguided remake of The Wicker Man. The original works solely because it’s dated and British. The absence of those two qualities instantly negates any possibility of sinister ambiance, let alone plausibility and coherence.

So, I boycotted the remake, and all I know is that studio executives reportedly thought the original premise of an adult virgin would be preposterous in today’s sexy world, so instead of having a hang-up about women, our protagonist now has a hang-up about killer bees. These killer bees menace him, not unlike how the prospect of sex menaced our original protagonist. Assuming this is the case, mere words cannot convey how silly this remake game has become. All I will say further on the subject is that the original actually works, and Lee lists it as one of his favorites. And vote Rackcleff.