The problem with movies these days is that the majority of them are so slick, they never allow you to forget that it's a movie. Every last person from the school teacher to the garbage man is exceptionally good-looking, truck stop waitresses have nicer clothes and apartments and better teeth than you do, and people get the crap beat out of them without messing up their hair or tearing their designer threads. People even look great when when they're lying in their hospital deathbed or bleeding by the gallon in an alley. What's to be scared of? We know this isn't our world.
That's why looking back at 'Last House on the Left' is such an excruciating shock, especially comparing it to any one of Wes Craven's latter films. It is alternately graphic and discreet, perfect in it's imperfection. When Phyllis Stone (Lucy Grantham)is beset from all sides getting stabbed by Krug and his cronies, her mouth drops open, her eyes roll back in her head, her knees give out; it is only her attackers holding her up that keeps her from crumbling.Stabbed repeatedly in the abdomen,her pants start to fall off; her goofy-looking underwear are a droopy fit, and you can see a faint trace of an unshaved bikini area. Her body is every bit as realistic as her response. It also isn't clear at what point she actually dies, and it seems like you can almost feel her pain. The whole way through, it all seems very much like what really happens in a crime of this sort, and how it would feel to actually be there.
Part of this effect is due to the camera angle; not enough credit is given to how much cinematography dictates the narrative. Most movies have either an omniscient viewpoint, where the viewer seems to be on the inside looking out, or from the vantage point of one particular character, or alternating between different character's eye view. LHOL positions you on the outside looking in, like an unnoticed interloper. You can see what's happening and yet are helpless to act.
Another element that makes the film so tremblingly smart is the characterization of the killers themselves- as normal people who just happen to be extremely violent, and you have no idea why. If you were to meet them, it seems, you wouldn't like them, but it probably wouldn't occur to you to be scared of them, either;they just seem like a bunch of goofy punks. That is, except, for David A. Hess's Krug Stillo, who comes of as just about the nastiest, most vile- and undoubtedly REAL- villain ever, with a certain crude, smirking animal sexiness that only serves to make him that much more threatening. (Hess, in fact, probably makes the movie).
Although this film could have been done better- get rid of some of the cornier tunes and the lame comedy sequences with the bumbling, stupidly unfunny cops- it still manages to accomplish exactly what it was going for, which is more than can be said for about 80% of the films that have ever been made. Lets just hope that some starved-for-original-ideas horror pimp doesn't ruin a good thing by trying to remake it; cross your fingers.
That's why looking back at 'Last House on the Left' is such an excruciating shock, especially comparing it to any one of Wes Craven's latter films. It is alternately graphic and discreet, perfect in it's imperfection. When Phyllis Stone (Lucy Grantham)is beset from all sides getting stabbed by Krug and his cronies, her mouth drops open, her eyes roll back in her head, her knees give out; it is only her attackers holding her up that keeps her from crumbling.Stabbed repeatedly in the abdomen,her pants start to fall off; her goofy-looking underwear are a droopy fit, and you can see a faint trace of an unshaved bikini area. Her body is every bit as realistic as her response. It also isn't clear at what point she actually dies, and it seems like you can almost feel her pain. The whole way through, it all seems very much like what really happens in a crime of this sort, and how it would feel to actually be there.
Part of this effect is due to the camera angle; not enough credit is given to how much cinematography dictates the narrative. Most movies have either an omniscient viewpoint, where the viewer seems to be on the inside looking out, or from the vantage point of one particular character, or alternating between different character's eye view. LHOL positions you on the outside looking in, like an unnoticed interloper. You can see what's happening and yet are helpless to act.
Another element that makes the film so tremblingly smart is the characterization of the killers themselves- as normal people who just happen to be extremely violent, and you have no idea why. If you were to meet them, it seems, you wouldn't like them, but it probably wouldn't occur to you to be scared of them, either;they just seem like a bunch of goofy punks. That is, except, for David A. Hess's Krug Stillo, who comes of as just about the nastiest, most vile- and undoubtedly REAL- villain ever, with a certain crude, smirking animal sexiness that only serves to make him that much more threatening. (Hess, in fact, probably makes the movie).
Although this film could have been done better- get rid of some of the cornier tunes and the lame comedy sequences with the bumbling, stupidly unfunny cops- it still manages to accomplish exactly what it was going for, which is more than can be said for about 80% of the films that have ever been made. Lets just hope that some starved-for-original-ideas horror pimp doesn't ruin a good thing by trying to remake it; cross your fingers.