Satan's Spawn

Book Report: Satan’s Spawn

Written by Richard Jay Silverthorn

Based on FEAR NO EVIL, written and Directed by Frank LaLoggia

"little Andrew will capture your heart..and devour your very soul."

Every once in awhile, you run into a work of art so strange, so ill-considered, so patently bizarre, that it ceases to be good or bad and becomes mysterious. Who made this? What in God’s name were they trying to do here? Who did they honestly think would be into this? How did they convince people to give them money to pay the hundreds of other people they somehow managed to rope into helping them make it? How is this still available, and not yet lapsed into the public domain?

Such is the case of Frank LaLoggia’s baffling 1981 highschool horror enigma, FEAR NO EVIL. I watched it in ever-escalating amazement with some of the most fluent cinephiles I am aware of, and each was forced to admit that they’d never seen anything like it. About halfway through its bizarre 99 minutes, we all had to turn to each other and acknowledge that this little film was so completely alien to us that we honestly had no idea where it was going. When it ended, we still didn’t know. It’s full of recognizable elements, but they simply refuse to add up in any kind of predictable (or discernable) way. When I wrote my review of the film, I said:

“What makes this one kind of interesting is that despite all the worn 80s high school tropes on display, the film is surprisingly ambiguous. Everything is so familiar that you feel like you know where this is going, but the film craftily (or perhaps obtusely) confounds your expectations and does something weird instead...It's a Frankenstein's monster kind of movie [built from disparate parts of other films] and I genuinely cannot say with any confidence if that reflects ambition or incompetence on the part of the filmmaker... But the ambiguity makes it more interesting.”

Well, what kind of movie nerd can resist a mystery like that? Certainly not Dan Prestwich, who managed to acquire a copy of the novelization by Richard Jay Silverthorn. Even at a Baby-Sitter’s-Club friendly 247 pages, a novel gives more opportunity than a film to elaborate and offer commentary on the proceedings, so I dove into the reading hoping to tease some answers out of the mysterious tale of Andrew Williams, teenage Antichrist.

Andrew Williams, second row, second from left.

Fortunately for our comparison, the book is pretty similar to the movie. The plot, in fact, is almost identical, which is somewhat surprising considering the book has a different title and the copyright page dismissively acknowledges that the novel (we can call it that because it also states, “this work is a novel.”) is “Based on characters appearing in the motion picture FEAR NO EVIL, written and directed by Frank LaLoggia.” Sounds like the author is distancing himself from the source material, but no, it’s all here: Andy Williams (yes, Andy Williams. And yes, his father is again named John Williams. And no, I still don’t get it) is an 18-year-old high school outsider, bullied by a bunch of exaggerated jocks while slowly initiating his plan to bring about the reign of Satan. Again, you have the prologue with an elderly priest stopping just such a plan that occurred in the past, again you have said priest’s sister teaming up with a milquetoast local virgin to save humanity. Most of the major scenes from the movie are quoted more or less verbatim in the book: the boiler-room sexcapades, the death-by-dodgeball, the dog eating, the supernatural boobs, the passion-play-gone-wrong, the castle, the zombies. Yes, the famous shower-room naked open-mouth kissing prank. It’s all there. The author does elaborate a little bit, offering a few new sequences and a slightly more in-depth explanation about the history of these Satanic kerfuffles. But otherwise, it’s basically a direct adaptation. The additions feel like they could be deleted scenes more than major game-changers.

This is fortunate, because we get to relive these classic sequences through the eyes of an omniscient narrator, who clues us into what everyone’s thinking and helps us resolve some of our major questions, the first and most obvious being “what the fuck?” OK, that one’s a little harder to answer, since a lot of the inexplicable weirdness is still there, reported with the possibly overconfident notion that just because it’s explained it’ll also make sense. Why bestow supernatural breasts on perennial jock asshole Tony Indivino? In the movie it’s completely out of the blue. In the novelization, however, Andy explains himself: “You warned me pot would make me grow tits! Your words seal your fate, pot-head. You will have tits like a woman all your life.” (pg 235)

But, uh, does that really explain anything? Why would that pop into his head? Is the Antichrist anti-pot? As you can see, the explanation the book offers usually raise more questions than they answer.

Still, there are answers here. The most satisfying is the resolution of the question of Andy’s sexuality. As you recall, the film (where Andy is portrayed by Warren Zevon collaborator Stefan Arngrim) gives Andy a distinctively effete manner, seemingly completely uninterested in women and subject to some sexually-suggestive teasing (for instance, the eyebrow-raising naked shower kiss scene). Here, though, he’s all man, even lusting after our terminally uninteresting female protagonist and going so far as to murder her boyfriend out of jealousy. It’s a little less interesting, but somewhat of a relief in such a petulantly Catholic horror story to not have the villain be some kind of swishy pervert. It’s also a good thing because in keeping with the movie --and despite some homophobic language being tossed around by the jocks-- this book is probably the single gayest thing that doesn’t directly involve Jackie O since gayness was invented. I mean, I think every major male character has his genitals described in the sort of poetic detail the book usually reserves only for first-hand encounters with the divine, or, even better, the genitals thereof. Let’s take a look:

• …”he began to stroke his long, thin penis into semi-erection. The pointed end [the pointed end??] began to redden and expand as his breathing deepened.” (pg 87)

• “He tugged at his crotch, showing her his dripping stiffness, no underwear under his wet-spotted jeans” (pg 66.) By contrast, the girl here just gets a quick mention: “She also was wearing no underwear”

• “Tony yanked his bulging crotch through his jockstrap (pg 98)

• (My personal favorite): “But a downward glance to the the reddening, flaring staff with it’s one-eyed corona, probing, probing upwards to her spread thighs was nothing like the little dimple of her hairless baby brother. It was a serpent” (pg 121).

• "As with victims of hangings [charming metaphor by the way, thanks for that] the naked lad's penis ejaculated a thin stream of semen into the murky pool" (pg 209).

• And another weird comparison (by a different girl) to a baby's penis: "...She'd seen her baby brother naked many times, but wasn't exactly prepared for the proportions of a mature adult," (keep in mind, these are graduating high school seniors) and it goes on: “He guided his virgin girlfriend's hand to the rubber stretched over the flaring end of his excited cock. Tonight he'd get in her!” (pg 215).

And those are just a few highlights that a quick flip through the book reveals. But wait, you say, everyone likes penises, that’s not necessarily gay. Perhaps, but then you’ve got a few gems like this laying around..

• “...Steve glanced admiringly at his smooth, tanned physique” (pg 98)

• “Ivory bars of soap dripped in gooey semenlike streamers,” (in the all-male locker room shower).

And if you want ultimate proof that this guy Richard Jay Silverthorn does not have a large body of experience with women, well...

• “ His penis filled her, burst her hymen like a nebulous soap bubble, not a barrier of leather,” (pg 121)

Right? First off, nebulous soap bubble? That’s a highly questionable use of the word "nebulous." But seriously, “a barrier of leather” is the most hilariously inappropriate description of a woman’s anatomy since “you grab a woman’s breasts and they feel... like a bag of sand.” If this dude wasn’t gay before, he better learn quick because once the fairer sex gets a look at his fiction I think his options with women are gonna be pretty limited.

The famous naked show kiss from the movie. Don't be thrown off by the long hair, these are both dudes. One of them is the Antichrist, though, which makes this totally not gay, for real dawg.

More than just gay, though, this is a super gay Catholic novel, so it has that wonderful conflict between wanting to be pervy and transgressive while also needing to feel intensely guilty about it. There’s always someone around to lament that these kids with their drugs and sex and swearing all violate god’s holy law, which puts both the reader and the writer in the awkward position of reading a book with a singleminded fixation on those things but also a profound revulsion of them. It compensates, I think, by making the heroine the blandest possible goody-two-shoes (she chides her boyfriend for profanity!) which makes her blameless in the eyes of God and therefore acceptable to side with. However, it also makes her one of the most profoundly tedious characters ever to grace the blank side of a page. I feel like this carries over to the movie, too, except that she’s so boring I just kind of have a vaguely defined empty space in my memory regarding whether or not she was in the movie at all.

Along with the Catholic guilt comes a nice helping of weirdo Catholic mythology, a welcome addition of color into an otherwise somewhat dry yarn. I mentioned in my original review of the movie that I didn’t realize (if it’s ever explained at all) that the heroine, her crazy old lady sidekick, and the priest from the prologue are supposed to be the reincarnated angels Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael. Here, though, that’s more than clear: it’s elaborated on in detail which borders on the obsessive. God --apparently not the helpful type-- has sent them to be reincarnated on Earth at different times, in different bodies, with no memory that they’re angels or way of getting in contact with each other. Which presents kinda a problem because they’re all boring ass shut-ins who don’t really mingle much. All they need to do is find the Antichrist and read a paragraph or two in Latin (which is probably about all they’re up for anyway) so it should be no surprise that they can barely manage even that.

I actually like this nutty side of Catholicism, though, because it leads to some wonderfully convoluted weirdness that only a true believer could really wrap his or her head around, like the suspiciously “don’t worry it’s not sexual because we’re both angels!” “bonding” that happens between the two female protagonists, or the fact that towards the end the author casually drops, “the rapture had begun... they were the first of the faithful to be taken into Heaven as promised,” and then doesn’t feel the need to elaborate any further or mention it again. That’s the kind of olde-tyme religion I can get behind; the kind where the rapture warrants three sentences of explanation, but by God there’s not a single opportunity to describe male genitals which goes unexplored.

Like any story which appears genuine about it’s kooky religious angle, there’s still some uncomfortable ground to be covered. As with last month’s DANTE’S INFERNO (which unfortunately did not turn out to be the sequel to DANTE’S PEAK that I assumed it would be), there’s enough punitive moralizing here to make you start to wonder what the hell God’s problem is, anyway. When one strapping young lad commits suicide to avoid having to worship the Dark One, the Devil laughs,”for no self murderer shall attain heaven,” which seems like a pretty dick move on God’s part. Seems like there ought to be some extenuating circumstances, and one of them obviously should be when you’re about to be raped to death by the Devil as punishment for articulating your loyalty to God. And of course, it goes without saying that the heroine’s virginity is a matter of no small obsession to the text, which finds her rejecting her fiance’s sexual advances on several distinct occasions (the text tells us, “he loved her enough to stop” -- as opposed to what, raping her?). Most unexpectedly, the book also confirms one of the more interesting aspects of Arngrim’s portrayal in the movie version: although Andy is indeed the Antichrist, and isn’t above a little murder, he also seems to have human emotions, feeling affection and insecurity and even, at one point, regret. I guess this is easier for Catholics to deal with, since they’re already down with seeing Jesus as both wholly human and wholly divine (which according to my math totals 200%, not an easy feat even for the creator of the universe), but to us heathens it makes it hard to be completely unsympathetic to the Antichrist when you’re given an intimate view of his more vulnerable moments. Kinda weird, particular since I suspect anyone reading this novel probably has some experience being bullied by the high school jocks to whom Andy eventually serves up an overflowing antique china platter of piping hot revenge. But wait, are we supposed to be siding with the murderous Antichrist? I guess I’ll never understand religion.

There’s also, predictably, a dig at atheists: In one chapter, Andy has a long conversation with a priest, demolishing the guy by asking completely legitimate questions about the reality of God (“funny that there have been no miracle since the advent of photography and television” he scoffs). Thanks asshole, doubters are living in sin, we get it, go back to writing your Satanic rape scenes like Jesus obviously would want. That’s kinda a  bringdown (especially since the priest doesn’t even bother to meaningfully answer him, and we’re supposed to think it’s a good thing). But my favorite uncomfortable Catholic line comes later, when the non-virgins (who, predictably, will all die horribly by the end of the book) give their friend a condom with the words: “Since you’re Catholic you can’t get an abortion and your folks will make you keep it,” as if us everyone else gets abortions like they’re impulse buys at the checkout counter. “I’ll need a pack of smokes, a lottery ticket, and, hmm, better throw an abortion in there. Ooh! And some skittles.”

Alas, there is no "About the author" to accompany this image of him.

Ultimately, all these details add up to an inescapable conclusion. The book makes one thing clear about the movie: It’s a really weird plot. Even when explained in more detail, the whole thing seems kind of inexplicably put together. It feels like John Waters doing a high school remake of THE EXORCIST. Or a ham and butterscotch taco. These are good tastes, but what are they doing together? And when you add the mystery of why in the hell someone would go on to write a novelization of the same plot under a different name, I think we may just have proof of direct intervention from extra-dimensional superbeings. I mean, how else do you explain that? 

Writer Richard Jay Silverthorn did have one connection to the film: he appears in it (as Lucifer, an image of whom amazingly is actually in my original review) and also did makeup and visual effects. Other than that, he has done nothing else whatsoever that leaves any record that could be revealed by an exhaustive internet search. However, IMDB does note one other work: “COLOR ME GAY (1973) - this student film was written, filmed, produced, directed, and edited by Richard while he was at the University of Rochester, New York.” Now, I’m not saying a straight guy couldn’t have directed a gay (or colored, I guess) film while attending the UoR. But uh, I still think that might be a relevant piece of evidence, if I may say so. IMBD also claims that LaLoggia sold him the novelization rights for $1*, so that at least means it wasn’t a huge financial loss for the poor guy. Other than that, though, the enigma of FEAR NO EVIL / SATAN’S SPAWN appears as impenetrable as ever. What's the deal with all this weird crap? Like the Satanically-reanimated zombie near the end of the book who wonder aloud who won the 1963 World Series, ("he had been a baseball fan in life," the text tells us unhelpfully) we'll never know for sure**. But, at least when the inevitable remake arrives in a few years, we’ll have already learned to embrace the mystery.

*although it also calls the novel “Satan’s Child,” while my copy and the only image available of it on the internet clearly names it “Satan’s Spawn.” So take that with a grain of salt.

**Incidentally, it was the Los Angeles Dodgers, sweeping the Yankees in four games for the first time in history. Not sure if that's a metaphor or something.

The Dark Half

The Dark Half (1993)
Dir. George MotherFucking A Romero
Starring Timothy Hutton, Timothy Hutton, and Michael Rooker.

You forget sometimes, that Romero did other things than zombie movies. Or I do, anyway. I don’t know what you do. You never talk about your feelings. How am I supposed to know if you don’t tell me? The key to any successful relationship is open communication regarding George Romero and his perceived confinement to the zombie subgenre. I mean, I always try to bring it up, but you’re always getting all offended and telling me to stop talking about George Romero while we make love. As if that’s just something I should magically know not to do. But if that is how you think of him, I don’t blame you. I mean, after all, the guy basically invented the very concept of a zombie which now permeates our culture pretty much to the point of saturation. Before his seminal NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD, zombies were basically the fare of racially questionable British Voodoo movies (perhaps understandably, since that’s where the word originates) like WHITE ZOMBIE and KING OF THE ZOMBIES and PLAGUE OF THE ZOMBIES. These zombies were more likely to be possessed humans than corpses, and were more interested in doing their masters’ bidding than eating braaaaaaiiiinnnnnns or pulling out someone’s intestinal track (those were dark days.)*

Romero changed all that. He pretty much completely changed the definition of a zombie (not intentionally, of course -- as he points out, no one calls them “Zombies” in his films) and created an entirely unique iconography which has since lurched into the popular consciousness so completely that having zombies start running in the early 2000’s seemed like a stunning reinvention. As he made more “Dead” films, it quickly became clear that not only had he created a new monster, but a new metaphor for listless, directionless American consumerism and unfocused aggression. By the time LAND OF THE DEAD rolled around in 2005 (nearly 40 years after the original) the series had established itself as a bleak, ever-refining dark satire on the American cultural, political, and economic landscape. They stand as scrappy, scruffy, unmistakably recognizable milestones not just in cinema, but in popular culture.

But what’s funny is, Romero directed or co-directed a stunning 10 other films in- between the “Dead” films. KNIGHTRIDERS. MARTIN. SEASON OF THE WITCH. Even a romantic fucking comedy! And in contrast to the Dead series’ sometimes shoddy production and inelegant scripts, after 1988’s MONKEY SHINES these films were often big studio pictures with mid-level movie stars, professional lighting, the whole deal. Aesthetically, you would never guess that the guy who made DAWN OF THE DEAD made THE DARK HALF, or even that the guy who made LAND OF THE DEAD more than a decade later made it. There’s almost nothing in common except that they’re filled with little unexpected elements of greatness.  

THE DARK HALF is adapted from a Stephen King book of the same name, and actually feels way more like a King project than a Romero one. I mean, it’s pretty much got all the hallmarks. Troubled writer (Thad Beaumont, played by Timothy Hutton**) ; Northeast Hometown (Castle Rock, Maine), clever poetic device (parasitic twin, sparrow swarms), extremely literal title (“the Dark Half”) etc. If this randomly came on TV and you were too lazy or drunk to check*** you would probably never guess Romero had directed it, but you’d definitely guess that King wrote it. In fact, the novel is apparently somewhat autobiographical in that it was a response to King’s own exposure as the man behind the pen name Richard Bachman, a name under which he published his own more lurid, cynical stories throughout the seventies. So it’s a veritable treasure trove of King’s themes and fixations, including a few of his recurring characters.

Tim “Youngest Person Ever to Win An Oscar For Best Supporting Actor” Hutton is an interesting character in that he’s a nice guy, a family man, and a classy writer of well-respected respectable classy writing, but on the side he’s been writing trashy crime novels under the name George Stark. We’re told that he’s a recovering alcoholic, but we never see him be anything other than charming and responsible. But everyone knows that when he’s writing as Stark, he retreats from the world, starts drinking, becomes a different person. A “Dark Half,” if you will. This might not seem as strange if someone had bothered to explain to him that when he was born there was this giant swarm of sparrows that engulfed the hospital, and when he was young he used to get horrible headaches which could only be cured by writing, and when they cut his skull open to get out what they figured was a tumor they actually found his unborn twin fetus stuck up there, staring out (apparently at the top of his skull, before it was opened) with a giant creepy eyeball of obvious sparrow-induced evilness. OK it still might have seemed strange, but still seems like the kind of thing someone ought to have mentioned to him. I mean, I’d want to know. 

I mean, honestly he seems pretty well adjusted for a guy named Thad Beaumont, a name so outrageously douchey it honestly makes me want to unlock the secrets of time travel just so I can go back in time to the sixth grade and give him a wedgie so powerful they’ll name it after him. But the film implies that his nice guy persona is only part of him, a cover which can exist only because he can also escape to his Dark Side through his fictional alter ego. So when said alter ego comes under threat of exposure and Beaumont resigns to retire Stark for good, a part of him reacts violently, inasmuch as it dresses like Henry Fonda from ONCE UPON THE TIME IN THE WEST and goes about slicing up anyone responsible for Stark’s shit-canning. The question is, though, is the evil murdering Stark actually Beaumont losing his marbles, or has his pen name someone wormed his way into the real world? And granted that second possibility makes perfect sense, but even if it’s true, does Thad have some responsibility for his alter ego’s crimes?

 For a King novel, it’s surprisingly hard on --and maybe even a little unfair to-- its protagonist. Stark, real or not, IS a kind of wish-fulfillment empowerment fantasy for Thad, a way to get his dark side out and still be the nice responsible husband and father he acts like. The film intriguingly challenges Thad to look at the physical embodiment of his darker leanings, and by proxy challenges us to do the same with our voyeuristic interest. In lots of ways, George Stark is a much cooler character than Thad -- he has black cowboy boots, he drinks, he smokes, he’s seductive and powerful and has a menacing folksy wit to him. He’s a seductive fantasy in our imaginations, but when he’s out in the real world he’s a horrifying nightmare. And to the audience, the implicit challenge is the same: you wanted this, right? Wouldn’t you rather watch murderous George Stark than affable nerd Thad Beaumont? I mean, wouldn’t you rather watch a film about Dirty Harry than a thoughtful, fair, effective cop who did his job and tried to help the community? And yet, which one would you prefer to actually have on the job in your home town? But when you fantasize about it, you make it real, at least on some level, and maybe you bear some responsibility for that. It’s not enough that Thad is a nice guy who cares about his family -- just because he can control himself doesn’t mean he’s not a bad person on the inside, on some level.  

Obviously, this is a weird outlook for a horror writer, of all things, to have. But honestly, after so much horror apologist rhetoric about how violent, sadistic, or otherwise fucked-up art helps channel our own darker impulses into something harmless and positive, it’s kind of an interesting perspective. Don’t shrug it off just because you didn’t do it. Look at yourself in horror because you thought about it. Existentialist that I am, I don’t buy the film’s way of looking at things and I can’t exactly imagine that Romero or King do either, but it’s an interesting and different perspective which is built seamlessly into the story itself. It challenges its protagonist not just to act better, but to be a truly better person on the inside, the kind of person who genuinely wants no part of any kind of George Stark, real or imaginary.

The novel Dark Half was published in 1989, so King couldn’t yet have known that his own George Stark would come back to haunt him, but that’s exactly what happened when a series of school shootings from 1988 to 1999 were materially tied to his Richard Bachman 1977 novel “Rage,” which he eventually took out of print over fear it would lead to more violence. Let’s be clear: I’m 100% against censorship of any kind. But not because I don’t think art is harmless -- art can have great power, and sometimes can be dangerous. I don’t think King’s book was to blame for what happened, but I also think it would be foolish to completely dismiss it as irrelevant and meaningless. Fantasies, when shared or even harbored, still have unintended effects on both their creator and the world. THE DARK HALF is a horror movie not about a murderer, but about the unintended ramifications of the darker side of our imagination. 

That said, it’s not a perfect film. Romero is no stranger to cinematic metaphors, but as a director his approach is an entirely literal one. That works for the hordes of zombies, which function as both a literal threat and a literal metaphor. It works slightly less well with the metaphysical nature of this particular horror story, since it removes any ambiguity about what’s actually happening and hence we just have to accept that a lot of this is caused by undefined “magic.” Romero creates some great images, like the oscillating swarms of sparrows which seem to be everywhere in Castle Rock, Maine, or the Argento-esque blue-lit hallways where Stark kills a guy. But this story might have worked better being depicted as the nightmare it surely is. After all, there’s no explanation or clear logic to the world of the film, so why stick so stubbornly to reality most of the time? 

Still, it’s a well-constructed film. For a George Romero adaptation of a Stephen King novel, it doesn’t seem particularly concerned about being a horror film. It takes its time setting up the world and the characters in it, and seems perfectly content letting the horror of the premise speak for itself without throwing a bunch of “boo!(s)” and lame scary faces at us. Long stretches pass where it seems like basically a drama, and the fact that you’re involved enough in the story to be OK with that speaks highly of the film’s strong storytelling fundamentals. Hutton is good both as Beaumont and as Strark, resisting making either part seem showy. The specific connection between the two characters is a little tenuous, but Hutton makes the film’s final act (where the two meet) work very nicely. Impressively, you never get caught up in thinking about the technical achievement of the two Huttons interacting, nor does the duplicate actor draw you out of the film. It works nicely, and manages to capitalize pretty well off the building tension of the film’s themes (also: a great death-by-sparrows finale). 

So overall, a win for the world. The film does reveal some of both artists’ flaws. For Romero: overly literal staging, capable but indifferent cinematography. For King, wandering plotlines and overreliance on handy plot devices. But this particular collaboration ends up generally getting the goods out of the story and creating something unique and memorable. As much as I might have enjoyed, say, a nightmarish David Lynch adaptation of King’s work, I have to say that Romero’s guileless directness brings out the underlying nightmarishness about the work which exists beyond the well-staged murder scenes and effective but standard thriller plot. It could have been a great surreal horror film, but as it is it’s something a little more interesting: a film which makes you ask, uncomfortably, how much of the horror is inside you after all. All the scary images we can put on screen will never quite match that odd feeling of holding up a mirror and asking if that’s George Stark looking back.

*Come to think of it, that actually sounds like an entirely fitting metaphor for this world where the force of the government so utterly suits the whims of the amoral wealthy class. I say it’s high time to make some zombie movies using the traditional definition. That would be cool. Less racism this time though, OK fellahs? Everyone’s fine with Bela Legosi having zombie slaves, but suddenly when its a white zombie he’s gone too far? 

**Who I wrongly thought played George W. Bush in that insipid 9/11 Showtime puff piece that Brian Trenchard-Smith directed. Turns out that was Timothy Bottoms. While obviously Hutton should have seen that mistake coming and changed his name to avoid confusion, I would like to apologize for whatever small part I had in this unfortunate misunderstanding. 

***I know, there’s no such thing as too drunk to check movie trivia, just stick with me for this hypothetical example.

Emperor of the North

Emperor of the North a.k.a Emperor of the North Pole (1973)

Dir. Robert Aldrich

Starring Lee Marvin, Ernest Borgnine, Ernest Borgnine’s Crazy Eyes, Keith Carradine

How are you going to say no to a movie with that cast, from the director of THE DIRTY DOZEN? You might think you could hold out because you’ve never heard if it before, but when I tell you Ernest Borgnine has a huge hammer that he uses to crack open the skulls of hobos foolish enough to try and catch a ride on his train you’ll have to relent and admit that you’re on your way home to watch it right now. That’s the magic of the written word, right there. Pen is mightier than the sword, although not necessarily stronger than Borgnine flinging his goddam hammer at your fragile brain-pan.

This is an enjoyable and leisurely study in unassuming badassery from Robert Aldrich, and while it’s not quite as overwhelming as it might have been with that cast, it’s obviously worth the time for anyone who cares about decency. Lee Marvin plays a venerable hobo of some distinction among his peers named A #1, who is goaded into the ultimate show of hobo prowess: catching a ride on a train conducted by the notably anti-hobo Shack (Borgnine, positively unable to contain his enthusiasm for murder). Carradine plays a boastful greenhorn hobo named Cigaret, full of false bravado but without the experience to back it up. As Cigaret gets in over his head, A#1 reluctantly steps in as his mentor.

In this time before hobos had shotguns, they couldn’t do much to change the society of their Depression-era Northwest home, but they could at least stick it to the man. The film plays their antics as an effort to find some pride and humanity, and it adds a little understated emotional heft to a film which is basically about two guys trying to ride on a train without another guy seeing them. Clocking in at a minute shy of two hours, it’s a leisurely film with a surprisingly meandering plot, but it wisely keeps Marvin and Carradine at its center. Marvin is as cool as you’d imagine, quiet and confident. Carradine (in his second film and first starring role) grates a little as the brash younger man. It’s an irritating performance and character, but I think intentionally so. We occasionally catch a glimpse of the frightened kid behind the too-loud braggart, and it helps give the performance a touch of desperation and come off more sympathetic.

The odd thing about the film is that it seems weirdly unaware of its own darkness. The aggressively whimsical musical cues and sunny, gorgeous composition would lead us to believe this is a lark about hobo hijinks on the open road, but the content of the story is quite disturbing. Borgnine isn’t just an uptight authority figure to knock off his high horse -- he’s a homicidal psychopath just barely maintaining a thin veneer of assholery to cover it up. He doesn’t kill hobos because he wants to control his train; he drives a train so he has an excuse to sadistically kill a class of people no one is going to miss right out in the open. And Marvin and Carradine aren’t much better off. They’re filthy, tattered bums who have no hope whatsoever of ever rejoining society. The only option they have to retain any dignity at all is to become an Emperor of the North Pole – a top tier hobo. They lie, steal, nearly get killed and seriously endanger plenty of lives (their own and others) to try and achieve this lofty goal, but its pointlessness is already there in the title. Emperor of the North Pole still ain’t got shit. Meanwhile their friends are happily taking bets over whether or not they’ll be violently killed. Shit, this is a film which begins with a guy’s corpse getting cut in fucking half by a train. It ends in an absolutely brutal, bloody fight where A#1 and Shack go at each other with 2x4s, chains, rusty nails, hammers and axes, followed by a fairly heartbreaking coda where one major character is utterly destroyed and completely denied any redemption. But then after it ends the music cues up this stereotypical inspiring western melody, as if this is some lighthearted lark.

Clearly overseas they understand that sex sells.

I’m not sure if this was studio bungling, or if Robert Aldrich didn’t realize what he had, or what. But the plot and the creative side of the film seem to be constantly pulling in two different directions. I’m all for dark movies which don’t need to constantly drown you in depressing mise-en-scene, but this one seems to actively undermine its inner darkness as if it’s throwing its hands over its ears and shutting its eyes to it. If there’s a reason it hasn’t quite achieved classic status, this weird divide between style and content is probably it. It’s never as whimsical as it’s telling us it is, nor does it effectively take advantage of the black heart at the center of its narrative.

That said, you’re still going to watch it, and you’re going to find plenty of great things in there. For one thing, Lee Marvin fights two kids using a live chicken as a weapon. There are some classic and fun one-ups and tricks by the hobos as they scramble to stay ahead of Borgnine and the law, and some equally entertaining dirty tricks employed by Shack. There’s a scene where the two hobos scam a bunch of townies at a riverside baptism featuring a buxom brunette who becomes much more interesting to watch after being baptized (go ahead, look; Lee Marvin’s staring too). And it has Sid Haig and apparently fucking Lance Henriksen as hobo extras (I don’t think either of them has a line of dialogue, but you’ll at least notice Sid Haig’s menace in there. If anyone can find Henriksen in this thing you fucking tell me where he is. It’s like locating Joe Strummer in WALKER.) Even if the film’s weird disconnect between tone and narrative means it falls short of the classic it could have been, its still a fun, classy ride with two of cinemas greatest badasses squaring off on top of an actual moving train. Don’t even try and tell me you can do better with two hours of your time.