House of Death (aka Death Screams) Badly Butchered in "Restored" Streaming Versions

House of Death (1982, aka Death Screams) is an obscure slasher films from the 1980s, and thus many people might not notice if a distributor butchers it. But I own eight different copies of the film: a Beta cassette, a DVD, and six MP4 files.

That House of Death has never enjoyed a digital restoration released on blu-ray is not entirely logical, because many horror films that are both worse and more obscure have been released on blu-ray.

I was initially pleased to see the film's version on Tubi, because its visual quality is improved in some ways. Colors are more vibrant, and images are sharper than most (but not all) versions found YouTube, which seem to be transfers from old video cassettes (VHS, I assume). In terms of color and resolution, the Tubi version is superior even to my DVD version (which also seems taken from an old video cassette).

But the problems with the Tubi version are twofold. (I call it the Tubi version, but I've found an identical version on YouTube, so I doubt that Tubi is responsible for the film's "restoration".)

First, the Tubi version employs what I call "double cropping." This is when a distributor takes a widescreen film whose sides have been cropped to create a full screen (for old TV sets), then crops this full screen's top and bottom to create a new widescreen.

Thus, a widescreen film has been cropped twice, leaving little of the original image. Enough to be watchable, but the director's original compositions are gone. Wide shots become medium shots, medium shots become closeups, closeups become extreme closeups.

Observe the two below images from House of Death. The top image is a video cassette's full screen image (the original widescreen already cropped at the sides.) The second image (taken from Tubi) has cropped the image for a second time, this time its top and bottom, to create a new widescreen. The film's original widescreen has now been cropped on all four sides.

 

 

You'll notice the Tubi version's improved colors and resolution. I assume the restoration was done on a version found on an old video cassette. The original widescreen version (probably 35mm film stock) is probably lost.

But that's no excuse for the double cropping. If only a full screen version remains, let's watch House of Death in full screen. Cropping additional material to create a new widescreen only makes things worse.

I suppose distributors think the public wants widescreen and won't realize they're watching a badly butchered version rather than the original image.

But Tubi's version of House of Death has additional problems. It's missing two key sequences.

IMDB lists House of Death with a running time of 1.28 (an hour and 28 minutes). Tubi's version runs at 1.28.06. My MP4 versions range from 1.25.30 to 1.31.33. Clearly, House of Death has suffered many distributors and re-edits.

Here are the sequences missing in Tubi's version, which appear on my Beta tape and the 1.31.33 MP4 version on YouTube:

1. The scene wherein Romana sneaks into the coach's house is longer (and includes a topless shot of actress Jennifer Chase). That this scene is excised from the 1.28 versions is obvious from the crudely abrupt cut from the bathroom to the bedroom, the characters' whole demeanors having changed. Something had obviously occurred between them, but what? In the longer version, we see that the coach rebuffed Romona's advances, and tossed her into the shower to "cool off."

2. In the penultimate scene, when the coach attacks Lily with a machete, there is a brief flashback that depicts the coach as a young boy in the bordello in which his mother worked. This flashback explains why he hates and kills "slutty" women (and their men). This flashback is missing entirely from the shorter 1.28 versions.

In the final scene (in both long and short versions) Sandy asks "Why?" She and everyone else is baffled as to why the coach went on a murder spree. Viewers of the shorter version are equally baffled. But those of us lucky to have seen the longer version, know the answer.

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For more information on composition and editing in horror films, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

Can We Please Lose the Overhead Drone Shot?

It's become a cliché. The overhead drone shot of a car driving along a highway or through a forest. Despite some minor variations, I've seen these shots way too often. They're pointless apart from looking pretty, because they're rarely aesthetically motivated. As an establishing shot, they have become banal and, well, cliché.

 

 

As a cliché, the drone shot of the driving car rivals the fruit cart. As described in Roger Ebert's The Little Book of Hollywood Clichés, whenever a film has a chase scene, and you cut to a fruit cart, you just know a speeding vehicle will collide with that cart.

Why are filmmakers so in love with overhead drone shots? I have a theory.

Camera drones are a relatively recent consumer technology. Prior to them, overhead shots required expensive cranes or helicopters, operated by highly paid (often unionized) workers. Thus, overhead shots were both rare and impressive. In the 1980s, SCTV even had a running gag about TV personality Johnny LaRue (John Candy) incessantly badgering the station owner for a crane with which to wow his audience. Crane shots were big league.

And so when drones became available to ordinary folk, filmmakers jumped at the chance to showcase their new toy. They used and overused drones, much like filmmakers of the late 1960s/early 1970s overused their newly affordable zoom lenses.

Because they used to be expensive, filmmakers think that an overhead shot will make their films look slick and professional and expensive.

In Horror Film Aesthetics, I observed that in They (2002), the camera looks directly down upon (rather than from an angle at) city buildings. Aesthetically, seeing building roofs and city streets passing below us creates (1) an emotionally unsettling geometric pattern, because an ordinary city suddenly looked "alien" to us, and (2) creates a sense of some evil looming overhead.

 

 

But in 2002, such shots were fresh, rare, and therefore emotionally jarring. But as with Japanese ghosts crawling along the floor with their faces obscured, the emotional impact of overhead drone shots have lost their punch as audiences become jaded through repeated exposure.

I also love the moving overhead shot of bridges to New Jersey in Lost Souls. In the context of the story, with the brooding clouds and sun breaking over the skyline (I wonder how much color correction was done in post?), the cinematography creates a sense of impending Apocalypse.

And again, because of its expense, that kind of shot was rarely seen. (Lost Souls was released in 2000, but shot in 1997, so I'm assuming the shot was created with a helicopter.)

At this point, overhead drone shots are so commonplace, they no longer impress. Audience know that drone shots aren't expensive. Plus, so many crappy low-budget films open with overhead drone shots, I groan when I see them, expecting the worst. Another poor filmmaker who hopes to hide his poor story and actors with technical wizardry.

One "cool shot" cannot compensate for a poor story, mediocre acting, and sloppy production values in the overall film. Actually, it can have the opposite effect. If the film is mostly bad, then one great element (a beautiful shot, a classic song, a single fine actor) can create a contrast, highlighting how awful is the rest of the film.

When computer video editing software became widespread some 20 years ago. I'd watch low-budget, independent horror films with amazing opening credits that raised my hopes and expectations. And then followed a really bad film, like something a group of amateurs had shot with a camcorder.

Amazing opening credits only makes a bad film look worse. The same can be said of drone shots.

Drone shots, like all technical aspects in a film, should be aesthetically motivated. Which means they should support the film's story, characters, or themes.

And sometimes the old ways are best. An establishing shot doesn't have to be from the sky. Unless there's some point to an overhead shot, a ground level shot will do just a nicely. Focus on telling a good story with a talented cast; not on wowing us with your new toy.

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For more information on framing and cinematography in horror films, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

Mobile Camera and Staging Enlivens The Vast of Night

Stage plays adapted to film can appear static. Long scenes with people just sitting and talking can weary an audience. Thus, filmmakers will sometimes try to liven up events by breaking single location scenes into different locations, taking the characters outdoors for a walk as they continue talking. Or they'll have the camera roam for a bit, inserting a few brief action shots for an interlude to break the monotony of all that talk.

The Vast of Night (2019) is a talky film. Although its topic of alien abduction carries much potential for action, it has many long, static scenes of people just sitting and talking.

In one scene, Fay (Sierra McCormick) sits at switchboard for ten minutes, listening to the radio or talking to people over the phone. Ten minutes is a long time to focus on one person just sitting in tight quarters, talking or listening.

It can be interesting, if there's an engaging character in an intriguing situation. And Fay is engaging. But however good the scene is, it might be even better if things were livened up.

Director Andrew Patterson uses a mobile camera and staging (actors walking or driving about for long stretches) as active interludes between his long, static scenes. Breaking up things before stupor sets into the audience.

The Vast of Night opens with a long take, a mobile camera following Everett (Jake Horowitz) as he enters a high school gym, walking about, talking to several people, following a teacher downstairs to the basement, then up and out again, into the parking lot.

Patterson uses several long takes for this scene (some over two minutes in length) while a mobile camera instills a sense of anticipation and excitement. Thus the film is mostly a series of long, static scenes of people talking -- discussing aliens, government conspiracies, and lights in the sky -- interspersed with long interludes of the camera roaming about.

Sometimes Patterson's mobile camera follows people. But sometimes it appears to be seeking something. In which case, these mobile shots serve a secondary purpose.

At one point, the camera glides quickly over the dark streets of this small New Mexico town, nobody in sight. Because of 1, the story's context, and 2, no human is present, and 3, the camera moves faster than any human can run, it feels as if we're seeing events from the POV of unearthly being. An alien, perhaps? This appears not to be the case, but the feeling is there nonetheless. And it adds to the film's eeriness.

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For more information on cinematography and staging in horror, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

Zooms Lens Put to Imaginative Use in Shadows of Fear

The "Sugar and Spice" episode of TV's Shadows of Fear uses the zoom lens in an imaginative way for an interesting effect.

Anne's (Sheila Hancock) husband, Victor, is having an affair. She's known it for a while. She found a letter to Victor from his mistress. But tonight Anne has other problems. Her son hasn't come home. She has reason to believe that Victor picked up the boy from school. But why would he? And where are they now?

As the night wears on, Anne wonders if she should call Victor's mistress (her phone number was in the letter) to see if Victor and their son are with the mistress. But neither Victor or his mistress know that Anne knows about them. If he and the boy are not there, Anne will have revealed her knowledge to the mistress for nothing.

In the following scene, Anne breaks down and phones the mistress. The camera zooms closer to Anne's face every time the phone rings.

Ringing and zooming work together in mutual support. Anne wants to talk to the mistress, yet doesn't want to talk to her. Ever been there? Where you dread talking to someone, yet are anxious to do so? Each time the phone rings, Anne expects and wants the mistress to answer, yet is relieved when she doesn't.

The zooming heightens this tension. We only zoom during the phone rings, each zoom bringing us closer to Anne's tense face. It has been said that comedy is a long shot; tragedy a closeup. Seeing a character up close helps the audience to identify with that character and empathize with her emotions. And horror is a genre that requires strong audience empathy with the protagonist.

Apart from heightening tension and character identification, the zooming in "Sugar and Spice" serves another purpose. Shadows of Fear featured plays that were videotaped on TV sound stages. Back in the 1970s, TV cameras were larger and more unwieldy than today. None of that handheld, shaky-cam style of shooting permitted by later, smaller cameras.

As a result, TV shows that were shot on sound stages in the 1970s were "stagy" and "static." The zooming in "Sugar and Spice" is an example of an innovative director trying to liven up the visuals in what is essentially a stage play.

"Sugar and Spice" was directed by Patrick Dromgoole.

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For more information on sound and cinematography in horror, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

A Minimalist Production Design for Out of His Tree

Finding suitable locations is one of the bigger problems confronting low-budget horror filmmakers. Many actors and crew members will work for little pay or no pay. Realistic looking locations (e.g., a restaurant, school, airport, hospital) are more difficult and costly to secure. Shooting permits, location fees, and liability insurance are expensive for those on a shoestring budget. In some cases, the law even requires a (paid) fire marshal and/or other professionals to be on set at all times.

But with a little imagination, filmmakers and production designers can create locations on the cheap. Such as in Out of His Tree (2016), an eight minute film set inside a hospital.

Hospital rooms, whether real or on a sound stage, can be expensive to rent. Instead, for Out of His Tree, production designer Sorsha Willow took a minimalist approach, merely suggesting a hospital with only a few set pieces.

 

 

Out of His Tree has two locations. The first is Dr. White's (Laverne Edmonds) office. She makes some phone calls before going to see her next patient. Her "office" is just a white area. The only set piece is a white phone.

Writer/director Robert Howat's cinematography assists Willow's minimalist design by bathing the office in soft white light, and blurring the wall behind Edmonds. What is that on the "wall" behind her? Charts and papers? We don't know. Nor does it matter.

Sound effects further assist in suggesting a hospital: soft conversations echoing in a hallway, phones ringing, etc.

Because a solitary actress standing in an empty white space can make for a static, dull scene, Howat enlivens the scene by shooting Laverne from different angles during her conversation.

 

 

The second location is in the patient Johnny's (Robert Howat) room. We learn that Dr. White is a psychiatrist. Johnny is mentally ill. Their conversation comprises the remainder of the film, ending with a supernatural revelation.

It's a simple white room. The main set pieces are two metal chairs, some papers, and wrist straps on Johnny.

Apart from saving money, the film's minimalist set design has the aesthetic effect of focusing our attention on Dr. White and Johnny, because there's little else in the rooms to distract our attention.

This focus is further heightened by Howat's heavy use of medium closeups and closeups. The frames become tighter as the story progresses, enhancing our intimacy with the characters.

It has been said that comedy is a long shot while drama is a closeup. Long shots emotionally distance audiences from the characters' sufferings. Closeups pull us into their hopes, dreams, desperations, and fears. Howat's use of closeups serves his dark supernatural tale well.

Also read about how low-budget filmmakers created inexpensive locations for Mark of the Witch and Psychic Sue.

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For more practical tips for low-budget horror filmmakers, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

The First Step: Obscuring Low-Budget Makeup Effects

Sometimes less is more. A threat might be more frightening if unseen and left to our imagination. For instance, the entity in The Haunting, slowing pressing in the heavy wooden door as the terrified characters watch from its other side. We never did learn what lurked behind that door.

But sometimes "less is more" is just a filmmaker's excuse to show less (fewer sets, locations, actors, or special effects) because he could not afford to show more. The film needed to show more (nothing was aesthetically gained by its showing less), but more was not in the budget.

And sometimes these two motivations for showing less -- aesthetic and financial -- conjoin in a mutually supportive manner.

In The First Step, a cellar dweller creeps up from a basement, up three flights of stairs, to kill a little girl. This is a short, low-budget ($500) film. As such, the cellar dweller's makeup effect (by Delia De Cock) is admirably original and effective, but upon close examination, it looks like makeup.

This means that, should audiences get an opportunity to closely examine the makeup, it will be that much harder for them to suspend their disbelief and enjoy the horror.

The First Step solves this problem by obscuring the cellar dweller with dim lighting (such that the creature is often seen in silhouettes) ...

... and a soft focus (thus blurring the edges of the makeup application, so that the creature's twisted features appear natural).  

Framing also helps obscure the monster, often showing us only its body parts (e.g., a foot, a clawed hand, etc.).

I don't know if this was the filmmakers' (Daniel Brown and Kate McMeans) intent behind their lighting, photography, and framing, but that's the aesthetic effect. If you were to pause the film and scrutinize the creature, then its feature will more clearly be seen as artificial makeup, rather than actual monster skin. But when seen only briefly in quick cuts, and under dim lighting, and through a slight blur, then the creature's artificiality is less obvious.

By obscuring the cellar dweller, more is left to the viewer's imagination. This imagination is further stimulated by the monster's creepy voice and disjointed body movements, (actress Jon Anna Van Thuyne), both of which suggest all manner of horrors.

To recap:

The First Step's low-budget yields some fairly nice monster makeup effects, but these effects are obviously artificial should viewers closely examine them. To prevent such close examination of the makeup, the filmmaker employs...

* Dim lighting (creating silhouettes),

* Soft focus (blurring the image),

* Tight framing (showing only parts of the monster),

* Quick cuts (further preventing close examination of the creature).

This leaves the creature's nature up to our dark imaginings, which are further stimulated by ...

* Sound (a creepy voice for the monster),

* Acting (disjointed body movements by the actor).

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For more information about lighting, photography, framing, editing, sound, and acting in horror films -- see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.