I know I’m only one of many expressing the exact same
sentiment, but like the faithful testifying of the gospel, sometimes you just need
to add your voice in a chorus of praise to the same truth. With The
Lords of Salem, Rob Zombie has decisively graduated from a rock star making
movies as a side career to a true filmmaker whose artistry in this medium
dwarfs his impressive record in others.
Many people in other fields – novelists, musicians, artists – have directed
films, but I’m not aware of anyone (save only Orson Welles) who segued from
another field into cinema without the results being more than an intriguing and
short-lived novelty. Furthermore, unlike
some celebrities who promote themselves as “triple-threat” Renaissance men,
Zombie has been a genius in multiple media, especially music and graphic design, not a mere dabbler, and has done so
with a modest aplomb, scornful of the pretentiousness of “important” movies,
and content that his own tastes and interests are valid. He has not only evolved into an important
filmmaker, but I would say he has surpassed the ultra-hip school of
Tarantino, Rodriguez and Eli Roth, who are endlessly preoccupied with
brandishing pop-culture references in the audience’s face. Zombie seems to have integrated his
well-known influences – horror films, true crime, glam rock, carny culture – in
a way that feels organic. In other
words, you can enjoy his films whether or not you can call out every movie he
may be paying homage to from scene to scene.
I was excited to see The Lords of
Salem ever since hearing an interview with Zombie a year ago stating that
the muses of his new film were men like Roman Polanski, Ken Russell and Stanley
Kubrick. I can’t remember the last time
I heard a contemporary director giving tribute to anyone other than his own
peers.
As many have observed, descriptions of plot don’t do much
good for The Lords of Salem. It is a frequently hallucinatory horror poem
depicting a descent into madness brought on by the intriguing concept – (also
explored in Cronenberg’s films) – of being corrupted or infected by exposure to
an idea or art work. The source of this
evil is no post-modern abstraction, though; it is as literal as in any Hammer
flick from the 60s: i.e. the Devil himself.
In modern-day Salem, Mass., a radio DJ named Heidi Hawthorne (Sheri Moon-Zombie)
receives a record of strange music, which upon being played has a debilitating
effect on her and various other women in town.
Meanwhile a historian (Bruce Davison) is researching Salem’s legacy of
witch-hunting, learning of a curse laid on the city by a real witch (an
unrecognizable Meg Foster). Add to the
mix a trio of eccentric women who live downstairs from Heidi and you have the
makings of a truly sinister conspiracy.
Brilliantly, Zombie teases of a standard supernatural thriller, and also
of a delirious head movie, but he always tugs on the reins and keeps everything
focused on Heidi’s ordeal. The film is
surprisingly concise (at 101 minutes) considering its scope and endless opportunities
for visionary indulgence. It’s a darkly
beautiful and melancholy film that builds on its use of unsettling imagery to
sustain a feeling of mounting dread. Its
ancestors are Rosemary’s Baby (1968),
The Devils (1971), Eraserhead (1977), Suspiria (1977), Nosferatu (1979), The Fog (1980), The Shining (1980), Altered States (1980) and Videodrome (1983). I almost hate to refer to it as a ‘horror
film,’ not just because rabid horror fans won’t likely find it satisfying, but
because it has virtually nothing in common with every popular horror film of
recent years. Despite its heavy burden
of horror film lore, it’s shockingly original.
I’ll be very surprised if I enjoy another movie more this year.
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