Wild About Larry

I’m not ashamed to admit that, up until not long ago, I pretty much knew Larry Fessenden exclusively as that guy that makes nap-inducing art-horror -- mostly because that’s how just about everyone comes to know Larry Fessenden. From Habit to the first of his numerous flirtations with the legend of the Wendigo, the one thing I could always grant him was consistency; his movies never failed to, quite literally, knock me out.

But over the summer, as I’ve had to more closely analyze some of Fessenden’s recent work for reviews, I’ve found a new appreciation for him, largely due to the realization that he’s completely batshit crazy.

Do a Google Image search for Fessenden and you’ll note one common characteristic: in all of his photos Fessenden looks remarkably like Jack Nicholson’s grizzled, mid-winter Jack Torrence from The Shining. After researching him a bit, I’m fairly certain this is no coincidence, and that if left in a haunted hotel with only his wife, his son, and his typewriter, Fessenden might very well start kissing corpses in bathtubs. And I love him for this.

Actually, as fringe filmmakers go, Fessenden seems to be a pretty moderate voice. Though his latest film, The Last Winter (left to wander the festival wasteland for nearly two ridiculous years before getting distribution), deals with climate change, ecological disturbances resulting from the quest for oil, and vengeful undead elks, the heart of the film is less concerned with sociopolitical issues and more with believable characters and the realistic interpersonal relationships they share. No hip-hop artists talking to plants, either.

That said, Fessenden’s work does artistically express his beliefs and opinions, whether intentionally or not, but he’s not shackled to his commentary to the detriment of the movies (coughcoughDiaryoftheDeadcoughcough).

Perhaps most endearing of all, I’m pretty sure the Muppet “Crazy Harry” was based on Fessenden. Jim Henson was just never very good with spelling.

Which Witch?

I don't have much tonight, but I thought it worth noting that I took a walk to the library this evening and happened to breeze by the video section and see Suspiria sitting on the shelf. I don't know why I grabbed it, really; I did't anticipate having much time to watch it in the near future. But I was ecstatic on the walk home. With the sun down and the wind blowing, I felt like Suzy Banyon on my approach to a prestigious German dance academy. Some people get spring fever. I get Suspiria fever.

The experience unexpectedly reawakened interest in Argento's Three Mothers Trilogy, a saga I'd only loosely followed in the past. The first time I saw Suspiria, I fell asleep within the first five minutes, a fact I attribute more to my physical state at the time and less to the power of the movie. The second time I saw it, I was sufficiently blown away and freaked out for its entire 100-minute runtime, swept up in the sheer visceral pummeling of it. I didn't come away from the film loving it, but I definitely respected it. It was one of those wonderful horror movies that I didn't particularly care to ever watch again.

So what happened tonight? I'm not sure, but I threw the tape in when I got home and have been kind of glancing at it every now and then as if I were baby-sitting it, and in the process of doing so I'm really finally beginning to appreciate it for its overt artistry. Having Suspiria playing in the background makes me feel like I'm sitting in an art gallery with a television in place of a painting. I've long thought of Tim Burton's Sleepy Hollow, another movie about a witch, as my pick for the most beautiful horror film (or at least the most beautiful modern horror film; it's hard to compare anything to some of the Universal classics from the '30s and have it rank well), but tonight I'm inclined to at least accept Suspiria as a worthy contender, if not a new champion.