A Consideration of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
by
Geof Smith
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is the type of movie that seems to thumb its nose at any serious discussion. Most critics--most people for that matter--write this movie off because of the title and never look any further. Come on, its the ultimate drive-in, trashy, exploitation title. What could it have to offer? It's just a nasty little shocker, right? Well, yes. But there were nasty little shockers before it and hundreds in its wake. Why does TCM stand out? How did it survive the test of time? Twenty-five years after its first release, it still disturbs and shocks more than other movies that are certainly gorier and more sickening. There's something going on in this movie, something in Kim Henkel's story, Tobe Hooper's direction and grating musical score, and especially in Daniel Pearl's cinematography. After all--and this is something I like to inform any film purists who shrug off the movie--it’s in the Museum of Modern Art’s permanent collection.
The story is simple. It's one part campfire yarn and one part Grimm's fairy tale with a little Scooby-Doo thrown in. It has often been called a fairy tale for the Viet Nam generation. However, the current events of time do not explain its chilling and long-lasting effects. I won't bother summarizing the story because I assume that if you've read this far, you've seen the movie. If you haven't seen it, I don't want to ruin it for you, but I suggest you stop reading and go watch it. (Watch the Pioneer Special Edition DVD if possible. TCM has probably ever looked or sounded so good; and the difference between the grainy old tape and the digital video dandy is the difference between a common, nasty little shocker and a work of--well, something better.) It is basically a story of lost children, monsters, and houses that shouldn’t be entered.
My uncle once said that Elvira Madigan was a beautiful movie and that any frame could be pulled from the film and appreciated as a perfectly composed work of art. I think the same can be said about TCM...well almost the same. Almost any frame can be pulled from the movie and appreciated as a perfectly composed image of "the mad and macabre" that John Laraquette's prologue promises.
As I watched the movie recently, I was amazed at what a miserable trip they were having. On the surface, it seems like a group of groovy teenagers out for a day trip. But the whole day seems hot, uncomfortable, and unbearable. Even if they never met Leatherface and made it home in one piece, it would still be a pretty bad day. First they visit a graveyard to investigate reports of grave robbing; then they drive past a slaughterhouse and pick up a Mason-like hitchhiker; next they run low gas; and finally they reach the abandoned, spider- ridden house. Why are they laughing? Can't they see how hot and miserable and barren everything is? Can't they see the heat shimmering off the blacktop? Don't they see that dead armadillo festering by the roadside? Why are they running giddily with towels? Don't they see how creepy and oppressive the old Hardesty house is in the background? Of course not. Only we are aware of these things because our’s is the forced perspective of the camera. We sense the doom and feel the dread, of which only the invalid, Franklin, is vaguely aware and grumbles, “If I have any more fun today, I don't think I'll be able to take it.”
TCM is about watching; it details the thrill of voyeurism, caters to the desire to witness broken taboos, and finally paralyzes with horror. (These feelings are key to most good horror films; I'm reminded of Hitchcock commenting on Janet Leigh's desperate reach from the tub after the infamous shower scene imploring the impotent viewer to help.) But in TCM the feeling is always dirtier, more voyeuristic. The introductory narration twice mentions seeing: The movie which we are “about to see” and the poor victims who “saw much of the horrible and macabre.” When Sally, her brother Franklin, and their friends arrive at the graveyard, the old laughing drunk in the weeds warns them that he "sees things" and they may "laugh at an old man" but “there's them that laugh and know better." This warning becomes a prophecy that comes true for Sally, as will be discussed later. Time and again, the camera quietly watches the events. It dollies through the grass. It lurks behind Pam as she enters the still house. It zooms in on gruesome decorations with a nervous, hand-held mania. It lingers on pain. One of my favorite moments, is when the father discovers the younger brother along the roadside at night. It is shot directly into the glaring headlights of the truck--this “natural” lighting seems to be the only illumination used. The fighting figures are reduces to angry, dusty shadows. The perspective doesn’t shift, the sound is muted--it is as if we are watching from just down the road. Later, During Sally’s chase through the woods, the low budget, voyeuristic feel becomes stylized. All perspective collapses: she is tiny, Leatherface massive; the lack of light turns the trees into a crazy quilt of clutching shadows. Smart editing and camera placement work together with the limitations of guerilla filmaking, to produce a very effective and real document of terror.