Mom (1991; Patrick Rand) can only be recommended if
you are a horror-comedy completist, or working on your graduate thesis on the
topic.
Not to say there aren’t moments of almost pure genius,
but they are few and far between, and I just don’t know if you should spend
your time on this movie.
(I watched Mom about five weeks ago, and I’m mainly
going by my memory—mainly because I dread having to go back over the film to
find the good parts; the “bad parts” were that bad...)
Screened as part of The Moon Is a Dead World’s “Halloween 15 Movie List” blogathon, and currently available on Nflix InstaVue, this
schizoid flick starts well, with cult icon Brion James (RIP) as some sort of
ill-defined demon, toying with and then slaughtering a sexy hitchhiker (a pre-Babylon 5/post-The Hidden Claudia Christian).
For me, the flick’s wishy-washiness towards ever
locking down what sort of monster it was showing was a great hurdle never properly
overcome.
The movie ping-pongs between horror and comedy (and in
that specific genre, often between sophomoric sitcom hijinks, and subtle, dark
humor), and that sort of quicksand environment is not helped by the audience’s
uncertainty with what sort of critter we’re dealing with.
Mom isn’t a werewolf (so no worries about the moon); or
vampire (she can go out in the daylight if she has to), but she’s sort of a
demonic combination, with severe flesh-eating zombie tendencies.
It’s hard to understand why the filmmakers never even
just simply called out, “My mother is a demon!” and leave it at
that.
After James bites Mom and “turns” her,
it was amusing seeing the still-somewhat-kind old lady
fatten up and treat her victims (usually skid row bums) “nice” before tearing
their throats out; and these segments had a nice, “better episode of The X-Files” vibe about them: the
monster is given sympathy and depth.
Meanwhile, Mom’s dialog with either fellow monster
James, or her confused and resentful son, is straightforward, and becomes increasingly
witty as a macabre problem is discussed earnestly, or with gallows humor as
desperation sets in.
But the dialog among the “normals” is atrocious, and
utterly derails whatever greater points could have been made: A grown man’s
problems cutting the apron strings is a situation far too many of us are
familiar with here at the start of the 21st Century—and one that is only
going to get worse as the kids who’ve been “helicopter parented” get older.
As such, “momism” been a fertile field for both comedy
and horror mixed together in varying amounts, from Carl Reiner’s cult comedy
Where’s Poppa? (1970), to the infamous Psycho (1960), not to mention 1962’s The
Manchurian Candidate, or Larry Cohen’s It’s Alive.
Specific monsters have such great tropes about them,
that there could have been plenty said about maternal relations in contemporary
North America. Metaphorically, lycanthropy in mother could be a stand-in for
menopause; and vampirism is rich
territory to explore where mater is concerned.
The tonal shifts in Mom make me think that two separate scripts were staple-gunned
together and rewritten—by someone for whom English is a second language—and I
feel Mom is a lost opportunity to use
the horror genre to say something genuine.
Mom is very much influenced by John Landis’ problematic An American Werewolf in London, I feel—even
down to using the “Landis Font” that has been used in all his films since National Lampoon’s Animal House.
This highly inconsistent tone is very much in evidence
in Landis’ 1983 picture, a film I can appreciate for its historical value but
don’t honestly like—in the early 1980s “Werewolf Sweepstakes,” Joe Dante’s The Howling may not be as supposedly “groundbreaking”
style-wise as Landis’ flick, but it is overall a more consistent and effective
film—
and 1981’s Wolfen
(directed by Michael Wadleigh, and several others, uncredited), while
inconsistent, has a special place in my heart for its far-reaching
sociopolitical message(s), groovy
visual style, and its proto-X-Files duo
of male-female cops, with the grizzled, paranoid Homicide dick—who’s seen everything—teamed with the rational
scientist.
An American Werewolf in London didn’t click
with me on its initial release (I actually saw it at a Fangoria-sponsored press
screening then), nor about two years ago when I viewed it again on DVD.
The film is neither funny enough; nor consistent
enough with its supernatural “rules” concerning the werewolf and the undead. If
anything, Landis’ monster seems to be more like the Canadian Wendigo, than the
Northern European lycanthrope.
That absolute nerdism aside, I didn’t like the “snark”
provided by the rock’n’roll soundtrack, and personally, the idea to shoot Rick
Baker’s (admittedly excellent) special makeup effects in bright light wasn’t a
good one.
Meanwhile, keeping the finished werewolf monster suit
so hidden was another disappointment—I felt like the victim of a
bait-and-switch.
Landis’ film really feels like a first draft that
egotism didn’t let rewrite, and hubris granted by its eventual financial success
(guaranteed by the nudity, gore and heavily
over-hyped werewolf makeup effects) has covered up.
Even as a kid, I didn’t think this film went far
enough—and what a lost opportunity to comment on clueless Yankee students
backpacking in foreign lands, right? (And because the title of Landis’ movie
harkens to Mark Twain’s satirical fantasy, A
Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, I’m doubly disappointed that
commentary about the “cousins” is kept to the level of stolen children’s
balloons and Jenny Agutter’s lovely body.)
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