In this ongoing column, editor Chris Alexander muses on classic and contemporary films worthy of a deeper discussion.This round…it’s 1978’s THE SHOUT.
Whether it be a low, wet, growl coming from deep within in the dark, a disembodied whisper from behind a long locked door, or the skin-tightening timbre of a terrified womans pre-knife stuck scream, the use of sound has been manipulated since the dawn of horror cinema as a highly-effective tool to terrify those lucky enough to be blessed with relatively good hearing. Sound fills in the blanks, giving audible life to seemingly benign tableaux; people, objects and events are transformed. Sometimes sound is used to create tension, to provide the aural punch line to an unbearable set up and sometimes sound is even used to lull the viewer into a false sense of calm before unleashing whatever beast the filmmaker has heretofore kept under wraps. But in Polanski pal and Deep End director Jerzy Skolimowski’s little discussed 1978 tone poem The Shout, sound is used for even more aggressive purposes: to maim, to harm, to inflict agony and eventually, to kill every living thing in its path.
What’s that SHOCK reader? Never heard of The Shout? You certainly are not alone. This dark, abstract sliver of arthouse weirdness has never before been available legitimately on Blu-ray or DVD on these shores (a UK DVD was released a decade ago, poorly transferred and with an altered, inferior sound design and an excellent, feature-filled British Blu-ray was released quietly last year) and the ancient, Columbia Pictures US VHS release is a highly-sought-after collectible.
I first encountered The Shout the same way I first encountered many of my favorite films: alone, on late night television. This strange, dark and slowly paced film marked me the deepest and not a day went by that I did not think about it in some way shape or form. My fixation on it later amplified when I realized that basically no one I knew had ever seen it, let alone were aware of (or cared about) its existence and it felt as though it were mine, a secret slice of cinema whose fan club sported one member: me.
Imagine my delight one day, while sifting through the delete rack at Torontos Queen Video in The Bloor street Annex, I found that very same aforementioned discontinued Columbia videocassette, lying there, faded, moldy and battered at the bottom of the shelf, being sold off for a lousy dollar. Money immediately changed hands and within seconds The Shout was mine.
But, per usual, I get ahead of myself. Let me tell you a bit about the film itself .
Church organist and erstwhile experimental music composer Anthony (the late, great John Hurt, he of David Lynch’s The Elephant Man, Ridley Scotts Alien, Jim Jarmusch’s Only Lovers Left Alive and so many other wonderfully eccentric turns) and his comely wife Rachel (the dearly departed Susannah York) live a quiet, idyllic yet sexually vacant life in the English countryside. Into their pleasant but unremarkable home comes a brooding, ruggedly handsome, hirsute wanderer named Crossley (the late, notoriously self destructive British actor/boozer Alan Bates) seeking refuge and a hot meal, which the young couple skeptically oblige. Its not long before this belligerent, sneering animal of a man begins slowly, methodically manipulating and controlling Anthony and Rachels lives, both physically and mentally. Turns out Crossley isnt just your run of the mill raving psychotic narcissist, but rather is a kind of an aboriginal warlock, a dangerous outback -dwelling monster who claims to have murdered his children in order to learn the ancient art of psychic vampirism and the ever useful skill of killing by shouting. Taking the disbelieving Anthony onto the moors one night, Crossley crassly proves his case by simply opening his mouth, drawing in air and letting loose a lethal primal shriek from the very chasms of Hell. Things get very nasty and, needless to say, do not end particularly well
Told as an extended flashback to Rocky Horror Picture Show vet Tim Curry, The Shout is the kind of lyrical, intelligent, enigmatic and frustrating work of psychological horror that the Brits were once so very fond of producing in the 1970s and that are simply, and sadly, not being made at all anymore. Filled with deranged, politically incorrect sex (fans of the lovely York take note), haunting nightmare imagery and an aura of icy, inevitable doom, the picture plays like the bastard offspring of The Wicker Man, Nick Roeg’s Don’t Look Now and vintage Luis Bunuel; a movie of surreal, shocking, confusing, terrifying and occasionally blackly humorous power and the kind of eyeball spinning head scratcher that stays with you for weeks (in my case, a lifetime), requires multiple viewings and asks far more questions than it provides answers to. Driven by a powerful score by Genesis alumni Mike Rutherford and Tony Banks, this is truly a living, breathing nightmare committed to celluloid and I beg, nay command you to seek out a copy, like, yesterday. Do it, or Ill scream.