While loaded with a plethora of alternate titles that range from the trippy (Aquarius), to the bizarre (Bloody Bird), StageFright remains a flamboyant and stylish entry to the pantheon of 80s slashers that adds a spot of jazz hands to the bloody business of mass murder. Capably helmed by Dario Argento protege, Michele Soavi, in his directorial debut, the film pulls off the really neat trick of delivering all the slasher thrills you’d expect from the genre (masked killer, inventive kills, final girl), but with the added visual flair of a European giallo movie, which proceeded to deliver the best of both worlds at a time when horror fans were starting to tire of countless stalk and slash entries.
While a modern audience may collectively scratch its head when mulling over some of StageFright’s many, ostentatious directorial choices – surely that owl mask is the most impractical slasher disguises in horror history – its precisely that baroque tone that makes it so fucking awesome.
Aaaaaaand five, six, seven, eight…!
It’s late at night and a theater troupe of struggling dancers are furiously rehearsing for The Night Owl, a deliberately controversial musical based on the killings of a fictional serial killer. While everyone involved is financially at the end of their rope, mo one needs the show to be a hit more than Peter, the domineering director who is pushing his cast beyond breaking point and no one is feeling his wrath more than Alicia, who is trying to struggle on with a twisted ankle.
However, after withstanding one tantrum too many, her friend Betty smuggles her out and takes her to the nearest doctor, who ends up working at a local mental hospital and unbeknownst to the the young women, they unknowingly pick up a stowaway on their way back in the form of formally incarcerated, psychotic, massacre-happy, actor, Irving Wallace, who subsequently repays for the lift by plunging a pick axe into Betty’s screaming mouth.
The police come and the police go and in the aftermath, Peter and the head financer plot to capitalize on the murder, callously changing the script to rename the mysterious killer in the musical to that of the actual escaped maniac in order to shamelessly build more controversy for their opening. In order to enact those changes, Peter demands that the core members of the cast remain in the theater overnight to furiously rehearse and even goes as far as locking them in and having the key hidden to guarantee their dedication.
Of couse, there’s no prizes for guessing where Wallace has chosen to hide out and after donning the costume worn by the killer in the show, he targets the terrified showbiz types locked him with him in order to enact an unforgettable performance of his own that’s sure to knock everybody dead.
Considering slasher movies are somewhat theatrical to start with, it’s surprising that it took so long to stage one on an actual stage with a remorseless, Michael Myers type stalking bitchy luvvies throughout the books and crannies of a cobwebby theatre. While Theatre Of Blood admittedly saw a pontificating Vincent Price performing some creative kills on a group of dismissive critics, StageFright proves to be something of a more lithe beast, enforcing the more dreamlike extremes of Italian horror on the practical nature of the American slasher. The result is bloody spectacular, and proves to be one of the more visually ingenious kill-a-thons that emerged from the decade, using that old razzle dazzle to spice things up in a way that made the resent Halloween and Friday The 13th entries seem positively stale by comparison.
Of course, while no one would want Jason or Michael to start suddenly thrusting themselves in pursuit of their victim in the style of Bob Fosse, the use of a theater troupe in a slasher is a fucking masterstroke. As dancers can be known to be somewhat highly strung, all the usual slasher archetypes are present and correct – on top of the usual final girl, there’s showbiz versions of all the usual characters such as the piggish asshole, the token scheming bitch, the shy one, the screaming one, the gung-ho jock and even a gay best friend. On top of that, a sealed off theater makes for a magnificent killing zone with walkways, hidden rooms, a tool room packed with sharp implements (even a chainsaw) and dressing rooms that offer up a multitude of places to hide.
Realising that he’s been given a magnificent playground to play with, Soavi hurls himself into the directing fray like he’s possessed by supercharged barbiturates, putting all those years working under Dario Argento to good use and I’m willing to bet folding money that there isn’t a better looking slasher than StageFright during the entirety of the 80s. Whipping out every visual trick in the book, the director lambasts us with lushously gorgeous frames, loaded with a stunning examples of shadow, colour and composition. It may not be subtle – a key needed to escape is rendered gargantuan in the frame thanks to some extreme use of perspective – but why wouldn’t you be theatrical in a film with such a setting?
However, what really stands out is how tricky the whole cat and mouse thing is. After the careful set up, we shift into survival territory as our characters are fully armed with the knowledge that they’re being hunted and their respective personalities dictate how well the react. Also, for those who fail, some visually impressive deaths await to cause the pulse rates of gore hounds to spike violently and it’s here that StageFright proves itself to be an exceptional all rounder. When the characters aren’t being tricked into standing around while a disguised Wallace slaughters one of their cast mates right in front of them, they’re accidently axing one of their own as the killer runs rings around them. But not to be outdone, when he does straight up kills someone, it’s impressive stuff as Wallace drills, saws – and in one showstopping moment that’s been copied ever since – tears a woman in half after a frenzied game of tug of war; and he manages to do this all while wearing a marvelously elaborate owl mask that looks virtually impossible to see out of.
Admittedly, logic sometimes evaporates – why does a room located in the rafters of the building have a waterlogged basement directly under it – but the fact that it’s flashy, energetic and as fancy as the spirited sax solos which punctuates Simon Boswell’s fabulously unrestrained score means that StageFright is a phantasmagorical experience that deserves a standing ovation.
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