Inadvertent Comedy Gold!
Let’s talk inadvertent comedy gold…
Here at Blackweald Horror, I’ve covered a small but respectable selection of films and television shows. While I became a full-time writer in 2009 and created Blackweald Press in 2014, Blackweald Horror is relatively new. I created the site, along with some early articles, a few years ago, but, as is so often the case, life got in the way, and I neglected to put time into building YHMAH. Needless to say, there’s a world of horror out there just waiting to be dissected. There’s not much I haven’t seen, but there’s plenty left to be reviewed.
As stated, while small and humble, there’s a decent sampling of articles offered here. We’ve got a great...a heavy-weight contender...a GOAT. If you’re thinking Hereditary, well done! You know your horror. We’ve also got some TV GOATs: Penny Dreadful, The Haunting of Hill House, and Bly Manor. There’s some fun sprinkled in there, like Krampus. There’s a peculiar offering with Tusk. We have some witchy talk, thoughts on Mr. Burton, and a piece on the future of the horror genre. A decent smattering of topics, sure. But…I must confess something. I’ve failed you, dear readers. Terribly so, in fact. While YHMAH is still in its infancy, I’ve managed to bury the lead, and in doing so I deprived my fellow horror fiends of one of the greatest cinematic experiences of a lifetime. Might I be over-selling this just bit? No, my friends. Never. That’s quite impossible.
What I’m about to share with you is…well…not exactly confidential, but this information isn’t readily available to the general horror audience. This is top shelf intel. We’re talking serious tea, as my kiddos would say. Think of this article as your invitation to horror’s version of Disney’s Club 33. This is Blackweald Horror’s Club 666. Only the most elite, dedicated, deserving horror fans find themselves privy to sensitive information like this.
Now that I’ve done the film a wee bit o’ justice, let the de-flowering begin.
The year was 1990, and directors Claudio Fragasso and Bruno Mattei released a little film starring Peter Hooten, Tara Buckman, and Richard Foster. That film, dear readers, is called…Night Killer, and it is, hands down, the absolute greatest pile of garbage in existence. I know what you’re thinking: that’s nothing to brag about. But you’d be wrong. It takes an otherworldly collection of outlandish skills to strike the many chords Claudio and Bruno struck. Night Killer knocked some of the best worst films out of contention. Films like The Room, by Tommy Wiseau, and the French horror film Zombie Lake, which I call Boots, Boobs & Beaver Shots, on account of Jean Rollin’s and Julian de Laserna’s propensity for up-close camera shots of combat boots, boobs, and, well, beavers. You have no idea how brilliantly bad you have to be to knock these two wonderful turds off the podium.
Let me make something clear. I’ve got no use for bad horror. While I love horror and believe it to be capable of sheer brilliance, when it’s done poorly, it’s a nightmare to watch—no pun intended. But there’s a special breed of bad horror films deserving of attention. We’re not talking horror trash like Truth or Dare, Bye-Bye Man, Annabelle, or so many others like them. We’re talking garbage so bad it’s hilariously good. The kind of shit-show you want to gather friends to watch with. Films so uniquely funny they don’t just need large audiences—they’ve earned large audiences. Night Killer is just that: ninety-three minutes of non-stop laughs, lunacy, outlandish dialogue, and audacious plotlines. To my knowledge, it’s the best worst horror movie put to film, and it most certainly qualifies at inadvertent comedy gold.
Jason Shawhan (whoever the hell he is) wrote an article titled: “Night Killer Is a Trashy Film That Provokes Every Possible Emotion.” The title alone had me giggling to myself over my morning smoothie. Chris Stuckman, a popular film critic and indie director on YouTube, honored Night Killer by featuring it on one of his amazing hillariocity reviews—reviews dedicated only to the most hilariously bad films.
There’s some difficulty in discussing Night Killer. For starters, I wouldn’t dream of letting the magic beans out of the bag and ruining the film for anyone brave enough to venture into some seriously fun territory. Even if I were willing to let the cat out of the bag, I’d never do the film and all its belly-achingly funny scenes justice. Some things have to be experienced. This is one of them.
Suffice it to say, Night Killer begins and ends with absurdity. From start to finish, it delivers perfectly atrocious acting, dialogue so bad, so wild, or so unintelligible my entire family was in hysterics, scenes so insanely out there, no other film can rival them, a plot so hilariously twisted I still can’t believe someone wrote it, all punctuated by two director who were seemingly unwilling to allow for multiple takes, leaving for us, the unsuspecting viewer/s, some of the most mumbled/jumbled/frantic lines delivered.
Words fail me, really. There’s no way to properly convey this film’s comedic value. Any attempt to do so, including this one, is feeble. It’s an hour and thirty-three minutes you’ll never get back, but if you’ve got a sense of humor and a love for horror, you won’t want them back, because when might you ever again watch a naked woman stand in front of a mirror, giving herself a pep-talk (in third person) about divorce, child-rearing, and self-esteem, all while rubbing her breasts? I’m banking on…never.
So make some hot cocoa, snoozle into your favorite blanket or Snuggie (you nerd), have some laughs with the family this December, and forgive me for keeping this gem to myself for far longer than is excusable.
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