Many years ago, when I was a wee lad of 17, I attended a double feature of Larry Fessenden movies with the filmmaker in attendance. The program was his eco-Frankenstein flick No Telling, and his equally eco-minded chiller Wendigo. It was a somewhat sparsely attended exhibition, and if I’m being honest, my friends and I only went because it was something to do, but as a burgeoning cinephile, the experience was a formative one. I got to take in some truly independent cinema while also experiencing one of my very first filmgoing “events.” Add to that the fact that Mr. Fessenden was very open and kind to a couple of enthusiastic youngsters, and a fire of fandom was lit. So much so that less then a year later I got my first and only tattoo: the image of a Wendigo taken from an embroidered patch given to me by the filmmaker. I’ve since lost the the patch (and scoured the internet for a new one, to no avail), but the image remains etched into my flesh, much the same way that Fessenden’s films have been hardcoded into my filmgoing tastes.
I haven’t missed a Fessenden film since, and it’s been fascinating to revisit them as I grow older. There’s something about the way he fills his horror pictures with flawed characters, all with relatable emotions, while inserting a dash of melancholy, that allows the pictures to redefine themselves every time I visit them. His monsters may hurt people, but they can also be hurt. Heck, in my favorite film of his, Habit, the blood-sucking vampire is hardly a monster at all. But the protagonist, played by Fessenden himself, is quite monstrous indeed, and also quite human (until he’s not). It’s this imperfection that makes his characters so relatable. By showing us the human being behind the monster, and vice versa, we in the audience are given license to embrace our own humanity — to recognize our flaws and abstain from self-flagellation.
At the risk of getting too personal, I wish to give you, dear reader, some context regarding my current situation. This past Christmas my entire life changed in a big way. My relationship of nearly ten years dissolved and I found myself using the holiday season to move into a new place, just me and my cat. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary, and one of the great comforts as I adjusted to my new life was watching movies. I thought it a good time to go back to my roots, so to speak, and revisit Fessenden’s filmography in chronological order with the goal of finishing them all in time for the release of Blackout, his latest film which I will talk about shortly, I promise.
Anyone who has been through a difficult (and in my case, amicable) breakup can tell you that you come out the other end a changed person. Perspectives emerge that were unthinkable just days prior, and emotions are felt that seemingly come out of nowhere. It’s similar to grief in a lot of ways, and I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone (but would certainly recommend it to some). Whereas the passage of time alone would surely result in me viewing these films with a new mentality, the added bonus of intense loss and growth gave each and every one of them new resonance. No Telling took on themes of honesty that I had never seen prior. Habit, a film literally about a breakup, forced me to confront the monsters that live within me. Wendigo had me ruminating on the chaos of life, and my responsibilities towards those who depend upon me. The Last Winter suddenly became about the effects my presence has on my environment in a personal sense rather than ecological one. Depraved forced me to recognize that I, just like everyone else, am an amalgamation of my experiences, my unchosen flesh vessel be damned.
It was a lot to take in, but it was precisely the tonic I needed to move forward with grace. And since the act of crying had been bred out of me by my boomer-aged parents, the tears these movies brought on were a hell of a catharsis. In a lot of ways it felt like my slate had been wiped clean. Or at the very least, a new slate had been provided upon which I could build my new life and my new self. It’s a forever project, to be sure, but the function of art is to make that project bearable, and hopefully fun.
Enter Blackout, Larry Fessenden’s take on the Wolfman. Alex Hurt plays Charley, an artist who is reeling from a breakup of his own and using alcohol to self-medicate. He drinks to excess, he paints, and he wonders if the images he conjures are connected to the recent spate of grisly murders that have plagued the small town of Talbot Falls (get it??). Tensions are high due to a class divide between a rich developer and the immigrant workers who do his bidding, and as the bodies pile up, Charley’s friend Miguel (Rigo Garay, who turns in an excellent performance in the Fessenden-produced The Crumb Catcher) finds himself in the crosshairs of an ever-growing mob.
Miguel is just one of many supporting characters with a full arc, the most notable being the duo of police officers investigating the violent crimes (Ella Rae Peck and Joseph Castillo-Midyett), and the local pastor (John Speredakos — also in The Crumb Catcher, giving a performance that must be seen to be believed.)
Classically, werewolf tales represent the darker self — the monster that comes out against our will. Here, as one can glean from the title, the parallels to alcoholism are apparent (as they were in Habit), but despite this, the focus is less on chemical dependence and more on the concept of “umwelt,” namely, the environmental factors that can affect the behavior of animals (ya know, like a full moon). This is synthesized into a commentary on both ecology and class, and the intersection between the two. At times the sheer volume of thematic work and supporting characters threatens to leave the film feeling overstuffed, but ultimately it all tracks accurately to real life, where there are no limits to such things. In fact, one of the highest compliments I can pay Blackout, and the bulk of Fessenden’s filmography to boot, is that for all the supernatural spookiness, his films really do feel like the real world.
And when it comes to supernatural spookiness, Blackout delivers. There’s a difference between a werewolf movie and a wolfman movie and this is an example of the latter. Meaning that Charley does not morph into a wolf, but rather into a wolfman. Bipedal, clothed, and flat-nosed, just like Lon Chaney Jr. so many full moons ago. The attack scenes are powerfully violent, and quite shocking. The humanoid image of the beast lends itself to the ruminative nature of the film on the whole. It’s easy to distance oneself from an animal, but not from a fellow human being, albeit a much hairier one. As a bonus, the makeup effects are top notch, and the transformation sequences are handled in a completely new way. Rather than trying to top An American Werewolf in London, which remains the gold standard for such things, Blackout pivots to innovation. It’s wonderful.
So to come back to making this about myself, I walked away from Blackout in a therapeutic mindset once again. Not because I currently see some monster in myself that needs dealing with, but because I must recognize that the chaos of life can only be defined by my reaction to it. I can relent to the dangerous appetites of my surroundings, or I can choose to paint something beautiful and take ownership of the chaos. It sure beats taking it out on my fellow humans.
Thanks for indulging me on this long-winded non-review.
Added note: Fessenden fans should stick around for the credits.
Directed by Larry Fessenden
Written by Larry Fessenden
Starring Rigo Garay, Alex Hurt, James Le Gros, Ella Rae Peck
Not Rated, 104 minutes
