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FIRST A CONFESSION
I
like horror movies. No, not only
expensive big-name-director "respectable" ones like The Shining. I like low-budget
horror movies, too. More precisely, I like "slasher" movies. Friday
the 13th (1980), The Prowler (1981), Driller Killer
(1979), Doctor Butcher M.D. (1982), The Funhose
(1981), Mother's Day (1980), My Bloody Valentine
(1981), The Burning (1981), Maniac (1980),
Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), Halloween (1978),
The Toolbox Murders (1978), Silent Night Deadly Night
(1984), The Beast Within (1982), Massacre at Central
High (1976), Pieces (1981), The Madman (1981),
Visiting Hours (1982), The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
(1974), Prom Night (1980), Happy Birthday to Me
(1981), The Slumber Party Massacre (1982), and many, many more. The bloodier the better.
There's nothing up my sleeve here. I don't argue
that these slasher flicks are "good" movies in the way that
Birth of a Nation (1915), Boogie Nights (1997), The Deer
Hunter(1978) or Mulholland
Drive
(2001) are "good" movies. Nor
do I have some elaborate iconoclastic theory illustrating the deep social-political importance of these films. I simply love them. Just do. I have since around 1980, when I was eight years old and graphic makeup FX became a hot cinematic commodity.
 To put this interest in context, while Alex
Linder was cutting his teeth on The National Review, I was cutting mine on
Fangoria. While Alex was studying the Bill Buckleys, Florence Kings, and Edmund Burkes, I was studying the Tom Savinis, Rick Bakers, Rob Bottins, and Stan Winstons.
Long before unraveling the jew and beginning to foment revolution, Alex always wanted
to be a political satirist. For the first 15 years of my
life I intended to be a special makeup effects artist
who wrote the flicks I did effects for. For the entire first half of
my life, no such thing as politics even existed for me as I worked in
the makeshift FX studio in the basement of my family home. This is why Alex was prescient
enough to pioneer VNN and I... well..., while I write for VNN, I also go to
see a movie like Wrong Turn at its earliest matinee
showing on its opening day. And -- I love it. GASP! Hiss! Boo!
Sheww. It feels great to get that off my chest. Thankz
for listening. Please forgive me
my guilty pleasures, as I forgive those whose guilty pleasures trespass against me.
I'll say ten "No Jews. Just Rights" and flagellate myself with a
rope of raw pork sausages in penance. I promise.
NEXT THE REVIEW
Wrong Turn rocks the casbah.
Wrong Turn bringz the noize. Compared to every single wannabe
gorefest to soil the silverscreen over the past decade, Wrong
Turn grabz its crotch and moonwalks away with a blood-spattered Oscar. Itz
the straight dope. The horror flick equivalent of an Alex Linder essay.
Wrong Turn
pulls no punches and plays no games. There are
no gimmicky plot twists or turns. As Winston says in the kickoff
quote, there's nothing "camp" about it. There is no too-clever-by-half self-referential irony. Straight
forward, literal, hardcore horror, itz. The story
reflects this simplicity and can be summed up in a single sentence. A handful of attractive twenty-somethings inadvertently end up lost deep in the woods of West Virginia where they're hunted by a trio of hideously deformed inbred cannibalistic mountain men. Terror, shocks, blood, guts, gore and a good dose of white heroism ensue.
The opening credits set the stage and cover informational ground that a
lesser film would waste time drawing out through some hackneyed,
unnecessary subplot involving cops or scientists "in fast pursuit," always a
few steps behind the hapless victims trickling the blood trail. The
credits unfold along with a series of newspaper clippings. First
the headlines read like "Myth of Mountain Men Persists" and "The
Horrors of Deep Woods Inbreeding." Then they shift to stories about
the effects of inbreeding illustrated with grotesque photos of
twisted faces, split jaws, hunched backs, and contorted limbs and fingers.
Grizzly images of genes churned against themselves for so long they produce case
studies in teratological morbidity, true "monsters," gross deviations from natural form. The clips inform us that severely inbred specimens may exhibit "extraordinary strength," "immunity to pain," "enhanced auditory perception," and "ninja skills of invisibility." That last one, of course, is a joke. But, coupled with these almost superhero-like qualities comes a variety of "inbred forms of extreme psychosis." Horror buffs will notice that this basically sets up a (pseudo?) scientifically plausible account for the appearance, behavior, and virtual indestructability of beloved psychos like Jason Voorhees of the Friday the 13th franchise.
The
broad back-handed slap to rural whites is obvious. The film's
yooish "hook," as it were, is the media-stoked
lie that backwoods whites are generally toothless,
slobbering sister-fucking Cro-Magnons, with none of the mythical beauty, balance, or
reverence for nature post-Boasian hookzim have projected onto shit-smoking
lip-plated monkeymen and sadistic enemy-skinning Indian savages. Hollywitz
films like Dances with Wolves and Spirit: Stallion of the
Cimarron present the anachronistically named "Native
Americans" as a spiritually graceful people exterminated by
greedy, paranoid white haters for know reason other than expediency
in the theft of their land. Films like A Dry White
Season, Monsters Ball, A Time to Kill,
Rosewood, and Rabbit Proof Fence present baby-raping niggers, and their aboriginal
variant, as well-meaning "noble savages," in Rousseau's sense of the expression."
(A Discourse on the Arts and
Sciences
). Yet, these supposed exemplars of true civilization are
oppressed by cruel,
artificially callused whites. Naturally, the desert-crafty yidzim
running Hollywitz throw itz fantasy machine into reverse when it
comes to portraying piss-poor rural whites. Deliverance (1972),
Southern Comfort (1981), Mountain Men (1980), and now
Wrong Turn, all depict whites living outside or on the fringes of mainstream society as violent, degenerate abominations who cannot be put out of their misery soon enough.
 Indeed, it is not only the Chernobyl-looking
white cannibals who are smeared in Wrong
Turn. Early in the film, the strong, silent-type medical student
protagonist, Chris Finn (Desmond Harrington), is trying to get to an important interview on time, but a jack-knifed chemical truck shuts down the major highway. Finn asks two local white men for help finding an alternate route. The first, a white truck driver, says, "First, get back in your car. Then fix your hair another hundred times. Then --" The stoic but determined Finn returns to his car, heads back the other direction, and stops at a decrepit gas station. There he encounters a repulsive old white guy, with one tooth in the middle of his mouth, guzzling Pepto Bismol straight from the bottle and dribbling pink slobber on his flannel shirt as he dozes in and out of consciousness. Like the truck driver, Captain Uni-Tooth doesn't help Finn. He claims not to have a working phone and refrains from warning Finn that he should not take the dirt-road shortcut he spotted on the gas station map. Leaving, Finn tells the old man to "take care." As Finn drives off, The Gummed One mutters to himself, "Yaw da one's gonna need ta take caya." In other words, even poor rural whites who are not inbred cannibals are vindictive misanthropes with holes in their guts and an aversion to floss.
 There are a few pro-urban, anti-rural comments made
by the stranded young characters as they begin to encounter weird things
in the bowels of West Virginia and suspect they may be in deeper trouble
than they had originally thought. The main characters, though, are
all whites. Wrong Turn
is not a morality tale, and a couple of the "body bag" white characters (i.e., expendable characters there only to kickoff the tension via gruesome dispatch) are caricatures of horny, dope-smoking slackers. But there is no mandatory heroic nigger! There is no mandatory rap music soundtrack! There are no mandatory hippity-bop wiggers! And there are no scapegoated white racists!
The only off-white in
Wrong Turn is Carly (Emmanuelle
Chriqui). She looked Mexican, Puerto Rican or
Semitic, but her IMDB bio says she's Morrocan. Or at least that's where
she's "from." After the first few killings, when the horror of
the situation really begins to unfurl, the two lead Aryans -- Chris Finn
and Jessie Burlingame (Eliza Dushku) -- take control. They are brave,
poised, vigilant, and daring. All while being burdened
with baby-sitting the constantly whining, wailing Carly, who commits
one suicidal faux pas
after another. She screams when she needs to be quiet. She's clumsy when she needs to be careful. And she drops to the ground in near fetal position, bawling, when danger is near and she should be running her arse off. She is, bluntly put, dead weight. She looks awfully buttery in her halfshirt, but in a non-blowjob situation she's two-tits short of useless. Sound familiar? I think it does.
In
this sense, Wrong Turn isn't so
much anti-white as it is anti-rural white. The issue is
more complicated, however, if one considers that "rural whites" (i.e., deep
rural, backwoods whites) are basically nothing other than whites outside the grip of jewish
social-political indoctrination. Even though whites make up virtually
the entire cast, the heroic "good guys" are decidedly urban -- and therefore de facto
judaized -- whites. The latent message is that
whites left on their own, living beyond the penumbra of jewish light and
legislation, are horrid inhuman beasts. Racially, Wrong Turn
renders a peculiarly jewish nightmare. Itz the cinematic
demonization of what to white-hating jews is the ultimate Other --
free whites untouched and unredeemed by unasked for kike
tikkuning.
But this is a social-political reading focrcibly
excavated from the film relative to the context in which it was produced.
The film itself is not presumptuous enough to gesture toward any
significance outside of the grim immediacy of itz characters' situation.
This, then, is where Wrong Turn
's white bashing ends, if it even actually made it this far.
THEN A FEW PARTICULAR POINTS
BUH-BOOLIE DEFICIT.
If
I were a buh-boolie I'd say Wrong Turn was "off the hook." Though I'd
spell it wrong and no doubt blame it on honkies for sabotaging my spelling
skills via intercranial racism. It cannot be emphasized enough that, like
the early 80s slasher flicks Wrong Turn is modeled
after, there are no nogz
herein. The inestimable Mark Rivers once said of Frailty,
"The negro count is zero, which gives it even higher marks." AMEN!
In fact the ONLY visual reference to darkies at all in the
entire movie is a shot of a little burrheaded tarbaby-doll scattered amidst
the abandoned vehicles and blood-stained luggage of previous victims.
I was the only one in the theater who laughed at the sight of it. Presumably,
I was the only one who read the image through Amy Heckerling's
Johnny Dangerously (1984) lens as saying, "Some
daring darkies ventured into these parts once.... ONCE." Ha! Word to yer mutha!
INTERACTIVE AUDIENCE ENTERTAINMENT. There was
a yardape
with his three-hunnard pound brood sow sitting next to me in the theatre. After I let out a short, sharp, HA! at the sight of the doll I turned to my right and saw four glow in the dark pop-eyes bugging out at me. YIKES!
NO DIGITAL MAKEUP EFFECTS. To know why this
is a truly good thing, one need only compare the real, physical makeup
effects of American Werewolf in London (1981) with itz
digital counterpart in American Werewolf in Paris (1997). Or
compare the shot-in-the-face effects of David Fincher's Fight
Club (1999) with Fincher's Panic Room (2002). Rob Bottin's Fight
Club effect is first-rate artistry. Panic Room
, on the other hand, offers a cheezy digital blotch of red, which pausing the frames on VHS -- let alone DVD -- makes perfectly clear.
NOW THE CLOSER
Wrong Turn is a vital two-fisted smash to the chest of a
horror genre thatz been arresting for years and in desperate
need of defibrillation. Itz scary, gory, atmospheric and true to classic
slasher cinema form. Though it definitely serves Hollywitz's primary aim
of demonizing free-range white existence, itz served up in an almost
completely white package, which may be like finding the last remaining air
pocket in a sinking submarine. But thatz better than another breath of
nigger, aint it?
VICTOR WOLZEK
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