The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920)

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari might be the first horror movie ever made. For this reason alone it deserves gratitude for helping to launch a generic trend that has lasted over a century - and probably a little scorn as well. But its value is not only as a pioneering work. The film remains an eerie, if not exactly frightening, experience, helped by the grainy darkness of its aging print, and an unsettling and warped set design.

It is probably Anglocentric geographical bias that Dr. Caligari brings nothing to mind as much as Shelley, Stevenson and Stoker, but the comparisons are unmistakable. The character of Caligari himself has shades of Dr. Frankenstein. Though his somnabulent slave Cesare is more his tool than his creation, the image of the mad scientist and his towering, mostly-mute companion is a familiar one. Both doctors share a mania for twisting nature to their own ends, though Caligari's motives are more openly nefarious from the outset. Cesare and the Creature share less in common, as the former seems to lack any kind of inner life struggling to get to the surface. Because of his fractured mental state, he has become a mere extension of Caligari's own influence. Cesare has more in common with a vampire (a pale-skinned man who sleeps in a box and stalks his prey through the night) but that resemblance is superficial. The sad tale of yet another doctor, Henry Jekyll, is reflected in the nocturnal murders committed by Cesare. Where Jekyll's formula separates his good and evil natures, Caligari uses another person to carry out his immoral deeds, keeping his own hands clean (if only literally).

Having said all of these things about the character of Caligari, it is entirely possible that that none of these things are true. The Dr. Caligari presented in the film may be a feverish projection by a psychiatric patient onto the director of his asylum. This may be the movie's greatest contribution to the horror genre. A book can transmit certain information to the reader more effectively, especially concerning the inner lives of its characters, but film is ideally suited to tricking an audience. After witnessing personally the grisly events of Dr. Caligari, everything we have seen is called into question by the final scene. This is communicated visually by the brighter, less fantastical setting, and the appearance of 'Dr. Caligari' himself, now lacking the grotesque make-up and sinister demeanour. If this is not the first twist ending in cinema history, it must be among the earliest. 

The final scene contrasts greatly with what has come before, particular in the set design. The scenery is comprised largely of painted paper backdrops, and this lack of realism is embraced. If Tim Burton has never seen The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, he has certainly absorbed the aesthetic philosophy in some way. The landscape is dominated by jagged shapes, usually curved and slanted, warping the viewer's perspective. It is a twisted fairytale world, at the same time quaint and threatening. The effect is certainly not diminished by the effect of the electricity rationing in post-World War I Germany, which necessitated that certain parts of the film's lighting were simply painted on to the background, leaving areas of deep shadow. This may be another hint that the movie's events take place inside a troubled mind: the world itself is warped. 

The heavy use of circular wipes throughout the film are a facet of the editing that might distract some viewers, and admittedly they are not particularly organic to the wider aesthetic. However, they are also a cunning way to overcome some of the limitations of early film-making, and achieve effects that are now simply taken for granted. In many scenes, the wipe will reveal only a small area of the frame before expanding to encompass the entire scene. Thus, focus is drawn immediately to where it is intended, and the most important part of the picture is highlighted, without the need for cutting. This effect may be achieved today by focusing the camera or using an establishing shot. Without these tricks, the method utilised is ingenious. 

The influence of Dr. Caligari is plain. One need only cite the Universal horror films of the 1930s and '40s, each with their own enduring legacy, to see this. But the roots run deeper than that, and the film can and should be enjoyed both for its historical significance and for its own quality. The moody setting and unsettling story make for an eerie experience, though time may have robbed the movie of some of its deeper dread. 

Freddy's Dead: The Final Nightmare (1991)

Freddy's Dead: The Final Nightmare continues a proud tradition among slasher movies: prematurely declaring a particular installment to be the ultimate showdown. While the title may have been intended honestly, it only remained true for three years. Being the grand finale one might expect that this film mines the franchise for potential, bringing together the surviving characters and themes, and ending the story in a neat, perhaps even satisfying, way. Expectations were made to be frustrated. Freddy's Dead introduces an entirely unfamiliar cast of protagonists, offers a tantalising and all-too-brief view of a much more interesting world, and contains one of the oddest and least convincing back stories for any villain in anything, ever. Oh, and in a twist worthy of any hackneyed fan-fiction, Freddy had a secret daughter all along.

The new heroes are more interesting as plot devices than as people, insofar as they offer more compelling ways for Freddy to murder them. Carlos is hearing-impaired, allowing more freedom to use sound (or the lack thereof) as an element in creating fear. Spencer is an obnoxious early-'90s stereotype whose twin loves of video games and weed are the cause of perhaps the silliest Krueger kill, as Freddy maniacally wields a joystick and giggles as his victim battles his way through jerkily-animated cartoon adversaries. The child abuse back-story is, of course, assigned to the sole female among the teenage protagonists, Tracy, casting an unpleasant pall that is grossly at odds with the film's generally silly tone. While Freddy was originally conceived as a paedophile, this was wisely discarded as in bad taste, and the series has never handled this topic well, though the movies redeems itself somewhat by not having Tracy killed along the way. And John Doe, the Last Son of Springwood, exists almost canonically as a mere plot point, as though we could possibly be surprised at this point that the one to vanquish Freddy could be a woman.

Said woman, Maggie, is Freddy's heretofore-unmentioned amnesiac daughter. As movie twists go, this is only slightly better than Aperaham Lincoln, and only slightly worse than the reaslisation that it was 2004 all along in terms of credibility. After five previous movies it is disappointed that his most important female nemeses, Nancy and Alice, play no part at all in finally slaying Krueger. Maggie is perfectly functional, but Freddy's last stand and apparent demise do not feel earned. And yet, remarkably, her inclusion is emphatically not the most contrived or incredible surprise revelation in the film.

The original Nightmare is a fairytale through and through. A wicked and ugly man stalks children while they are most vulnerable, invading their dreams and toying with their lives. Freddy is simple and elemental, exploiting a universal of human experience: the need to sleep. He kills the children in vengeance for the sins of their parents. Or not, as the case may be. Broadening a mythos is no bad thing. Revealing that the source of Freddy's power to be three man-faced, skeletal snake-gods is borderline incoherent. Where did they come from? Why did they choose Freddy to empower int his way? Why do apparently ancient and powerful beings care about the petty revenge of a chargrilled child-murderer? No-one knows, and we're not supposed to ask. What can be known is that the final film in the epic saga of Elm Street is a bizarre moment to introduce these chuckling puppets as the foundation for the whole bloody affair.

The most potential-laden aspect of this entire film is also the part least focused upon. The film is set ten years into the future, which is apparent from the utter lack of any set decoration that could not be found easily in 1991, and the town of Springwood has been left utterly bereft of children. This oddly apocalyptic setting is rich with possibility; a city of haunted adults left hopeless and helpless by the loss of their little ones. A story about the parents of Springwood banding together to vanquish the demon that stole their kids away might return the series to the darker tone of the original. If nothing else, it would serve as a pleasant change from the uselessness of grown-ups common to most slasher flicks. Alas, we get one scene of the harrowed denizens of Springwood, and then the notion is completely forgotten.

Having listed at length the many flaws and missteps of this film, I confess that I still enjoyed it greatly. The first six films of the series, despite their increasing camp and absurdity, are all engaging and entertaining in their ways. Freddy's Dead has enough creativity and gruesome nonsense to get by, and as a finale to the whole story, the ending has enough weight to balance the lightweight fluff that the franchise had become. Certainly this is much better than anything Krueger-adjacent that came afterwards.