Halloween II (2009)

Artwork by Rob Zombie

Rob Zombie is one gracious motherfucker. Many directors, from John Ford to Robert Altman to Christopher Guest, are known for gathering to themselves a stock company, typically a dozen or so players with familial chemistry; Zombie seems determined to assemble the largest stock company on record. His casting credo could be "No role too big or too small" for to be filled by his ponderous mental Rolodex of befriended B- and Z-list celebrities. I don't think Roger Corman is as well-connected. (I imagine Zombie to be the bugbear that haunts the staff at Fangoria and Bloody Disgusting with feelings of fanboy inadequacy.) In a Zombie movie everybody is somebody you swear you've seen somewhere before; you can't even assume the teen meat are fresh faces: Playing Laurie Strode's friend Annie is none other than Danielle Harris — that's right, the seven-year-old girl from Halloweens 4 and 5 all grown up (and how). Zombie you magnificent bastard howdoyoudoit!?

I must relate that at one point during his audio commentary on the Halloween DVD Zombie's grumblings about how this-or-that particular day of shooting was plagued by faulty squibs and errant palm trees (he repeats a variation on this anecdote of woe for every scene, making perfectly clear that filmmaking is a monumental pain in the ass) are interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone, "Sorry, it's Malcolm McDowell..."

What's most remarkable about Zombie's growing troupe is that, unlike those of Corman, Ford etc, these actors have not been mentored and brought up by Zombie; just the opposite. The Astro Creep is above all a fan-turned-promoter. This guy doesn't even come from the film industry; he's been the frontman of a highly visible metal band for over twenty years. But to examine his career in the music biz as producer, recording artist and director of music videos is to realize that Zombie has always been an effective champion of his idols and influences. Case in point: the Zombie-produced Ramones tribute album, We're a Happy Family — take a gander at the list of artists that Zombie assembled, and note also that he got Stephen King to write the liner notes.

Now, in feature films, this Renaissance subhuman has synthesized his interests and expanded his audience as center-ring purveyor of Perdition, American Style. Zombie furnishes his pics with loving showcases of vintage rock/punk tunes and imagery and acts as a steadfast supporter (that is, employer) of the legions of forgotten, underappreciated and otherwise minor figures who have manned the trenches of cult film and television. Every time someone like P.J. Soles or — holy shit! the teacher from Head of the Class! — pops up in a Zombie cameo, if only long enough to be stabbed in the face, a rare thing is somehow conveyed: the sense that this actor is a person who is grateful to be remembered. Zombie gives each a moment of glory, a tasty line or the rare chance to play against type, and on screen they seem to be having fun. The performances are uniformly solid; these are workhorse actors, after all.

Zombie's movies are flawed. (Except Devil's Rejects...that one might be perfect.) He loves his cast and his reverent homages a bit too much, at the expense of structure and overall coherence. Halloween II is a big improvement over the first, but many of the kills still lack rhythm. Suspense is not his strong suit, but then I don't think suspense has ever been the strong suit of American pictures. Hitchcock was British of course, and what he brought to Hollywood will always be more or less an imported good. Zombie works in the tradition of Tobe Hooper's Texas Chain Saw Massacre, my candidate for the most American movie of all time: big and punchy and messy and wickedly fun.

Texas chain saw massa-cree
They took my baby away from me
But she'll never get out of there
She'll never get out of there
I don't care, whoa oh oh

— The Ramones

My photos of the Johnny Ramone cenotaph and detail,
Hollywood Forever Cemetary