Let's Scare Jessica to Death
Something is after Jessica. Something very cold, very wet... and very dead.
Year of Release: 1971
Genre: Horror/Mystery
Rated: PG-13
Running Time: 88 minutes (1:28)
Director: John D. Hancock
Cast:
Zohra Lampert ... Jessica
Barton Heyman ... Duncan
Kevin O'Connor ... Woody
Gretchen Corbett ... Girl
Alan Manson ... Sam Dorker
Mariclare Costello ... Emily
Summary:
Jessica goes to the Connecticut countryside for some rest following her release from an institution where she has just recovered from a nervous breakdown. She arrives with her husband and a friend, but the three find little relaxation. Instead, they become entangled in a creepy tale of the supernatural which involves murder, an attempted drowning, a seance, disappearing bodies, vampires and constant torment for Jessica. Her marriage is strained, she hears voices, and she can't escape the mental turbulence which haunts her - for there really is something after Jessica.
Review:
Let's Scare Jessica to Death, remindin' us that teenage delinquency, left unchecked, begets geriatric delinquency.
And speakin' of elder abuse, I'm gonna try not to let my sour mood bleed through into the task at hand, but if it sounds like I'm a little hacked off it's 'cause I spent last night learnin' the hard way that you can't go to homeroom again.
If it'd been up to me we'da all just gone back to the house to get schnozzled and argue about which Simpsons Treehouse of Horror episode is the best (it's VI, just so we're clear) following the Alley Cats/Ball Busters game at the Gutter Bowl, except Otis Turlinger had the TV set to ESPN and that got Duke Tankersley talkin' about how he coulda played pro ball if he hadn't been so worn out from spendin' the night in Raymundo Hernandez' corn field with Stacy Kowalski the day before the college scouts came to observe the team.
"... an absolute animal, durn near snapped my crankshaft in half..." Duke was tellin' Otis for the 27th time in as many years.
Far's I'm concerned it serves 'im right for changin' the channel durin' Fear Fest, though Duke's train of thought eventually woulda been derailed had he turned around and gotten an eyeful of Maime Tibbets' bowlin' form. I mean, if Billy Hilliard'd kept his fool mouth shut and allowed that to happen.
"Mhm," Billy mumbled in a derriere induced daze.
"You sayin' I couldna?" Duke challenged.
"Aw... no way!" Billy scowled, watchin' Peggy Pogue's 9-pin sway like a drunk pissin' down a storm drain before steadyin' itself and givin' the Ball Busters the win.
"Alright, pick your team and we'll settle this down at the stadium. Four on four. On three. Break!" Duke cackled and charged off to begin recruitin'.
"Vuh heow he fay?" Billy asked, finally regainin' focus.
"Duke was givin' his Tankmo Bowl speech and you drooled your way into acceptin' a game. Better go scout some talent before he scoops up everybody that's still half-sober," I suggested.
Billy made a noise like a hippopotamus passin' a gallstone and started sizin' up the available prospects.
I'm not gonna go too deep into the game itself since it's what happened afterward that dropped my transmission, but Duke ended up gettin' Sadie Bonebreak, B.J. Wilder, and a reluctant Otis Turlinger to play for 'im while Billy got Bambi Mastrude, Roxanne Bigelow, and Cleave Furguson to line up with him (God didn't put me on this Earth to participate in contact sports, in case you were wonderin'), and it was a pretty close game until Otis accidentally grabbed more than he bargained for tryna pry the ball away from Bambi and ended up havin' to be rescued after Bambi got the wrong idea. This distraction allowed the only player not interested in heterosexual relations to pick up the resulting fumble, and Sadie ended up scorin' the winning touchdown for Duke's team.
"Good game, Hilliard. That's gotta be the first time a ball's ever escaped Bambi's clutches," Duke chuckled.
"Care to test that theory?" Bambi purred, grabbin' Duke by the werehuevoes.
"Nah. I make it a point never to rail a woman hairier'n I am," Duke snickered.
Once we got Bambi's press-on nails dug outta Duke's face we were just about to take off when suddenly, without warning, nostalgia struck.
"Thanks for inviting us you guys, it was fun comin' back here," B.J. mooned, takin' in the sights and reliving memories of her days on the cheerleading squad.
"Can we maybe get outta here before somebody finds us and gets my parole revoked?" I asked.
"He's right. We could all be sentenced to 6 - 8 months in detention hall," Otis joked.
"Big deal. I did that much Sophomore year alone. That kinda time changes a man," Cleave grumbled semi-sarcastically.
"Got cornholed by the smokers, eh?" Sadie smirked.
"I didn't even do anything mosta the time. It was that pudwhack Mr. Baumgartner; he had it in for me," Cleave insisted.
"You unhooked his battery cable and told the remedial Auto Shop kids to diagnose the problem," Sadie reminded him.
"A harmless prank!" Cleave shouted.
"They tried checking the fuel level with a match and almost burned the building down," Sadie clarified.
"So it's safe to assume we won't be invited to your 40th high school reunion," Roxane surmised.
"Son of a bitch confiscated my Walkman and never gave it back," Cleave snarled, becoming increasingly incensed by the bygone injustice.
"Much fun as I'm havin' catchin' up with the Ghost of Butthurts Past I'd appreciate if one if you would drop me off at the emergency room," Duke whined, applying pressure to the areas of his face that were still bleedin'.
"You heard the man, to the nurse's station!" Cleave grinned in a way that drew a fair comparison to the Grinch in the moments preceeding his wonderful, awful idea.
"To answer your question - no, you won't be, Roxanne. And Cleave's gonna hold the curious distinction of being banned from comin' within 100 feet of a school without bein' on the sex offender registry," I concluded, watchin' Cleave make his way toward the gym entrance.
"Where's he going?" B.J. wondered aloud.
"I'm goin' to get my Walkman! Used to be able to... nice... still works," Cleave beamed after successfully jimmying open the door with his debit card.
"Nah, we don't need to pass a school bond, this is fine," I groaned.
"You don't mind if we..." Otis trailed off, looking around like a pet shop rat on snake chow day.
"Go ahead, this's inner circle stupidity," Sadie replied, freeing Otis and B.J. from any further obligation to our bullshit, and briefly watching them flee the scene with a hint of jealousy.
About all that'd changed in the 36 years most of us'd served our sentences were the names over the doors, most of which I didn't recognize. But Baumgartner's classroom was still conveniently located across the hall from the nurse's station, so while Roxanne was patchin' up what remained of Duke's face the rest of us snuck into the tyrant's room and started riflin' every compartment we could find until Billy noticed a ceiling panel askew, and that's when we found it - the motherlode.
"You believe me now?!" Cleave gloated triumphantly.
"Vah' meffed up," Billy agreed, surveying the 39 boxes marked '1980 - 2019' (2019 presumably being the last year Baumgartner was safely able to climb a ladder and stow his confiscated booty) once they'd all been brought down and spread out on the floor.
"Hey! My portable Pac-Man!" I squealed, plucking my long-lost property from the box labeled '1986.'
"Mah Rubik'th cube!" Billy gasped, collecting his prize from '1985.'
"Alright! Come to Mama!" Sadie giggled after divin' deep into '1990' and pluckin' out a well-loved slingshot.
"Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice, we're back, baby!" Bambi growled, removing a pair of fishnet stalkings from '1994' and nearly managing to squeeze back into them.
"What'n hell's goin' on in... well I'll be dipped in shit," Duke smiled beneath his extensive bandaging and snatched an old switchblade comb from the top of '1983.'
We all took a moment to regress a little further'n usual while perusing the remaining teacher's ransom of teenage treasures while Cleave continued digging feverishly for his quarry until Sadie and Duke suddenly snapped to attention.
"You guys hear somethin'?" Sadie shooshed.
"Yeah. Faculty lounge. Somebody's here, and we'd best not be much longer. Come on Furguson, get the lead out," Duke whispered.
"I'll catch up!" Cleave barked, struggling to remember exactly what year his Walkman was taken and which bin it would thus be stored in.
"What *is* that?" Roxanne pondered, pressing her ear to the door.
"Thqueaky... dwy ewafe board?" Billy theorized.
Roxanne stayed behind tryna pry Cleave's head from his ass while the rest of us followed the sound to the teacher's lounge where Duke's sense of direction proved accurate but shed no additional light on the specific source.
"Go ahead Sadie, have a look," I nudged.
"Why me?!" she hissed.
"Think about it - Duke's terrifying, Billy's melanin-rich, and I'm one foul-up away from pickin' up lost tire chains on the side of the highway. You're the only one they won't cook if we get caught," I explained.
"What about Bam-" she started to say before lookin' around and realizin' we were down a floozy.
"Went out the window before we left Baumgartner's room. Damn stealthy for a fluffy gal in cleats," Duke admitted with admiration.
'Course in the end Cleave took care of the dilemma for us when he and Roxanne came runnin' down the hallway, declaring victory at roughly 80 decibels.
"I got it, you guys! Take THAT you crotchety old Naz-" or so he was sayin' when we all stood up tryna shut his boast-hole and discovered the cause of the squeaking.
"Guess it's more like the Fuckalty Lounge, am I right?" I asked with no humor whatsoever, as there, buck-nekkid on one of the love seats, was Baumgartner and Ms. Dwyer (the long-time school nurse) makin' the sign of the psychedelic swatch fungus.
Fortunately, the comical absurdity of five incurably immature alumni (and Roxanne) sneaking into their former high school to recover confiscated keepsakes and discovering a long-running affair between staffers afforded everyone involved a moment to laugh at themselves and an opportunity to hash out old grudges utilizing the enlightenment and humility gained through our various life experiences.
Unfortunately, Mr. Baumgartner was still a jerk.
"Tankersley! Hilliard! FURGUSON! When I get ahold of you I'm gonna..." Baumgartner roared, struggling to gain his footing and trying to locate his pants.
We never did find out what he was gonna. Mostly 'cause the man was in no condition to chase us, if you know what I mean and I think you do. But also because if he were to do anything about it he'da had to explain why he was there at 1 in the AM with Ms. Dwyer crammin' for finals.
I gotta say, I'm a little hurt that he didn't remember my name. 'Specially since I know *I'll* never forget that undulating mass of wrinkles, butt craters, and Mrs. Dwyer's shriek when their tangled wad of pubic hair separated at the speed of sound. I think it musta been the only time in my life that I can recall fleeing from a health professional while in debilitatin' pain, but I spoze that's the way the nookie crumbles.
Nothin' but love for Ms. Dwyer though; very sweet lady. And I'm hopeful that she and Baumgartner can iron out the wrinkles and work through any kinks this unfortunate business may have injected into their relationship. Unless gettin' caught was the kink they'd been chasin' since the mid-'80s and only just attained after 40 years of tryin', in which case... you're welcome. I guess.
Once we'd rendezvoused back at the Gutter Bowl everyone with somebody to go home to did so, but since Billy, Duke, and I weren't gonna be able to sleep... potentially ever, we headed back to the house to run a few movies in hopes of findin' a distraction that might get the image of comingled varicose veins out of our heads.
I'd like to claim I planned it this way, but the truth is I just stuffed the first tape I could get my hands on into the VCR and was pleasantly reminded that havin' your eyes open doesn't have to hurt. Some folks call it a ghost story and I suppose it kinda is, but I don't wanna generalize it that way because if you're like me any flick about ghosts that aren't bein' imprisoned by Saturday Night Live alumni ends with your brain run down and incapable of takin' a charge.
The title kinda stinks since it makes ya wonder if the guys who made it might be pullin' a Screaming Skull and tryna make ya think there's a conspiracy afoot to drive the already crazy person crazier for some monetary gain, but thankfully that's not the case and it turns out they just chose a lousy title.
Basically, it's a haunted house vampire zombie town-with-a-dark-secret hippie psychodrama if you insist on tryna classify it, but let's put that aside for now and I'll give you an idea about the wisdom you stand to gain by watchin' it instead of wastin' your life tryna understand it.
First, while fishing the scenic waterways of New England, always remember that barbed hooks are outlawed, and watery tarts are catch and release only. Second, fleeing the rigors of city life for the countryside is a difficult transition to make when your spouse adores a nuthouse view. And third, our scars remind us that the past is real, and to always have a safe word when neckin' with a redhead.
The movie begins with a hearse drivin' to a cemetery where two guys (Duncan and Woody) stop to let a giddy young woman (Jessica) frolic among the tombstones takin' grave etchings while they grin at each other like they'd promised to take 'er to see the Grateful Dead and gotten away with it. By the standards of Edgar Allan Poe everything seems perfectly normal until an increasingly nervous narrator starts insistin' that Jessica's recent stay at the asylum was really more of a six-month vacation to a resort that assigns a bellhop to shock ya with a cattle prod anytime you look at a paper clip for more than a few seconds and that she's feeling a whole lot better now even though she sometimes sees Beth Davenport from The Rockford Files skulkin' around in a nightgown. The trio then take their corpse coach across a lake via ferry boat and pass a buncha grumpy old coots who take exception to their wheels and start causin' a ruckus like it's not the first time one's stopped to make sure none of 'em fell out. They eventually arrive at their new digs and Jessica thinks it's a real nice place except for all the voices questionin' her right to move on from her psychoses, but she shrugs it off and the group starts unpackin' until they find a squatter (Emily) and invite 'er to stay in observance of the hippie code in the years leading up to Reaganomics. Then Emily plays a sappy folk ballad on her lute and suggests the group hold a seance to summon some long departed domestic spirits to clean up the mess they made in the kitchen but it's not really clear whether it works or not 'cause Jessica's already got a dementiatic dervish of voices swirlin' around 'er head.
The next day, everyone heads down to the lake to wash all the parts not covered by their bathin' suits until Jess goes out for a swim and claims to've been groped by a lecherous water nymph while everyone looks around for a time machine that'll take 'em back to five minutes ago when they didn't hafta worry about gettin' their eyeballs pitchforked in their sleep. Then everyone spreads out and goes rootin' around for junk they can take into town to sell to Fred Sanford, only while Jessica's buyin' eggs from a man modeling an outfit from the Ed Gein Casual Collection three geriatric toughs surround the hearse and hassle Duncan for havin' a different prefix on his social security card and the couple hafta peel outta there before they get rolled by the Medicare Mafia. They're able to unload some priceless heirlooms on the local antique dealer who tries tellin' 'em about how a young lady who used to live in the house they just bought drowned in the lake until Duncan hasta shoosh the guy 'cause he knows the story'll send Jessica soarin' back over the cuckoo's nest and guarantee her first bath at the new homestead'll be her last. Unfortunately, commodity trader prejudice remains a persistent problem throughout certain regions of the country, and when word gets around that the junk dealer comes from New York City some moistened bint shows up while he's trout fishin' and next thing ya know he turns up face down in the creek with his neck slathered in Pace Picante sauce.
It's Jess that finds the guy after bein' led to the spot by this ghostly girl who's dressed like she ran out on a game of Truth or Dare at a slumber party that got a little too intense, only by the time she fetches Duncan the body's gone and he won't believe her because he's a yo-yo. It's lookin' like they're gonna hafta put Nurse Ratched back on speed dial until Jess spies the girl standin' on the edge of a waterfall and so the couple go chasin' after 'er to find out how they can drive a hearse and still be the most normal people in the county but the girl won't give 'em name, rank, or serial number, and goes tearin' off through the woods the moment Emily steps into view. Then Emily starts flashin' 'er collar bone at Duncan during dinner and they end up makin' the sign of the ergonomic squash waffle in an armchair after Duncan tells Jess that it may be time to ship 'er back to the wacky shack since she's in no shape to do anything but hang around K Mart offerin' tips on how to keep Soviet satellite signals from penetratin' people's subconscious and turnin' 'em into tractor fetishists. The next mornin' Jess goes lookin' for a defensible position in the attic while Duncan drives into town to size straitjackets, only while she's up there she finds the family portrait she and Duncan sold the day before back in its rightful place and finally notices the likeness of Emily, who immediately proceeds to bombard her with spectervision brainwaves insistin' they go swimmin' even though it's 40 degrees outside and they'll be runnin' the risk of gettin' their nips nibbled by largemouth bass.
Jess declines hypothermia, but Emily has that "you'll like it if you just try it" gene that forces extroverts to double down when faced with rejection, and so Emily shoves Jess into the water and dunks 'er a few times before vanishing and reemerging as a zombie bridesmaid who latches onto 'er and tries to chug 'er jugular. 'Course, you don't earn a paranoid schizophrenic diagnosis by lettin' your guard down, and the moment Emily shows her molars Jess ducks into 'er bedroom and proceeds to fend off Emily's ghoulish gaslighting until she builds up the nerve to dash down to the highway and hitch a ride into town with the gentleman who drives the roadkill truck. Elsewhere, Woody takes a break from sprayin' the apple orchard with DDT to sample Emily's produce and finds the neckin' a little rough for his liking. While that's goin' on, Jess is runnin' around town tryna find Duncan and wonderin' why everyone she meets has a laceration the size of an elephant's vagina on their body before finally passin' out in the woods and bein' awakened by Duncan who picks 'er up and takes 'er home to compare gashes. Not a whole lotta movie left so I'd best can the chatter right here before I go ruinin' the ending, but if you've ever felt like the world was out to getcha and want a little vicarious vindication you won't wanna miss the conclusion of this baby.
Alrighty, so, this one dispenses with cheap jump scares and gore and instead goes all-in on visuals and atmosphere in a way guaranteed to divide audiences based upon their ability to appreciate it. A lotta people under the age of 40 are gonna have a rough time with it given the slow plot progression and emphasis placed on the psychological deterioration of its recovering protagonist and the tired old "is it real or is she crazy?" angle at play, but those who stick with it will be rewarded by a story that goes in a completely unexpected direction. "Thinking Man's Horror" might be the way to describe it, though it's not the sort of film you analyze trying to anticipate the direction it's headed, as the lack of clues makes it incongruent with flicks like Don't Look Now or The Wicker Man. Instead, "Feeling Man's Horror" is a better description, as the viewer's ability (or lack of it) to be affected by mood and empathize with the protagonist ultimately determines their opinion about the film. This, in my estimation, is why the flick's popularity has remained high with older audiences while going largely unseen by younger ones.
Not everyone is going to appreciate it, but we're dealing with a case of substance over flash, and a brilliant exhibition on how to make a solid horror flick on a tight budget by emphasizing mood and story when money isn't available for name stars or elaborate special effects. Ultimately, it's the kinda film that's difficult to describe given that its success or failure hinges upon what it makes you feel rather than what it does, and it's also not the easiest film to hype due to its less subtle horror elements arriving out of nowhere in the last ten minutes; but it's an excellent flick for young filmmakers who may be wondering how they can possibly make a decent picture without financial backing, as it illustrates the value of style and technique (which cost nothing and often prove priceless).
Anyway, let's see if we can't sort through the various psychoses at work, and, if there's time, scare Jessica to death.
The plot moves along rather sluggishly at times while depending upon the phenomenal shooting locations, cinematography, and quirky acting to shoulder the load as it unfolds its character study at a leisurely pace. Unfortunately, the writers seem to have approached the script with the notion that their big reveal at the climax is shocking enough to justify this, while occasionally revealing too much too soon; two examples being the close-ups of the family portrait that reveal Emily at her current age in a very old photo before the deliberate reveal, and the shopkeeper's story about the female drowning victim on the grounds of the property recently purchased by the protagonists. You could make the case that those details are revealed deliberately to direct the audience away from what's coming, but if that is the case said revelations are still wasted because the ending comes outta nowhere with or without them. It also goes without saying, but anytime a movie features someone recovering from a nervous breakdown and puts them into a situation where their sanity is brought into question through the introduction of some extraordinary circumstance - they are *always* completely sane.
This trope is such a tired one that the audience will always anticipate the supposed wacko's validation, as the question of a relapse almost universally reveals, paradoxically, that they are 100% sane and that everything they're experiencing is real. At this point it would be a genuine twist to learn that the alleged crazy person was actually crazy as advertised. Additionally, there are various sequences with questionable significance, such as the seance and grave rubbings pinned to Jessica's bedroom wall. Did the seance actually unleash something? Did attaching the rubbings to the wall invite something into the house? Were the writers just uncorking red herrings like bottles of Ripple to confuse us? Maybe Hancock explains on the commentary track, but I haven't got an answer.
The acting ranges from adequate to strong, with Zohra Lampert delivering an exceptional portrayal of a woman recovering from a mental break while acutely aware of what will happen should her friends decide she's backsliding. Her deterioration from a place of cautious optimism into psychological ruin when her husband suggests a return to the mental institution rings true and makes for an authentic, sympathetic performance that also succeeds in demonizing those around her. Mariclare Costello is also superb as the supernatural "girl you know you shouldn't take home at last call," seeking to divide and conquer by casting doubt on Jessica's mental fitness. Not to take anything away from the remaining players, but due to the significance of Lampert and Costello's characters and their superior screen presence, everyone else is essentially furniture; but they do what's asked of them competently and keep the chain free of weak links. Basically it's a two-woman show, and one well worth the price of admission.
Here's who matters and why: Zohra Lampert (The Exorcist III), Barton Heyman (Raising Cain, The Exorcist), Kevin O'Connor (It's Alive III, Special Effects), Gretchen Corbett (Time Warp, Jaws of Satan, PSI Factor, The Savage Bees), Mariclare Costello (The Adventures of Buckaroo Bonzai Across the 8th Dimension, Shadow of the Blair Witch, Nightmares 1983).
And the big wheel: Gretchen Corbett (Beth Davenport on The Rockford Files).
The special effects are scant but generally effective, with the only liability being the 1970s blood formula that often comes across as too vibrant and too thick. That said, the gashes in various stages of healing on the townsfolk are excellently crafted, and the gaunt, colorless ghoul makeup applied to Mariclare Costello as she emerges from the lake is a sight to behold. Because of the tone, budget, and direction taken by the filmmakers, any attempts at elaborate gore makeup would have resulted in failure and atmospheric damage to what is, at its heart, a ghost story. As such, the choice to approach the special effects conservatively is the correct one and manages to build on the film's chilling atmosphere rather than create an identity crisis by attempting to go big.
The shooting locations become the flick's strongest asset from the outset as the film follows the hearse through a wooded New England forest in the early stages of Autumn to a haunting Gothic cemetery that's only slightly diminished by the picturesque (if somewhat out of place) lake situated behind it. You can't do much better than New England when scouting locations for a horror movie set in the fall months, and that's before the characters load their car onto a ferry boat to reach the isolated farmhouse they've just purchased or visit the charming antique shop boasting an authentic mixture of genuine treasures and worthless junk. The only real gripe I have is the insistence on having the cast grit their teeth and pretend they're enjoying themselves as though it were summer, rather than embracing the Autumn scenery and fog-shrouded hills they've captured so brilliantly. All they had to do was establish that the house had no shower and it would have justified the need to wash in the lake and allow complaints regarding the legitimately icy water. The interiors are nice as well, though less effective given the established plotline about the homeowners only just arriving and not yet having time to see the place decorated. Bottom line though - top-tier production design, cinematography, and shooting locations from the state of Connecticut.
The soundtrack is generally beneficial in its bid to bolster the flick's ambiance but does include smatterings of primitive synthesizer scoring that cut against the grain and disturb the mood established by the piano and acoustic guitar sections. By and large, the music strikes the correct tone with its upbeat guitar/lute instrumentals that establish a sense of hope for Jessica's recovery as well as the ominous piano compositions that foretell the lurking dangers ahead, and equally effective are the composer's use of sound effects that include an eerie howling wind and screeching brakes that seem distorted in such a way as to resemble a woman's scream. It's not an especially catchy score, nor is it likely to stick in your mind, but considering that the composer's compensation for the job was a guitar I'd say the producers got more than got their money's worth, and while it's not my thing, it would be fair to say that Mariclare Costello carries a tune pretty well during the sappy folk ballad "Stay Forever, My Love." It's also worth mentioning that the composer taught her how to play the song on the lute, and that she did so for the scene.
Overall, Let's Scare Jessica to Death doesn't play as well as it did a half-century ago, but as ghost stories go, you won't find many better. It's also very accessible to an older, mainstream audience whose aversion to violence and gore might otherwise prevent them from sampling genre offerings during the Halloween season, so if you wanna help Grandma get into a festive mood this might be just the thing. That said, you can get the same general premise out of Dead and Buried and with a lot more action to boot, so if you're on the fence you may wanna try that one first and circle back to this afterward.
Rating: 70%