Moonstalker
There's a bad moon rising... and it just got worse.
Year of Release: 1989
Genre: Horror
Rated: Not Rated
Running Time: 92 minues (1:32)
Director: Michael S. O'Rourke
Cast:
Blake Gibbons ... Bernie
Jill Foors ... Debbie
Joe Balogh ... Ron
Ann McFadden ... Vicky
Alex Wexler ... Bobby
Ingrid Vold ... Marcie
John Marzilli ... Regis
Tom Hamil ... Pop
Pamela Ross ... Sophie
Joseph Christopher ... Chet
Sioux-z Jessup ... Jane
Neil Kinsella ... Taylor
Summary:
A group of campers on a weekend survival trip get a crash course in carnage when they encounter a psychotic killer who makes Friday the 13th look like Christmas morning. Clad in a straight-jacket and wielding an assortment of deadly weapons, the Moonstalker lives up to his name as he slaughters the hapless campers one by one. Worse, he arranges the bodies in a chilling "puppet theater" for his own perverse amusement. It's up to Debbie, the only surviving camper, to bring the curtain down on the Moonstalker's ghastly performance... if he doesn't get her first!
Review:
Moonstalker, remindin' us that blood is thicker than water - so if you're on the verge of congestive heart failure maybe don't try luggin' a 72lb CRT TV through a foot of snow.
And speakin' of winter blunderlands, I dunno how the rest of you woulda reacted given the opportunity, but considerin' the trouble I've had gettin' into the holiday spirit this year, the idea of a Friday the 13th-themed bash at the Gutter Bowl sounded like manna from Heaven after three hours of freezin' my hinder off on the deck of the Grime Time projection booth swappin' attention between The Incredible Petrified World and the marginally less nauseating scene takin' place in the backseat of a Chevy Champ. (And as a quick public service announcement - if you attended this showing on December 13th, 2024, and parked in the fifth space from the right in the back row near the outhouses I'd recommend getting that mole checked out, 'cause they're usually not supposed to come in the shape of a Flintstones chewable vitamin).
Ordinarily I wouldn't be on board with these kinda shenanigans except it was the first week of the holiday break and so everyone was just bowlin' for pride. Call me a stick-in-the-mud if you want to, but you can't be runnin' a promotion like this when there're league championship ramifications hangin' in the balance - after all, even in the year 2024, there are still a few things that oughta remain sacred.
The snow was comin' down pretty hard by the time Billy Hilliard and I pulled in around 9:30, and the moment we stepped inside we were practically assaulted by holiday cheer in the form of twinkling tinsel, Bing Crosby, and a slug of green faces accompanying an experimental round of red-tinted Pole Cat beer. It was just like bein' a kid again.
'Course what really made it special was the bloody nacho recipe Sally Turlinger borrowed from Juanita Hernandez and the three guys Sally'd dressed up like Jason to playfully menace the patrons with plastic machetes. Billy and I were so moved by the atmosphere that we allowed ourselves a full minute to soak up the atmosphere before gettin' down to more serious business.
"Ah caow Miff Pac-Mah," Billy declared, shovin' me into the air hockey table as though he needed more than the 160lb weight advantage to get there first.
"Dude, you may be the king of Centipede, but nobody's ever gettin' anywhere close to B.J.'s record on that. Every year you try, and every year you're older, slower, and more arth-a-ritic - ya big dummy," I scoffed, doin' my best Fred Sanford.
"Fu'un you be ah home way'n fow Jacob Mahwey?" Billy chuckled, diggin' in his pocket for a quarter.
"I'm just sayin' - the Asteroids machine's right there and its record is precarious. I saw Scooter Schatz get within' 50,000 of it about eight years ago and I think he mighta beaten it if Sherri hadn't shown up to tell 'im she was pregnant," I said.
"'Leaf I gah a wecor - whah'ow yeow pwayih?" he asked.
"Nothing. We're in the season of giving here, and SOME of us are capable of settin' aside our own selfish wants to offer a little goodwill towards our fellow man," I chided.
"Wah?" Billy called, his attention already focused on avoiding the diabolical Blinky, Pinky, Inky, and Clyde.
"I'm gettin' a jump on my Christmas shopping," I explained, layin' a Crown Royal bag fulla quarters down on the control deck of the crane machine.
It was prolly about an hour before Billy'd gotten his fill of power pellets and I'd secured seasons greetings for all the important women in my life, and since we had another hour or so until closin' we left the arcade to watch the last five frames of the Pinultimates/Bowldozers game - or rather, Billy watched while I tried figurin' out who it was behind the hockey masks.
I figured it had to be three guys who were willin' to work for free beer, and following that logic, deduced that the one with the mullet was Arvin Spickle and the one makin' lewd gestures with his machete had to be Rusty Dockweiler, but for the life of me I couldn't place the third guy, and what's more, he was really weirdin' some of us out.
Arvin and Rusty would sneak up on people and tap 'em on the shoulder to scare the tar out of 'em when they'd turn around, or sometimes they'd stick a bloody mannequin head in the ball return while someone was engaged in conversation, but this third guy just stood by the cigarette machine starin' at the Pinultimate bench all night long. I guess it was that last part that finally settled it for me; it was Cleave Furguson, and he'd plainly gone off the deep end after bein' dumped by Roxanne Bigelow. I didn't wanna believe it, but nothin' else made sense.
"Billy. Hey! The Jason over there by the can - that look like Cleave to you?" I whispered.
"Iunno. Mow intwefed ih cweavage vah Cweave ah vuh momen," he muttered, carefully observing Chastity Dollarhide's bowling form.
"Dude, it's him. He's gone cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, he's--" I started sayin', only about that time he realized he'd been made and started over just as Mystie Forsythe stood up to make her last throw of the game.
"Mystie! Why won't you text me?! What'd I do?! Can we please talk?!"
It was Gilmer Crenshaw, the barely legal teenager Skunky Hernandez and I caught havin' apocalypsus aardvarkus with Mystie down in the unearthed bomb shelter behind the Grime Time last year.
I dunno who I felt worse for - Mystie, or Gilmer's mama, Mavis, who throws third for the Bowldozers. But anyway ya slice it I'd imagine the Pinultimates are gonna be down a woman after this, 'cause Mystie went from Lane 9 to the parkin' lot in about 11 seconds flat when Gilmer took off his mask and got clean away despite the serious handicap of wearin' bowling shoes on icy pavement.
Ten minutes later we found an unconscious, apoxic Vick Haughton in the fourth stall of the methane-rich men's room insisting he'd been promised a pitcher of Pole Cat to play Jason before havin' his skull thumped at the urinal, and so Gilmer ended up booked into the Crossbar Hotel for attempted murder even though I can't see it goin' farther than manslaughter beins it woulda been the gas that killed Vick and not Gilmer directly.
I guess when ya think about it we ended up with a Friday the 13th Part V situation where there's a satisfyin' result even if the guy behind the mask wasn't who you were expectin', but at this stage in the game I'll take what I can get 'cause you could do a lot worse than the worst of the Paramount Friday flicks. Stay tuned for more on that.
Chastity agreed to let Roxanne roll Mystie's last frame but the Bowldozers still won by 19 pins, and since Roxanne hasn't had anyone to go home to since the purge, I invited 'er back to the house to check out Moonstalker with us 'cause friends don't let friends watch last-gasp, direct-to-video slasher flicks without a responsible adult.
Golden-age slasher flicks set in winter are a rare breed to be sure, so I wasn't about to let a Friday the 13th in December go by without suitable seasonal entertainment even though I usually end up regretting the decision to forego quality in favor of axemen of appropriate axial tilt. Fortunately, there's never much need to cajole folks into watchin' a Friday the 13th clone since everyone knows what to expect, but since this is the season of giving, I've got a few gifts here to getcha in the proper holiday spirit. I mean, unless your father died comin' down the chimney on Christmas Eve dressed in a Santa Claus costume or somethin'.
First, there're times in life when it's best to take the road less traveled, and the moment you find yourself in the high beams of a pickup that's bearin' down on ya at 40mph is one of 'em. Second, if you expect full credit for your body count you've gotta show your work. And third, cleanliness is close to Godliness, and never moreso than when an axe maniac is lurkin' outside the shower.
The movie begins with a buncha teenagers rockin' in a winter wonderland where a couple of 'em pair off for some snowboundus aardvarkus in a camper and get hacked into Hickory Farms sausage samplers until an Uncanny Ax-Man steps out and begins saunterin' his way over to the remaining revelers while the cameraman points his equipment at the moon like he's makin' a snow angel. Next thing, a family of Bundy-adjacent tourists (Harry, Vera, Tracy, and Mikey) camping in the dead of winter proceed to freeze their acid-washed asses off until an old coot pullin' a camper with a Cadillac (Pop) takes the spot next door and depresses everyone with stories about his wife dyin' on 'im and how tough it's been to find work since the invention of the can opener rendered his choppers obsolete while somethin' inside his mobile home makes noises like a mule bein' gelded with a spool of fishin' line. Turns out the mule is actually Pop's son (Bernie) that he hasta keep chained up like a clinically depressed accountant with a bondage fetish, and once Harry's family hits the sack, Pop decides to sic the Abominable Slowman on his economically advantaged neighbors to see how the other half dies. Unfortunately, when Pop's psycho ward realizes Tracy's down by the creek smokin' Virginia Slims and listenin' to Winger he hasta break off after 'er, and danged if Pop's heart don't give out while he's tryna lug a 40" Panasonic through a blizzard to make it home in time for USA Up All Night.
Elsewhere, a coupla Herpa Derpa Sherpas (Ron and Bobby) sellin' Boy Scout merit badge courses in winter survival are waitin' around for their last two students to show up, only Contestant #1 never makes it 'cause he ends up locatin' the abandoned RV and 500lbs of campground beef before findin' 'imself on the wrong end of Drawl Bunyan's choke chain. Then Asylum Hiram risks frostbitten bits to swap clothes with the corpse and uses the guy's truck to squish Tracy into Eskimo Pie filling en route to Chateau Six-Toe where he starts flashin' back to the days when his mama used to prep 'im for his sovereign citizenship test while he breathes like an obscene phone caller and caresses the arsenal of agricultural implements adorning the walls. Unfortunately for the survivalists, their camp is situated just across the creek from Gangrene Acres, and before anyone knows what's happenin' ole Rural Merl takes a set of hay bale tongs into the shower where a coupla hypothermia enthusiasists're makin' the sign of the isometric haunch dongle and starts buildin' himself a preystack. Then this guy who got kicked out of the United Freedom Front for havin' an attitude problem (Regis) gathers the remaining survivor hopefuls for tribal council and snarls a lot about discipline like he's runnin' a dominatrix boot camp before goin' to sweep the perimeter. 'Cept once Regis's outta earshot, Bobby tells everybody (Debbie, Vicky, Sophie, and Chet) a story about how back in '75 the forest circus decided they were gonna run a loggin' road up through the middle of Pops' pecker pole preserve and ended up in a shootout that made a Mossy Oak martyr outta his wife, and how Bernie spent the next few months showin' all the tourist traffic how he felt about progress until the cops were able to capture 'im usin' a wounded bimbo call.
Nobody thinks much about this or anything else, and that leaves Regis's militia maiden (Marcie, who looks like the casting director went into a talent agency and requested "non-union Linnea Quigley") wide open for an ambush while she's wearin' a camo bikini with Ride of the Valkyries blastin' over 'er boombox, and when Regis returns to his barracks Deathrow Bodine stuffs a pistol in Regis' mouth and shows 'im how it feels to be on the receivin' end of a rural purge. Then Sophie and Chet hop in the shower to rub a dub chub until our guy cranks up the hot water and leaves 'em with a case of third-degree Berns before choppin' Chet's trunk into kindling, only while that's goin' on Debbie convinces Ron to take 'er for a weekend at Bernie's and they end up bustin' through the ice in the creek and havin' to build a fire in the man's den to dry their clothes while they huddle under a blanket thinkin' about how romantic this'd all be if they weren't so danged excited about learnin' which plants're edible and which ones cause your digestive tract to do the boogaloo. Elsewhere, the hitherto unseen sheriff is runnin' around the scene of the recreational vehicular manslaughters lookin' like Tim Burton after a three-day moonshine binge until he realizes one of the corpses belongs to Pop and that he musta sprung his boy from the quack shack by overpowerin' the orderlies with the naturally occurring mushroom spores that grow in his britches.
Unfortunately, Taylor's refusal to join a twelve-step program has left him a comparable number behind the perp, so while he's spinnin' the wheels of his 16' sedan in the snowbank, Frothy the Slowman's chuckin' a Buck knife into Bobby's forehead and riggin' up some kinda Jigsawian executive toy with a makeshift bench swing where his bodies of work are standin' in for the ball bearings. He's also got Vicky trussed up like a suicidal elk with 'er feet on the back of the swing, so when Taylor finally figures out what's goin' on and tries rescuin' 'er all he does is 'cause 'er to lose 'er balance and strangle to death when Gravy Crockett hucks a spear through his gutbucket and durn near starts an alcohol-sparked wildfire when Taylor's blood drips into a bonfire. Don't really wanna go much further'n this beins we're down to our final couple but you probably know the drill by now anyhow. Regardless, be sure to stick around for the finale as the crew wraps up their story and holds out hope that someone in need of a tax write-off might finance a sequel.
Alrighty, well, it probably goes without saying, but by 1989 the slasher film was not only past its expiration date but becoming rather curdled. Even the stalwart Friday the 13th franchise was running on fumes, and as a sign of the times, Paramount would soon lease the rights to the Jason character to New Line, who seemed all too willing to turn a blind eye to the writing on the wall. I suppose all good things must come to an end, though that expression is ordinarily reserved for a bittersweet occasion where one mourns and offers a heartfelt eulogy for the dearly departed, whereas Moonstalker just reinforces the idea that the subgenre was dead and makes ya feel a little sorry for the folks who didn't get the memo. The market for these types of flicks had long become over-saturated, and between that and the closing of the low-to-medium budget studios and distributors, this type of feature was doomed before the first frame was ever committed to film. Studios were still getting some milage out of tested properties like Halloween and A Nightmare on Elm Street, but 1989 simply wasn't the time to try launching a new slasher franchise, and the industry just wasn't crying out for another mute maniac lacking distinction.
Its one genuine redeeming feature comes not from the script (which is strictly by the numbers and lacking in both heart and charm) but from the setting - specifically, the season in which it is set. Golden Age slasher films set in winter are (for good reason) rare, and while the rationale behind the premise suffers greatly for the decision to shoot in the winter months, the fact is that there's a certain allure to the film for no other reason than seein' one of these maladjusted brutes trudgin' through the snow shish-kabobin' trespassers. It's silly when you try to look at it rationally because by any measure the movie is below average even by slasher standards. And yet, by tweaking the formula ever so slightly, genre fans will be drawn to it, and that's a lesson young filmmakers should take away despite its minimal redeeming value because novelty is a great way to garner attention even if your movie lacks the production value to stand against more conventional offerings of the same subtype. That, and we've kinda become obsessed with matching up seasonal conditions in the flicks we watch with the ones taking place outside, so quality notwithstanding, I'd expect movies like Moonstalker, Blood Tracks, and Curtains to continue gaining steam among genre fans who prefer to experience their winter weather conditions in stereo.
Anyway, thanks for attending my TED talk on the cultural significance of bad movies whose social standing can be improved through seasonally appropriate timing, and with that outta the way, let's take a closer look and try to pinpoint the exact moment when the film's investors lost all their money.
The plot swiftly shifts from cliched to irrational as it trots out the "madman escapes insane asylum" trope that'd been played out since the days of Halloween, before then proposing family vacationing and survival training camp in the dead of winter as plausible concepts to produce the necessary raw meat for the slasher. That's not to say that there aren't survival training courses offered in winter - however, to keep in step with previously established rules about slasher *victims*, the film casts an even number of semi-attractive young men and women rather than bitter, middle-aged neckbeards preparing for the inevitable downfall of civilization as would be required to effectively sell the winter aspect (there's also dialogue stating that the participants who obtain the certification will be first in line for the best camp jobs, implying summer camps).
Additionally, while you can't fault the inclusion of the opening massacre sequence due to an opening hook being nearly sacrosanct in American horror, the film gets off to a clunky start as it hops from that scene to the slaughter of a second group who exist solely as a bread crumb trail that leads the killer to the main event. The second group is more or less gratuitous, as all the exposition given in the first campfire scene is reiterated in greater detail by the second campfire story told by the survival instructor in what is an exact steal from Friday the 13th Part 2. I will accept the breaking through the ice device as an acceptable means of getting our attractive young people nekkid, but the survival camp with a tent containing a shower with hot water is pretty hard to take even before you factor in the idea that these folks are supposed to be roughing it. Further incompetence is provided by various locals (including those in positions of authority), driving (and pulling campers with) passenger cars on Forest Service roads covered in ice, and the director failing to set up shots in such a way as to block out the passing highway traffic that kills any illusion of isolation. In short, you're gonna need to ask yourself if the presence of snow is worth the completely incongruent plot elements that accompany it - though the absurdity is still enjoyable on an ironic level even if your answer is no.
The acting ability of the cast varies so significantly between the family in the first act and the instructors/students at the survival camp that you might assume the former was tacked on to pad the runtime were the daughter not serving as a bridge between the two acts, because although no one is especially talented, there's a pretty noticeable improvement as the flick moves to the camp. Among the better performances are Tom Hamil as the aggrieved, vengeful Pop, Alex Wexler as the incel with a heart of gold, John Marzilli as the hardass, pre-apocalypse survival instructor, Ingrid Vold as Matilda the Hun, and Jill Foors as the final girl. To their credit, the casting director (if there was one) does seem to recognize the actors with the most talent and assign them to the most substantial roles, but there are no standout positive or negative performances despite the acting slightly exceeding expectations.
Here's who matters and why: Blake Gibbons (War of the Worlds 2), Ingrid Vold (Dead End City, To Sleep with a Vampire, Time Barbarians, Communion, Hanging Heart), John Marzilli (Project: Metalbeast), Tom Hamil (Cavegirl), Jill Foors (Night Wars), Joe Balogh (Black Demons, Hitcher in the Dark, Hollywood's New Blood, Monstrocity 1987), Pamela Ross (Sorority House Massacre), Sioux-z Jessup (The Prophecy), Michael Capellupo (The Chair 2007, Venus Fly Trap), Kelly O'Rourke (Deadly Love), Kelly Mullis (Black Cadillac, Savage 1996, B.O.R.N.), Joleen Mullins (Slash Dance), Ken Hanes (Ice Cream Man), Tracy Hutton (Deadly Love), Laurence Coven (Mommy's Day, Dark Romances 2, Hack-O-Lantern), Carl Solomon (Amityville Bigfoot, Woods Witch, Bloody Nun 3, Amityville Shark House, Alien Vampire Busters, Fat Flashy Fingers, The Once and Future Smash, Amityville Karen, You're Melting!, Hallowene Pussy Trap Kill! Kill!, The Greasy Strangler, Panman, The Video Dead, Necromancy), Myron Sayan (Deadly Love).
And the breakthroughs: Blake Gibbons (Mitchell Coleman on General Hospital), John Marzilli (Vince Carter on The Secret World of Alex Mack).
The special effects are pitiful and consist largely of poorly constructed severed limbs with little-to-no weight that bounce unnaturally when they hit the ground, and small amounts of blood that range from decent to semi-pink in color. This may go without saying given the previous statement, but this is not a flick you wanna go into expecting elaborate gore effects, as most of the kills occur offscreen in what was likely a cost-cutting measure. On the positive side, the facial scaldings in the shower scene are alright, and the severed head sequence actually works surprisingly well given that they used the oldest trick in the book when they framed most of the actor's body out of the shot and slapped a black sweater on him. That said, people going into a Friday the 13th clone have certain expectations about the level of blood they're going to see, and they will not come anywhere close to being met despite a fairly high body count.
The shooting locations are nice despite the differing levels of snow encountered as the crew moves about the forests outside Reno. The best locations are the fixed ones, ie; the RV campground, the survival camp, and the villain's cabin, as these at least have enough snow to consistently cover the ground. Other spots, particularly travel routes where a road is visible, usually only include patches that have seen melting during the daylight hours and often nothing at all covering the roads themselves. Because the movie takes place almost entirely at night and the lighting is limited you never get a good look at the forested areas. But the cabin interiors and exteriors are nice, and when you get right down to it it's such a breath of fresh air to see a movie of this age that's even semi-snowbound that you can usually overlook the sometimes inadequate snow levels while appreciating the winter atmosphere.
The soundtrack is the film's strongest asset thanks in no small part to John Carpenter, whose works composer Douglas Pipes has an obvious affinity for. It's not subtle either, and if you were to go around the internet reading reviews of the flick the one constant would be the music and its similarity to Carpenter's classic Halloween theme. That said, with ten years having passed since Halloween hit theaters, synthesizer technology had improved considerably, and Pipes is able to take that familiar sound and liven it up a bit while also adding drum beats that give it a little more bite. Not surprisingly, Pipes would go on to become one of the flicks' most successful graduates; providing scores for films like Monster House, Trick 'r Treat, and the modern holiday classic, Krampus. It's also fortunate that the composition is as catchy and memorable as it is because there's very little variety, and while I don't claim to have paid enough attention to be entirely certain - I believe that one piece may be the only composition to play throughout the entire movie, and even if it isn't, you will hear it upwards of ten times.
Overall, Moonstalker is a lesser son of greater sires and represents one of the last gasps of the slasher genre as it existed in its prime, but despite its subpar production levels and questionable premise, there is something to be said for its willingness to freeze its ass off to achieve a desired aesthetic. Worth checking out for fans of '80s slashers, but one that will only be genuinely enjoyed by viewers who derive enjoyment from a flick's aura as much as its content. Go ahead and give it a chance, but keep your expectations in check.
Rating: 45%