A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors
If you think you'll get out alive, you must be dreaming.
Year of Release: 1987
Genre: Horror
Rated: R
Running Time: 96 minutes (1:36)
Director: Chuck Russell
Cast:
Heather Langenkamp ... Nancy Thompson
Craig Wasson ... Neil Gordon
Patricia Arquette ... Kristen Parker
Robert Englund ... Freddy Krueger
Ken Sagoes ... Kincaid
Rodney Eastman ... Joey
Jennifer Rubin ... Taryn
Bradley Gregg ... Phillip
Ira Heiden ... Will
Penelope Sudrow ... Jennifer
Laurence Fishburne ... Max
John Saxon ... Lt. Thompson
Priscilla Pointer ... Dr. Elizabeth Simms
Dick Cavett ... Dick Cavett
Zsa Zsa Gabor ... Zsa Zsa Gabor
Summary:
It's been years since the demented child-killer Freddy Krueger was torched by an avenging mob on Elm Street. Now, the last of the "Elm Street Kids" have moved - into a psychiatric ward! There, the diabolical Freddy haunts their dreams, torturing them with a ghastly, surreal assortment of unspeakable ordeals! Their only hope is dream researcher Nancy Thompson, who helps them band together to face the supernatural maniac on his own turf. But, once inside Freddy's seething, hallucinatory dream-world, there's only one way out - straight through a hellish, heart-stopping nightmare of pure, razor-edged terror!
Review:
A Nightmare on Elm Street 3, remindin' us that standin' tall on the wings of your dreams leaves you wide open for decapitation.
And speakin' of declining life expectancies, normally I'm not the kinda guy to be taken in by that sappy "honest day's pay for an honest day's work" bullstuff since mosta the guys trottin' out that tired old chestnut keep a bunkhouse fulla illegal immigrants that they claim as tax deductions, but sometimes you run across a gig with the kinda perks that almost getcha believin' in the American Dream again.
'Course, as mosta you know, my professional services stopped comin' cheap when I started full time at the Videodome, but I always try to help out folks in need when time allows or they're offerin' $12 a fish to restock the display tank at their phony baloney tourist trap.
"Ah, there you are. Gentlemen, may I have a word?" Blaine Schwartzberg asked, approachin' the booth where Billy Hilliard and myself were gnawin' our meatloaf specials.
"So much for hash slinger/client confidentiality!" I yelled toward the serving hatch where Mack was grinnin' like a pitbull with an elk hide.
"I wonder if I might offer you a business proposition," Blaine continued, draggin' a chair over from an unoccupied table.
"Come on Blaine, it's Sunday. Cut us some slack," I whined.
"It's Monday," Blaine corrected, pointin' to the Back Forty calendar on the wall.
"Funofabif!" Billy hacked, momentarily chokin' on a wad of gristle and dashin' off in the direction of the pay phone.
"I'm tellin' ya Blaine - Mad Dog 20/20, not even once," I shuddered, tryna locate the missing time.
"Agreed. Anyway, our filtration system at the restaurant is struggling to keep the aquarium clean and we're looking for a solution," he elaborated.
"Could send Saul in there with a snorkel and a poop scoop," I suggested.
"Satisfying as that might be, I was thinking maybe you and Billy might be interested in collecting a dozen or so suckerfish to work as a stop-gap," he clarified.
"Smart. No wonder you guys won the space laser race," I conceded as Billy squeezed his way back behind the old farts at the counter.
"Fired?" I asked, waddin' up my silverware band and firin' it through the serving hatch as Mack's head popped into view.
"Ah'm vuh cwue boff, vumaff," Billy scowled, moppin' up the last of his gravy.
"When did that happen?! Ya know, I think we're drifting apart," I sulked.
"So what do you say? Are you willing..." Blaine started sayin'.
"I *dih* feow you, you juf don' liffen," Billy argued.
"Oh, I listen. And I'm startin' to see why Rolanda bit off your..." I was about to say.
"$10 a fish," Blaine interrupted, sensing his deal slipping away.
Billy and I established a psychic truce and agreed to table the issue for the time being.
"$15 a fish, and that includes any rainbows and brookies we may catch. Plus gas... and breakfast," I demanded as Peggy Pogue slid our checks onto the table.
"That's highway robbery," Blaine bristled.
"Highway'v 'ah way. Huwwy an' you migh' geh home by dufk," Billy shrugged.
"Alright. TWELVE a fish, including trout - and that's *live* fish only. I'll cover your fuel but you pigs can buy your own slop. And it wouldn't hurt you to TIP now and then," Blaine chided.
"Deal. We'll toss the dead ones in Saul's car," I agreed.
Billy and I figured Leech Creek was our best bet to deliver our catch and make it home in time for Monday Night Raw, so we swung by the house to pick up Apollo and a coupla coolers and gunned it outta town to seek our fortunes.
The suckers were no problem, but after almost an hour neither of us'd landed a single trout despite tryin' worms, grasshoppers, roostertails, and even committing mild heresy by resortin' to PowerBait. Zero action. Nothin'.
"Motherfu..." I cursed.
"You wanna fwim home?" Billy threatened.
"It ain't all about you, butt love. I'm snagged," I grumbled.
"Fo? Cuh ih," he instructed.
Which was exactly what I was about to do when I finally got it free and reeled in a loaded crawdad trap.
"Niiiiiiiiice. Spoze your mama'll boil these for..." I was sayin' when I spotted a coupla hippie chicks headin' our way from a nearby draw.
"Getcher .30-30, they look like Rainbow Family," I whispered.
"Greetings Earth brothers," they smiled.
"Oh thank cripes, they're just U.F.O. nuts. Never mind, they're harmless," I corrected.
"Have you come seeking sanctuary?" the one in the tin foil jumpsuit asked.
"Damned if we dih'n," Billy nodded furiously.
"I'll ask the questions, ladies. Now which one of you space blanket bimbos fished out our hole?" I demanded.
"We merely sought sustenance. I assure you the ecosystem will thrive again following our departure," the one with the bird's nest tiara insisted.
"Veparchow?" Billy frowned.
"Yes. Three weeks from today we will be called home," shiny britches asserted, pointin' toward the sky.
"A terrible catastrophe is about to begin; time is running out," bird brow confirmed.
"Huh?" Billy puzzled.
"They figure Trump has the election sewn up," I surmised.
"Come, join us for lunch," the aluminum goil offered, takin' the crawdad trap and beckoning us down the path that for all we knew led to the Pet Sematary but were willing to take because, well, you know.
Turns out there were five of 'em livin' in a yurt they'd erected in the valley just over the ridge - four gals and the middle-aged prophet man who by sheer coincidence happened to be 30 years their senior, and whom Apollo took an instant dislike to. I love Apollo to death but he's not what you'd call a great judge of character, and so a general rule of thumb is if *he* don't like somebody odds are they've had someone handcuffed to a radiator at one time or another. We're talkin' human manure spreader.
In case this whole deal wasn't already weird enough, they all had names like drive-in theaters located in the deep south - Astro, Stardust, Cosmos, Moonlite, and Gemini (the latter of whose title preceded her if you catch my drift).
Like I was sayin' though, Stardust and Cosmos (they're the ones that invited us over to meet the luna kahuna) introduced us and there was just somethin' about the way Astro chewed his toenails that made me think Apollo was onto somethin'.
"You wish to accompany us?" Astro asked, looking up only briefly while tryna burn a tick off his arm with an old bed spring that'd been restin' in the fireplace.
"'Fraid not, pops. In case you hadn't heard, you missed the connecting flight to Hale Bop, the Solar Temple's been converted to a Starbucks, and ALF hasn't worked since that 10-10-220 scam fizzled out. Just what're you tryna pull on these gals?" I asked.
"Fogive my fwien', hiv mine if cwoved," Billy whispered to Gemini.
"I offer them safe passage with the Star Fathers... and answers to the great mysteries of the universe," Astro asserted, pausing briefly to attach a crawdad to each nipple.
"And you can't do that someplace with toilet paper?" I challenged.
"The Star Fathers will not risk their mission by revealing themselves to unbelievers who may seek to misuse their secrets," Astro explained, sniffin' his armpit and seemingly uncovering the source of somethin' that'd been puzzling him.
"Right. So they can fly 100 billion light years through space, but they can't chance us lobbin' a coupla Patriots at 'em. You gals don't really buy this Nostradumbass routine, do ya?" I asked.
"Fay vuh wor' an' I'ow remove him, gweat one," Billy snarled, now snugly nestled between Gemini and Moonlite.
"Why do you say these things?" Moonlite asked, the beginnings of suspicion beginning to take root.
"Oh, I dunno. I guess because there's no way this huckster isn't wanted in at least three states for back child support, passin' bad checks, or fencing counterfeit Duck Dynasty DVDs. And I'll betcha somethin' else too - $10 says he's got a bottle of magic blue pills in his medicine bag," I declared.
"Remove him!" Astro shouted, but by that point Moonlight's departure from Billy's lap'd allowed 'im to recover enough brain function to snatch Astro's little leather pharmacy and find the goods.
Unfortunately, I couldn't claim the $10 'cause they were technically Cialis capsules and not blue, but I've gotta say, the blubbering that followed was not befitting of a messiah, and from there we were able to convince the girls to come back to town with us to rediscover the wonders of feminine hygiene products and the convenience of not havin' to open cans of pork 'n beans with your teeth.
Billy and I each took two of 'em and we're hopin' to have 'em rehabilitated and fit to reenter society despite the permanent damage they've already done to our shower drains, but like I said, it's important to do whatcha can to help people whenever possible, and I'm confident that I'll be able to reinstill concepts like trust, personal space, and modesty by the time Halloween rolls around. Either that or this's gonna be a very popular trick-or-treatin' stop.
I've also found that spendin' time with folks who've gone without basic necessities for as long as these gals did can have a profound effect on a person's outlook, and just seein' the simple joy a gas station burrito can bring has affected my life in ways I can't begin to describe. 'Course, seein' the damage someone with no tolerance for that kinda food can do to a bathroom has a way of snappin' you back to reality pretty fast, but all the same, Billy and I decided to dip into our newfound wealth to celebrate the girls' return to civilization; which necessitated dinner and a movie about a man who bears a strong resemblance to deep dish pepperoni.
It's been quite a while since we checked in with Freddy and that kinda stems from my concern over burnin' through the classics too fast but I figured what the heck - it's Halloween season, the smell of burnin' leaves is in the air - let's splurge before our heart valves explode from decades of deep-fried delicacies and overexertion from shameful drive-in encounters with people of questionable reputation.
I can't imagine any of you need to be sold on this particular franchise or its place in genre history, but just in case I'm not the only one with a coupla genre-starved, half-nekkid twenty-somethins on a sugar high occupyin' my living space, I've got a few observations you can use to help get 'em off the kitchen table and onto the couch where they belong.
First, pullin' teenage boys outta their dreams and into those of their female counterparts would effectively end teenage pregnancy the moment the girls saw what goes on in there. Second, it's impossible to elicit sympathy for someone who falls asleep during Critters. And third, if you'd been lynched, par-baked, and reduced to junk in someone's trunk, you'd be a little pissed off too.
The movie begins with Patricia Arquette shotgunning coffee grinds and rockin' Dokken to stay awake while constructin' a papier mache rendering of a certain house on Elm Street until her lipstick lizard mama comes home and forces 'er to go to bed so she can roll around on the floor with some traveling vacuum cleaner salesman she met at the Lust Call singles bar. Exhaustion eventually claims Patricia and pretty quick she finds 'erself outside the dream world's Chateau Skid Row - where *he* slays queens and knives their beaus. Patricia don't know about the Dream Cleaver who's taken up residence there though, and so she follows this little nursery rhymin' doomsayer ridin' a tricycle into the house where the furnace ignites and she ends up gettin' bogged down tryna run through what looks like the coating on the inside of George Burns' lungs. She bolts up in bed before the Fred-man Ginsus 'er into teenie tartare, only when she heads into the bathroom it turns out she's actually still asleep and the faucet handles sprout shivs that slice 'er wrists open just as her mama finds 'er and watches 'er go limper'n the crowd on senior citizens' night at Walleye's Topless Dancin' & Bait Shop. Then Mother Inferior drops Patricia off at the quack shack where she hasta grab a scalpel to keep Laurence Fishburne and a Piscopo-adjacent orderly from shootin' 'er up with pharmaceutical grade NyQuil until Nancy Thompson shows up and manages to bond with 'er over their shared experiences as victims of a sentient supernatural roast beef slicer.
Since we last left Nancy she's been to college and gotten a doctorate in Dream Weaving to help get disadvantaged teens through the night, only on her first day at the clinic she gets yanked into a nightmare Patricia's havin' involvin' a giant, lubricated semen serpent that's swallowin' Patricia feet first and Nancy ends up havin' to circumcise it with a glass shard until it blows its broad wad and they're able to punch their tickets outta dreamland. The next mornin', Nancy attends her first group session with the hospital director (Neil), the She-Devil on Heels (Dr. Simms), and the teenage denizens of the tortured soul asylum (Kincaid, Joey, Taryn, Phillip, Will, and Jennifer) where she tries to convince Neil to prescribe the dream inhibitor she's been takin' to keep the Sandman off her private beach, only the high sheriffs want no part of it and so later that night Freddy hacks open alla Phillip's limbs and uses his tendons like puppet strings to send 'im moshing, sans pit, out a third story window. The next mornin' the group session's a little tense as the muckity-mucks in charge struggle to keep the conversation away from the fact that there's a wide-open Medieval archway 30 feet above the courtyard of an institution designed to house people with stability issues, and so Neil unilaterally decides to prescribe Nancy's dream dissolving capsules to make sure nobody else goes up there and cannonballs onto someone's long-suffering mother on visiting day.
Unfortunately, the Rite Aid's fresh outta experimental neural suppressants and there's no time to get the kids retail jobs that'll snuff out their dreams before lights out, so Freddy hops into Jennifer's subconscious when she falls asleep watchin' Dick Cavett kill Zsa Zsa Gabor on late night cable and rams 'er head through the Sylvania hangin' on the wall in the day room and makes 'er another victim of TV-inspired violence. By this point Neil's best chance at another psyche gig involves givin' out lucky numbers for the Psychic Friends Network, so he drops back for a Hail Mary and allows Nancy to drop a truth bomb on the surviving wards as she explains that their only chance at beatin' Freddy is to be mass-hypnotized and discover their Dream Power that'll allow 'em to drop a Bionic Elbow like Dusty Rhodes or somethin'. 'Cept while the rest of the class is learnin' how to destroy the Springwood Slasher with round-offs and punk fashion, Joey gets bamboobled by a half-nekkid sleep succubus that puts 'im into a coma and holds 'im hostage over the ninth circle of Hell. Then the shock doc in charge gets P.O.'d about the way Neil's patients're droppin' like testicles at Mary Kay Letourneau's house and so he cans both him and Nancy for insomnambulation.
On his way out, Neil notices a nun watchin' 'im and breaks into the disused bell tower next door where they exchange chats in the belfry about how back in the 1940s some priest who was late for mass accidentally locked a nun in the asylum's gen pop over Labor Day weekend and by the time they found 'er on Tuesday she'd completed inseminary several hundred times over and got stuck givin' birth nine months later 'cause the alternative was strongly frowned upon. Sister Twisted then explains that the only way to be rid of the resulting gift from God is to bury his remains in hallowed ground, so Nancy and Neil go to find John Saxon right around the time Shrillsa the Wicked Warden dopes Patricia up and throws 'er in the hole, forcin' Nancy to dash back to the asylum while Neil makes John show 'im where he stashed the body of Fredward Scissorhands. Then Nancy hasta schmooze Laurence into lettin' 'er say goodbye till he gets this "white bitch gonna cost me this job, buuuuuuuuuuut it's a pretty shit job" look on his face and lets her stage a hypnotic coup in time to find Patricia just as her brain walks off work detail. This don't mean diddly to Freddy though, and the moment Nancy and the kids drop into his slumber party he starts slashin' up the padded walls until everyone gets separated in a goose down hurricane where Patricia finds 'erself back home gettin' bawled out by her mother's severed head after Freddy decapitates 'er for takin' too long bringin' 'im his Whiskey Sour.
Elsewhere, Taryn finds 'erself in an alley lit by Dario Argento where she and Freddy have it out with their knives like a coupla extras in Michael Jackson's "Bad" video until our guy changes tactics and turns his fingers into syringes so he can shoot 'er up with nightmare fuel. Then Will transforms into the Wizard King and tries to blast Freddy with Nuke but rolls a critical fumble and gets his cloth armor shredded by Freddy's enchanted demon claws while he's stuck waitin' for his mana to regenerate. While that's goin' on, Nancy, Patricia, and Kincaid are able to find Joey, only by now Freddy's gorged 'imself on soul food at the Elm Street Buffet and so he just no-sells it anytime they do somethin' like ram a steel pipe through his sternum until Neil and John find his bones in the trunk of an old Cadillac at the junkyard and Freddy hasta bounce into the real world and reanimate his skeleton so he can kick the crap out of his would-be gravediggers like he's auditionin' for a remake of Jason and the Argonauts. This's about as far as I'm gonna venture even though they kinda crammed half the movie's action sequences into the final fifteen minutes, but you won't wanna miss the callous disregard Wes Craven exhibits for his returning characters or Dokken's badass title song that creeps along with the end credits and guarantees everyone sticks around to see the names of the key grip, gaffer, and all the sponsors who threw themselves at the feet of the producer beggin' for a product placement.
Alrighty, and with that the franchise successfully begins its pivot from straight horror into the horror/comedy sequels that would follow (with the exception of New Nightmare) after scoring with what is arguably the best entry in the series. As an Elm Street fan, you're generally either in the camp that touts the original or Part 3 as the best of the series, but whatever the case, the general consensus seems to be that the franchise was at its best when the comedy was held more firmly in check. Nonetheless, the Elm Street series, when viewed as a whole, is easily the strongest and most consistent of the big three slasher franchises (the others being Halloween and Friday the 13th), and although it was already tremendously popular, Dream Warriors was the moment when Robert Englund became a genre superstar and New Line Cinema truly became The House that Freddy Built.
In recent years Freddy's Revenge has begun to get the accolades it deserves despite being inferior to the two films bookending it, but in 1987 when the time came to roll on another Elm Street film the studio returned to Wes Craven to write the script, and this would herald the returns of both Heather Langenkamp and John Saxon, much to the approval of the fan base. This trend would continue for the last two entries in the '80s cycle, as each would feature the final girl (though not always the same actress) returning to establish a bridge between entries while also building upon the mythology of Freddy and continually expanding his backstory in a way that Friday the 13th flat out couldn't, and that Halloween would attempt but always fumble.
That said, Dream Warriors owes a lot to the box office successes of its predecessors and the subsequent willingness of New Line to increase the budget - the result of which is a film that enjoys the best of both worlds with Wes Craven returning to steer the direction of the story, and Mark Shostrom returning following Freddy's Revenge to create the elaborate special effects made possible by the additional funding; though perhaps most impressive may be New Line somehow managing to do this and still secure an R rating at a time when the MPAA was really showin' its ass. In short, Bob Shaye and New Line did everything right - they hired the right people, gave them the resources they needed, kept out of the production (as much as can be expected), and opened the flick nationwide. Those were the days.
I suppose we could just slap a 10/10 rating on it and call it a day but that wouldn't be very scientific, so let's peel back the layers of Freddy's pizza face and make sure the dough's cooked all the way through.
The plot scores serious brownie points for bringing back the surviving players from Elm Street the First while also managing to peer into Freddy's origins without strangling the golden goose; though one thing I've always appreciated about the Friday the 13th and Halloween flicks is that they often pick up immediately where their successors left off and reveal how we've gotten from where we were to where we are. Admittedly, those bridges essentially amounted to "Nah, he's still got some fight in 'im," but it was better than nothing. The early Elm Street films, conversely, have ambiguous endings that leave you wondering exactly what happened, which were then followed up with Freddy bein' back on his feet sans explanation. All the same, Craven builds on his mythology by establishing that Freddy has simply become too strong for one person to beat, and wisely conjures a little deus ex machina to help even the odds in a way that feels necessary given how overpowered his villain is, and honestly, always has been. The conclusion feels a bit rushed, but for the most part, the old axiom about how if you start strong and finish strong nobody'll care about the middle largely holds, even if the concept of "dream powers" turns out to be generally impotent. To summarize, as slasher flicks go, it genuinely stands out simply for moving the plot forward rather than making the same movie over and over with new characters and more elaborate kills.
The acting varies considerably and is, on the whole, below the standard of Freddy's Revenge. If I'm bein' completely honest, I think Heather Langenkamp comes across a bit weak here and sometimes fails to demonstrate the kind of emotion being called for, but generally speaking her presence alone more than makes up for a middling performance. Craig Wasson is solid if borderline gratuitous as the psychologist tryna get the Elm Street kids to straighten up and fly right; Brooke Bundy is phenomenal as the self-absorbed mega-bitch mama; Priscilla Pointer does a nice job as the skeptical, by-the-book Dr. Simms; John Saxon is great, if criminally underutilized; and Laurence Fishburne shines as the fed-up but well-intentioned orderly.
As with the adults, the kids are a mixed bag, with Patricia Arquette in particular coming off a bit subdued at times but proving herself an excellent screamer/weeper when the need arises. The kids should probably be given a little slack given that the cast as a whole is a bit bloated, but among the supporting cast Ken Sagoes and Jennifer Ruben stand out as the most relatable and likable, though I would argue that Bradley Gregg could have done just as well had he not been wiped out right outta the chute. Regardless of who I think may or may not have lived up to their potential there are no poor performances, and perhaps most importantly - this's the flick where Robert Englund came into his own and showed everyone that *he* was the face of the Elm Street franchise. Not Heather, not Wes. Robert. End of discussion.
Here's who matters and why (less Robert Englund, Patricia Arquette, Laurence Fishburne, John Saxon, Dick Cavett, and Zsa Zsa Gabor): Heather Langenkamp (Little Bites, Cottonmouth, Portal, Hellraiser: Judgment, Truth or Dare 2017, Home, Star Trek Into Darkness, The Butterfly Room, The Demolitionist, A Nightmare on Elm Street, Wes Craven's New Nightmare, Shocker), Craig Wasson (Sasquatch Mountain, Boa, The Tomorrow Man, Trapped in Space, Ghost Story, Schizoid), Ken Sagoes (A Nightmare on Elm Street 4, It Wants Blood 2, Gorenos, No Solicitors, The Backlot Murders, Death by Dialogue), Rodney Eastman (A Nightmare on Elm Street 4, I Spit on Your Grave 2010, Chopping Mall), Jennifer Rubin (Screamers, Twists of Terror, Little Witches, The Wasp Woman 1995, Full Eclipse, Bad Dreams), Bradley Gregg (Fire in the Sky, Class of 1999, Explorers), Ira Heiden (Elvira: Mistress of the Dark, Ghostbusters: Afterlife, Timelock), Penelope Sudrow (Dead Man Walking 1988, After Midnight), Priscilla Pointer (Carrie, Twilight Zone: Rod Serling's Lost Classics, Disturbed, C.H.U.D. II, Rumpelstiltskin, Twilight Zone: The Movie), Clayton Landley (The Blob 1988, Bingo Hell, Nocturna, Zombie Strippers, War of the Worlds 2, Tank Girl, Ghost in the Machine, The First Power), Brooke Bundy (A Nightmare on Elm Street 4, Night Visitors, Twice Dead, Explorers), Rozlyn Sorrell (Eyeborgs), Nan Martin (Child of Rage), Stacey Alden (Grotesque), Michael Rougas (Star Trek: The Motion Picture, I Was a Teeange Werewolf), Jack Shea (A Nightmare on Elm Street), Paul Kent (Star Trek II, Helter Skelter 1976 & 2004, Ruby, Seconds).
And the folks who scored a few solid paydays: Heather Langenkamp (Marie Lubbock on Just the Ten of Us), Brooke Bundy (Diana Taylor on General Hospital, Rebecca North on Days of Our Lives), Nan Martin (Mrs. Louder on The Drew Carey Show).
The special effects are elaborate, disgusting, and rate very highly in an era that many would consider to be the high water mark of practical effects. When asked to name the great special effects creators of the '80s most people will rattle off the names of the usual (and admittedly, great) suspects such as Tom Savini, Rick Baker, Greg Nicotero, Stan Winston, and possibly Rob Bottin, but Mark Shostrom is one of the unsung heroes of a decade full of them, and his work on Dream Warriors is among his best. I don't have time to go into everything the man's ever done because I've got work tomorrow, but just to hit a few of the high points you've got The Slumber Party Massacre, Forbidden World, Videodrome, From Beyond, Evil Dead II, Prince of Darkness, Poltergeist III, DeepStar Six, and Phantasm II & III, and with a resume like that we're talkin' Top 10 all-time status. The man's a legend, and from now on I expect to see his name come up more often anytime there's a discussion about the craft, alright? Good.
As for the specifics of Dream Warriors (which, to be clear, were not done by one man acting alone, and also include the works of an all-star team including the great Kevin Yagher, Greg Cannom, and the immortal Screaming Mad George), we've got an excellent slashed wrist (with gush), a very cool claymation Freddy puppet, fantastic, comically exagerated limb tendons, a creative (if somewhat inarticulate) death-by-television sequence, decent rotoscoping, a well-crafted challenge carved into a prosthetic chest, gnarly demon tongues, acceptable rear projection and compositing, cheesy (but charming) green lightning blasts, a conceptually awesome (though stiff) chest of souls, the magic mirrors from which numerous Freddys emerge, and the always popular gooey, phallic Freddy Snake. An absolute extravaganza of practical special effects, and a top-tier example to be cited if there's ever a question about the superiority of '80s artistry.
The shooting locations are top-notch and feature a section of UCLA standing in (with surprising effectiveness) for the psychiatric hospital - though in truth it is the sets (and the production design of Gerald Olson) that bring the film's nightmare sequences to life. The rotting exteriors of the Elm Street house perfectly set the tone for the hellish interiors that follow, and though it is often overlooked, the importance of the lighting in these scenes cannot be overstated. Additionally, you've got the auto wrecking yard (which has a great aesthetic but in practicality wouldn't have a large open space in the center), and the alley sequence in which Jennifer Rubin battles Freddy with her dual-wielded switchblades and punk rock mohawk (which looks great despite a zero percent chance of ever being confused with a real-life location), and the boiler room located directly above Hell (fine, but unable to create the same visceral reaction as the previous films that featured actual boilers) but ultimately it's the Elm Street house that, in conjunction with the soundtrack, generates the bulk of the atmosphere and does so with great effectiveness.
The soundtrack, or rather, the *instrumental* soundtrack, is the film's weak point. It certainly has its moments, specifically, the opening Dream House, the Puppet Walk, and Freddy Snake sequences which all play well in addition to the latest iteration of Charles Bernstein's iconic theme, but much of the time the score is shored up by the excellent use of sound effects. In truth, the scoring is perhaps the one area where the Elm Street series lags behind its fellow slashers, despite compensating with a spectacular array of Rock songs. The musical offerings are fewer than in later sequels, but the flick still boasts two essential staples of Hair Metal, namely, Dokken's "Into the Fire," and the incomparable "Dream Warriors," which I have ranked at #7 on my playlist of the Top 100 Greatest Horror Movie Rock Songs of the '80s. I still marvel at the audacity of the editor's decision to make the audience wait until the end credits to hear that banger and it grinds my gears to this day, but there's no disputing its place in the upper echelons of '80s Rock, and if nothing else, it helps the flick go out on a high note.
Overall, Dream Warriors is the best of the Elm Street saga and provides excellent fan service by reuniting Wes Craven, Robert Englund, and the survivors of the flick that set the franchise in motion. Going forward we would see a much more comedic version of Freddy emerge, and although Robert Englund's antics would ensure consistent entertainment value for years to come, Dream Warriors is the bittersweet end of an era. I can't imagine many folks readin' this aren't already intimately acquainted with the series, but if you haven't gotten around to it yet be certain to correct that immediately startin' from the beginning, because despite the occasional stumbling block (Freddy's Dead), A Nightmare on Elm Street is the only long-running horror franchise to avoid dropping any unmitigated bombs. The remake doesn't count, 'cause I said so.
Rating: 91%