The Prey (1983)
It's not human, and it's got an axe!
Year of Release: 1983
Genre: Horror
Rated: R
Running Time: 80 minutes (1:20)
Director: Edwin Brown
Cast:
Debbie Thureson ... Nancy
Steve Bond ... Joel
Lori Lethin ... Bobbie
Robert Wald ... Skip
Gayle Gannes ... Gail
Philip Wenckus ... Greg
Jackson Bostwick ... Mark O'Brien
Jackie Coogan ... Lester Tile
Carel Struycken ... The Monster
Summary:
It is the summer. Six students have hiked into a remote forest, high in the Colorado Rockies - the boys to climb the infamous Suicide Peak; the girls to be with their boyfriends and enjoy the sun and camping.
One by one, the campers are hunted and killed by something that lives in the forest. Only when the beauty, Nancy, is left alive does the beast then reveal himself and the purpose of his killing. The climax develops with a spectacular final chase. The ending will shock you and haunt you.
Review:
The Prey, remindin' us that wilderness retreats never work when the thing you're fleeing stands 7' tall and carries an axe.
And speakin' of things ya just can't take in stride, it's gettin' to be that time of year when the crappie in Lake Gunkamucka're durn near defrosted enough to chase a hook, and like clockwork, that means it's also time for Wade Sawyer shell out $8 for fliers to announce his "sponsorship" of the annual crappie tournament so he can sell $300 wortha worms and act like he's a pillar of the community for doin' it.
I never have gave a diddly about the crappie tournament or the media circus that goes along with it, and the way things were shapin' up, this year was primed to be one of the most pitiful on record given that Wade'd somehow conned Chastity Dollarhide into goin' on a date with the winner as part of his grand prize package. I tried to tell him how between the volunteer work Chastity does at the VFW and takin' 'er clothes off for guys who couldn't get their hands on a breast if they sent out for Chester's Fried Chicken that she's liable to get charity burnout if he don't watch it, but Wade hasn't listened to a word I've said since 1997, and that was only 'cause I was providin' a description of the half-nekkid dancer who'd unbolted the stripper pole and beat the hell out of his Z28 Camaro.
Like I was sayin' though, I'da been perfectly happy to stay home and play Black Bass on the Nintendo, but Billy Hilliard's been nervous as an incontinent chihuahua ever since Newt Snoozy was found deceased inside his fishin' shack this past winter and decided to make things about a thousand times worse by lettin' it slip about the severed catfish whisker we found at the crime scene to Duke Tankersley, who's the only guy I know who has an ongoing blood feud with members of the animal kingdom.
Or, as he put it:
"That's how it happens - you end one menace and BANG! Here comes the next generation to avenge their kin. Don't you ever watch kung fu movies?" Duke rambled, referring to his showdown with Crudfin and the potential descendants who could be plotting to claim his cryptozoological throne.
"Yeah, I follow all that, but Duke... DUKE! Why the AR-15?" I shouted as he and Billy loaded up The Largemouth Basstard (Duke's '95 Skeeter 200ZX) with Powerbait and concussion grenades.
"Beh'ow fafe van fowwy," Billy shrugged, buryin' a half rack of Pole Cat cans beneath an avalanche of ice before climbin' into the Sno Chaser's passenger seat.
"You comin' or what?" Duke yelled, firin' off a few blasts of the horn and twistin' the tape deck dial up to the Deaf Leppard setting.
"Yeah, I'm comin'. But I'll tell ya somethin' - when I become the voice of reason you've gone so far off the deep end that you're gonna get the Bends comin' back to reality!" I yelled, climbin' into the center of the bench seat.
'Course the two of 'em tried to play up the increased police presence (both Dahl and Duggen were on site) at Lake Gunkamucka as proof that danger was lurking beneath the surface (whereas anybody with a 6th Grade education would recognize it as an obvious precaution given that there was a date with Chastity on the line), but I didn't bother arguin' with 'em since it was clear that reason was outta season.
Unfortunately, that same thought process prevailed throughout much of the morning, and, funny thing about fishin' - you don't make a lotta friends whippin' your tail around drenchin' folks in bullfrog eggs 'cause you're too busy scannin' the fish finder for anything that looks like it might be guilty of anglercide to keep an eye on the road, and after about half an hour of this we were facin' down a potential no-lures-barred pole jousting duel with an irate Butch Hogan when a commotion erupted from the Northern shoreline.
"Dylan! Something's got him! Help!" Tawny Sissel shrieked, looking up from her phone to find her youngest being towed toward the center of the lake.
"It's Crudfin, back from the grave!" Cliff Kraid declared, scrambling to get the event on video while keeping a big enough distance to avoid any opportunities for heroics.
"'ey... yer gettin' a bite," Arvin Spickle slurred at Buzz McCulloch as he gestured toward the kid's visibly bobbing life jacket.
"Harpoon!" Duke called, shielding his eyes from the sun and following the child's course.
"You brought a harp-- of course you did. Why wouldn't you?" I mumbled to myself, somehow momentarily surprised, as Billy pitched the weapon up to Duke.
"Hard to port, Mr. Hilliard!" Duke barked, leaping onto the stem and positioning the spear for the proper moment in which to stab from Hell's heart as Billy spun the wheel and headed for the now squealing boy.
"Duke, I realize he's got roughly the same skin tone, but he's no marshmallow, and if you impale the little booger its you they're gonna roast!" I yelled over the roar of The Largemouth Basstard's motor.
"Cut the engine! Steady!" Duke instructed, rearing back as Dylan's underwater Uber brought 'im steadily closer to the boat.
By that point Lieutenant Duggen and Deputy Dahl had the throttle on their rig wide open and were speeding toward our location, but before they could get there Billy, Duke, and I made an important discovery that hadn't been possible until the motor cut off - the runt wasn't screamin' in terror at all, but in that irritating, delighted way the little monsters do when you steal their nose. It would seem that a big ole mud cat'd come up under 'im and, usin' its dorsal fin as a backrest, had been drivin' 'im around like a picean pony, much to his amusement.
"Well I'll be dipped in shit," Duke chuckled as Billy lifted Dylan outta the water - thoroughly pissin' 'im off in the process.
The bottom-feeding muck muncher (the fish, I mean) immediately rolled over at the loss of its passenger and looked up at us expectantly.
"One whifker," Billy gasped, pointin' towards its misshapen mustache, just as Dahl and Duggen motored up.
"The hell's goin'..." Diedra started to ask as Billy passed 'er the kid.
"You dildos! That fish didn't kill Newt - the food at Walleye's did the heavy liftin' on that job. It probably just poked its head up through his fishin' hole and made his heart do the Boogaloo till it plum gave out, and no jury in the world's gonna convict 'im on that pitiful evidence," I surmised, reachin' down to rub the little freak's forehead.
Diedra tried to say somethin' but we couldn't make it out over the sounds of Dylan's screaming tantrum.
"Oh hell, just put 'im back," Duke said, gesturing to where the fish was milling about.
"What?! No!" Diedra objected, pulling the kid closer to her and gettin' a tiny handfulla hair jerked out for her trouble.
"He's got a vest and we're right here," Dahl shrugged, taking the kid and settin' 'im back down in the water where the fish again swam under 'im and headed for the shore.
"Now about this 'one whisker' business - that detail was never reported in the paper," Dahl squinted.
"Fo?" Billy shrugged.
"So, there were footprints leadin' away from the crime scene..." Dahl began litigating.
"Talk to our lawyer," I said.
"I intend to. Hey! Rubenstein! Getcher butt over here!" Dahl called to Cletus, who was workin' a jig about 100 feet away.
"Forget it, Deputy. It's a small town; there must be 300 men with that same style boot, you've got no witnesses, and you haven't read them their rights so nothing they've said is admissible. Now if you don't mind, I'm getting a bite," Cletus concluded, hooking what turned out to be a pretty respectable fish.
Our one-whiskered cat burglar was released on his own recognizance and spent the rest of the afternoon luggin' a dozen or so kids around without ever seeming to tire of it. Cletus' catch was impressive but only earned him third place in the tournament behind Asa Morton and Willie Forsythe, the latter of which reeled in a 3.2lber and earned dining reservations at the colorful Mack's Stacks of Manly Snacks with the lovely Ms. Dollarhide, whose devotion to the man upstairs seems to go completely unappreciated from what I've seen.
All-in-all, it was a stupid day, and one I'll be pleased to see grow progressively smaller in the rear-view mirror of life. Although to put it more accurately, it was really just a stupid *morning*, and the derp wasn't nearly done with me.
'Course most of us can't just call in sick to go drown worms all day because the fabric of society might unravel if we're not at our posts, and so Duke after drove us back to town I gassed it on over to the Videodome to perform my patriotic duty and open 'er up to make sure Jason wouldn't come plowin' through the front door and turn me into critic casserole.
Unfortunately, I've already covered Jason's hijinks from start to finish and'm kinda stuck scroungin' up pretenders at this stage of the game, but I guess we oughta be thankful that there're still a few '80s forest slashers left to nourish our weary souls as we barrel inexorably away from those halcyon days of gore towards... I dunno, ChatGPT-authored Amityville Horror sequels, probably.
It's really best not to think about it. One thing I'll say for The Prey though - there's absolutely no plot to get in the way of the story, and it's one of those flicks that you can put on while you're combin' the cockle burrs outta your possum without havin' to worry about missin' any exposition, developments, or pertinent dialogue, because they forgot to put that stuff in the movie.
Yeah, got your ears pricked up now, don't I? I'm gonna try not to oversell this baby, but if you're the kinda guy who finds Don't Go in the Woods just a tad pretentious, have a look-see at these outhouse humorous observations and see if they don't promise an intellectually stimulating experience you'll be able to share with your six-fingered grandchildren.
First, not knowing whether you're coming or going is unavoidable when you've got your head screwed on backward. Second, if your significant other's mountain climbing rig fails, expect your relationship to wind up on the rocks. And third, a cucumber/cream cheese sandwich belongs on Pornhub, not in a lunch box.
The movie begins 32 years after a forest raker strike led to the woods gettin' baked worse than the V.I.P. lounge at a Cypress Hill concert where a middle-aged couple who haven't had anything to say to each other for the last 15 years're out campin', only while the gal's headed down to the lake to peel the fish scales off the skillet, somethin' comes along with an axe and initiates a trial separation startin' with everyone's extremities. A few weeks later, three more couples (Nancy & Joel, Bobbie & Skip, and Gail & Greg) head out to swap Charmin for skunk cabbage in the same area and trudge along for hours buildin' up a powerful junk funk in their shorts thinkin' about how hot it's gonna be makin' the sign of the bombastic log mongrel with a slab of granite diggin' into their backs. Unbeknownst to them, they end up makin' camp at the same site where last week's contestants were split into kindred kindling and proceed to smoke a bowl outta the dead man's pipe while Joel butchers the story of the Monkey's Paw until its time to pair off and partake of a little Deep Woods Boff so everyone can play connect-the-dots with the mosquito bites on their rear ends in the mornin'. Unfortunately, somethin' starts raisin' a ruckus out in the timber while Greg's tryna rustle Gail's bushes, and when he goes to investigate whatever-it-is sneaks into camp and smothers 'er with its sack and then opens Greg's throat up to help 'im better appreciate the country air.
The next mornin', the remaining couples find Greg and Gail missin' and just assume their pampered city companions musta broke camp and gone home before first light without makin' so much as a whimper about the states of their skeletal alignment. By this point, though, concerned calls from United Tupperware and The Tassel Castle have started comin' in about the missin' couple, and so Forest Master General Uncle Fester hasta tell his ruggedly handsome dreamboat ranger (Mark) about how 30 years ago a wildfire swept through the area where a band of Gypsies happened to be trampin' and thievin' and that... well, without gettin' too grim - basically the local Tarot-readin' industry never has recovered. So Mark volunteers to go out and make sure the missin' campers aren't havin' an unauthorized menage-a-squatch or anything and he ends up findin' what's left of Gail and observing that she's gone from a 10 to an ate on account of all the vultures parked on 'er carcass.
Meanwhile, Joel and Skip've climbed to the top of a nearby peak so they can strap on leather diapers and run a rope between their gondolas without fear of judgment as they rappel their way down the mountain, only while Joel's descending the cliff face, ole Tamarack Jack grabs Skip from behind and squeezes his head until it pops like a bloated tick before cuttin' Joel's rope and watchin' 'im rock and roll his way to the bottom of the ravine. Joel never did have his head screwed on straight, but Nancy and Bobbie're pretty sure it was at least facin' forward the last time they saw 'im, and so when they find 'im lyin' face and butt up on a slab of limestone they start gettin' a little concerned until Maul Bunyan shows up with a face like the inside of a pizza box after the delivery guy carries it up to your door under one arm, and right around that time the gals begin to pine for the comforts of civilization and take off in its general direction. Gonna quit here since there's only about five minutes of movie left, but without givin' away the direction the flick's headin', I will say that the decision to bring Don Peake on as its composer won't seem like a coincidence when it's over.
Alrighty, well, if you've ever wanted to see a flick with too many chiefs and not enough Indians handling the production, have I got a treat for you. Filming initially began in October of 1979 (which I mention both for posterity and to illustrate the lengths folks calling it a Friday the 13th clone have gone to to broadcast their ignorance) with a two-week shooting schedule, resulting in a film that was eventually edited down to 80 minutes by an editor who either had an intense fear of scissors, or more likely, had a runtime quota to meet. You know you're in trouble when the flick runs a buck twenty and contains enough wildlife photography that the production feels compelled to credit said photographer third behind only the cast and the effects designer, but that's only the beginning. From there, Essex, a production company that brought us such other films as... absolutely nothing, decides the movie is too short on runtime and hooters, and unilaterally contracts a stable of porno actors to film a 17-minute series of softcore sequences masquerading as an origin story for the killer and pastes it into the flick in place of the (admittedly pitiful) Monkey's Paw story told during the campfire scene.
Now, you might be thinking to yourself, "Okay, but you didn't mention any boob-laden flashback sequence anywhere in there, what gives?" Well, that crapola only made it to the international market because when it was picked up for distribution in the U.S., the post-Roger Corman New World Pictures removed that sequence and distributed it more or less as it had been originally filmed by writer/director Edwin Brown (who had also primarily worked in porn up to this point), and lemme tell ya - as bad as Brown's cut drags, it's a breeze compared to the International Cut. The softcore sequences go on for an eternity, don't come within a parsec of sexy, and are filmed in such a different style that it could not be more clear that these things are not like the other things. Brown's version wasn't great or even good, but I've gotta believe the guy was well and truly pissed if he was ever shown the changes Essex made to his film, and it's no wonder that these supposed improvements resulted in the flick being shelved for three years until a time when the slasher subgenre had become so successful that even a mediocre entry was likely to turn a profit.
I really don't know what else to say to punctuate the absurdity behind the production, but in an attempt to put a bow on it and try to summarize the situation before we move on - the theatrical cut included gratuitous banjo solos, debate over the validity of cucumbers and cream cheese as viable sandwich materials, and a park ranger relaying fables to a fawn, and the result was *still* better than the alternative cut that included 10 - 12 minutes of softcore sex scenes. It truly is an incredible feat of buffoonery.
This officially marks the end of my civil discourse, so let's cut to what passes for the chase and try to pinpoint exactly where this thing fits in a Friday the 13th rotation and whether it's medically responsible to stay awake through that many movies in order to reach that point.
The plot, for want of a better term, ranks among the lowest echelons of a subgenre that's already notorious for threadbare storylines, rivaling such heavyweight contenders as Don't Go in the Woods and Home Sweet Home, while also coming up short in the charm department. Theoretical estimates in the area of padding suggest this script could potentially yield a supply large enough to meet the demands of insecure high school students the world over, as the flick frequently relies on insert shots of wildlife footage, scenic vistas, and gratuitous (if superb) banjo solos to fill that elusive fourth film canister. All told, its premise is no more threadbare than the average slasher in the woods film, but the opening scare is drawn out to approximately seven minutes (where most horror flicks rarely exceed two), and the lengthy stretches of inaction, coupled with a short supply of potential victims, make for an excruciating pace for a flick that could easily be compressed down to 55 minutes without sacrificing a single second of plot advancement.
There's not much to delve into given how short on details the picture is, and while I'm inclined to write off the more bizarre bits (such as the merits of cucumber and cream cheese as plausible sandwich ingredients) as amusing eccentricities, I am gonna draw attention to the sunbathing scene where Debbie Thureson removes her bikini top to sun her back, but then puts it back on when she flips over. What was that? I mean, I know what that was - that was a woman who was obviously uncomfortable doing nudity doing the bare minimum because she felt obligated to do so, but if she's not comfortable doing it either don't ask her to, or, if it's that critical to the integrity of the film, hire someone who has no compunction about springin' 'em outta the chute. I fully acknowledge that even Candy Samples' jugs weren't gonna fix the problems this flick has, and while the camel's back was broken long before this particular straw hit it, it's such an unnatural bit of behavior that it sticks in your brain and kinda makes ya feel ashamed for watchin' it.
The acting is amateurish but passable, with the couples seemingly having been paired up and given varying leases on life in accordance with their respective acting talents. In truth, there is no standout performance (though Thureson does a nice job with her blubbering shock during the climax), and comparing the cast members to one another is an exercise in splitting hairs as there is no cream (or cream cheese) rising to the top. That said, it's important to remember that the script was written by a guy whose credits consisted entirely of films with titles containing at least one of George Carlin's words you can't say on TV, so not only is the dialogue not especially riveting, but also unusually sparse, as the close-ups of centipedes, point-of-view killer cam, and numerous hiking sequences appear to have been deemed higher priorities. There's very little to say or even to critique in this respect because although there are no abysmally bad performances, there are also none that suggest anyone had even medium things on the horizon (besides the porno actors in the International cut. Whole lotta big things in store for those folks, if you know what I mean and I think you do). Shout-out to Jackie Coogan for scorin' a couple G's for what was likely an afternoon's work, though.
Here's who matters and why: Steve Bond (Massacre at Central High, To Die For 1 & 2, Star Trek II, Witches' Brew), Lori Lethin (Return to Horror High, Bloody Birthday, The Day After), Gayle Gannes (Human Experiments), Jackson Bostwick (Horror Grindshow Double Feature, Mutant Species, Future Zone, The Outing, What Waits Below, Tron, Escape from DS-3, The Killings at Outpost Zeta), Jackie Coogan (Uncle Fester on The Addams Family, Dr. Heckyl and Mr. Hype, Human Experiments, The Space Children, Mesa of Lost Women), Connie Hunter (Something Evil), Garry Goodrow (Circuitry Man, Once Bitten, The Lost Empire, Invasion of the Body Snatchers 1978, Eating Raoul, Glen and Randa), Carel Struycken (The Addams Family 1 & 2, Men in Black, Doctor Sleep, The Eden Theory, Trophy Heads, Revamped, Fatal Kiss, Oblivion 1 & 2, Out There, Journey to the Center of the Earth 1993, The Witches of Eastwick, Ewoks: The Battle for Endor).
Special effects credit goes to the late, great John Buechler (earning a solo credit on what was only his fourth film), who, by the looks of things, had become spoiled by the extravagance of workin' for Roger Corman and seemed to be struggling to make do with "whatever's left in the cooler after lunch" as an effects budget. Unsurprisingly, the best way to summarize the effects is to say that the less complexity was involved, the better the result, as simpler jobs like the hammock-dragged face of Gail come across pretty well, while the slashed throat of Greg bears a strong resemblance to cherry pie filling. Because of the budgetary restrictions, half of the murders are either not shown at all or not shown in close-up, and as such, the only other point of interest is Beuchler's makeup job on Carel Struycken, and although the results are mixed (the hands are oddly discolored, ill-fitting gloves where they should just be scar tissue, while the facial mask is decent), it looks to me as though the guy did the best he could with what he had as part of an unprofitable business venture, but valuable learning experience.
The shooting locations are the film's high point despite the uninspired photography of a cinematographer unaccustomed to filming without the scent of ass sweat hanging heavy in the room. The film was shot in the unincorporated town of Idyllwild, California (about 50 miles west of Palm Springs) which boasts a population south of 4000 and looks to be the kinda place a person could elude detection from the feds if the need should ever arise. Despite the poor cinematography, the areas selected for filming strike a perfect balance between authenticity and practicality by featuring landscapes with vegetation thick enough to appear off the beaten track without being so thick that shooting becomes problematic, and because it's Southern California, it was still warm enough in October to pass for summer. I will grant that the sunny, cheerful weather isn't ideal when trying to produce a fright flick, but the night sequences are effective at creating the feeling of isolation essential for building an atmosphere of dread, even if the producers never really make the most of it. Regardless, the streams, meadows, and pine forests are lovely sights to behold for those with an appreciation for such places, and they give the viewer something to enjoy while the flick's cardboard characters trudge from one location to the next in search of plot developments.
The synthesizer soundtrack doesn't jibe with the movie's tone and setting, and I say that as someone who would ordinarily tell you that no '80s horror score is complete without one. That said, the unnatural sounds produced by the machine clash terribly with the natural world in which the movie is set, and the finished result actively works against any chance the flick might have to create a chilling atmosphere. It has been my experience that, while the levels of damage vary in terms of severity, the killer-in-the-woods subgenre is one where the synthesizer simply should not be utilized even when the score itself is really catchy, such as in the case of Rick Wakeman's composition from The Burning. It just does not fit with the setting, and the same can be said of Don't Go in the Woods, The Forest, and even the cheesily beloved Ballad of Madman Marz - each of which, to their credit, at least has an endearing charm despite adding nothing. I like Don Peake's scores for The Hills Have Eyes and The People Under the Stairs, but what he's done here is downright irritating at times, with one note I made ("sounds like somebody set off the alarm tryna steal K.I.T.T. from Knight Rider") proving particularly amusing after discovering that Peake composed that show's iconic score. There are some pieces comprised of strings, piano, and the occasional xylophone that are synth-free and solid enough, but even so, the title track that plays during the opening credits consisting of strings and a timpani drum is goofy as all get out and bears a strong resemblance to the animated dinosaur battle-to-the-death sequence from Fantasia, and if you're unfortunate enough to make that connection, it's all over.
Overall, The Prey fails on a technical and entertainment level and is a leading candidate for the worst slasher in the woods title of the 1980s. The pacing is unbearably slow, the cinematography resembles vacation footage at times, and it just feels soulless. You've got a group of inexperienced porno producers trying to break into legitimate film, working from the (admittedly accurate) presumption that a horror flick will be the easiest to make and yield the highest box office with the least investment, and while that in itself is not necessarily a problem (Herschell Gordon Lewis once said "I see filmmaking as a business, and pity anyone who sees it as an art form"), their philosophy can be seen and felt in every frame of the picture. Not viewing cinema as an art form is one thing, but failing to adequately conceal the fact is unacceptable. Recommended for slasher completists only, and if there's ever a time to heed my advice let it be now when I say - avoid the International cut at all costs. I would also suggest, if you choose to partake of either cut, that you be prepared with a suitable chaser to wash the taste out of your mouth.
Rating: 42%