Movie review: The Strangers

by John P. Meyer

The idiot face of faceless menace.

The Strangers, by first-time writer/director Bryan Bertino, plays an awful lot like a European film I reviewed earlier this year at the time of its DVD release: Them. (The operative word in this comparison is "awful.")

Like Them (aka Ils), the promos make much of the fact that the home invasion story upon which the film is based refers to true events. As if letting us know this up front will make us gasp with astonishment when we consider that people actually break into other people's homes and attempt to do them harm. (Oh, REALLY?)

Unlike Them, this film fails to work that special creepshow mojo which allows us to feel apprehensive about the safety of the film's leads (Scott Speedman as James; Liv Tyler as Kristen). I'm not exactly certain why this is, but perhaps it has something to do with the fact that these two are so conflicted about each other. And that we really don't know all that much about them. They're just two random people (and bitchy ones, at that) about to be terrorized by mostly faceless antagonists. Oh, and it's based on "real events." Lest we forget.

James and Kristen arrive to spend the night in James' dad's lonely house in the woods (where else?) after attending a friend's wedding. Following that ceremony, Scott has proposed to Kristen - who has not leapt at the lifelong partnership offer, as he apparently expected she would. (I say "apparently," because he's decked out the vacation house with rose petals - on the bed, in the tub, all over the bearskin rug - O.K., I'm making that last part up, but it would have been a nice touch.)

Instead of spending a blissful romantic night at 1313 Dead End Lane, James and Kristen find themselves acting self-consciously tense for the cameras, with Kristen taking a solitary bath amongst the rose petals while James swigs champagne in the kitchen, straight from the bottle he'd prepared for what he thought would be their lovey-dovey celebratory evening.

But the unhappy couple are demonstrably (and annoyingly) conflicted about their feelings for each other; reference the fact that they are suddenly overcome with mutual attraction, to the point that they decide to screw on the entryway sideboard. (This uncontrollable urge couldn't have possessed them while seated comfortably on the sofa? Or at least at the kitchen table, where they'd have a larger flat surface to work with?) Sadly, their lubricious activities are stymied before they have a chance to get interesting by a knock at the door.

(NOTE to couples trysting in lonely vacation homes on dead-end lanes: never interrupt an incipient bout of coitus to answer the door.)

It's a spaced-out adolescent girl asking for directions. At 3 a.m. On Dead End Lane. With no vehicle in sight or other explanation as to how she might have gotten there. Naturally, they send her packing, and - instead of returning to the business of pleasure - James exhibits a totally inappropriate inclination to go on a drive, leaving Kristen in her slightly-rumpled nightie alone in the house, about to be menaced by bagheads. (Which, of course, James knows nothing about, but still...)

It's at this point that the faceless menacers come out of the woodwork (or - in this case - the woods), making all sorts of obviously non-wildlife-related noises while boldly (if foolishly) appearing just beyond the window curtains as Kristen occasionally pulls them aside in order that she might appear sufficiently menaced. Apparently they (the menacers) are not concerned that Kristen might a) have a firearm in the house and b) come to the seemingly reasonable conclusion that her terrorizers might benefit from a good dose of buckshot applied with prejudice directly to their menacing masks. Turns out they're right in this case, but wait'll they roll out this tiresome routine in - say - Garland or Mesquite. KABLAAM! End of story.

Naturellement, the phones don't work (both land lines and - thanks to direct intervention by the baghead crew - cells), so there'll be no calling of police.

When James returns from his melancholy, self-serving drive in the countryside (was he supposed to get cigs or tampons or something? Whatever...), he refuses to believe Kristen's story about masked menacers sneaking into the house and disabling cell phones, even though there's one burning unnoticed in the fireplace as they argue. (Wouldn't all that melting plastic and nickel-cadmium stink up the joint?)

We can begin to see why Kristen would never in a million years marry this chump, who's only convinced there's something malevolent afoot after his Volvo receives a jolly good bash-and-burn treatment. (Menace my girlfriend? No problem! Fuck with my Swedish wheels? YOU ROTTEN BASTARDS!)

The highlight (from the standpoint of anything significant happening) of the next half-hour occurs after James and Kristen work by committee to first find the shotgun that James' dad has secreted about the house and then figure out how to actually load and shoot it. The fact that this potentially life-saving tool is used only once (to bad effect) and then foolishly discarded is enough to send one over the edge of patiently abiding this silliness and into the stinking pit of wishing it would end as quickly as possible. (PSST, Baghead! - let ME shove the knife in!)

When James leaves Kristen alone in the house ('cause it's proven to be so secure and all) to attempt a reconnoiter of the tool shed, all is lost - both from the standpoint of lingering interest in the disposition of these hapless characters, and in regard to their onscreen fate.

Stylistically, director Bertino has gone with the shaky-cam approach, presumably to add to the sense of disorientation and unease experienced by the viewer. That much works. And there's a well-executed use of noise (and music) as terror inducers. But when the masked menacers stand around looking cocked-head curious behind the backs of our protagonists and then disappear, it does more to reinforce our speculation that they're drooling idiots without a purpose than it does to creep us out.

Totally unsurprisingly, the primary action ends with the camera's unflinching documentation of gruesome and remorseless murder, lending it a soupçon of violence-porn. Considering who gets slaughtered, we can't protest overly much.

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