When the phrase 'video nasty' hits your ears, it conjures a whirlwind of unsettling imagery: grisly deaths, cannibalistic horrors, slashers, the dark underbelly of exploitation flicks, their provocative marketing strategies, societal uproar, and a whirlwind of moral complexities. I recall names that trigger this macabre reel: "Driller Killer", "Faces of Death", and "I Spit on Your Grave". These were the whispered titles in school corridors, the gateway to my fascination with spine-chilling dread during my horror-enthralled early teens.
"The Evil Dead" achieved a distinct malevolence that eluded most 'video nasties' and even horror movies in general. Credit largely goes to its fledgling director, Sam Raimi, who left most low-budget filmmakers floundering in the dust with a relentless barrage of high-octane terror, catching audiences off-guard. Raimi's brilliance was evident from the start—he wasn't just another opportunist eyeing the burgeoning home video market. Instead, he was a visionary who refused to bow to financial constraints, birthing something undeniably formidable.
In the 1980s, Stephen King, hailed as the unrivaled master of horror, witnessed "The Evil Dead" at Cannes and hailed it 'the most ferociously original horror film of the year.' Despite King's praise, respected critics Siskel and Ebert, who generally distanced themselves from graphic horror, admitted their disdain for the movie. Ebert, more open-minded, acknowledged, “I didn’t enjoy it, either, but I think I would have to give credit to the craftsmanship of the film. It was obviously inspired by "Night of the Living Dead" and it’s a very pure film, and apart from all these other dead teenager knifing, slashing movies we’ve had over the past several years, this one distills everything right down to the very basic things.”
What sets Raimi's small-scale masterpiece apart is its refusal to meander through character development or dialogue. It's 85 minutes of relentless horror that never pauses, hammering you with grotesque visuals and nerve-rattling sound design that teeters on the edge of insanity. The creaks of a decrepit cabin, the oppressive hum of an unseen malevolence, the twisted groans of a forest brimming with evil—before anything unfolds on screen. Later, it's the visceral splatter of gore, the unhinged laughter of the reawakened dead, those unsettling moments etching themselves into your skin like rigor mortis, culminating in sheer pandemonium. The film pushes both its characters and its audience to the precipice and then some, leaving you feeling like you’ve been pulled backward through hell.
King's endorsement catapulted "The Evil Dead" into the public eye. However, it faced a less welcoming reception elsewhere, particularly from those in positions to banish it to commercial oblivion. In 1984, the British government, under Margaret Thatcher's leadership, reacted to a tabloid smear campaign and activist Mary Whitehouse's efforts to condemn filmmakers tied to the then-unregulated VHS market. Whitehouse, an ardent opponent of social liberalism and individual autonomy, embarked on a personal crusade that conveniently aligned with Conservative politics. The closure of coal mines led to widespread unemployment, poverty, and a generation on the brink of relying on welfare.
This tumult sparked widespread protests, notably the 1984 Battle of Orgreave, where miners clashed with the authorities in a violent confrontation, a moment described by BBC journalist Alastair Stewart as "a defining and ghastly moment" that transformed industrial relations and the country's economic and democratic functions. Thatcher and Reagan embraced neoliberal policies, reshaping society amid the casualties of vanishing jobs. Video nasties became the scapegoat for a "return to Victorian values," instilling fear in the public and diverting their votes against their best interests. It's often hard to pinpoint the true horror in such scenarios.
Amid these political machinations, the furor surrounding 'video nasties' reached near-puritanical heights. Whitehouse singled out "The Evil Dead", labeling it the "number one video nasty." Excerpts from the film were screened during a special parliamentary session to publicly condemn it. Local police raids on distributors ensued, seizing and incinerating anything deemed threatening. Palace Video, the distributor, faced prosecution without a chance to assemble a defense. Even though video stores were cleared of stocking the film, someone had to be held accountable. Raimi was summoned to court to defend the film's innocence, ultimately aided by the BBFC's less severe concerns. "The Evil Dead" was eventually delisted from 'video nasties' in 1985 following additional edits aligned with the 1984 Video Recordings Act. Whitehouse's admission of never having seen the film later was a staggering instance of hypocrisy emblematic of the entire debacle.
When I attempted to watch a taped copy at an admittedly far-to-young 11 years old (thanks to my older brother), the version I laid hands on must have been the UK’s 1990 release (following the drawn-out tussle between distributors and the BBFC post-Palace Video's legal battles). As per the BBFC website, the censoring body was split between those who saw the film as unbelievably 'over the top' and those who found it 'nauseating'. The original cut underwent 49 seconds of edits, toning down the number of axe strikes, shortening an eye-gouging sequence, and minimizing the times a pencil pierced Linda's foot, with an additional 66 seconds removed in the 1990 version. These moments were among the film's most savage, and the BBFC hoped excising them would amplify the humor, making it more digestible for moviegoers less accustomed to such unbridled violence at the turn of the 1980s.
Amazingly, it wasn't until 2001 that "The Evil Dead" secured an uncut release in Great Britain. By then, I had outgrown any serious fears, yet one truth persisted: regardless of the surrounding chaos and political drama, "The Evil Dead" thrived on its pervasive sense of dread. It jolted me back, unceremoniously, to childhood. Cheryl's venture into the forest was my breaking point as a 11-year-old. I was already a seasoned fan of the genre, fairly desensitized, but "The Evil Dead" held a distinct, inexplicable quality. Perhaps it was the rawness, the dizzying direction, the excruciating sound design—or the amalgamation of all three. After years of boasting my horror endurance, finally, I met a movie that lived up to the hype.
Thankfully, I didn’t delve deeper. The most notorious scene involves Cheryl's brutal assault by the sentient forest—a sequence still shockingly explicit and discomforting after all these years. With each viewing, it feels fresh, as if experiencing it anew. ‘Experience’ truly defines this scene—a painstakingly brutal portrayal, dragging you through the prolonged ordeal. Despite the film's ironic tone, these moments jolt you, sobering you like a crisp morning slap. Cheryl's violation is repulsive to witness, the final act of penetration hauntingly executed.
It's these stark scenes intermingled with giddy delirium that grant "The Evil Dead" its utterly unique atmosphere. The film's grand guignol visuals, dated yet masterful today, showcased unparalleled resourcefulness in 1981. Even now, one can only applaud Raimi and his team's accomplishments. Achieving such prowess on a shoestring budget is no easy feat, particularly for indie guerrilla filmmakers. Amidst the seriousness, Raimi injects moments of comedy reminiscent of EC Comics, albeit with a possessed twist.
Like the best pre-digital indie horror outings, the film's most inspired moments stemmed from necessity, innovation, and some unfortunate incidents. Bruce Campbell aptly described the film's production as a "comedy of errors." On the inaugural shoot day, crew members wandered astray in the woods, some suffering considerable injuries—a nightmare to manage in such a remote location. Raimi's improvisational directing demanded cheaply crafted rigs to substitute for dollies, rendering many scenes unpredictable and precarious.
The movie’s most daring technical feat, an innovation that elevated it beyond the realms of low-budget productions, is prominently featured in scenes where an enigmatic POV presence hurtles through the woods—an iconic visual motif synonymous with a franchise that has captured endless appeal. To achieve this effect, Raimi had to dash through hazardous terrain, clutching one of his makeshift rigs, evading obstacles at full tilt, resembling a man charging through a maze of relentless booby traps. The film's thunderous final scene, where Ash confronts the relentless pursuing entity, was filmed with a camera mounted on a speeding bike, careening through the ill-fated cabin and into the woods. A precarious moment to capture, yet undeniably rewarding. Even nearly fifty years later, its ferocity and breathlessness endure.
Other techniques were more traditional. Possessed characters were adorned with makeup, often rudimentary. However, the evil's essence was unquestionably captured by those piercing pure white contact lenses, albeit uncomfortably thick due to budget constraints. Simple wiring animated household objects and dismembered body parts. For special effects, patience became the crew’s greatest ally. In one scene, an actress had to remain perfectly still for almost an hour as an expanding bruise effect was meticulously hand-drawn onto her leg. The film’s demonic climax relied on dated stop-motion effects, a far cry from today's SFX sophistication. Yet, despite its lack of realism, these effects were lovingly crafted, in sync with the movie’s sometimes comedic tone.
The financial constraints and censorship hurdles that hampered Raimi's breakthrough picture inspired his next venture—a quasi-sequel titled "Evil Dead II: Dead by Dawn". Two years earlier, Raimi had experimented with pure comedy in 1985's Crimewave, co-written by the Coen brothers. However, The Evil Dead's extended banishment troubled him, leading to an almost like-for-like remake, amplifying the comedic elements the BBFC sought. "Dead by Dawn" wasn’t self-censoring in the traditional sense; it accentuated the gore in a slapstick manner that defied offense. While many horror aficionados favor the sequel and the subsequent "Army of Darkness", which transports Ash’s battle to the Middle Ages in a left-field move, aligning with Raimi's penchant for offbeat creativity, "The Evil Dead" remains, to me, a towering testament both to filmmaking prowess and as a cinematic artifact. In the annals of horror, its name is still whispered with reverence.
"The Evil Dead" revels in its capacity to startle, to thrill, and ultimately, to repulse. The sudden shift from melancholic drama to unadulterated malevolence among our cabin-bound girls is staggering. The demons' taunting of the remaining survivors, their ceaseless cackling, is excruciating yet oddly exhilarating—augmented by unrelenting sound design that reduces you to a quivering mass. Campbell’s merciless beating of his possessed fiancée, her mocking laughter, marks a turning point for the previously loving Ash, and for us, the audience. After that, we surrender to Raimi’s relentless assault, succumbing to feverish madness.
As a terror-inducing exercise, few films embed themselves as deep as "The Evil Dead". It seizes you by the throat and refuses to let go, Raimi serving a platter of diabolical violence with the fervor of a demon. His orchestration of scenes, stalking the cast from behind pillars, unseen yet palpable, transforming Bruce Campbell from an animated figure into a bona fide superstar, is nothing short of mesmerizing. Executed with boldness, bravery, and panache, Raimi's direction evolves in tandem with the escalating evil.
All of this culminates in a remarkably assured finale from a novice director. Raimi and editor Edna Ruth Paul craft a nefarious wonderland through frenetic cuts and skewed perspectives, building to a blistering crescendo. While the film's gore-laden assault might repulse, it also captivates, drawing you in like a zombie savoring its first brain. ‘Video nasties’ often carry a stigma, dismissed as cheap, exploitative fluff. But "The Evil Dead" stands apart. In the realm of low-budget cinema, it's a near-flawless creation—an affront to anyone dismissing such fare. Despite the sanctimonious protests of moralists, value is to be found everywhere, and "The Evil Dead" is a grungy diamond buried in the ignominy of censorship. I admire its history, its anarchic spirit, the way it defies the ‘video nasty’ label. It emerges from a heap of mediocrity, planting a flag for independent filmmakers in the lineage of Romero, Hooper, and Carpenter. This is rebel filmmaking at its pinnacle.
