The line separating television productions and cinematic productions is thinner now than it has ever been. There are several reasons for this: Increased production values for television, streaming services making both equally accessible, cinematic universes that operate under the same shared continuity as a TV series; the list goes on. Hell, it’s gotten to a point where I’d likely have more relevant material to work with if I reviewed more series on here rather than just sticking to films, but honestly, I tend to watch recent films but only get around to TV shows until well after they’ve ended so I can binge-watch in peace without having to deal with the hype train while it’s still on the tracks.
But then there are productions that blur the lines even further, like the subject of today’s review. A Netflix trilogy of films, all made by the same film crew back-to-back, and released within a week of each other; this is more miniseries than three contained films. As such, this review is going to be a bit different from my usual one-at-a-time methodology, as I’m going to look at all three in one go, highlight what separates them and, more importantly, what links them together.
Each instalment is a pastiche of a specific horror genre, with 1994 being a meta-slasher reminiscent of Scream and urban legend horror like the original Candyman, 1978 an homage to summer camp slasher flicks like Friday The 13th, and 1666 dipping into folk horror like The VVitch. And every part of their presentation, from how they look to how they sound, reflect that nostalgia.
Part One is full of bright neon and fluorescent colours, with Radiohead, Nine Inch Nails, and even Snoop Dogg’s Gz and Hustlas backing it. Then Part Two brings the sunshine in, and with it a more natural colour palette, while the soundtrack drifts between iconic rock of the era like Blue Oyster Cult and Kansas, and more cheese-tastic numbers from Cat Stevens and Captain & Tennille. Part Three then switches up things even more as, without any period-specific needle drops available, it leans more into rustic violin-driven compositions, while the cinematography goes full handheld to draw out the muted earth tones of the scenery.
All three are part of the same plotline, involving the neighbouring towns of Shadyside and Sunnyvale and a witch’s curse placed on the former that has resulted in it being nicknamed ‘Killer Capital, USA’. Beyond just the singular timeline, the way each instalment works alongside each other helps keep the whole thing cohesive. I particularly like the touch where Part Two (which initially starts where 1994 left off) transitions to 1978 through the use of Nirvana’s cover of David Bowie’s The Man Who Sold The World. Beyond that, some of the scenes deliberately mirror each other, with different characters performing the same actions, albeit in ostensibly different places. Even with the stylistic change-ups, it all works together.
However, I’d be lying if I said all parts work as well as each other. In fact, the trilogy kind of peaks early, as Part One is far and away the best of the three. Part of that is down to the characters, who are the most consistently likeable main group of the three films, and the specific genre touches add to that too, but there’s also how it works best as an introduction and early crystallisation of the film’s main ideas. Specifically, the relationship between Kiana Madeira’s Deena and Olivia Scott Welch’s Sam. The entire trilogy has a very heavy queer leaning to it, and it’s with Deena and Sam that the whole story is at its strongest. It even makes the shortcomings of what follows easier to deal with since, after a while, it becomes more and more about just seeing their story progress.
Part of that is due to just how cute they are together, and how real their relationship feels with Deena being out of the closet with Sam still in it, but there’s also a subtler touch to their connection that I found quite fascinating. Long story short, their eventual plan to stop the witch’s curse is to temporarily stop Sam’s heart, and then bring her back to life after the witch’s possessed killers stop hunting for her. Now, tell me if this sounds familiar: Trusting the one you love with being able to take you to the other side, but to also bring you back safely. I was not expecting BDSM subtext in my popcorn horror, but man, is it gratifying to see it done this well.
While there’s a bit of a blip in the middle, since the summer camp setting also comes with the more Puritanical view of horny, drug-using teenagers that is attached to franchises like Friday The 13th, the trilogy begins and ends with an acknowledgement of queerness. When things move to 1666, where the main witchcraft themes come to the forefront, it’s highlighted as the victim of prejudice that is ultimately one of many things that give people an easy route to persecute others, and usually just to satisfy their own ends. As wonky as it is to hear the same actors from Parts One & Two attempt Irish(?) accents (easily the most TV aspect of the entire trilogy), it’s honestly more annoying that this kind of messaging is still relevant. Well, that and kind of hilarious at just how much time men have spent feeling threatened just because some women don’t need them.
Well, I say that that’s what the trilogy begins and ends with, but there’s also what directly bookends it, and it’s here where things go from being entertaining to being the level of inspired I saw back when I reviewed the first Goosebumps movie. See, Part One actually begins in a bookstore with a woman turning her nose up at so-called ‘low-brow horror’, with the cashier flipping her off in turn. It’s a cute opening, but it’s also the precursor for the film’s biggest statements. All that takes place within these three films, from Deena and her friends being hunted, to Ziggy and her sister Cindy dealing with the killer at Camp Nightwing (or Camp Disco Collar, as I’ve taken to calling it), and Sarah Fiers at the mercy of witch-hunting Puritans, is predicated on the same thing: Adults vs. children.
Now, unlike Goosebumps, I haven’t actually read any of the original Fear Street books, but that very idea is something at the heart of a lot of R.L. Stine’s writing. Part of it is to create easy wish-fulfilment for younger readers, showing them as being able to save the day while the adults either can’t or won’t, but these films take that idea even further and unearth something pretty cool in the process. Basically, it shows that same attitude of denigrating the things that young adults gravitate towards, whether it’s fiction, music, or even each other, as part of a larger mindset that reveals how much adults let young adults down. Or, rather, hold them down, because blaming everything on the next generation is easier than taking responsibility for your own actions and failures.
It’s all about the past confronting the present, because those in power are doing all they can to keep it hidden for their own benefit. They thrive on the bloodshed, whereas our heroes steadfastly do not. Returning to the old-school slasher formula in more than just aesthetics, it also wants the audience to care about the characters because they truly care about each other. Yeah, there’s Deena and Sam, but there’s also Ziggy and Cindy in Part Two, or even Cindy and Alice bonding over how, even though they are on opposite ends of the ‘respectability’ scale, they’re in those positions for the same reason: They’re trying to cope with how shitty their families and environments are.
It’s almost wholesome just how likeable the main characters are in all three instalments, and it’s because of that that the film’s main statements to do with queerness, generational trauma, and even a bit of timely ACAB commentary, hit as hard as they do. There is a definite decline between all three, with Part One being No. 1 and so on, but they really are more than the sum of their parts. I mean, their parts are already enjoyable, but when taken all together, it makes for a very gratifying story that highlights why horror, and especially the kind created by Stine as well as Stephen King, is so treasured in pop culture: Because it provides a space where the weirdos can be weirdos, letting those who see themselves reflected in the things that Goodguys are so afraid of to do so without fear.
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