Wolf Creek
Director: Greg McClean
Grade: D

Why do I feel it my duty to single out the horror film genre for elevated discourse? I seek to expose the high art in a genre renowned for its sleaze. My friends, infinitely frustrated with my perversion of such things, hasten to point out that I’m approaching the genre inappropriately. Still, the critic/asshole in me feels ill at ease letting matters such as this rest. And so, with this in mind, I approach the latest debacle: Wolf Creek, a nihilistic little venture into the Australian Outback that poses itself as an urbane horror film. Pity the film’s content crumbles under such a sure style of direction. The opening moments of the film paint a far different picture of what to expect, before it is overtaken by ubiquitous horror clichés and inexplicable frustration meant to substitute for tension.

Take for instance the exasperating decisions made by characters in situations of extreme peril. Let us say I happen to be a nubile young woman who just witnessed my friend nearly raped by a maniacal Aussie Bushman, only to escape just barely with my life; if I needed to find the keys to a car before my predator returns, do I a.) find the keys as quickly as possible, locate the car and get the fuck out of there never once looking back or b.) pause for a moment to examine video footage left behind by previous victims while crying consequently sealing my fate later in the film? What’s her motivation here? Not convinced yet? Need more evidence to illuminate your current situation? I suppose if I had previously been confronted by an eviscerated, decaying corpse strung up with wire in a grimy warehouse my first reaction would be ‘wait just a darn minute, I must get to the bottom of this!’

Essentially the film follows a clear-cut narrative arc, running the gamut between absolute boredom; grueling torture and downright frustrating plot developments. The reason I feel that the film garnered a positive reaction among many critics resulted from their being persuaded by its style, thinking it exemplary of a watershed moment in the genre’s late development, as if breathing new life into it while in reality demonstrating just how hollow and lifeless such films can be.

Incidentally, it is precisely the way the film seeks to subvert generic conventions that makes it so utterly reprehensible since by stripping away any pretense of morality, what remains is cruelty for cruelty’s sake. In other words, Slasher films follow a methodical structure that, for better or worse, help justify their own cruelty. Take any given Friday the 13th film in which the potential victims are determined by their immoral behavior. The less inclined one is to leave their clothes on, the more imminent their deaths become. By this regard, slasher films exhibit a strangely perverse morality while behind this mask of punishment inflicted upon the immoral lies a thinly veiled inclination toward misogyny that indicates a certain stunted romantic maturity on the part of the writer/director. Certainly a structure that requires some retooling, not that Wolf Creek fully understands by what means this should be undertaken.

Instead along comes Wolf Creek on its high horse of faux-sophistication, intending to play against expectations to its artistic advantage. What results, since no longer can the violence camouflage itself behind a mask of vigilante justice waged against loose value systems, is a film of grueling nihilism in which the innocent are no longer spared. Now, such a notion makes logical sense since in reality, the innocent are rarely spared, and to that extent, the film works, had director Greg McLean not pursued the film with its weight focused on the mindless torture of women – anyone else find it curious that when the blood-letting begins the male victim mysteriously vanishes? I can only assume that Mr. McLean has no interest in depicting the brutal torture and death of a man believing this would in no way intrigue the target audience. But that has become the standard for this sort of shit. Why would we believe Wolf Creek to offer us any better?

I feel it necessary to connect this to a recent viewing of Ingmar Bergman’s The Virgin Spring which, although I feel it my duty to confess isn’t one of his strongest films, remains an enthralling example of how a horrific situation can be used more effectively. Indeed, it becomes clear why Wes Craven used it as the basis for his own film Last House on the Left. While Craven may have misplaced Bergman’s poetry, it still demonstrates how a certain high art value can be integrated into a gritty horror film. By no means do I believe this should be the standard approach to horror, but it definitely warrants a thorough study not feasible here, since the fruits of such labor would prove prodigious. For now, we’ll have to settle for more than a few retreads into retro-horror film territory with little more progress into perfecting the genre beyond amping up the level of violence. A damn shame, indeed.