I'm Stalkin' Here! On the Unhinged SOV Charms of Dream Stalker (1991)
Long Deprived of Light
-Part 2-
As we walk, the ground slopes downward and the already dampened sounds of the surface world become a memory. The packed soil of the tunnel darkens, settling on the color of pitch. Illumination from the mag light makes for a weak amber portal, one that the walls and ceiling seem to drink up greedily, giving back nothing. Roger and I stumble forward in silence, bravado quickly replaced by a wary-eyed vigilance. It's poor comfort, and does little to hide the feeling we are cattle being driven inexorably to the head of a dripping sledge.
Then suddenly we are at the opening to a chamber. It's an angular stone room, covered floor to ceiling with engraved glyphs from a language I immediately understand is many times dead. In the middle of the room is a platform, and atop that is a circle of raised black glass rimmed in gold. The surface of the glass is unblemished, and I think of a story that a man at a rest stop once told me. He wore a calf skin vest and his face, was full of lines that deepened when he spoke, gouge marks made by the sharpened blades of time.
The tale was about a lake nearby that sat at the base of a canyon. The battlements of stone protected it from wind, and he told me it was given a wide berth by man and beast alike. The Wendigo had drank there, and its influence infected the water with a terrible intent. He told me if a lake never rippled, something inside it had gone wrong and to never bathe in it. If you did the intent it held would seep into your pores, and work its way into the fiber of your being. I'm jogged from this reverie by Roger who is crouched in front of the dais, tracing the golden rim around the glass. He turns to look at me, and I know better than to protest as he steps into the circle. Then he's gone and with him our source of light.
In the ensuing darkness small things start to chitter. These are the creatures in the soil that became impotent as they evolved to our surface world. They speak and their voices overlap, drowning out my panicked breaths. It becomes a song that tells a story. For us, their children are the crawlers that writhe in horror as the stone that concealed them is lifted. Their offspring are the roaches that flee from the fluorescent glare of city lights. They used to fear nothing and they tell me that soon, again, that will be the case. I trip and my shin strikes the raised platform, pitching me forward and into the looking glass.
The walls in the chamber on the other side also sing. The lyrics tell of every foul deed I've ever committed. The drunken girl I'd found passed out in the spare bedroom of a house. My thighs were stained a burnt burgundy when I pulled out of her. The dope fiend who paid me to inject into the ailing veins between his fingers, and whose gape seemed so maudlin when he overdosed. The man with the lined face who told me the story about the lake. I made him bark like a dog and lick my boots before I'd buy him a pint of rye. He knew something though: The water never ripples here.
If Dream Stalker were merely a half-baked SOV supernatural slasher featuring a take on Freddy where he has Don Dokken's hair and wears BMX bike pads, I'd be a happy camper. Dream Stalker isn't satisfied with just happy, it wants me to be hopelessly love with it. Point Dream Stalker. Aspiring supermodel Brittney Meredith and her boyfriend Ricky Fries are in love. In this case love means raw-dogging in a hot tub and wearing inappropriate formal wear to a picnic. As a symbol of said love, Ricky gives Brittney a cheetah print music box which is made up of a drum containing a porcelain jester. This thing both looks and sounds like it was meant to imprison the members of the band Nightwish. Ricky confidently tells Brittney they are going to be together forever, in no way creating the opportunity for an ironic twist of fate.
In an ironic twist of fate, Ricky gets his shit pushed in during a race,re and dies horribly. Brittney is traumatized, grief-stricken during the day and haunted by nightmares of a disfigured Ricky at night. She also may have some psychic abilities, an element that feels at home in the "Later Nightmare On Elm Street Sequels" school of half-baked plot contrivances. As she attempts to address her sorrow and the origin of her disturbing dreams, Brittney discovers that Ricky's promise of loving her forever extends beyond the grave, and into a very real world of relentless horror.
Every time that you think this flick is headed into a predictable direction, it surprises you. Not in the, "Fake snakes in a can of peanuts" way. No, Dream Stalker is more the, "I cut your breaks and am calling to tell you while you're driving" kind of jokester. Scenes merge terrible acting, unclear supernatural mechanics and gore into an abomination that will leave you speechless: An undead Ricky rapes Brittney and comments on the condom breaking. I think about where Ricky got the condom from more often than I'd like to admit. Brittney escapes to her house in the woods which happens to be adjacent to a camp for wayward teens (Read: 25-35 year olds). They all dress like either extras from Melrose Place or backup dancers in an Kid N' Play music video. Imagine the Aldi-brand version of Sleepaway Camp III and you get a good idea of how things transpire.
I refuse to tell you more because to do so would deprive you of naturally experiencing a wealth of jaw-dropping ridiculousness, and the sincerity with which said ridiculousness is executed. What I will say is this: Dream Stalker has a reputation as a beloved SOV and (Unlike so much over-hyped trash) that reputation is deserved. All the ingredients for schlock-royalty are there, sewn haphazardly together and brought to life by diabolical hands. Freddy who?
I voted for Ricky Fries.
-Dr. Benny Graves
