January 29, 2003

In the 1980s there was a spate of quality horror films that made their way to American multiplex screens, many of which have already been re-released to allow those of us who cherished these gory gems to relive this mini-heyday of splatter. But there’s still one Special Edition to come that will evoke many reminiscences for this reviewer: 1987’s Street Trash.

The good folks over at Synapse Films have been promising a two-disc tribute to this odd film for some time now, thereby building anticipation by keeping us anxiously awaiting its eventual release. Truth be told, when compared to some of the other gory films from around the same time period (Evil Dead 2, Videodrome, Re-Animator, Meet the Feebles, etc.) this movie comes up a bit shy when considering its ultimate contribution to film history. I would certainly allow that much of the attraction to me for the renaissance of this one lies in its ability to elicit distant memories of college age debauchery.

During this time period, outré films of this ilk would most often play at a straight-out-of-Dawn-of-the-Dead mall not far from where I attended college. Many likely ill-advised road trips were undertaken in order to take in these gutbucket offerings. We’d pile into a friend’s van, imbibing copious amounts of rotgut and other various and sundry substances along the way and then let the flickering frames wash over us as we sat tucked deep inside the heaving belly of the celluloid capitalist beast. While today I wouldn’t mind having back some of the lost brain cells that have undoubtedly since been swept up off the floors of this early multiplex, at the same time I’d never want to give back the ultimate feeling of freedom these vanished hours represent.

Younger patrons of the 21st century’s fancified theater complexes should understand that the difference between the hermetic screens of today and the mid '80s multiplex reflects the same sort of distance that exists between the grindhouse era of 42nd Street and its present incarnation as a bland and family friendly open air theme park. Though minus the cutting edge of potential violence that filled the gutters of Times Square, the earlier mall theaters still lacked the sort of basic amenities that are standard everywhere today. The Holyoke Mall complex that we frequented seemed to be of particularly low status--the chairs were often torn or uncomfortable, the roof leaked, theater sound was certainly less than Dolby quality, and the floors were washed so rarely that at the end of a two hour film it often took some effort to wrest your weary feet from the sugar-coated floor.

But this shoddy milieu did little to detract from the cinema-going experience - in fact, when attending films considered utter dreck by the mainstream of society, it served only to enhance the tawdry atmosphere. Adding an insulating layer of consciousness-warping to the proceedings also helped to underline the sense of being set adrift in a darkened room, cut off from the scary vagaries of the Reagan era outside world. Whether this liberation from reality was in fact a true bit of youthful sovereignty or an actual imprisonment is fodder for a debate I’d rather not entertain at the present time; but suffice it to say that when I sat down at that time to take in a film such as Street Trash in this shoddy setting, there was a breathless feeling of untouchable emancipation that accompanied every second of unspooling cinema. Being inside a musty theater, wrapped in a cover of intoxicated warmth while watching scenes of variegated hobo meltdown seemed to form an impermeable armor that deflected any actuality.

In this atmosphere of terrific invincibility, my friends and I devoured many a sleazy '80s horror film. Street Trash had to compete with the aforementioned classics of the day, along with other productions from people like Charles Band or starring luminaries like Dee Wallace and Michael Moriarty. These films were what passed for Hollywood B-movies long after that term really ceased to mean much at all, but given the production values and paltry plots, they certainly bear more than a passing resemblance to their earlier second feature counterparts. Street Trash itself has very little story at all, and it won’t be the taut screenplay that I’ll be looking for when the Special Edition hits the stores.

What passes for narrative here involves a liquor store owner who discovers a case of some hideous elixir called "Viper" in the basement of his store. (This point had particular resonance for our circle, as this alcohol seemed strangely similar to the Canadian Ace Malt Liquor that we could purchase for $6 for a case of quarts at our local purveyor of poison). He decides to sell the stuff off to the neighborhood bums, unaware that drinking this firewater causes his customers to meltdown in spectacularly gory ways. Other than these vivid dissipations, along the way there are some other extraneous events that involve hit men, detectives, junkyard squabbles and other dissociated scenes that for the most part don’t really run together too coherently.

Luckily, the jaunty tone of the filmmaking creates an arch backdrop for what could otherwise be a grim and depressing mise-en-scene. Also helping to keep the film interesting are the excellent cut-rate makeup effects by Jennifer Aspinwall and Mike Lackey. The many hued disembodiments of the local lushes are really quite impressive, and as they represent one of the only true running themes of the script, they serve as anchors that weigh down this otherwise scattershot bit of '80s horror. Screenwriter Roy Frumkes does additionally toss in a funny set piece or two, helping to keep things from grinding to a halt amongst the wino liquefaction.

When considering the upcoming Synapse edition of Street Trash, it is Frumkes’ name that is paramount. Supposedly the visual transfer of the film is done at this point, but the debut of the disc is still awaiting some audio work and commentaries from the cast, as well as a documentary that should be the real plum. The film’s producer/screenwriter is undertaking to make a special movie on the making of Street Trash, and given his history, this feature should be extremely interesting. His 1989 documentary on the work of George Romero (Document of the Dead) is a fascinating look at that filmmaker’s work. The documentary also contains a special behind-the-scenes look at Dawn of the Dead, a movie in which Frumkes had the good fortune to play a zombie extra who takes a pie in the face from one of the bikers who lay siege to the mall.

When the nostalgia with which my mind colors when considering the '80s oddity Street Trash is combined with the seeming excellence of the Synapse Special Edition to come, I simply cannot wait to get my hands on the two disc set. Though the outing certainly doesn’t rank with any of the great American films of that decade, there’s a special attachment to this gutter level flick that will drive me to snap it up as soon as it becomes available. Perhaps from a distance of 20 years the results will have faded so that they no longer hold the attractions that so impressed my younger self; it’s even possible that my jaundiced eye will puzzle over just what I sought out in such juvenilia. But there’s always a chance that what will occur when I punch this film into the technological player of today is that I might recapture just briefly a snapshot of a time when going to the movies for me represented a means of pure escape from a supply-side, Day After world; a simple whiff of the malodorous memory of a decrepit mall theater is all I ask. But make no mistake, in no way do I wish to return to these earlier, halcyon days of gore for more than a few minutes in a darkened 21st century apartment for I know in my heart what that olfactory recollection truly represents. It’s the smell of decay - and it clings to us all.

View other columns by Chris Hyde