The primary conceit of Romano Scavolini's garish gorefest and UK Video Nasty, 1981's NIGHTMARE, is that the audience remain oblivious to the dire truth of the decapitation hallucinations that screech within mental patient George Tatum's traumatized mind. Perpetual torment manifests itself as a nightly murder/fever dream featuring a blood-splattered child shrieking in the corner. What could be going on? Could this child be the "protagonist" who goes on to torment the blandest film family of the 80's?
Yes.
Oh. Well.
This is not revealed until the end of the film. Granted, it does not matter nor hinder enjoyment of the trashy exuberance, but it is a curious quandary that forced me to honestly re-examine my knowledge of this sort of twist. Was this final rebuke so obvious, or has the plot-point been rehashed and recycled to the nth degree that it has grafted itself to the collective cinematic unconscious? But a larger issue is at play here: Why would I focus on this silliness so vehemently when I know full well the narrative coherence for a 1981 stabtacular is entirely meaningless? I'll blame the little Joe Spinell in my brain muttering about what he deems "proper filmmaking." That's a suitable excuse, right? My bad, Nightmare. My bad.
But seriously, Nightmare, baby, you have plenty going for you and it's not just physical ok? You've got a great....personality....ok, fine, it's your gore! Your dripping, squirting, seeping, non-coagulating splatter is what our relationship is based on, despite no concrete answer as to whether Tom Savini was actually involved in your immaculate spurting conception.
But it's not all gore (can't build a relationship on a swamp...of blood...or something.) There is a crazy sequence that may be little more than runtime padding, but it's a thing of beauty. Baird Stafford's George Tatum is released from his mental institution and gallivants around a 42nd Street so sleazy that there's dry cum on your pant leg already seriously take a look. It's a fabulous time capsule of New York City's pornographic heyday, and an ode to permit-less verite filmmaking as poor Mr. Stafford is clearly the only cast member on the streets, knocking into a rogues gallery of early 80's street urchins and passing by a fascinating array of smut-peddlers while the outlaw camera shoots from the safety of a car. The acrid stench of curdled vomit leaks through the screen and rudely rapes your senses in conjunction with Tatum witnessing his first 100% bona fide female breasts causing a mouth-foaming collapse into fetal repose. Cacophonous crowd-swimming aside, this section of the film sets a wholly disconcerting mood for its duration, proving that even if it was off the cuff material, Romano Scavolini had at the very least an accidental cinematic skill-set. |
| "Sorry!? You lose a dangerously psychotic patient from a secret experimental drug program and all you can say is 'I'm sorry'? " - Man with a child's voice in Nightmare |
George Tatum spends the rest of the film kinda-sorta stalking some single mother and her three children between shit-fit-slit-tits flashback dreams, all while some random police investigators, one with the voice of a twelve year-old, kinda-sorta try and track him down. The blood is hilarious, the narrative dulls considerably, the screams only intermittent. Scavolini even works in a spoken mention of Antonioni's Blow-Up, perhaps to show us that he is indeed highbrow despite a world of proof refuting this notion.
Of course the film ends with George Tatum nearly wiping out the family he was stalking until the child manages to kill him. We then discover the woman was his wife and the child his son. Will the son continue the family legacy of bloodlust and cowering in fear at the sight of the female form?
He fucking better.
