Like the swallows to Capistrano, each year brings another corpse-stacking installment of the Friday the 13th series. The critic’s problem: how to uniquely review each of these films with the sensitivity and insight they deserve. Hence, an aural review of the latest Friday the 13th chapter: Squiiish! (throat sliced with a hunting knife); whooomp! (Paul-Bunyon axe-swing across the shoulder blades); whuuump! (hatchet wedged in the forehead); thwonk! (another hatchet, but this time in the chest); ploppp! (eyes gauged out with a pair of hedge clippers); Cruuunch! (head crushed with a giant leather tourniquit); javvvalin! (metal pole thrown into the stomach); snipbouncebounce! (head severed with a big knife); tinkletinklethunk! (bigger knife thrust through window and into face); whooonk! (even bigger knife into forehead); shuffft! (knife the size of a cadillac shoved through back of neck and out trachea); bluuumpt! (machete-like object shoved into stomach); scruuungouch! (pocketknife lodged in groin); thwooomp! (body falling two stories onto a bed of spikes). And the rest of the movie? Same screaming, same endless chases, same breasts, same blood, same axe, same lack of explanation, same ending primed for another sequel. Is there a pattern emerging here? In short: same as it ever was, same as it ever was.
This article appears in March 22 • 1985 (Cover).
