It was late and it was snowing. I was wrapped in a blanket that smelled sort of funny, you know, a musty sort of smell that led me to believe it had been balled up in a closet for far too long. I was spending the night at my friend Mike’s house and even though I had attended sleepovers before then (I was nine, after all), being up late in a strange place in the dark made me feel more than a little uncomfortable.
His brightly lit Christmas tree filled the small living room with predominantly green and red light which made the whole place feel more ominous than comforting. And there was Mike, smiling devilishly before me, as he was prone to do, asking if I wanted to hear a “scary” Christmas story.
I did not.
I loved Christmas stories. I loved the holiday. The sense of whimsy. The unfettered joy. I didn’t want that feeling tainted by fear. Christmas was the opposite of all that.
Still, Mike plowed forward, telling me a story he assured me that “kids weren’t supposed to hear.” Just that phrase alone made me shiver. The story, he continued, was about monsters— monsters which struck when you least expected it. Monsters that laughed as they tortured you. The title of the tale?
Gremlins (1984).
Several years would pass before I would finally see the film that was recounted to me that terrifying night. His words resounded in my head, his descriptions haunting my imagination and cultivating something enticingly… magical at the same time. Despite my certainty that I wanted nothing to do with that horrible story, I couldn’t stop listening. Thinking about it.
Wondering what it would be like.
When I finally watched Joe Dante’s seminal horror classic, I was surprised at what I found. Sure there was fear, but there was also a sense of whimsy. Of unfettered joy. Gremlins (1984) was a Christmas movie… it just happened to be a horror movie too.
Conceptually, the idea of little monsters running around unchecked, destroying a town and the lives which resided within it seemed like a horrifying one. However, on screen, the terror is brought to life with cartoonish glee, building on decades of hyper-stylized slapstick to bolster the more outrageous and disturbing moments which might have otherwise landed flat or simply be too dark to be enjoyable.
My personal journey toward discovering Gremlins is very similar to the film’s inception. Chris Columbus’ original screenplay is incredibly disturbing and an altogether different movie than what finally hit theaters in 1984. In this version, his second draft, the Mogwai are devilish creatures, Hellbent on evolving. Billy Peltzer fears and even comes to resent the one who would in later iterations become known as Gizmo, but who appears in this draft as simply “Mogwai.” The screenplay tells the same basic story, but with little levity and almost none of the silliness the Gremlins came to be associated with.
In short, it was as I pictured it that night when I was nine.
Still, as the screenplay journeyed to the screen, like the creatures it depicts, it too evolved. The film spawned a sense of childlike wonder, embodied in the character of Gizmo, giving way to a giddiness and sense of heart that made the film endearing and added weight to the scares.
There are many sequences which blend these concepts beautifully, carrying the horrors and originality of the original screenplay to the realm of endearing, heartfelt Christmas classic, but the one which stands out in my estimation is that where Gizmo first spawns his Mogwai brethren. The scene is simple and straightforward, offering a quiet, quirky and endearing character moment juxtaposed against the disturbing true nature of the beasts of which the remaining runtime is concerned.
Chris Columbus’ script offers succinct description which ratchets up the tension as it moves. Joe Dante adapted the unrelenting horrors of the screenplay, while instilling a warmth and sense of care. As a result, the events are unsettling, but darkly macabre and shrouded in uncertainty. This moment invites the viewer to further explore the terrors the film will undoubtedly have to offer, while maintaining empathy— a tone which expertly walks the line between terror, comedy and drama for the remainder of the film.
All of this is put together with astounding effects work, led by Chris Walas, which brings the creatures to life, allowing for terror and pathos alike.
THE SCENE
Pete reaches over to pick up Gizmo and accidentally knocks over a cup of water. It spills on Gizmo who immediately begins to convulse and squeal. His back bubbles and small furry balls pop out. Pete and Billy watch on uncertainly as the fur balls quiver and grow. Slowly, they unwrap to become five additional Mogwai, stretching and yawning as they awaken. The new Mogwai giggle and mutter softly amongst themselves as Pete and Billy remark how “neat” the process of their multiplication was.
THE SCRIPT
THE SCREEN
The opening line of the scene, Dimly lit with Billy’s small desk lamp, is the only element of the first page of description that matches the frame.
In the script Billy waters his plants while Mogwai’s case sits on the bed, with the creature inside (Gizmo was known as ‘Mogwai’ in the original script). Pete ascends the stairs and shares brownies with Billy, before he notices Mogwai’s case. Pete asks about the creature, picks it up and pets it as Billy shrugs.
The screenplay creates a distance between Billy and the Mogwai. The Mogwai is contained, kept in his cage, not even on the same surface as where Billy is sitting. There’s a sense of distrust and separation that makes things feel cold between them and suggests that Pete’s affinity toward the Mogwai is misplaced.
The film may be lit the same way, but rather than feeling eerie, the place feels warm. Inviting. Gizmo, not Mogwai, sits out on the bed, watching TV as Billy and Pete enter the room in a wide shot. Pete carries a Christmas tree and the two exchange dialogue about comic books in a friendly, casual manner, that suggests a familial closeness. When Pete discovers Gizmo on the bed, Billy is beside him, the two just as energized and engaged in the wonder of the mysterious animal.
In the screenplay, the Mogwai hops out and, at first, Pete is taken aback. In the film, Gizmo merely sits there and the exchange is never startling. Pete and Gizmo exchange several funny faces in tight close ups which serve to endear Pete and Gizmo further to the viewer. When Pete blinks, Gizmo blinks, adding two cartoonish plinking noises as he does so to add a sense of playfulness to the moment.
In the script, Pete asks to borrow it and Billy responds: I dunno, Pete… The exchange leads to Pete unceremoniously reaching out to pick up Mogwai when His hand clumsily knocks over the water bottle. The moment is marred by callousness, a lack of respect for the power of the creature in his presence as well as his friend Billy’s clear discomfort regarding the action.
In the film, Billy lifts Gizmo gently and suggests that “maybe he’ll sing.” Billy and Pete continue to discuss the strangeness of Gizmo and how wonderful he is, placing him on the table. Pete asks to hold him and reaches out, accidentally knocking over a glass of water holding paint brushes. Again, the action is clumsy and the result is the same, but in the film it’s preceded by a shared interest in the creature as opposed to a desire to exploit it.
A few drops of water splash Mogwai.
The creature arches its back and lets out a high pitched scream.
At this point, the words line up with the screen. What was hitherto a pleasant exchange between two friends reveling in the discovery of the amazing creature transforms into a nightmarish sequence of suffering. Gizmo is laid flat on the desk, flailing and writhing in pain. As scripted, he lets out a high scream.
The image cuts to a close up of Billy and Pete who appear as scripted: Billy is surprised. Pete takes a step back. Scared. The screenplay continues, further describing in plain terms what was manifested onscreen.
The spots on its body that were hit with water begin to bubble… expand…
Again, Gizmo fills the screen, his back to the camera, lying flat. His back bubbles and expands in an unnatural, disgusting motion. When his face is again visible it is no longer the adorable little thing seen mimicking Pete only seconds before, but an angry, distorted version. Its teeth are clenched and Pete holds his ears closed against the creature’s unbearable screeching.
In the script, the spots burst giving way to FOUR NEW CREATURES. These creatures are then immediately apparent as clones of Mogwai and the spots on Mogwai’s body bond together and disappear, as if they were never there. The entire process begins and ends with immediacy, leading Billy to grab a water bottle to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating and splashing a little more water on one of the new creatures.
The film slows the entire mechanism down, showing only one, small ball of fur popping out of Gizmo’s back initially. The scene continuously cuts back to Billy and Pete watching in shock. Pete stands up, the frame moving with him at a slightly canted angle. The motion of the camera, the reactions of the characters and the dialogue they share in this sequence continues and evolves the whimsical sentimentality of the scene which were laid prior to the cloning.
Rather than employing Billy to obtusely toss more water onto the Mogwai, four more balls burst out of Gizmo’s back due to his original dousing. The new objects come to rest adjacent to the first which has grown exponentially in size. The image cuts back and forth from the boys to the balls of fur which pulsate and grow on the tabletop. It is not immediately clear that these objects are clones at all, at first appearing as some sort of strange discharge before taking shape and unfurling themselves as additional Mogwai.
Slowly, the Mogwai unwrap their large ears from around their bodies, yawning and stretching. They’re cute in the way that gizmo is, but somehow different. More mischievous looking. Still, their innocuous cooing fills the small attic bedroom, putting both Pete and Billy at slight ease.
In the screenplay, eight creatures are ultimately created, leaving Billy to try to make sense out of it all. He splashes some milk on one of the creatures in an attempt to see if they’ll multiply again, but to no avail. After, Pete again asks if he can have one and Billy responds simply, Huh? Well, yeah… I guess so.
The film follows the cloning with Pete counting each new one, five in total. Instead of focusing on the utter confusion and unemotional reactionary decisions of his human counterpart, the image cuts to Gizmo. He is frowning, his huge, brown eyes forlorn… defeated. The image pans across the new Mogwai, a menacing air of mischievousness prevalent in their high pitched giggling and unintelligible chatter. Pete and Billy survey them with awe and wonder, certainly trying to make sense of it all but in a heartfelt way.
It’s then that Pete asks if he can have one. At that moment, however, Pete reaches out to one of the creature’s with a mohawk, referred to in the film as “Stripe”, but recoils when the Mogwai snaps at him. The act is in direct contrast with Pete’s interactions with Gizmo only minutes before and plants a seed of doubt in Pete’s, and the viewer’s, mind regarding the intentions of the new Mogwai.
As Pete turns away, Billy is left stammering about how incredible what they just witnessed was. Pete barely reciprocates the feeling, turning instead to a comic book, a depiction of the fantastical that can’t bite his fingers were he to reach for it. The reaction sets the stage for the change that will occur in the dynamic of the relationship between humans and Mogwai moving forward. It’s one still steeped in childlike care and curiosity, subconsciously aware of the dangers inherent within.
The scene in the screenplay concludes with Pete removing one of the Mogwai from the group and its subsequent piercing scream. Then, the other creatures leap at Pete and retrieve their member, leaving Billy and Pete to stare in shock. In the end, the viewer is left feeling a further disconnect between the characters and the Mogwai, if anything that gap now a chasm in the wake of so many additional, equally uncontrollable creatures being added to the fold.
The film leaves the viewer with Billy’s excitement followed by a close up of Gizmo. He stands beside the others, separated, wearing a look of terrible worry. He heaves a heavy sigh— he doesn’t belong to this new group and he cares about his new friends, Billy and Pete. The Mogwai continue to squeal and converse beside him happily, clearly up to no good.
Billy’s innocence is at the forefront, rather than his heedlessness. Gizmo is a conduit for the audience’s emotion and empathy, a barometer by which to gauge danger and a potential avenue for salvation. The situation is less dark and unrelenting and more soberingly eerie with an emotional through line far more gripping than it might’ve otherwise been.
THE BLOODY CONCLUSION
“I recall this taking quite a while to pull off,” Special Effects Artist Chris Walas recalled on the commentary track found on the Gremlins blu-ray disc (Available here).
“We had about 8 or 9 little faces,” Chris Walas continued, “and they’d go on whatever faces we needed for the shot.” Joe Dante chimed in jovially, adding, “We had the little faces that were scrunched up and agony faces and happy faces.”
As my friend recanted the events of Gremlins to me that night so many years ago, my mind was not thinking about the interchangeable faces of puppets or the different emotions those puppets would have to achieve. I felt nothing but cold, detached fear.
Fear is a difficult thing to create and land with an audience, let alone when that fear is driven by something fantastic. It requires a hard edged sensibility that’s grounded in reality while simultaneously embodying the unusual side of the imagination normally reserved for something more… fun. Chris Columbus’ original screenplay for Gremlins managed to capture that otherworldly fear. In turn, producer Steven Spielberg, director Joe Dante and a team of creatives used those blueprints to create something that crossed genres, embodying the over-the-top nature of classic cartoonish slapstick and carrying it into a place that is as nurturing to the characters as it is punishing.
And yet the final result would not have been possible without the melding of visions so present when comparing the script to the screen and the practicality of the creatures in play. In the commentary mentioned previous, Chris Walas recalled that “about 5 people per puppet” were required to operate the Mogwai. Joe Dante too remarked about the difficulties of working with the puppets: “They used to break down a lot, particularly Gizmo because the gears were very small.”
The amount of time, effort and energy that went into even this one scene is staggering. For example, to create the illusion of the fur balls growing, Chris Walas mentioned it took “8 guys underneath [the table] trying to push these rubberized fur balloons up, blowing them up!” Something he referred to on the commentary track as “the biggest nightmare”. Even just a couple seconds of screen time took weeks of planning, filming and manpower to accomplish.
My 9 year old imagination prepared me to be afraid. However, it did not prepare me to smile. To laugh. To shed a tear when Gizmo has to say goodbye to his friend Billy…
Some films feel organic. Real. Regardless how outlandish they may come across on paper. Horror has the unique ability to tap into our fears and Christmas movies have the equally uncommon talent of patching into our hearts. When the two concepts merge, with just the right creative voices at the helm, we’re left with something befitting of both categories:
Something frightening. Something whimsical. Something bursting with unfettered joy.
Maybe if I had known that when I was 9, I wouldn’t have avoided Gremlins for as long as I did.
Or, maybe, it was that sense of elongated trepidation that allowed it to grow in stature and become the favorite of mine that it is. Whether or not I should call my friend Mike and thank him for spoiling the movie for me will probably forever remain a mystery. But, what I am thankful for is the era and voices that went into creating this scene and the movie as a whole.
For, as Joe Dante remarks in the commentary track, “Now, you know today all of this would be done with CGI.” He paused, chuckling to himself before continuing, “this is ancient filmmaking.”
It seems to me that, sometimes, when it’s dark and it’s snowing and your wrapped in a musty blanket in a place that’s foreign to you… a bit of ancient filmmaking is exactly what you need.
Or, at the very least, a 9 year old’s recollection of it.
Gremlins (1984): Written by Chris Columbus & Directed by Joe Dante
