“The first monster that must frighten you is the filmmaker himself”
—Wes Craven
In the earliest days of my horror movie explorations, there were a handful of directors whose work rose to the very top of my must-see list. George A. Romero, Sam Raimi, John Carpenter and, of course, Wes Craven. These were the maestros of terror that so many a website, chatroom, and 100-Must-See-Horror-Movies-style books pointed me toward and, of course, I dutifully obeyed.
My brother and I were feverishly consuming horror back then, setting up nightly watches with whatever it was we could procure from the Hollywood Video down the street or, if we had the cash, whatever ten dollar finds we could make on the shelves at our local Circuit City. Classic after classic passed before our eyes at a disarming rate and still we couldn’t get enough. And so it was that we found ourselves one evening popping open the Anchor Bay DVD for the next cult-classic on the menu: The Hills Have Eyes (1977).
We had seen The Last House on the Left (1972) a week or two prior, so, on some level, we felt prepared for the type of unflinching vision Wes Craven tended to bring. Still, Hills was a different animal entirely. Tonally it was far more consistent; gone was the abrupt jolts of slapstick humor and oddly placed sentimentality, leaving a cold, calculated savagery in its absence. The film felt dirty and cruel— off-putting in a manner that left my brother and I less than enthusiastic about the experience of watching it.
If I’m being honest, The Hills Have Eyes was the first movie that really disappointed me in that original, obsessive run of watches that would go on to inform my horror fandom to this day. The film sat on my shelf gathering dust for years, fading in my memory to something that I just didn’t like and therefore one I never cared to revisit.
More than a decade passed and my love and adoration for Wes Craven only intensified. Eventually, it came time to revisit his filmography and, in the process, reassess the revered classic that for some reason just seemed to elude me. I dusted off my old DVD and put it in for the second time.
As is sometimes the case with movies, this one seemed to have evolved over the years that it had sat on my shelf. It was still cold-blooded and crude, aggressively unpleasant in that unique way that 70’s grindhouse films had the ability to be. It was still populated by high-pitched screams, inbred cannibals, and gruesome deaths. But, this time, somehow, there seemed to be something going on beneath the surface of those unpleasant elements. This time I saw a director exploring the dichotomy between the civilized and the savage, a horror visionary solidifying his trademark thematics, storytelling style, and visual language that would go on to ripple throughout the works that peppered the remainder of his career.
The film never quite became a favorite for me— in fact, it’s still one I do not revisit often. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that what’s on the screen is powerful, that its ability to make me feel uncomfortable (similar to The Last House on the Left) keeps me at arm’s length from the film and, in my eyes, it takes a talented artist to bring something like that to life.
Shockingly the script is even more depraved than what appears on the screen, if not infused with a bit of the irreverence that was ever-present in Last House. Opening with a title scrawl referring to Wes Craven himself, the text informs the viewer at the start that, “In 1973, following the release of Last House on the Left, the writer/director of that film was committed for psychiatric evaluation.” The crawl goes on to say that he was given a lobotomy, that he meditated in the desert for 1,000 days, and that he was eventually abducted by aliens and taken to Jupiter before finally returning to Earth to make this film. Suffice it to say, the text embodies the unique brand of self-awareness that would become so intrinsic to Craven’s later works.
Still, little in the film is more inherently Wes Craven than Brenda and Bobby’s makeshift trap for Jupiter and the subsequent execution of said rig. Originally intended to be amongst the very final minutes of the film, the rope apparatus and the matchsticks set against the door awaiting the moment of friction that would bring about a climactic explosion represents the kind of storytelling ingenuity, visual inventiveness, and the boundary-pushing character arcs that Wes Craven was so talented at realizing.
The pages reflect the screen with varying degrees of accuracy, with some notable shifts in timeline, apparent violence, and character involvement, all of which reflect Craven’s creative process from beginning to end. The film may not be one of my favorites, but I have come to respect it immensely, standing as an undeniably effective early outing for one of horror cinema’s greatest creative voices.
THE SCENE
Brenda stares out into the desert, spying Jupiter as he approaches. Jupiter spots Ethel’s corpse sitting in a lawn chair and examines it. Brenda shouts for Bobby to start the engine. He does and a rope apparatus that has been affixed to the bare wheel tightens and latches onto Jupiter’s legs. It pulls him across the desert as Brenda and Bobby celebrate. After a few moments, the rope snaps and Jupiter gets back on his feet. Brenda and Bobby head into the camper, holding their breaths as propane pumps steadily from canisters already positioned there. Bobby tapes two matches face down on the bottom of the door, pressing the heads of the matches against an igniter strip he has already taped to the ground. Jupiter reaches the camper while the two siblings sneak out of a window. He hesitates but decides to open the door. Brenda and Bobby celebrate some distance away as they watch the camper explode.
THE SCRIPT
Excerpt taken from the script ‘Blood Relations — The Sun Wars’ written by Wes Craven.
THE SCREEN
In the film, the scene opens with a medium shot of Ethel’s limp body sitting in a lawn chair alone in the desert. The shot pulls back, revealing Brenda, sitting atop the station wagon as she shields her eyes from the sun and stares nervously out across the dusty landscape. A wide shot through the brush reveals a figure running in the distance and a quick rack focus brings the man into sharp perspective. Jupiter is on his way.
In the script, Jupiter is not alone:
CUT TO PA PA AND HIS STRIKE GROUP. THE GIANT MAN REFUSES TO APPROACH THE WOMAN. HE SENDS ANOTHER IN. THE MAN CLEARLY DOESN’T WANT TO DO IT, BUT PA PA CLOUTS HIM ACROSS THE FACE AND SENDS HIM SPINNING IN.
Providing a larger posse of inbred cannibals on the page, the screenplay suggests that the patriarch rarely has to fight his own battles anymore, sending in drones to do his dirty work. This adds complexity to the set-piece and increases the sense of danger while also presenting a more convoluted problem to solve.
Meanwhile, Brenda is working with DESPERATE SPEED. The script details the elaborate setup back at the car, explaining, SHE UNTIES THE END OF THE TELEPHONE LINE FROM THE REAR BUMPER OF THE CAR AND GIVES IT THREE WRAPS INSTEAD AROUND THE RIM. In the film, the work has already been completed. Excising the set up not only serves as a time-saver but allows for cleaner execution with no break in the immediate dread Craven is hard at work constructing.
The film takes several beats as Jupiter surveys Ethel in the chair. The image cuts back and forth between Jupiter, Brenda, and Bobby, as the two at the car quietly coax the monstrous cannibal into the exact spot they need him to be in. In the script, Jupiter’s crew picks up Ethel’s body and THEY THROW HER INTO THE BUSHES before taking TURNS SITTING ON THE CHAIR. Heading in a more outlandish and darkly comical route, it’s then that Brenda RAISES HER ARM AND DROPS IT SUDDENLY, shouting “Now!”
On the screen, the image tracks along the wire that’s been affixed to the metal normally bearing a tire, followed by Bobby’s foot on the gas and the exhaust pipe kicking out smoke. This is the first glimpse of what it is that Brenda and Bobby are up to on the screen, instilling the moment of payoff with excitement that it otherwise might not have had. Near the lawn chair, the other end of the wire tightens and catches Jupiter around the legs. In a medium shot, he stiffens and falls hard onto the ground as the wire pulls him relentlessly toward the vehicle
In the screenplay, as its not simply one man but a group of inbred cannibals that Brenda and Bobby must deal with, the intended effect of their trap is different. As written, THE LOOP CLOSES WITH BLINDING SPEED, CATCHING THEM ALL BE THE ANKLES AND LEGS AND JERKING THEM OFF THROUGH THE BRUSH IN ONE HUGE CLUMP. They all fly forward together as Jupiter is left behind in STUNNED ISOLATION. The group lands in the clearing in A BLEEDING MESS. Bobby hurries over and begins SHOOTING THEM IN THE HEAD, ONE SHOT PER MAN. Brenda dispatches others with A BASEBALL BAT, SWUNG WITH INCREDIBLE STRENGTH until all have been killed.
Putting aside the idea that Brenda and Bobby were able to capture nine men in a well-placed circle of wire hundreds of yards away, this conclusion is far-fetched at best and comes off as a rushed attempt at dealing with leftover narrative artifacts. The film, having done away with Jupiter’s group, opts instead to have the wire break, allowing Jupiter to get back to his feet. Brenda and Bobby make their way to the camper as Jupiter hurries toward them. Here, the script and the screen finally catch up to one another.
WHEN THEY GET TO THE DOOR BOBBY OPENS IT VERY CAREFULLY AND GIVES BRENDA A LOOK THAT SAYS ‘THIS HAS TO BE DONE JUST RIGHT’.
In the film and on the page, the two carefully make their way through the camper as Bobby tells his sister to “hold your nose”. While the method varies slightly, propane tanks in the film as opposed to gas burners in the script, and while the screen further simplifies the blocking, having Bobby take care of the set up while inside the camper as opposed to getting his sister out and coming back in, both culminate with Bobby setting the matches against the door.
A methodical description depicts precisely what we see onscreen: WE SEE HE HAS A STRIP OF THE ABRASIVE MATERIAL USUALLY FOUND ON THE SIDE OF KITCHEN MATCH BOXES ALREADY TAPED TO THE FLOOR RIGHT BY THE BOTTOM OF THE DOOR. Bobby tapes wooden matches to the bottom of the door, HEAD DOWN, RESTING AGAINST THE ABRASIVE STRIP. From there, things move quickly on the page. Without much thought, PA PA (Jupiter as he’s referred to in the script) arrives and, ignoring a note that reads “Hold your ears, Turkey”, grabs the door and GIVES A TREMENDOUS YANK.
In the film, Jupiter arrives and sniffs the air with some uncertainty. Close-ups show the matches set against the door as the camper fills with gas and the siblings huddling some distance away as they desperately wait for the explosion. This goes on for a moment or two, casting some doubt as to whether or not Jupiter is as clueless as he’s made out to be. It’s a quiet moment that further showcases the sort of instinctual, visceral filmmaking that Wes Craven would go on to perfect in subsequent outings.
Ultimately, both the script and the screen amount to the same end: THE TRAILER BLOWS UP WITH A TREMENDOUS BOWL OF FLAME AND DEBRIS, A HUGE CLOUD OF DUST AND FLAME ROLLING INTO THE AIR, GROWLING AND SNAPPING. After, Brenda and Bobby stand and GIVE EACH OTHER FIVE. A scene or two later, the film ends.
On the screen, the scene is far from over as is the film. While Brenda and Bobby celebrate, something stirs near the sight of the explosion and it seems that the twisted world of these monstrous, mountain-dwelling outcasts may not be behind them. In point of fact, having seen what they have seen, been where they have been, and done what they have done, true escape may as well be a dream as fleeting as the innocence sacrificed to the entire ordeal.
THE BLOODY CONCLUSION
“In the original script and the original cut, this was the next to last scene… the ending was hopeful,” Producer Peter Locke said on his commentary track to which Director Wes Craven replied, “then, we decided, we’re not gonna be so nice.”
The Hills Have Eyes has never been one of my favorite horror films. Embodying a filthy cruelness, there’s not much about the runtime I was able to ever latch on to and love. And yet it is undeniably affecting, an affront to the everyday normality that so many are accustomed to and a reminder that the world at large is not the safe, suburban landscape many middle-class Americans would like it to be.
As unhinged as the film is, the script is even more so, standing as a wonderful example of the evolution of the creative process. Of course, within those pages lies the core structure of what appears onscreen, rougher around the edges perhaps, but ever relevant to the machinations of the narrative. Rarely is that more present than the original ending to the picture: the explosion of the camper and the death of Jupiter.
Orchestrating the sequence was complicated and, in many ways dangerous, given the low budget and tight timeline of the production. In the commentary track, Peter Locke and Wes Craven talk about how the actors had to do their own stunts. “There was a discussion of whether we could put [Jupiter] in the shot without killing him,” Wes Craven said on the commentary, noting, “we only had one trailer and we only had one shot.” The fact that it all came out coherent, exciting, and narratively effective is a testament to the hard work of everyone involved.
This may have been my first major disappointment in my horror watching education, but it also stood as an important lesson in genre cinema. Not every movie sets out to delight as well as entertain, some exist to challenge, tug and push the boundaries of acceptability, dread, and fear. Whether or not that resonates with the viewer is relative and ever-changing, and that’s something to be valued, not dismissed.
In the words of Wes Craven, “sometimes the most civilized can be the most savage and the most savage can be the most civilized”. How that pertains to The Hills Have Eyes is in the eye of the beholder, but one imagines that keeping the sentiment in mind while viewing the film might offer up an interesting perspective. It may not be enjoyable, but, I suppose, that’s not always the point.
