by Christopher Morley
Step into the big top and prepare to be dazzled by circus life imitating art — or is it art imitating life? Ever since my first exposure to Killer Klowns from Outer Space as a naïve student, I could not help but wonder, and now, as a naïve older writer, I’m still pondering. Consider its background — directed by special effects wizards the Chiodo Brothers, it could be as much a love letter to the circus arts as an all-too visceral reminder of their dark side.
Rather wonderfully, the circus enters town as a neat spin on the classic “crashed spacecraft” trope, curiosity getting the better of farmer Gene Green (an easy day’s work for the magnificently named Royal Dano). He and his dog meet a nasty end at the hands of the titular Killer Klowns, red-nosed harbingers of doom who make it their self-appointed mission to find ever more ridiculous ways to dispatch victims; the popcorn gun and candy cocoons are among some of the macabre delights peddled by these slapstick sadists.
If that weren’t enough to put you off a trip for life, that most basic of clownish tricks, the balloon animal, is also put to frighteningly clever use as a sort of hunting dog — and all of this inside the first few minutes!
The strange mix of fear and enjoyment, which can interchange throughout a viewing experience such as this, reaches fever pitch once the line between comedy and horror has been somewhat blurred. It reaches a crescendo as the Klowns spread their net wider, putting shadow puppetry, rubber mallets, pies to the face, and overlong boxing gloves to over-the-top use.
Are we to laugh or recoil in terror? Or both? You’d be forgiven for throwing your popcorn to the floor (if it’s survived past the showmanlike reveal of some similar-looking baby Klowns whose diet appears to consist solely of shrunken people) and cursing the name of Philip Astley forthwith (the man widely credited with the introduction of what we would nowadays recognize as the circus into popular culture).
But a glance even further back reveals that the Ancient Rome origins of the spectacle could be every bit as horrifying as what you’re being shown on screen, and equally as alien, so think before you spit out your drink, even if you may want to following the revelation of just how the Klowns drain their victims — it involves a straw…
If you’re reading on, still humming Julius Fucik’s “Entrance of the Gladiators” to yourself (arguably the definitive entry in anyone’s list of circus music), you’ll be pleased to know that the sound-world is every bit as important as its cinematic cousin.
Composer John Massari excels in creating a score that is equal parts daft and diabolical, the contrast between sound and vision at key points in the narrative undeniably more shocking than the acting and dialogue, the real clue as to the more practical origins of its directors.
And if you yourself or anyone you know suffers from a fear of circuses, exposure to this film will either cure or increase it, laughter at the ridiculousness of it all or utter terror after stumbling across some unpleasant visual cue to bring back the repressed inherent darkness of your first visit to the big top being the two ends of the spectrum. Perhaps the best way to ease them, and yourself, into the experience is to treat it as exactly that which it seeks to turn on its head — a circus show.
After all, thrills, spills, popcorn, knowingly hammy acting, musical cues by turn terrifying and an open invitation to giggle — a definite common lineage bridges the gap between circus and cinema in this case, and it’s not too hard to suspend your disbelief if you throw yourself into it either.
A rough “trick-reveal-death-trick-reveal-death” pattern quickly makes itself known, and coincidentally you can indeed mentally hum the structure to yourself to the rough tune of the aforementioned “Entrance of the Gladiators,” as well as adding tuneful admonishments to the characters on screen not to investigate what’s going on at the none-too-subtly named “Top of the Hill” make-out point, or the “Klown Kathedral.” Quite why our genocidal jape-merchants require one is never really explained until we meet Jojo the Klownzilla, a giant Klown who clearly fulfills the role of Pope to the Kathedral’s kongregation.
Anyone expecting a sermon on faith, hope, or charity and a few hymns will be wishing they’d stayed tuned to Songs of Praise once they realize his intentions — following the rescue of Debbie (a superbly screamy Suzanne Snyder) by the Terenzi brothers (Michael Siegel as Rich, alongside Peter Licassi’s Paul) by a well-aimed ice cream van, he manifests as a giant puppet and quickly breaks free of his strings, intending to gobble anyone vaguely human for himself.
Luckily for most of the gang of teenage stereotypes, he gets a mere snack instead of his intended full-blown supper, the Terenzis managing at least to appear to die with some measure of honor without having to leave their van.
As ever with the performing arts, though, nothing is quite what it seems, a twist of fate and a good place to hide sparing them the ignominy of a “death by Klown” entry in the obituaries section of the local paper. It can’t happen twice, though, can it? Sheriff Dave Hanson (John Allen Nelson), having overcome initial skepticism to come to the hilariously-monikered Mike Tobacco (Grant Cramer)’s aid when the circus literally came to town, also appears to bite the big one in this dogfight which returns their small town to its normal Klownless self, but somehow survives — a piece of trickery equally as confounding as any equivalent an experienced clown could pull from his inevitably very small bag.
Just to seal the deal, the convoluted ending is a masterful nod to the very basic DNA of clowning — ”is it over?” quickly followed by a shower of pies and an evil laugh. Over to you, Cirque Du Soleil…