(In)Visible Wounds: The Horror Films of Vietnam
The experience of the US soldier of Vietnam-both on and off the battlefield- has proved fertile ground for the film industry. Such assured classics as Oliver Stone’s Platoon and Born on the Fourth of July, Michael Cimino’s The Deer Hunter and Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now have undeniably diffused indelible images into America’s collective consciousness. The horror genre, however, has offered a handful of films concerning the same subject with perhaps more skill, reverence, imagination and emotional impact than its bigger-budgeted competitors. The horror genre is perfectly suited for the portrayal of the horrors of Vietnam because of the genre’s flexibility. The horror genre does not carry with it the same burden of credibility or polish that more "mainstream" genres such as comedy or drama do. Because of this loosening of said restrictions and requirements, the genre can more readily connect into the circuit of man’s fears and personal demons. And because of this increased freedom, such outrageous concepts as cannibalism and zombies are more readily accepted by the audience.
Undoubtedly, one of the largest and most painful warts of America’s most unpopular war was the effect of post traumatic stress disorder (or PTSD) on the returning vet. This surprisingly common and often devastating disorder was studied to better address and explain the unusual plight of the Vietnam veteran. PTSD is commonly defined as "The condition caused by extremely stressful experiences in which the person later experiences anxiety and irritability; has upsetting memories, dreams, and realistic flashbacks of the experience; and tries to avoid anything that reminds him or her of the experience."[1] PTSD is the cornerstone of criticism, metaphorical significance and terror in the horror films of Vietnam. Because PTSD is a symptom largely felt after the war (the traumatic experience), horror films addressing the Vietnam War concentrate exclusively on events following the war, which lends the films a strong degree of introspection and personal claustrophobia.
Perhaps the most sensitive, harrowing and perceptive of such films is director Bob Clark’s 1972 film Dead of Night. A shattering portrayal of the personal demons of the returning veteran, Clark’s film rings with an eerie resonance to this day. The film also features the most inventive and logical horror metaphor for the shell-shocked veteran suffering with PTSD: the zombie. The metaphor is so powerful and pertinent that an intimate knowledge of the fledgling zombie subgenre of the time is not needed to appreciate its brilliance. The characteristic numbing effect of PTSD begs the layman’s comparison between the veteran and a vacant zombie. Clark merely upgrades that "zombie" to the more cinematic representation, insatiable bloodlust and decaying flesh intact.
That "zombie" is Andy Brooks (Richard Backus), a soldier mortally wounded in the battlefields of Vietnam. At home his family grieves for him. His mother (Lynn Carlin) is especially distraught. In an eerie coincidence, a US army sergeant arrives at the family’s home to deliver the bad news. The family is shattered, but one more remarkable occurrence awaits the family that night. Almost as a bizarre joke, Andy returns home that night. The family is suitably elated, but soon come to the harrowing conclusion that perhaps Andy shouldn’t have returned after all.
Throughout the film, Andy is a ghastly shell of his former self. His voice is an eternal monotone, his emotions at best subdued, and his face as hard and unswerving as granite. His re-acceptance into society is awkward, heartbreaking and deadly. Andy’s father (John Marley) quickly loses patience with the boy, desperately crying "the boy is so different!" Andy’s father’s love is pushed to its limit when Andy, in a sudden explosion of rage (a common affliction among sufferers of PTSD) strangles the family dog. Earlier in the film, the family postman delivers a telling piece of advice to Andy’s father (himself a veteran), admitting, "We lost a lot of good boys [in WW2]. Kept some we should have lost too." This tremendously revealing, yet succinct quote is a testament to Alan Ormsby’s sage scriptwriting.
One of the major themes in the film-and of this subgenre-is that of the failed, painful attempt of the returning veteran and his loved ones to recapture old times. Dead of Night is brimming with bittersweet instances of this theme. Perhaps the most emotionally devastating instance occurs when Andy’s father peruses old photo albums of Andy in various stages of maturity. The joyous, faded photographs of a youthful Andy are rudely juxtaposed with a sequence of Andy’s zombified body deteriorating into a flaky-fleshed mass. Another gruesome and poignant failed attempt at recapturing old times occurs when Andy is persuaded to join his sister Cathy (Anya Ormsby-sister of writer Alan Ormsby) and friend Bob on a double date with his old flame Joanne. The sequence where Andy first greets Joanne is spellbinding in its heartache. Andy descends the stairs in semi darkness, a motorized mannequin, wearing dark sunglasses to hide his rotting eyes, greeting a subtly horrified Joanne. Even more horrifying is the ill-fated date at a nearby drive-in. The date ends prematurely in tragedy. When Joanne tries (in vain) to rekindle the old flame, she discovers Andy’s horrific bodily decay, and soon Andy’s lust for blood causes her murder.
Perhaps the film’s greatest asset is its use of subtle suggestion. Never in the film is it explicitly stated that Andy fought in the Vietnam War. In fact, Vietnam is never mentioned. However, director Bob Clark’s mise-en-scene is so consistent and so conscious of the era that even the most uninformed viewer will come to the conclusion that the Vietnam War is the one in question. Writer Ormsby is equally cognizant of the war’s critics and popular sentiment as well. In a standout scene, Andy’s father fights with his ever-accepting mother, blaming Andy for his erratic, violent behavior and justifying his anger by admitting "Well, I went through it too and I didn’t come out like that!" His father’s admission was a common complaint among WW2 veteran fathers about their sons’ unusual behavior upon returning from war. Many WW2 veterans were quick to claim that their tours of duty were longer (which they were) than the Vietnam veterans’. But what they failed to realize was the tremendous difference between the style of warfare in the two wars. World War II featured a far more traditional battlefield, characterized with lines of soldiers fighting similarly grouped lines of opposition. The Vietnam battlefield was far more unconventional, concentrating more on stealth and guerilla warfare. Simply put, the enemy could be anywhere, or anyone (including seemingly docile civilians). This increased the tension and paranoia a thousandfold for Vietnam soldiers, tremendously contributing to their lasting sense of paranoia off the battlefield.
Director Bob Clark sutures closed a disturbing, haunting film with an equally disquieting closing sequence. In an effort to lay the past to rest (yet another recurring concept in this subgenre and an ongoing challenge for many Vietnam vets), Andy orders his mother to drive to the local cemetery where he can finally die. The following sequence, in which a rapidly decaying Andy has his mother help him bury himself, is one of the most poetic and disturbing of the decade. The film fades to black with Andy’s mother sobbing and crying out his name in anguish.
Continuing the returning-veteran-as-literal-monster theme is Antonio Margheriti’s 1980 horror/exploitation opus Cannibal Apocalypse. The director would continue to explore the Vietnam war in the same year’s The Last Hunter, but with far less satisfying results. Cannibal Apocalypse stands as a true curio in the rush of Italian exploitation films common in the early 80’s because of its moments of truth and intelligence coexisting with the requisite gory shocks. The story concerns the two very different plights of two veterans from the war: Charlie Bukowski (Giovanni Radice, AKA John Morghen) and Norman Hopper (the ubiquitous John Saxon). Both, however, share a horrific memento from the war: a virus that cursed them with an insatiable cannibalistic hunger. Because both men were in the same platoon (Charlie a soldier, Norman his sergeant), the delinquent Charlie feels a kinship with Norman and soon begins to search for him, with deadly results.
Although the exploitative plot allows maximum breathing room for the film’s plentiful gore sequences, a far more profound set of metaphors on the plight of the returning vet also has room to emerge. While the concept of cannibalism as a symptom or actual metaphor for PTSD is inspired, the film’s most fascinating concept is its treatment of its two leads and their individual attempts at readjusting to civilian life.
Charlie Bukowski takes on the role of a misfit, hopelessly scarred from battle. He is the bane of the American public. He is subject to scolding stares, verbal abuse and more by various passerbies. It is also interesting to note that "Charlie" was the codename for the Vietcong by American soldiers, the significance here being that Charlie is the enemy among US citizens, still bitter from a long, losing war. Charlie freely indulges in his cannibalistic cravings, such as when he bites the arm of a woman in a darkened movie theater. Charlie’s malevolence reaches a zenith, however, when he robs a department store, brutally killing a clerk with his shotgun. Charlie’s reckless actions land him in a correctional facility where he is again ridiculed. However, he soon stages a bloody escape with his army friend (Bobby Rhodes, star of The Last Hunter), and soon Charlie and his friend are let loose on the streets again…
Norman Hopper can be accurately seen as Charlie’s doppelgänger. He is a well-adjusted member of society, with a loving wife and a cozy home in the suburbs. However, Norman is ultimately undone by the very opposite problem afflicting Charlie: he is too far away from his memories of Vietnam. Although he is frequently haunted by feverish memories of Vietnam, he simply won’t acknowledge them, such as when he declines an offer from Charlie for a drink. He also tries (ultimately in vain) to suppress the cannibal within him.
However, fate intervenes and the two men’s vastly different lives soon intertwine when Norman visits the same hospital Charlie is confined in for a psychoanalysis session. Once again, Charlie manages to escape and Norman joins him. The two cannibals join up with an infected hospital worker and soon take to the sewers in a futile attempt to escape the authorities and, most importantly, their own reality. Unsurprisingly, however, it all ends in tragedy, as Charlie is brutally gunned down in one of the film’s most celebrated gore sequences. Norman escapes, but his fate is sealed. It is in Norman’s final undoing that the film asserts its message. Norman actively acknowledges his wartime past by looking over his old uniform and sundry army mementos. He further relives his past by donning his sergeant hat when his wife makes a sudden (and tragic) entrance into his reverie. His wife had been bitten by his doctor and had contracted the virus. In one last embrace, Norman apologizes for how his (and her) life concludes and a suicidal gunshot is heard, ending the film.
Because of the ultimate fates shared by the two vets, Margheriti’s film emerges as a most unlikely "how to" guide for a veteran on dealing with PTSD and the enormous challenge of stitching oneself back into the social fabric. Margheriti suggests the key to success for a returning veteran is to achieve a balance of remembering the past while forging a new path in present life, a strategy fatally ignored by both Charlie and Norman.
If ever there were an antithesis to Margheriti’s clear-cut storytelling and metaphor, 1990’s Jacob’s Ladder would be it. Directed with a relentless, nightmarish style by Adrian Lyne, this rather recent entry in the subgenre manages to bring fresh interpretations and introspection to a seemingly moribund subgenre. The film’s greatest asset-its calculatedly labyrinthine plot-effortlessly draws the viewer into the protagonist’s crumbling sanity. Coupled with a constant stream of surreal, freakish images, Jacob’s Ladder may very well be the most disturbing of all Vietnam horror films.
The interlocking plot basically concerns the personal hell of Jacob Singer (Tim Robbins), a particularly tortured Vietnam veteran. Throughout most of the film, Jacob seems to be living a painful life as a recovering veteran, living with his girlfriend Jezebel (Elizabeth Pena) and grieving over the death of his son Gabe (an uncredited Macaulay Culkin), who died during his service in the war. However, recovering from the death of his son is the least of Jacob’s worries, as he soon begins to have horrific hallucinations, often involving semi-humanoid mutants. The film then abruptly shifts its point of reference when Jacob runs a high fever and is submerged in an icy bath. As he loses consciousness another "reality" begins, in which he is lying in bed with his wife Sara (little is divulged about this character). His dead son Gabe comes into the room, wishing him to tuck him in. As soon as Jacob regains consciousness, his "reality" with his girlfriend resumes. Yet another "storyline" coexists throughout the film, in which Jacob is apparently dying in Vietnam.
For those who haven’t already guessed it, the bulk of the film’s footage is merely Jacob’s dying dreams in Vietnam. Many critics saw this trick ending as a copout, but in Jacob’s Ladder, it is the tremendously powerful imagery and emotional manipulation that ultimately count, not the schematics of the plot. No film has come closer through imagery alone to capturing the horror and insanity of the vet’s experience. The film’s imagery is so potent it could be considered modern expressionism. Lyne perfectly captures Jacob’s fear, paranoia and disorientation from the first sequence in which Jacob rides a filthy New York City subway home. The few commuters are silent, repugnant and unwilling to help Jacob. Before he leaves the subway car he views a homeless man and a hideous, serpent-like penis coil under the man’s musty blankets. The subway station is equally vacant. In a Kafka-esque moment, Jacob walks up the steps to the exit but realizes that it has been sealed off and leads nowhere.
What the film offers beyond the unique visuals is the seldom-explored realm of experimental drug testing on unwitting soldiers in Vietnam. It has been documented that soldiers were given an experimental drug that would increase their endurance and output. That drug was later revealed to be an early prototype of methamphetamine (commonly known as speed). However, as the film itself shows at its conclusion, far more deadly and torturous drugs were used, such as "bz", which resulted in hallucinations and flashbacks in many vets. To this day, the government denies using these drugs on soldiers. Accordingly, when Jacob and fellow veterans hire a lawyer to probe such mysteries, a group of toughs apprehend Jacob and beat him senseless to keep his mouth shut. This experimental drug (given the fictitious name "Ladder"-hence the title) was used one fateful day on Jacob’s platoon and is the catalyst for his hallucinations. In the film’s most impressive and horrific sequence, Jacob is taken to a hospital for the wounds he received from the governmental henchmen. As he is pushed further and further into the bowels of the hospital the hospital becomes more sinister, more foreboding. He sees his dead son’s mangled bicycle in one corner. Soon he is whisked off to a hellish ward where the insane are caged. Amputees and the mentally ill crawl above him on a rickety steel catwalk. The floors are spattered with blood and carpeted with limbs. An obese woman is seen breastfeeding her whiny baby. Before Jacob loses his mind to sheer terror he is brought to the creaky operating table, on which an eyeless surgeon prepares to operate. To his horror, his girlfriend is one of the surgeons. The eyeless surgeon comforts him, telling him not to worry because he has already died.
A nightmarish hallucination, to be sure, but the truth is far more frightening in Jacob’s Ladder. A mysterious stranger takes Jacob aside and reveals himself to be the scientist who created and tested the "ladder." He tells of the horrific results when tested on animals. He then reveals the true horror, as the drug was tested on young Vietnamese children, resulting in violent, senseless in-fighting and gruesome death. Then, the unthinkable: the drug was tested on one platoon (Jacob’s) and the result was disastrous, as the platoon, in its drugged frenzy, turned upon itself and soldier killed soldier.
Because of these terrible facts, such unbelievable concepts as cannibalism and zombies don’t seem too incredible. And that is the enduring strength of the film: to make the unthinkable real, to portray the unspeakable personal horror of the veteran to the layman. The film’s strengths don’t stop there, however. The film cogently addresses the inevitable concept of the veteran making peace with the past. Jacob re-opens old wounds by looking over various trinkets from his service (photos, bullets, dog tags, etc). A smile grows on his face but is soon halted when he discovers a letter his son wrote to him during his service. Tears stream down his face; he is not yet able to come to terms with his son’s death. Seeking spiritual satisfaction, Jacob returns to his family’s old home. His rosy reminiscing is interrupted by his son’s magical reappearance. Holding his trembling hand, his son comforts him and brings him up the stairs to salvation, where a golden light is emanating. The "dream" that has been ongoing throughout the film ends as Jacob dies on a makeshift hospital bed in Vietnam.
In stark contrast to Jacob’s Ladder is Buddy Giovinazzo’s 1987 film Combat Shock. Lacking the gloss and starpower of Lyne’s film, Giovinazzo’s vision of the theme is decidedly rawer, harsher and, perhaps, more credible than Lyne’s view. Essentially a no-budget independent film promising shocks first and thought later, the film’s intensely gritty imagery and relentless portrayal of a combat shocked veteran are, regardless, undeniably compelling.
Rick Giovinazzo (the director’s brother) stars as Frankie Dunlan, the archetypal returning veteran. Frankie lives in a particularly rotten scrap of Long Island. The location functions similarly to those in Jacob’s Ladder: an expressionist projection of Frankie’s decaying mental state. However, unlike Lyne’s film, Frankie’s exterior rot is segued into his domestic situation. His home is, at best, controlled chaos. His wife, a fatty cloud of sweat and anger, constantly berates him for his idle behavior. And his infant boy is a hideous mutant, a result of Frankie’s wartime exposure to Agent Orange.
The inclusion of Frankie’s deformed son is a surprisingly thoughtful one, and offers more than mere shock value. No other horror film concerning Vietnam has addressed the very real issue of the horrific aftermath of Agent Orange testing. An experimental herbicide widely used by the US government from 1962 to 1970[2] on the fields of Vietnam, Agent Orange was used for two main reasons: thinning forests to reveal Vietcong forces and poisoning crops that would feed opposing forces. The agent, which included quantities of a lethal substance known as dioxin, continues to cause health problems for both Vietnam veterans and current Vietnamese settlers. Birth defects, such as the ones sustained in Frankie’s child (although exaggerated for the film) were not uncommon among returning vets, as well as cancers and other health defects.
The film’s main strength, however, is the unbridled fury, bitterness and graphic poverty suffered by Frankie. Because the film is highly introspective and less episodic than other entries, the viewer is allowed uneasily intimate access to Frankie’s psyche. Frankie often speaks candidly about his situation in a series of narratives, in which he admits, "Sometimes I feel like I’m oozing out of my body…my mind is somewhere else." Although the film is populated with the requisite flashbacks (this time in a POW camp), it is how they are triggered that separates the film from others. Director Giovinazzo must have done his research on PTSD, as Frankie’s flashbacks are initiated in realistic ways, such as images or sounds (such as a dripping faucet) that recall his trauma. In one such scene a rotting, maggot-infested piece of meat in a garbage can forces Frankie to vividly recall the filthy conditions of his solitary confinement in a POW camp.
Complementing the more inward-looking scenes of horror are rewarding sequences where Frankie interacts with various denizens of his urban hellhole. His painful discourses with his junkie friend Mike effectively help to convey the collective sense of hopelessness. One scene, in which a desperate Mike uses a scrap piece of wire to shoot heroin, will undoubtedly leave an indelible mark on the viewer and will help one appreciate the tremendous turmoil and heartbreak of Frankie’s post-Vietnam world.
The accurate portrayal of a PTSD sufferer’s broken social interactions continues in a standout sequence where Frankie awakens a dormant member of his life: his father. Out of desperation and financial dire straits, Frankie contacts his father, whom he hasn’t spoken to since the war. Thinking Frankie dead from the war, Frankie’s father’s surprise soon turns to sorrow. In an emotionally explosive sequence, Frankie’s father admits he cannot help or accept him. Supposedly his father has lost his fortune and is merely waiting to die. He admits, "There’s nothing I can do for you, Frankie. I don’t think I can face the past. There’s too much time between us. I don’t want to go back." Rarely has a more telling line of dialogue been spoken about the pain and enormous challenge of readjusting and reconnecting severed ties after the war.
The downbeat and nihilistic conclusion proved too much for many audiences to bear, but its unflinching explicitness is as worthy as it is truthful. Frankie admits to himself that he did indeed die in Saigon, and only his dismal mortal coil remains. Hopeless, distraught, and emotionally exhausted, Frankie decides the only way to "save" his family from their dire situation is through death. In a moment of searing catharsis, Frankie shoots his wife dead. He then moves the revolver to his baby, who is also shot, spitting up a geyser of blood. In the film’s most shocking sequence, Frankie places his baby’s corpse in the oven and then turns the gun on himself, an all-too-real reality for many Vietnam veterans[3].
Inevitably, the temptation to exploit the lurid possibilities of a shell-shocked veteran proved too much, and a handful of insulting, opportunist horror films arose, portraying the returning veteran as a maniac. Among these reprehensible films is a genuine oddity that deserves mention, Renato Polselli’s Delirium (1972). But it’s not the director who is to blame, it’s the film’s US distributors. The film, in its original form, is at its heart a tremendously sleazy Italian thriller overflowing with sexual violence and a twisting, incoherent plot. However, the export English language version (on such video labels as the "Academy Video" [in the US] and "Empire Video" [in Holland]) includes a hastily produced prologue and epilogue featuring slapdash stock battle footage of Vietnam merged with spurious live footage featuring a wounded soldier (Micky Hargitay) waiting to be airlifted to a hospital. This prologue’s main purpose is to explain and justify Hargitay’s murderous and sexual excesses throughout the film. This is an unfortunate and irresponsible misreading of PTSD and its effects on the individual. While PTSD sufferers may be emotionally unstable and prone to violent emotional eruptions, they are hardly the sex-crazed, homicidal maniacs portrayed in this alternate version of the film.
The horror films of the Vietnam war carry with them not the simple stipulation of jolting the viewer, but a more honorable undertaking of enlightening the viewer (be it through surreal imagery, careful metaphor, or graphic, confrontational images) about a soldier’s post-war battle.
[1] Benjamin B. Lahey, Psychology: An Introduction (New York: McGraw-Hill, 2001) 545.
[2] "Agent Orange," The Encyclopedia Britannica, 1994 ed.
[3] For a haunting and very real account of just some of the many who have committed suicide over their service in Vietnam, go to this important website: http://www.suicidewall.com/SWWall.html
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