V/H/S/94 Lives and Dies by Timo Tjahjanto’s Gory Hand
Photos via Shudder
To call a horror film anthology “uneven” is essentially a trope of anthology reviewing at this point, an assumption so universal and taken for granted that it barely needs to be uttered in the first place. Horror anthologies are uneven by nature, often scattershot in the level of talent and production capability available to them. Typically, this is simply a function of the unpredictable nature of filmmaking and producing, but Shudder’s new V/H/S/94 may be the first time I’ve watched a horror anthology where the “unevenness” seems less an unintended consequence and more an acknowledgement of intent from the start. Put simply, V/H/S/94 is almost less an anthology than it is a vehicle for a single, deliriously creative segment from director Timo Tjahjanto, which dominates the entire center of the film. All the other segments simply orbit this central anchor, caught in the inexorable pull of Tjahjanto’s demented imagination, which manages to give V/H/S/94 at least 30 minutes in which one cannot look away. It’s impossible to divorce one’s opinion of the film as a whole from Tjahjanto’s segment—it feels like the reason why the rest of them were shot.
This film is of course a return to the pioneering V/H/S series of found footage horror anthologies, which first delighted horror geeks with two quality installments in 2012 and 2013, kicking off a fresh wave of both horror anthologies and found footage experimentation. Each of those first two installments contained some truly stand-out horror short films of relatively equal quality, but the fortunes of V/H/S turned sour after the critical drubbing of third installment V/H/S: Viral in 2014, which was seen as a true shark-jumping moment for the series. A refractory period was clearly needed before this return in the form of 94, which bolts itself onto 1990s home video nostalgia while providing a platform for both returning filmmakers (Tjahjanto, David Bruckner, Simon Barrett) and new ones (Chloe Okuno, Jennifer Reeder, Ryan Prows) to explore their darkest fantasies.
At the end of the day, though, what people will be talking about is Tjahjanto’s absolutely gonzo segment “The Subject,” which sucks all the air out of the conversation with its adrenaline-pumping display of bloody action. The piece revolves around a mad scientist conducting gruesome experiments in an attempt to fuse man and machine, creating hideous biomechanical monsters in an underground compound that is eventually breached by an overzealous squad of riot police determined to put an end to the butchery. Here, “The Subject” plays nicely with perspective by giving us two key viewpoints that each frame the events in a different light: A camera being wielded by a member of the police documenting the raid, and a camera in the head of one of the mad doctor’s timid creations, who seeks only her own survival. Surrounded by an army of hulking, murderous monstrosities with razor arms, and riddled with gunfire from equally bloodthirsty police, the female creature is an obvious beacon of empathy. It’s like seeing the ending of Bride of Frankenstein from the Bride’s perspective … if the Bride had then picked up a futuristic gun arm and battled her way out of Dr. Frankenstein’s castle in an absurdly gory first-person shooting sequence reminiscent of Hardcore Henry on steroids.
And rest assured, “The Subject” is completely and totally absurd—never “frightening,” but existing in a horror sphere entirely beyond the attempt to legitimately scare an audience. Instead, its purpose is to dazzle the viewer with its joyful, grisly showcase of outstandingly grimy production design and slick melding of practical and CGI gore effects. To say this segment takes chances that none of the others venture is an incredible understatement—it’s orders of magnitude more technically complex, while simultaneously tapping into ethical themes that none of the other segments are interested in approaching. Never have I seen an anthology film so dominated by a single contribution.