Cinemaniac Big mustachioed boy Vinnie, working day and night as a taxi driver in a big American city, is very sick. Not schizophrenia, sociopathy, psychopathy and other dislocations of the mind, including anemia and apathy, but cinematic mania, which became his fruitful monomania. In her sophisticated bluephile dreams, Vinnie imagines herself as a director filming her magnum opus with Jeanne Bates in the title role - a pretty popular actress who has long taken possession of the soul and body of the new synephagus, becoming his priceless muse - although she herself does not even realize this. And to make her goal a reality, Vinnie will do anything and go anywhere, even to Cannes.
The paths of evolution of slasher - one of the most primitive subgenres of horror - do not differ in particular exceptionality: from the rudimentary protoslasher to just a slasher, then - to the aesthetics of postmodern and metaslashers, and the thunderous echo of the latter began to appear already in the peak of the heyday of the main genre, in the eighties, when almost all the leading masters of horror were noted in this genre (not always successfully), but truly coming to the avant-garde in the nineties, with the appearance of a series of postmodern youth horrors of the film "Krigorod" type, only from the "Krigory" in the final stage of the "Krigory" in the s, and the "Chrystrostroika" in the "Chrystroika" tradition, and the "after the stroika" in the "theres" in the final s" stroikas" in the "Chrys" stroubles, and the "after the "fishing of the But the origins of Craven’s postmodern aesthetics of a complete reworking of the genre canons of slash and thrash lie in the rather inconspicuous metaslasher “The Last Horror Film” of 1982 by director David Winters, which is an absolute metakino, aimed not at creating a terrible atmosphere of madness coupled with bloodthirsty violence, but at self-irony, with an abundance of quotes and an extravagant approach to film-language communication. In fact, the film directed by David Winters can hardly be called a pure-blooded horror film: with the apparent observance of the canon, he rather turns them inside out, and throughout the film there is no doubt that this is just a movie in which the unreality of death coexists with almost Brechtian absurdity, and the structure of the film in the film is stratified into several of the same that only once intersect with each other.
“The Last Horror Film” is a set of postmodern gags translated into cinema by contrasting style methods: deliberately bright and polished camera work by Thomas F. Denovae, a dynamic montage of Edward Salier and Chris Barnes, aesthetic beats of the soundtrack of Frederick and Coe, which together form a very atypical for a slasher with his mandatory rushes of frank sex and naturalistic murders, a film-language monolith that serves not to lead the audience to a state of special identity, since the universe is simply lost in horror. This is a slasher about slashers, which, however, is not limited to only rethinking this genre, since references to Martin Scorsese's Taxi Driver are more than obvious (however, Vinnie is still a comic and purely mythological figure, a living archetype) and Hitchcock's Psycho as the main ancestor of slashers; to the paintings of John Cassavetis and François Truffaut, it is not for nothing that the plot of the film, which starts with a gloomy American exposition, just performed in the psychologically archist of the night, which does not escape from its originality of the author's, but to the extreme degree of the author's, but to the extreme degree of the author's originality of the author's, which it's originality, which does not move to the author's originality of the author's originality. . .
And it is this author who strives to become enfent miserable Vinnie, gradually losing the threads of sane connections with the real outside world, where he is nobody, to call him in no way and his life is too reminiscent of not a mind-blowing movie ride, but simply mind-blowing, without the right to healing. However, it is impossible in principle to understand for sure where the movie begins, and where our reality is, where the triumph of nightmares occurs, and where the awakening comes. David Winters deliberately leaves a considerable lacuna in his own inter-cinematographic fabric, saturating the dramaturgy of the picture with much more texture than it should be, while leaving much more room for factual inefficiencies, secretly throwing non-trivial plot moves, with a change in constant values and a conceptual chronicle of immersion in the chthonic animal essence of big cinema, where such amateurs as the failed director Vinnie, there is no place, and therefore they only have to rebel and kill in the spirit of the underground. Death for the sake of cinema, however, does not become the death of cinema itself; it is simply that the author could not tame his own demons, and instead of starting small, he went big.