Editorials
[Prime Cuts] ‘Fade to Black’ Was Horror Fan Obsession Taken to the Extreme
Prime Cuts dives head-first into Amazon Prime’s surprisingly replete genre catalog to unearth some tried-and-true classics, forgotten sleepers, and hidden gems, all in the name of giving you something to watch this weekend. Catch ’em before they’re gone.
Thanks to social media and the Internet as a whole, there’s never been a better time to be a nerdy film freak than now. These days, celebrity obsession is customary, oversharing is a societal requirement, and movie and entertainment blogs rule the world. No matter which platform you choose, one look and you’ll see everyone is sick with the disease of entertainment: people are out-trivia-ing each other on message boards, sharing photos of their extensive VHS and DVD collections on Instagram, and having heated debates on Twitter over the merits of a film that hasn’t even been released yet and won’t be for another year.
With all of that in front of us every day, it’s hard to imagine there was ever a time when being a movie-obsessed geek could be considered anything else than totally necessary. However, Vernon Zimmerman’s Fade to Black reminds us that not only were foamy-mouthed cinephiles once on the fringe of society, but that their fervent obsessions could be viewed as borderline dangerous.
When we’re first introduced to the film’s troubled anti-hero, Eric Binford (Dennis Christopher), he’s sprawled out in bed, the curtains drawn tight to block out the morning sun. He’s nursing a hangover after an all-night binge on his drug of choice: pre-Hayes Code-era movies. The gangsters in Little Caesar argue while Eric sleeps; their noir-heavy lingo a proxy white noise machine.
We soon find out what fuels Eric’s escapist behavior: he lives with his paraplegic Aunt Stella (Eve Brent), a one-time dancer robbed of her abilities in a car wreck which also killed Eric’s father and mother, an actress who was being courted by Hollywood at the time. His aunt resents everything about him; from having to be his ward to the fact that she thinks he’s squandering his life with this movie obsession she doesn’t understand.
The interactions at his job aren’t any better. He works as a delivery boy for a film distribution company and, despite having only worked there for a few weeks, has managed to earn the ire of his boss and his co-workers—his boss wants to fire him; his co-workers want to beat him to a pulp.
Thankfully, Eric has a great defense mechanism: total movie immersion. Using the films he loves as a shield, he never has to be himself or deal with any of life’s consequences. The second he opens his eyes in the morning, it’s “action!”, and throughout the day he gets as many takes as he likes to get his own story right. Instead of normal chit-chat, his verbal interactions with others consist of pertinent movie quotes. And when he’s feeling belittled, he proves his superiority by using trivia on old films as a conversational weapon; he knows the answers that no one else does, which gives him the upper hand. But even when he practices his best Cagney sneer in the bedroom mirror, both Eric and the viewer know this is the closest he’ll ever get to being intimidating—by pretending.
Through a series of disastrous circumstances—including a failed romance with a Marilyn Monroe lookalike and a deal-gone-bad with a shady Hollywood producer—Eric finally snaps. He exacts his revenge on all those who’ve wronged him by recreating scenes from some of his favorite films, using them as a backdrop for the murders he intends to commit.
In the annals of horror’s most memorable killers, Eric makes for an interesting psycho: he’s not interested in the slasher craze, which was in full force at the time Fade to Black was made. He cares only about the purity of the craft—the acting, the lighting, the direction of old Hollywood; when men were men and women were dames. Sure, he references Dracula and The Mummy in some of his more creative kills, but those films are practically G-rated by today’s standards. All of this makes Fade to Black a fun watch in modern times. Within the world of the film, which takes place in 1980, Binford’s obsession with films from the early 1930s seems quirky and quaint; it earns him the contempt from his family and friends—borne of confusion, really—which propels him into his downward spiral. But had Eric existed today—and been obsessed with the New Hollywood films of the ‘70s—would that be cause for concern? Probably not.
Ultimately, Eric is simply a victim of being born in the wrong time. Nowadays, his obsession with niche cinema would be lauded; hell, he’d probably have a very popular blog, too.
One of Fade to Black’s original tag lines was: “Meet Eric Binford, the ultimate movie buff. If you know someone like him… run!” Take a moment to look at your friend group, and start running.
“Elevated Horror.” Of all the combinations in the English language, that one is the most insufferable.
It represents almost a decade of scary movies that, for the most part, took themselves too seriously. Horror responds to the moment, so its “why so serious” lean makes sense as we scuttle through the “worst of times” equation of Charles Dickens’ famous opening lines. But there’s still an opening and a need for a lighter approach; one that not only has fun with its audience but takes the piss out of a genre that is seemingly letting its newfound “respectability” go to its head.
Wes Craven believed devotees see horror films to let out their fears one primal scream at a time. At their core, these movies are roller coasters; they bring us as close to the edge as possible before pulling us back into a safety net of reality. The need for a bigger and badder coaster increases during times when the size of that net decreases.
There’s a thrill that comes from imagining being in a foot race with a madman, or outthinking the hordes of zombies on the other side of the door, plus the scavenger humans coming behind them. There’s even a rush that comes from imagining how one might deal with possession to see good triumph over evil in the end. It’s all about building tension and releasing it through catharsis. That cathartic release usually sounds like screams followed by laughter, which signals relief. Genre heavy hitters over the past 10 years offered very little of that respite when the credits rolled. Films like Hereditary, The Witch, Talk to Me, and even Smile (pick one) keep that tension going after the screen fades to black.
Hereditary
As the genre became obsessed with creating trauma metaphors, that lack of release made sense. Anyone with even a small sample size of traumatic experiences knows those emotions don’t magically resolve themselves in an allotted run time. But how much trauma can one take? Especially when there’s a mess going on outside that few of us can escape from. Movies offer that off-ramp, no matter how short.
Everything can’t be, nor should it be, “elevated.” Audiences need thoughtful explorations of life’s ills via monsters as much as they need murdering masked maniacs with kitchen knives. And no, it doesn’t have to go any deeper than that. Sometimes, a knife is just a knife, and it’s still worth our time and respect. As weird as it sounds, that simplicity is comforting not in spite of the trauma but because of it.
The worst of times should manifest more than just anguish. People need to laugh just as much as they need to think seriously about this moment in time. Even the Scream franchise forgot the meta rock upon which it built its church when the latest foray sacrificed the subtle comedy for serious drama. Scary Movie returned at the perfect moment. It provides the necessary laughs, but it’s not a cure-all.
This isn’t a call for Scary Movie imitators but a return to a mainstream landscape where Killer Klowns from Outer Space sat with The Serpent and the Rainbow, nestled neatly with the latest Nightmare on Elm Street, which took nothing away from The Vanishing.
They Live
Even They Live, John Carpenter’s horror sci-fi satire sandwich, kept its tongue firmly in cheek while discussing serious ideas still relevant in 2026. Yes, a film about aliens taking over the world through subliminal messaging only visible through coded sunglasses is, in fact, a tad silly. Carpenter understood that mainstream horror can’t become so self-important that it never looks itself in the mirror and laughs at that inherent silliness.
The thing is, horror historically excels at poking fun at itself. Most of the Scream franchise, The Cabin in the Woods, or The Blackening show adoration without kowtowing. They recognize tropes and trappings but invert them for an audience already in on the joke, but one that also finds solace in said conventions. This keeps the genre on its toes; once something gets parodied, it’s usually time to evolve. That breeds new ideas and fresh filmmakers, which not only strengthen the genre’s collective voice but also amplify it.
Get Out, as “elevated” as some critics want us to believe it is, is a cathartic, populist scary movie that spoke to an untapped audience rather than speaking down to them. Backrooms is one of the biggest horror hits in years, partially because it’s fine-tuned for modern-day teenagers instead of their parents. Movies like these tell everyone the genre is open for business; open for innovation and, yeah, open for new ways in which people can lovingly poke fun at with a wink and a nudge.
Horror needs dread as much as it needs laughter.
Catharsis is just as important as tension, and pulpy populism has the same merit as more high-brow material. Respectability shouldn’t come at the expense of an experience akin to walking through a haunted house. At a time when joy seems in short supply, horror should look to its past to map out its future, and make things just a tad brighter for audiences.
Backrooms
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