Editorials
‘[REC]’ (2007) vs. ‘Quarantine’ (2008) [Revenge of the Remakes]
Welcome to ‘Revenge of the Remakes,‘ where columnist Matt Donato takes us on a journey through the world of horror remakes. We all complain about Hollywood’s lack of originality whenever studios announce new remakes, reboots, and reimaginings, but the reality? Far more positive examples of refurbished classics and updated legacies exist than you’re willing to remember (or admit). The good, the bad, the unnecessary – Matt’s recounting them all.
Jaume Balagueró and Paco Plaza’s [REC] played an instrumental role in morphing “Matt Donato, Horror Dabbler” into “Matt Donato, Forever Horror Enthusiast.” Around the film’s release, I’d spend my collegiate downtime nurturing a newfound love of cinema that’d subsequently recalibrate my post-graduation career trajectory. The funny part is, horror wasn’t my forefront focus or dedicated passion until university – until I discovered [REC]. One fateful Netflix DVD rental on an internet blog’s recommendation showed me how profoundly introspective, deceptively versatile, and scarily unforgiving the horror genre could reach. [REC] is bulletproof found-footage artistry that’ll forever rank in my class of horror “untouchables,” as I shy not from the foundational context of this month’s “Revenge of the Remakes” analysis.
In 2008, in the thick of Hollywood’s horror remake craze (either golden oldies or ineffable imports), Screen Gems looked to capitalize on the Spanish-language [REC] after heaps of overseas praise. If memory and IMDb release dates serve me correctly, their remake Quarantine beat [REC] to stateside markets with an October 10th, 2008 premiere versus [REC]’s long-last limited US drop on October 17th, 2008. Producers wasted no time enlisting brothers John and Drew Dowdle, hot off The Poughkeepsie Tapes, to Americanize [REC] for those who refuse to read subtitles. Why promote international cinema when you can spend millions of dollars to recreate, mimick, and swipe the credit for yourself, right?
The Approach
Jennifer Carpenter in Screen Gems’ thriller Quarantine.
The Dowdles’ screenplay mixes a 70%-30% blend of original scripting from [REC] and “unique” diversions that are infrequent, yet thematically drastic. While dialogue remains word-for-word mainly, the two most significant changes are cameraman Scott (Steve Harris) existing as much on-screen as he does behind his rig and a rabies explanation for the residential contagion outbreak. Quarantine adds a few new characters but remains slavishly dedicated to copy-pasting [REC]‘s narrative, sequential composition, and spouted lines to the point where you can easily ignore alterations.
Jennifer Carpenter steps in as late-night television personality Angela Vidal (familiar), host of a local program dedicated to spotlighting overnight professionals who work while we all slumber. Tonight’s episode devotes screentime to those brave men and women who combat blazing fires, as Angela quietly wishes for some “action” to shoot. When the station’s alarm goes off, she’s whisked away to shadow an apartment building alarm investigation. Angela tails firemen Jake (Jay Hernandez) and “Fletcher” (Johnathon Schaech) as they locate an unwell woman, only to find minutes later that the government has sealed every exit under contagious disease protocol. Tenants panic, tensions rise, and Angela informs Scott to record everything. Right until the proverbial – and physical – hammer drops.
It’s par-for-the-course duplication with the addition of verbatim conversation snatching. Scripted blueprints lay a repetitive groundwork, throwaway tweaks introduce “new material,” and you get a product that’s desperately familiar yet hopefully not mirrored enough to instigate objections from [REC] obsessors who’ve seen this movie before.
New name, same concept, more animal cruelty.
Does It Work?
Doug Jones in Quarantine
The difference between [REC] and Quarantine highlights the inefficiencies of modern American horror throughout the later 2000s. The brothers Dowdle inflate [REC]‘s body count and shift focus from ravenous tension to squeamish gore (Fletcher’s broken shinbone), but not as a method of expanded storytelling. [REC] is leaner, meaner, and develops characters where Quarantine throws civilians or crisis responders, whoever’s closest, into infected feeding frenzies. Balagueró and Plaza strive to elevate outbreak paranoia by introducing theological terror through Niña Medeiros (Javier Botet), creating this consummate horror arc that evolves throughout prototypical zombie ideologies. Quarantine is a more generic renovation, jettisoning mythological intrigue as Act III reveals barely touch upon a fleeting doomsday cult motive as Doug Jones’ “Thin Infected Man” suggests the sickly will transform even sicker.
Quarantine’s bolstered cast adds nothing outside of gratifying kill-count gnarliness, given how a moot pawn like Denis O’Hare’s “Randy” comes and goes with inconsequential impact. He’s introduced as an alcoholic dissenter, pushing back against Jake or Officer Wilensky (Columbus Short), only to be mauled by a Cerberus-lookin’ canine who’s in full rage-mode. Randy gets called into the lobby, makes a big deal about this being ‘Merica (in a matter of words), and after drunkenly stumbling out the building’s elevator, retreats only to have said doggo lunge past the closing doors as Angela watches in horror. We don’t witness the brutality, mind you. We merely glimpse Randy’s chewed-up corpse scenes later when Jake, Scott, and Angela use the same elevator. Utterly pointless, where random violence remains random and meaningless to the overall scenario.
In terms of atmosphere, I’d love to compare production design measurements between Quarantine’s entire four-story set – a fully functioning apartment complex – to [REC]’s shooting location. Quarantine increases the square footage, adds the aforementioned elevators, and lessens the pandemic claustrophobia that defines [REC]. Balagueró and Plaza work their asses off to emphasize the close-quarters intimacy of [REC], where the Dowdles favor spatial comforts. [REC] feels filmed on-location (read: natural) within some low-rent stack of rental units while Quarantine, architecturally, gives the impression of being a Hollywood rebuild.
Quarantine does more than other remakes to honor its source material. Still, those intentions are sometimes in question as Carpenter, Hernandez, Short, and damn-near every actor playing a legacy character reuses hijacked dialogue. Not as noticeable with time wedged between original vs. remake watches, but back to back? Try ignoring the carbon-copy nature, when what’s considered a “fresh take” instead steps back into a more seen-it-before realm — light on all-cylinders substantiality, heavy on grotesque effects and kill-em-all mentalities.
The Result
Javier Botet in [REC]
The differences between Quarantine and [REC] speak volumes to a definable period in horror history. In translation, Quarantine loses what makes [REC] a still buzzed-about anomaly. [REC] locks into a persistent fervor that champions first-person filmmaking for all it’s viciously worth. Quarantine might attempt the same route, and while faring better than other remakes and found-footage duds, it doesn’t deliver enough to separate itself from far superior influences. Even cleaner video feed visuals in Quarantine subtract from the primal severity captured in [REC]. Justification is paramount to a remake’s success, and there’s not enough customization to singularly appreciate another fast-tracked appropriation of ideas.
One single [REC] and Quarantine back-to-back viewing calls to attention just how little US-based horror films, at the time, believed in audiences. Take an example as simple as Scott, our tour guide. In [REC], we never see videographer Pablo (cinematographer Pablo Rosso). A sneaker gaze at most. In Quarantine, it’s seconds into shooting when Scott leaves his post and interacts with Angela in-frame. The Dowdles don’t trust that viewers can connect with a character who’s inescapably present, just maybe not shown, so Scott is forced into usage even when not required. He’s practically waving at the screen as a reminder that yes, Scott is real. It’s a pinhead-sized illustration of a massive problem, one that drove horror fans like myself towards courageous foreign titles that didn’t spoon-feed to the point of obliterating obviousness.
Quarantine will, in most cases, better appeal to someone who’s never seen [REC]. That’s the film’s purpose, and it’s hard to argue against the Dowdles’ attentiveness in restructuring those most frightening moments. An infected woman with bloodshot eyes lunges into Scott’s camera, foam frothing out her mouth (remember, rabies). Pipsqueak Briana (a toddler Joey King), dead-staring Wilensky as the policeman cautiously approaches a zombified child (not cautious enough). The attic scare – THE ATTIC SCARE. Again, if you’ve never seen [REC], your appreciation for horror elements alone should be rewarded – but I’ve seen [REC]. Therefore, I’ve seen all these scares executed on a higher level.
Are the sins of remakes past committed? Yes, but on a lesser scale. My argument is always surrounding the “Why?” of remake filmmaking, and Quarantine doesn’t deceive. Screen Gems’ [REC] Version .5 exists for a general public who either possess no viable option to watch [REC] or were never going to bother with words on their screen. Nothing makes this “John And Drew’s Signature [REC].” Quarantine is A Very [REC] Remake for better and worse, only distancing itself through Americanized pitfalls that plagued horror releases through much of the 2000s.
The Lesson
Manuela Velasco as Angela in [REC]
Allow me to share Jaume Balagueró’s reaction to a finished Quarantine:
“It’s impossible for me to like, because it’s a copy. It’s the same, except for the finale. It’s impossible to enjoy Quarantine after [REC]. I don’t understand why they avoided the religious themes; they lost a very important part of the end of the movie.”
That.
Maybe I should have led with Balagueró’s snippet, but then you could have ignored the rest of my thesis (resistance is futile). While Quarantine is classifiable as “different,” it’s not. There’s no fooling those who worship at the altar of Medeiros. You’ve revamped a deeply disturbing, blasphemously inclined, found footage wonder and stripped away advantageous traits in favor of a rat stomped underfoot and protruding bone fragments. Ah, the American way.
So what did we learn?
- A remake shouldn’t challenge an original in the style of Highlander (“There can only be one!”) – it should reinvent and repurpose in a way that offers some new experience for an audience who maybe has seen the first, maybe hasn’t.
- Understand *why* fans fell in love with an original. Don’t ignore the very reasons the source has become acclaimed enough for remake treatments.
- Trust your audience! I promise I knew Scott was a real human being without seeing his face shoved towards the screen!
- If you’re going to cycle through the same dialogue and sequential scene order, your execution better be bulletproof.
A silver lining, perhaps? Paco Plaza confirmed that our humble U-S-A remake ended up shifting newfound attention unto [REC]. “It moved a spotlight onto our film. You know, the fact that it was going to be remade in Hollywood, it was big news in Europe.” Quibbles and rants aside, there’s a smile on my face knowing an original piece of art gained further momentum thanks to a remake that ain’t down with the same sickness.
College kids, strippers and vampires—those were Donald P. Borchers’ only requirements when he approached Richard Wenk about writing and directing a movie for New World Pictures. As requested, Wenk cooked up Vamp (1986), a tailor-made blend of the decade’s teen movie craze as well as its horror boom.
Grim and earnest stories were still very much a part of the ’80s horror landscape, yet Vamp is something of a comedy. One difference between it and, say, Saturday the 14th, though, is the former avoids using schtick. Wenk’s movie proves that horror comedies also don’t have to subtract thrills from their recipes. Of course, it takes a minute before reaching that point; college antics and culture shocks preface this one macabre misadventure.
Vamp‘s initial setup is apt for a typical college-set, sex-driven comedy; to bribe their way into a fraternity house, two pledges (Chris Makepeace, Robert Rusler) go looking for some adult entertainment. Without wasting time on any further exposition, the characters embark on an all-in-one-night trip that quickly detours into terror.
To procure their elusive MacGuffin—a stripper willing to gyrate for some frat boys—Keith (Makepeace) and AJ (Rusler), plus a third wheel named Duncan (Gedee Watanabe), trade the safety of their remote college campus for the seediness of some unnamed city. The setting is recognizably L.A. by day, but as soon as night falls, downtown, along with the characters, slips into a kind of surreal universe. Director of photography Elliot Davis gave this early entry on his prolific résumé an unusual yet distinctive look; that Mario Bava-esque, magenta-green lighting is omnipresent, so much so that it’s almost its own character.
Chris Makepeace and Robert Rusler in Vamp
The faint comparisons to Martin Scorsese’s After Hours are merited, although not just because of Vamp’s distinguishing nighttime aesthetic. Save for the primary characters, the supporting roles in Wenk’s movie are also quite colorful and transactional in their behavior. The difference here, though, is the additional urge to ruin Keith and his friends at every turn. Some of that harm is humorous and tolerable enough, whereas the moment Vamp dishes out its first fatality, it’s abundantly clear how this movie qualifies as horror.
Vamp falls into that category of horror movie that reveals its genre with a scream rather than a series of whispers. The opening scene can function as a hint of what lies ahead—things are not at all what they appear to be—but otherwise, Wenk is more than happy to hold off on the horror. When that time does come, though, it catches the viewer off guard. In addition to the pure shock value is that sudden decision to upend the movie’s foremost feature. Or so it would seem.
If afraid of major spoilage, those new to Vamp would be wise to stop reading here. There’s just no skirting around the fact that the central fellowship in this buddy movie hits a serious snag when AJ is killed. That development causes the story to become more of a “long, bad night” journey for Keith and his romantic interest. So while Wenk scores points for subverting expectations, there is also a touch of sadness in his decision. Because if Vamp does anything well, it’s making the characters likable.
Something that comes easily to Vamp—and other teen horror movies from this same era—is its ability to invent young characters worth caring about, or at the very least, are interesting and not so immediately off-putting. More impressive is how Wenk did all this without actually fleshing out those characters. Still and all, Keith and his kind are a grade above cookie-cutter, and in some cases, aren’t completely devoid of growth.
Grace Jones in Vamp
Vamp appeals with an assorted cast of characters. No two are the same, nor are they operating on the same wavelength. The cinematically extroverted AJ, whose actor conveyed charm and vulnerability in near equal amounts, comes alive when he’s at his most undead. Makepeace then makes the chronically cautious Keith a sympathetic fellow, even as he’s more and more affected by the night’s bizarre events. Meanwhile, Duncan is indeed the designated loser of the whole bunch, but Watanabe still manages to humanize him. As a bonus, the role didn’t require him to pull a Long Duk Dong.
As for Dedee Pfeiffer, she is plain adorable as the mysterious After Dark server nicknamed “Amaretto”. She spends all night fixing her dress strap while at the same time trying to get Keith to remember how he knows her. As their offbeat romance grows, it becomes another highlight of this movie. Whether or not Pfeiffer’s character is really a vampire also creates some welcome tension in the story.
Like a lot of its contemporaries, Vamp went on to become a bit of a cult classic. That current status is determined by several factors, but without a doubt, the casting of Grace Jones is the most considerable. The image of her writhing on that unique-looking chair, a Keith Haring original, springs to mind whenever this movie is brought up.
Chris Makepeace, Billy Drago and Paunita Nichols in Vamp
Prior to that first display of unequivocal horror, local vampire queen Katrina (Jones) took to the stage and delivered a strip show like no other. One would expect nothing less from that renowned model and performance artist. By now reports of Jones’ tardiness on set are no secret, yet it’s also hard to deny her commitment to the part of Katrina. It was, in fact, Jones who took charge of her character’s appearance—on top of Haring painting her body and that now-iconic chair, she had Andy Warhol handle her costuming. And not too many actors could seize a room’s attention without saying a single line of dialogue.
In 2022, Vamp received a retrospective novelization from Encyclopocalypse. This literary union of preexisting source material—Wenk’s original screenplay—and new ideas from author Christian Francis amounts to a more comprehensive visit to the After Dark Club. The basic story there is no different than what’s shown on screen; however, Francis gets creative with the characters’ origins and designs, and he enhances a number of key scenes.
The novelization expands on the urban and social decay of the main setting, and supplies a background for the After Dark Club. Sandy Baron’s character, Katrina’s emcee and familiar, is given ample motivation for sticking around; up until the fiery end, he is loyal to his friend and former business partner “Squeak”, who looks like he was “fed through a combine harvester, and left as nothing more than a heap of mangled remains”. Then there is Billy Drago’s character Snow, the leader of a street gang called The Dragons. His reason for menacing Keith and AJ is more altruistic than in the movie; he and his peers act tough to scare off any potential food for the vampires.
Lisa Lyon in Vamp
If not for all the backstories, Francis’ Vamp would be a hell of a lot shorter. Instead, this tie-in read dives into how AJ met Keith—the orphaned Anthony Joseph hailed from a broken home back in Brooklyn—and how their friendship flourished over the years. Keith’s archership is no longer just an assumed part of his entire being; it’s a confidence-building extracurricular for a boy who got picked on before coming into the protection of the new kid in town. These supplemental, in-depth looks at the protagonists, plus their close connection, are maybe unnecessary. The movie already did a fair and concise job of addressing their platonic intimacy without the need for flashbacks and insights, specifically in that scene where AJ lays it all out as he sacrifices himself.
Where the novelization gets off course is its approach to the minor characters. Intermittently backstorying the likes of Katrina’s indentured servants, Seko (Leila Hee Olsen) and Vlad (Brad Logan), ends up disturbing the flow of the writing. Was it absolutely essential that readers know Vlad was the Grand Duke of the House of Romanov, or how Snow’s accomplice Maven (Paunita Nichols) became so dentally challenged? No, not really. However, one’s mileage with these random biographies may vary.
The novelization is a more substantial experience, but for a movie like Vamp, less is more. And as plentiful as they are, it never simply coasts on its campy charms, either. The character work sits comfortably in that realm between cursory and meticulous, the script is sharper than first realized, and Greg Cannom’s vampire makeup is straightforward yet effective. Most of all, the movie didn’t squander its out-of-the-box concept. Richard Wenk made his vision of a “comic nightmare in which just about anything that can go wrong does” come true, and it is very enjoyable.
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