Editorials
Surviving the Dreadful Isolation of ‘Silent Hill 4: The Room’
I’ve been thinking a lot about Silent Hill 4: The Room, lately. While I agree that Silent Hill 2 is an objectively better game, and that the series gameplay peaked with 3, The Room will always have a special place in my heart as my absolute favorite horror game (and the only one to have ever given me actual nightmares). Part of my love for the title might stem from the fact that I first played it during a very interesting time in my personal life, but after all these years I’ve also come to cherish the game as a genuine work of art in its own right, regardless of my rose-colored glasses.
Due to recent events that you’re all undoubtedly sick of hearing/reading about, I ended up revisiting The Room during quarantine, replaying the game as an older, supposedly wiser person. Despite all my previous playthroughs, the added context of actually living in a world comprised solely of lonely rooms and windowsills made me appreciate the melancholy artistry behind the game in ways I had never thought possible.
In fact, as I struggled to deal with confinement both in and outside The Room, I realized that I’m probably not the only one who might benefit from revisiting this unfairly maligned classic. So today, I’d like to dive into exactly why I love this game and why it’s even more relevant now than it was back in 2004.
For those who have never played Silent Hill 4, the game puts players in the shoes of Henry Townshend, an ordinary man who finds himself trapped in his own apartment by a supernatural force. After five days, a hole opens up in the bathroom, leading to a series of self-contained nightmarish locations. By exploring these pocket dimensions, collecting notes and encountering other ill-fated characters (not to mention horrific monsters), the player slowly pieces together the disturbing story that led to Henry becoming trapped in the first place, all the while dealing with vengeful ghosts and an undead serial killer. It’s not exactly succinct, but it’s one hell of a scary ride.
Nope, nope, nope!
On the surface, the game still relies on standard Survival-Horror tropes like solving obtuse puzzles and piecing together the plot through fragmented storytelling. However, The Room is quite the departure from the Silent Hill formula, taking us away from the interconnected areas of the titular town and even getting rid of the series’ iconic radio that warns players of danger. In some ways, this is more of a stand-alone spin-off rather than a proper sequel (which makes sense, as it’s rumored that the project wasn’t originally meant to be a Silent Hill game in the first place), but I’d argue that these unique qualities are exactly what make this such a memorable title.
For starters, the game doesn’t even take place in Silent Hill, relegating the action to the neighboring city of Ashfield. Even then, most of the levels are actually nightmarish recreations of places related to the game’s serial-killing antagonist, Walter Sullivan. These areas are all connected to Room 302, which acts as a sort of hub where gameplay and narrative meet to create something special.
Initially, the Apartment acts as a safe haven, containing the game’s only save point and a box for storing items. Here, we shift into a first-person perspective as Henry can interact with the environment while his health slowly regenerates. The outside world is presented as an oppressive urban labyrinth, filled to the brim with some of the franchise’s scariest creatures, not to mention unkillable ghosts that will chase you throughout the levels. These dangers incentivize players to return home as often as they can, creating a ritual of sorts. Players explore the nightmare worlds for a bit and then go home to save, reorganize items and maybe have a look around.
Later on, however, the Apartment itself takes on a much more sinister demeanor, with horrific hauntings literally coming out of the walls to damage Henry. What was once a safe space becomes infected by the horrors surrounding it, and players are left with nowhere to run from the terrors that pursue them. It’s quite a shock for first-timers, and dreading the inevitable loss of your sanctuary is even worse during subsequent playthroughs.
The Apartment is also where we meet Eileen Galvin, Henry’s neighbor who’s initially unaware of the nightmares surrounding her. Over time, players can observe her through peepholes and cracks in the walls, unable to truly communicate until she too becomes embroiled in this supernatural ordeal. The game already borrows heavily from voyeuristic thrillers like Rear Window, so it makes sense that Eileen functions as a sort of Hitchcockian archetype, representing the emotional connection that both Henry and Walter have been denied throughout the story. That’s why it comes as no surprise that all the endings depend on her ultimate fate, with several of them implying a romantic connection between Eileen and Henry.
How romantic!
Henry is also not the usual Silent Hill protagonist, as instead of having a personal connection to the cursed town, his only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some fans have criticized this approach, but I feel that Henry’s role as an unfortunate outsider only adds to the experience, making it easier for players to form a connection with him.
Personality-wise, Henry functions as a (mostly) blank slate that players can project themselves onto, but there’s more to his character than initially meets the eye. The Apartment itself helps to characterize Henry as an introvert, and the fact that no one really cares enough about him to investigate his disappearance establishes just how alone he truly is. These traits actually draw him closer to the game’s antagonist, another outsider who finds himself idolizing Room 302 as some kind of maternal deity after years of abandonment and abuse.
While the story appears to unfold like a standard supernatural yarn, with Walter attempting to awaken his “mother” through a grisly ritual, this is ultimately a simple and universal tale about isolation, featuring broken characters that feel abandoned in an urban jungle. Once the monsters are defeated and the ghosts exorcised, the only thing that can save these lost souls is true human connection, and I think that’s a really powerful message for a 2004 survival-horror game.
Once the doors to Room 302 finally open (if players manage to get one of the good endings), Henry hasn’t just freed himself from the horrors unleashed by Walter, he’s also free of his own inability to connect with others.
Of course, I haven’t even scratched the surface of what makes Silent Hill 4 so damn special, as the game boasts unique level designs with a more urban take on the iconic Otherworld aesthetic, plus some truly disturbing monsters. I’d also be remiss if I didn’t mention the beautiful soundtrack, once again composed by the legendary Akira Yamaoka. Every single track contributes to the moody isolation enforced by the story and environments, and I often revisit some of these songs on their own.
Sure, the game has its faults, with some tedious backtracking and monotonous combat (you’d also be forgiven for thinking that the story’s presentation is a convoluted mess), but it’s easy to overlook these issues when everything comes together so beautifully.
While it’s generally accepted among Silent Hill fans that the golden age of the franchise consists of the original trilogy, I feel that the fourth entry deserves more love. I’ve always considered it Team Silent’s heartfelt send-off to their classic formula, and it’s an experience worth revisiting in these troubling times.
After all, there’s nothing like Survival-Horror to remind folks that we can overcome anything by not giving into despair. (And saving often…)
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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