Hey, everyone. "Moriarty" here with some Rumblings From The Lab.

I saw this at The Egyptian with Mr. Beaks and John Robie, and we all sat, dumbfounded, all of us impressed by the film. Beaks has been the first to actually put his thoughts to paper, and it’s his typical astute analysis. Take it away, Beaks:

HELL HOUSE (d. George Ratliff)

If asked to name my favorite documentaries released over the last twenty years, I wouldn’t think of omitting Michael Moore’s landmark 1989 corporate broadside, ROGER & ME, but therein lies a bit of a problem. Savagely satiric though it was (and justifiably so), there was a undeniable cruel streak hanging over the work; it was here that Moore began to display his tendency to play for laughs the hapless working class desperation for which he was ostensibly crusading, thus clearing the way for the snide likes of those mean-spirited, cleverly edited hatchet jobs on Comedy Central’s otherwise very funny “The Daily Show”, and seemingly poisoning the work of the once great Errol Morris, whose last few films have been little more than circuses of bizarre behavior.

Reveling in oddity may be a goldmine of cheap laughs, but the smart documentarian knows to give his subjects room, for it’s here where the grey area is found – the carefully constructed logic exposed and, sometimes, undone. Such is the commendable achievement of George Ratliff’s excellent HELL HOUSE, an objective, even-handed account of a Texas Pentecostal Assembly of God church that has made itself relatively notorious for an annual Halloween haunted house with a twist: rather than scare you silly, these folks aim to scare you devout. For in this carnival of horrors, crowds are confronted with the terror of wanton sin; one by one, throngs of thrill seekers witness graphic nightmare scenarios depicting modern society’s many ills – domestic violence, school shootings, rape, abortion and that awful, ultimate consequence of homosexuality, AIDS – after which they are brought into a back room and harangued by a dynamic speaker who informs them of their immediate choice: join prayer leaders in an adjacent room and get back on the path of righteousness, or leave and take your eternal soul into your own hands.

Though novel in its execution, “Hell House” is par for the extreme course for fundamentalist Christians, but what is often glossed over by outsiders is their absolute, iron-clad conviction and belief, as well as, in one disturbing case, the underlying pain that spurs them on. By expounding on this, Ratliff allows an honest glimpse into their world, gaining the trust of his subjects and allowing them to let their guard down long enough to appear almost rational. Almost.

The impetus for the Texas Assembly of God’s “Hell House” can be traced back to the early 90’s when its youth leaders suddenly felt galvanized to save the heathen masses by engaging them on the sensational low ground of the entertainment they feel is partially responsible for leading them astray. In their minds, this is a war for souls, and if the staid beckoning of the church is proving ineffective, then drastic measures, no matter how controversial, are in order. It has been a massive success, drawing in over 13,000 visitors a year over a two-to-three week period; three-quarters of whom we’re informed in the closing titles choose to be “saved”.

The success of “Hell House” is easily attributable to the zeal with which the cast and crew approach the production. Beginning in August, the youth leaders of the Trinity church vet ideas through the organizer in a typical writers’ meeting where scenarios are either embraced or discarded (yea to a school shooting/suicide, but nay to a lesbian relationship, pitched, it must be noted, with a carefully muted eagerness by one of the male scribes). From there, the writers go to work as the heavily competitive casting process fires up; young girls vie for the honor of playing a date rape victim or guilt-ridden abortion patient, while boys seek to live out their illicit fantasies of being a rave DJ, or a murderous drug dealer.

Of these aspiring actors, Ratliff finds his most fascinating thread in the Cassar family, the eldest daughter of which is the top contender for the coveted abortion role. But the most intriguing member of the brood is its patriarch, John, a devoted single father nursing a shattered heart in the wake of his wife leaving him for another man she met on the Internet. In the film’s most remarkable sequence, the filmmakers follow John through what is supposed to be a typical weekday morning in the Cassar household, but as he’s busy preparing breakfast and making sure his several children are showered and dressed, his youngest son, no older than three and suffering from cerebral palsy, begins to have a seizure. Though it is an emergency, it’s apparent that this is not an unusual occurrence; with an impressive calm, John places the boy on his side and calls for an ambulance, all the while praying for god to stop the seizure. Just as he gets through to a doctor, the seizure stops. John turns to the camera and informs them they’ve just witnessed a miracle. Cut to John driving the kids to school, where he discusses with his daughter the possible scenarios for this year’s “Hell House”. Of the various topics up for consideration, John passionately voices his preference for one in particular: domestic violence. Not soon after this intimation, he begins to lose his cool with his nagging daughter, and while it’s very easy to interpret this as a standard father/daughter disagreement, it’s also impossible to not acknowledge the dark tint cast by his previous remark and growing frustration as the morning wears on.

That scene stands out not just for the compelling chain of events, but also for the smooth, unobtrusive editing that avoids trivializing the trials and concerns of the Cassars. All told, they’re regular, decent folk. This is not to say, however, that there is a dearth of unintentional hilarity provided by the true believers under Ratliff’s microscope. Firm though their faith may be, the “Hell House” participants are often undone by the willful lack of sophistication and knowledge inherent in many fundamentalist communities. How else to explain the set designer who intends to spray paint a pentagram but ends up with a Star of David? Or the rave-obsessed youth leader in charge of the date rape sequence who is not only ignorant of “Rufies”, but their effects as well. Then there’s the Abbott and Costello-worthy routine between two writers stuck on the phrasing of “Magic: The Gathering”. Their aloofness is probably due to teachers like the one depicted in a funny, yet unsettling sequence who informs his pupils to ask questions, but not “stupid questions” so as not to presumably lead him into ambiguous territory not so easily governed or explained away through scripture.

The last leg of the film covers the actual staging of the Hell House in all its overblown audio/visual glory. On its own modest terms, it’s an impressively mounted production that pulverizes with the brutal efficacy of the best B movies; shock and horror vividly register on the face of audience members both adolescent and adult as they bear witness to a tortured teen’s classroom suicide, while young girls shriek as an abortion patient is wheeled out on a gurney, blood caked on bed sheets draped over her spread legs. And once it’s all over, the Elmer Gantry-for hire in the back room works them over until prayer is all but their last refuge from eternal damnation. It’s an alternately hysterical and repulsive human carnival, but the filmmakers save their best footage for last; tiring of his role as tour guide, John expresses his need to experience the “Hell House” as a spectator. He’s obviously seeking some cathartic release from the domestic violence segment – clearly drawn from his own experience – and as his reddened, anguished eyes take in a drunken father beating his wife for cheating on him, one wonders what demons lie unexorcised within this pitiably tortured man.

At the end of the “Hell House” run, as these Cedar Hill, Texas residents pick over their impressive tally of rescued souls, all involved must feel a tremendous sense of accomplishment – their success owing, they no doubt infer, to the very will of God. Ultimately, Ratliff leaves it to the audience to judge the validity of their endeavor, freeing them up to discuss the issues raised by his film rather than debate his methods and impugn his motives – an unfortunately rare achievement in post-ROGER & ME documentary filmmaking.

Faithfully submitted,

Mr. Beaks