“X” is a clever and lavish throwback to a less innocent time, when movies could be naughty, infamous and quirky. Two kinds of movies in particular: the dirty kind and the scary kind. This sly and vile picture is set in 1979, before the internet made pornography ubiquitous and before anyone posited “exalted horror.”
Not that the director, Ti West, is simply replicating the cheap, tacky thrills of yesteryear. West, whose past marks include “The House of the Devil” and “The Sacrament,” is both a shrewd craftsman and a genre intellectual. Amid the sex and slaughter, he leads an advanced seminar on visual pleasure and narrative cinema.
And also a short course in film history, with a special focus on “The Texas Chain Saw Massacre” and shout-outs to “Psycho” and “Debbie Does Dallas.” That X-rated monument (later adapted into a Broadway musical) provides inspiration for the six Texans who turn up on a dilapidated ranch to create a hard-core body of work called “The Farmer’s Daughters.” The actual farmer, a seemingly childless guy named Howard (Stephen Ure), has rented them a bunk bed on his property. He and his wife live in the creaky, creepy main building.
The cast and crew consists of three performers – two women and a man, the classic heterosexual porn relationship – a director, an engineer and a boastful entrepreneur who claims the title of executive producer. This man, Wayne (Martin Henderson), is also romantically attached to one of the stars, Maxine (Mia Goth), who dreams of Hollywood. Her veteran co-stars, Bobby-Lynne (Brittany Snow) and Jackson (Scott Mescudi, aka the rapper Kid Cudi), are also a couple, as are RJ (Owen Campbell), the director, and Lorraine (Jenna Ortega) , who handles the noise and, for a while, is the designated prude.
Since “X” is a slasher movie, it doesn’t hurt to note that most of these people won’t make it alive. An axe, pitchfork and shotgun are all within easy reach, and for good measure there’s an alligator in the pond. Howard and his wife, Pearl, give off sinister vibes, and West’s knack for zooming, cutting, manipulating viewpoints, and layering sinister sounds brings undeniable anticipation to doom.
But the order of deaths, the motives for the chaos, and the survivor’s identity may not quite match your expectations. Most notably, the old circuitry connecting horror and female sexuality—canonically outlined in Carol J. Clover’s 1992 study “Men, Women, and Chainsaws”—has been rewired. By the time it’s all over, the pastiche movie has moved into interesting new territory, exposing a feminist dimension to the horror tradition that may have always been there. (Since West is reportedly already working on a prequel, further exploration may lie ahead.)
Meanwhile you taste the familiar, trashy pleasures of sin and skin, with a spicy sprinkling of meta. After all, this is a movie about movie-making, like “Argo” or “Day for Night” or “Singing in the Rain,” and as such it teases the viewer with knowing winks and easily accessible insider references.
Many of these come at the expense of poor RJ. With his stringy hair, spiky beard and wet noodles, he’s a movie nerd caricature. Wanting to bring experimental techniques — “like they do in France” — to “The Farmer’s Daughters,” Wayne worries about his dedication to the avant-garde. Still, he’s not quite a satirical scapegoat. His sensitivity to the kind of movie he’s making (especially when Lorraine expresses her disapproval) isn’t played for laughs. His toast to independent cinema is a punchline, but it could also be West’s motto.
When RJ contradicts the importance of a plot, he has a point, which a West both upholds and challenges. Horror and hardcore both use the story as a lame excuse to show the audience what really mattered. And while the sex in “X” is strictly R-rated, the movie isn’t shy about invoking voyeurism. There’s nothing coy or arty about the bloodshed.
The twists and turns of the story—the shifts in attention from Wayne and Maxine and their colleagues to Howard and Pearl—are hardly random. West, unlike his pornographers, has both things to say and bodies to show. Above all, he has an aesthetic that isn’t all about terror or excitement. “X” is full of dreamy, haunting overhead shots and moments of surprising tenderness.
One of these arrives in the middle, while everyone else is still alive and wearing clothes, and Bobby-Lynne, accompanied by Jackson on guitar, breaks into a heartfelt rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide”. (One thing that certainly sets “X” apart from its ’70s influences is a robust musical clearance budget.) The song serves no storyline, or any lustful or profound purpose. It’s an unexpected gift. So is “X”.
X
Rated R. Not quite what the title promises, but still. Running time: 1 hour 45 minutes. In theatres.