Review of Body Snatchers (1993) by Simon D — 07 Feb 2011

Were there to be a âre-remakeâ? of Jack Finneyâ(TM)s pulpy source who better to attempt it than Ferrara, the hysterical director of Bad Lieutenant, King of New York and a slew of other overwrought films? I mean, discernment and restraint are the last things a third Body Snatchers required. However, theyâ(TM)re the tendency of this slick but uninspired version. It couldâ(TM)ve been wheeled by any bland director who knows how to point a camera and resist affronting or disturbing anyone.

Don Siegelâ(TM)s Invasion virtually declared McCarthyism the emblematic gist behind the obedient body snatchers. Ferrara probably didnâ(TM)t want to bother anatomizing the â~50s fear politics with those, if any, of the â~90s, and knew that the premise was well-known even to viewers whoâ(TM)d never seen the first two versions. So heâ(TM)s short and snappy. In the first 5 minutes, a frenzied soldier traps the alienated teenage daughter of the EPA agent protagonist in a gas station bathroom, lunging from the dark to present the distraught forewarning, âTheyâ(TM)re out there. They get you when you sleep.â?

Nothing that ensues approaches that opening shove. Some tilted camera angles and some misty lighting are the only tinges of Ferraraâ(TM)s excessively melodramatic style, except perhaps Meg Tillyâ(TM)s chilling turn. This talent-filled interpretation boosts its creepiest dashes from the 1978 version: the tentacles that slither out of the pods, the way the pod people draw attention to humans and unleash a mechanical-seeming screech. But this third of four adaptations of the 1955 novel doesnâ(TM)t impart Phil Kaufmanâ(TM)s filmâ(TM)s feeling one can enjoy from the right kind of horror or sci-fi movie that makes you just want to snuggle up in front of the TV late at night or on a really rainy or snowy day, everything you need in armâ(TM)s reach of the couch and ottoman, and lose yourself in itâ(TM)s eerily fun atmosphere.

And there is merely a hazy recognition of lots of other superior horror material that Ferraraâ(TM)s anamorphically shot sci-fi thriller calls to mind. The opening credits indiscreetly recall The Twilight Zone. One teary mother echoes The Stepford Wives. The worry of sleep, which was in the original film, has since been declared by the Elm Street series. Ferrara and his capable writers fellow exploitation veteran Larry Cohen and uniquely Bohemian horror director Stuart Gordon mustâ(TM)ve understood this, but thereâ(TM)s no lighthearted drollness about these loans.