Day 5: The Poughkeepsie Tapes

The Poughkeepsie Tapes (2007)

And now for something entirely dark. Gore, torture porn, psychological torture, actual torture, sexual sadism, found footage... this fake documentary has it all.  I, for one, am entirely glad this one isn't a real one, because while the amount of crimes the unnamed serial killer commits is sometimes a bit implausible-- remember, though, that the period of the film pre-dates Amber Alerts-- they seem, at times, more realistic than the things splashing across our news broadcasts.

Technically, this film was never released.  It's one of "those."  Part of that treasure trove of hard to find and/or hard to watch horror pieces.  Something memorable, partially because it's not part of the mainstream horror schlock that is consumed as a Friday night date movie, nor part of the standard repository of required viewing on Halloween night after a party and a couple beers.

It lives up to that standard.  The overall tone, the narration of investigators and experts cutting in between old VHS style home video footage that was made by the serial killer, is bleak.  Morbid. Savage.  There are no laughs, and just as you might be relaxing, thinking that the worst is past, the film expertly shocks you out of complacency.  It's the kind of film you bring out when a friend is commenting that they'd like to be a forensic investigator, or a criminologist, and aren't entirely sure they have the stomach or sanity to do it.  Even the music feeds to the darkness and tension, with the expert commentary sometimes more realistic than the coached interview of a real documentary.

My one complaint is about the unlikelihood of Cheryl Dempsey being allowed to go home unsupervised by medical (and psychological) professionals. She's the one glimmer of hope the film deliberately offers, and then takes away.  Maybe the parents refused it all.  Maybe someone screwed up at the hospital before the involuntary commitment went through.  And maybe I just need to shut up and let the story be told.

I don't hate this film.  I want to, but that savage edge of curiosity, that driving need to follow the story to the end, it overwhelms the disgust.  It's less of a shock for committing to film various acts that many horror films won't touch, and more of a lightning rod for the gorehound, giving him (or her, thank you) exactly what is craved, but also refusing to allow a sense of pleasure with it.  This one haunts you later, when you don't expect it.

It's enough to make one want to watch Monty Python until the serial killer's voice is forgotten.


Finally, a fair warning to those who haven't seen it:  you may never look at balloons the same way again.

Would I watch it again? To show it to someone else who would appreciate it? Yes. On a whim, no.
Would I own it? You can't, technically, and... no.