Canadian horror was important because the films didn’t just adapt older texts, they adapted older fears.
The 1970s were an era of uncertainty, technological flourish, and languishing film development, but Canada had a preeminent interest in the independent film market, which is to say, the horror market. Indeed, Canada, and its horror films, were at the heart of the world in the seventies. However, while those films are products of the United States, BLACK CHRISTMAS is distinctly, manifestly Canadian. Inspired by an unspecified slaying in the Canadian City of Westmount – most likely a barbarous case of matricide wherein George Webster bludgeoned his mother to death in the dark of the night – BLACK CHRISTMAS follows the sorority sisters as the “Moaner,” later identified as Billy, butchers the sisters left in the house over the holiday break.īLACK CHRISTMAS was momentous insofar as it set the framework for future slasher texts: Friday the 13th (1980), Halloween (1979), and A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), all formative films, are just three of the myriad horror movies whose sheer existence was engendered by Clark’s BLACK CHRISTMAS. Bob Clark, by virtue of his directorial prowess, was later offered the opportunity to direct perennial holiday staple A Christmas Story (1983), but BLACK CHRISTMAS is unequivocally different than Clark’s family holiday staple. Roy Moore, was released on December 20th, 1974 by Warner Bros. The heavy, mechanical dial tone overwhelming the scene.īLACK CHRISTMAS (1974), adapted from a speculative script penned by Montreal resident A. “I’m going to kill you,” the Moaner vacantly says before the call is disconnected. “I’ll stick my tongue up your pretty pussy.” “Oh, why don’t you go find a wall socket and stick your tongue in it, that’ll give you a charge.” “You want my fat cock, don’t you” the Moaner replies. Barbara seizes the phone and jests, “Listen, pervert, why don’t you go over to Lambda Chi, they could use a little of this.” Lick it.” The dialogue is crude, graphic. After pigs are drained, they are thrown into a vat of boiling water to remove the hair, and much like a pig nearing its slaughter, the Moaner begins to squeal thunderously. The Moaner starts to squeal like a pig, one at the nub of exsanguination. “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” hums in the background. Barbara (Margot Kidder) quips, “He’s expanded his act,” to which Claire (Lynne Griffin) responds, “Could that be one person?” The paradigmatic slasher victim, Claire is naïve, chaste, and tormented by the other girls, namely Barbara whose rejoinder “No, Claire, that’s the Mormon Tabernacle Choir doing their annual obscene phone call” agitates her. “Blah, blahh, ack, heick,” a raucous cacophony of noise from the other end. “Hey, quiet, it’s him again… the Moaner,” bellows Oliva Hussey, the coeds of the sorority swarming around her, as though death lingered in the air, its acrid scent morbidly drawing them in.
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