The Prowler AKA Rosemary’s Killer (1981)
Starring: Vicky Dawson, Christopher Goutman, Lawrence Tierney, Farley Granger
Director: Joseph Zito
Synopsis: A movie that indicated that the Slasher cycle was way past its expiry date.  Uninspired, dreary, painful fare.
Reviewed by: Omar Khan

 

 

Bitten by the Halloween bug early in the slasher cycle, I was 100% committed to every slasher film that followed, whether good, bad or indifferent. Most of the post-Halloween efforts were little more than attempts to cash in on the formula, but with each passing release that formula became increasingly stale as filmmakers struggled to find new ways of dressing up the same old ideas.

There was a standard slasher template that was repeated endlessly throughout the early eighties. Something terrible had happened years earlier—usually a prank gone horribly wrong—and, years later, those responsible would begin dropping dead in increasingly elaborate and gruesome ways. The camera frequently adopted the killer's point of view, while the gaps between murders were filled with sexy banter, pot smoking and badly behaved teenagers doing all the things they shouldn't. Red herrings and false alarms padded out the running time before the next spectacular murder, and make-up wizard Tom Savini became such a recognised name that his involvement alone could help sell tickets.

The slasher boom lasted only as long as filmmakers could continue surprising audiences with some sort of novelty. New masks, memorable killers and imaginative murder sequences sustained interest for a while, but eventually ideas began to dry up, and every new release seemed to tread the same ground. The genre depended upon suspense and surprise, and once audiences had seen the same tricks repeated time and again, they were invariably one step ahead of the filmmakers. What had once been exciting gradually became predictable, and eventually downright tedious. Box-office returns reflected this decline.

By the time films such as Happy Birthday to Me and The Prowler arrived, the slasher cycle was already running on fumes. Suspense had largely been replaced by gore and increasingly elaborate kills, but even those eventually lost their novelty. The genre finally ran out of steam and was put into cold storage until it resurfaced years later in a different guise through home-invasion thrillers such as Dead Calm, before Wes Craven brilliantly reinvented the slasher with Scream, launching another cycle that, like the original boom, ultimately proved relatively short-lived.

The Prowler's principal selling point was Tom Savini's make-up effects. By this stage he had established impeccable credentials within the genre and his name alone was enough to lure gorehounds into cinemas eager to admire his latest handiwork. Unfortunately, everything surrounding those effects was built upon a formula that already felt tired enough to verge on self-parody.

Despite Savini's involvement, The Prowler failed to attract much of an audience and disappeared quickly after its release. In Europe and Australia, it was retitled Rosemary's Killer, although much of the graphic gore was trimmed away, making it even less appealing to horror fans. The poster promised far more than the film ever delivered. Those who bought tickets expecting something fresh or exciting were almost inevitably disappointed.

The story follows the familiar slasher blueprint almost beat for beat. A terrible event from the past returns to haunt a small community as a mysterious killer seeks revenge. By this point, slasher films were simply sleepwalking through their plots, and The Prowler ranks among the worst offenders. There isn't a single genuinely fresh idea anywhere in the screenplay. The kills alone might once have carried the film, but audiences had already witnessed far more elaborate and inventive set pieces elsewhere, and even Savini's work no longer had the power to shock.

The Prowler fails on almost every level. There is scarcely a shred of genuine suspense throughout its running time. Nothing surprises, nothing shocks, and there is no memorable sting in the tail such as the one that propelled Friday the 13th to worldwide box-office success. Instead, the film merely reworks material audiences had already seen countless times before, resulting in an experience that is (un)surprisingly dull.

The acting is poor, the characters are little more than cardboard stereotypes, the script is weak, and there is virtually no atmosphere or sense of mounting dread. Apart from an excellent poster, almost everything about the production disappoints.

I first saw it in Britain under its Rosemary's Killer title and remember leaving distinctly underwhelmed. I've revisited it several times since in its uncut form as The Prowler, complete with all the restored gore, but it has never improved with familiarity. I've even given it another chance on Blu-ray in the hope that nostalgia might work some magic, but it never does.

Many otherwise ordinary slasher films have become oddly endearing over the years, their predictability becoming part of their charm. The Prowler has never achieved that status for me. It possesses no atmosphere, no personality and no nostalgic warmth whatsoever.

It remains an excruciatingly dull film, and I very much doubt I'll ever feel the urge to revisit it.

Unfortunate, perhaps—but sadly true.