I
could probably fill this entire column just
name-dropping creepy-kid horror films, but that would be pretty lame, so let’s zoom in on
one near-forgotten little Canadian flick from that subgenre – a film that’s especially notable for combining the scary with the just plain icky. The Pit (1981) is the story of a boy, his teddy bear, his burgeoning sexuality, his beautiful babysitter, a bunch of trolls who live in a hole in the ground in the woods nearby and various individuals who bully, aggravate, insult or otherwise piss off said boy and therefore have an appointment with said trolls. Even the most open-minded individuals can be-
come laughably uncomfortable with the notion of adolescent or – worse still – pre-adolescent sex- uality, even though it’s a simple fact of life. With that in mind, it’s all the more remarkable that The Pit hasn’t accumulated more than a tiny following over the years. Pubescent sociopath and sex offender-in-
waiting Jamie (Sammy Snyders) does manage to elicit our sympathy, even though it’s easy to understand why he’s ostracized and bullied by kids and instinctively mistrusted by adults. Even in cinema’s evil child pan- theon, he’s an odd case: not a ghost, not demonically possessed, not even a charming little manip- ulator. In fact, let’s not mince words – he’s a sketchy little fuck. A twelve-year-old with a deep at- tachment to his teddy bear is creepy enough, but when kid and bear have actual conversations, it’s obvious that our Jamie isn’t exactly going to improve with age. Add to this his oft-alarming ten- dency to give free rein to his voyeuristic urges and a general lack of impulse control when it comes to violence – no, definitely not your average problem child. When Jamie’s parents take a road trip, they
hire beautiful Sandy (Jeannie Elias), a student spe- cializing in the care of “special” kids; she makes the rookie mistake of parading around in skimpy nighties and leaving doors unlocked while show- ering, so naturally all hormonal hell breaks loose. The oft-painful dialogue is exacerbated by uni-
formly awkward performances, the two exceptions – fortunately – being leads Snyders and Elias, both of whom acquit themselves su- perbly. The wildly uneven script fre- quently undermines our suspension of disbelief, toggling between the creepy, the less-than-credible and, occasionally, both at once. (Despite all her admonishment of Jamie for inappropriate sexual behaviour, Sandy happily consents to wash his back while he’s in the tub – equal parts “Eeewww!” and “Oh, come on!”) For all the script problems, though, the film cleverly keeps us suspicious
that the titular pit and its inhabitants are simply some Freudian manifestation of Jamie’s twisted psyche, until a series of killings forces us to rethink matters. (According to some sources, the original screenplay kept the trolls imaginary, until director Lew Lehman decided otherwise.) Unfortunately,
that revelation makes for an awkward tonal shift in the final act, during which Jamie dispatches the lit- tle girl who has repeatedly pranked him, the local mean old lady, Sandy’s dumb jock boyfriend, the school bully and the bully’s spoiled princess girl- friend, mainly in an extended montage with a comic relief music score. By the time the dim-witted local constabulary catch on and launch their clumsy-ass investigation it is, of course, too late. One rather uncomfortable footnote: rumour has
it Lehman’s wife wouldn’t let him shoot any nudity, so boob-shot directorial duties were temporarily handed off to screenwriter Ian Stuart, with the sole exception being a scene involving Lehman’s own daughter skinny-dipping, which wifey was appar- ently okay with. In fairness, I don’t have a daughter myself, so maybe something’s missing from my perspective, but I can’t be the only one who finds the idea pretty fucking skeezy. Quibbles aside, there’s no denying that The Pit
succeeds in skillfully pushing some of our yucky buttons, not by being particularly overt or graphic, but simply by having the temerity to acknowledge that young kids actually do think about sex. Why, at that age, I myself was notorious for… nah, let’s go there some other time. [Or not. – Ed.] Now stop touching yourself inappropriately and get the hell out of my basement.
51 RM
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