Twilight Zone: The Movie (1983)

Let’s address the elephant in the room and get it out of the way. By now, we all know that the making of Twilight Zone: The Movie – an anthology film in which four high-profile filmmakers direct short films, one semi-original, the other three direct remakes of famous Twilight Zone episodes – was overshadowed in the summer of 1982 by the tragic deaths of Vic Morrow and two child actors, all victims of a helicopter stunt going horribly wrong. Deaths during film shoots aren’t unheard of. But there’s a world of difference between an actor succumbing to disease or natural causes and a preventable on-set accident caused by hubris, negligence, and the circumventing of child labor laws. Frankly, I’m surprised Morrow’s segment made it into the final cut. It’s in such poor taste. For crying out loud, the film isn’t even dedicated to his memory, or the memories of the children.

It’s a shame too, because the concept of his segment was intriguing and had the potential to truly impact audiences by directly confronting the dangers of ignorance and intolerance. The segment, written and directed by John Landis, stars the late Morrow as a bigot who magically transports in time and place from Nazi Germany to the Jim Crow South to Vietnam during the war; he’s given a taste of his own racist, anti-Semitic, xenophobic medicine by SS soldiers who see him as a Jew, a KKK lynch mob who see him as a black man, and a squad of trigger-happy American soldiers who see him as a Vietnamese villager. Aside from the shadow it cast over the segment, Morrow’s death also left an evident hole in the narrative. Landis’ editor Malcolm Campbell did the best he could with the usable footage, but ultimately, it still seems that something is missing, and the segment ends on a very unsatisfying note.

Moving on from this unpleasantness, we’re left with three more segments – and unfortunately, only one of them works. First is Steven Spielberg’s remake of Kick the Can, in which the title game acts as a kind of Fountain of Youth for the residents of an old-folks’ home. The original TV episode examined the concept rather poignantly; its message was that being young truly is a state of mind, so long as you believe it. As reinterpreted by Spielberg, it’s a condescending and soppy Peter Pan-esque fantasy, the idea of the residents bringing forth their own inner magic rejected in favor of a mysterious but kindly new resident (Scatman Crothers) using his magical powers on the residents. None of this is helped by very awkward scenes of child actors, dressed in oversized adult clothing, doing impressions of their elderly counterparts, including Selma Diamond, Bill Quinn, Martin Garner, and Murray Matheson.

Next is Joe Dante’s remake of It’s a Good Life, the story of a young boy who uses his dangerous mental powers against anyone or anything that displeases him. The TV episode had no resolution, but it did act as a kind of warning about the dangers of indulging a spoiled child. Although Dante’s version has moments that suggest the same warning is being given, they’re undermined by odd and confusing narrative choices. Most prominent is the inclusion of a traveling woman (Kathleen Quinlan), who, through nothing made clear to the audience, forms a bizarre mentor/protege relationship with the cartoon-loving boy (Jeremy Licht). When you see what this kid has done to the terrified adults in his house, especially his wheelchair-bound sister in the attic, it’s impossible to believe that anyone, Quinlan’s character or otherwise, would be motivated to befriend and teach him.

Lastly, there’s George Miller’s remake of Nightmare at 20,000 Feet, the film’s only good segment. Despite small changes in details, the basic plot of both the segment and the TV episode remains the same: During a flight through a rainstorm, a frantic aerophobic man (John Lithgow) tries to warn skeptical passengers and crew of a gremlin he sees on the wing, which appears to be destroying one of the plane’s engines piece by piece. Aside from a top-notch performance by Lithgow, the sanity of his character hanging by mere threads, this segment reveals the filmmakers’ adeptness at creating the right atmosphere for a horror story, from the claustrophobic airplane set to Howard Smith’s tense editing to the very strategic placement of the camera. Best of all, we have a gremlin creature that doesn’t look like a man in a giant teddy bear costume.

All segments are bookended by prologue and epilogue sequences, both directed by John Landis, both featuring Dan Aykroyd in a role I won’t describe in detail – except that his catchphrase is, “You want to see something really scary?” While I give the epilogue credit for being the appropriate capper to what’s essentially a horror movie, the prologue is a pointless sequence that goes nowhere. Its only real purpose, apart from ending with a throwaway scare, is to remind audiences of a TV series called The Twilight Zone; Aykroyd and co-star Albert Brooks play buddies who talk about their favorite episodes as they drive down a mountain road at night. If we’re watching something called Twilight Zone: The Movie, and if we know from trailers and TV spots that it contains remakes of famous episodes, is there any reason we need to be reminded of the series?

The real question is: What has the experience of Twilight Zone: The Movie taught us, apart from the fact that Burgess Meredith’s narrations effectively replace those of series creator Rod Serling? For one, never direct a segment if you, your producers, and your pyrotechnics and stunt units are going to cut legal and ethical corners that can only result in tragedy. If you make your segment anyway and the tragedy invariably happens, be decent enough to step away from the project and allow a more responsible and safety-oriented filmmaker to shoot a replacement segment. No, I’m not in the picture business, but it seems to me delaying a release and spending more money on reshoots is preferable to insensitively releasing a film tainted by a deadly accident that was completely preventable. Regarding the other segments, if you’re going to remake popular Twilight Zone episodes, follow the example of George Miller and think things through.