Clash of the Colonies: Mutated Outcasts or Feral Moon Worshippers?

In the shadowed fringes of 1970s and 1980s horror, two remote settlements spawn unspeakable terrors: irradiated freaks in the Nevada sands or shape-shifting lupines in coastal woods. Which pack reigns supreme?

Two landmark creature features from the golden age of practical-effects horror pit humanity against primal, colony-dwelling abominations. Wes Craven’s The Hills Have Eyes (1977) unleashes desert mutants born of atomic fallout, while Joe Dante’s The Howling (1981) reveals a werewolf enclave disguised as a therapy retreat. Both films thrive on isolation, bodily horror, and the thin line between victim and monster, but their approaches to terror diverge wildly—one raw and unrelenting, the other laced with sly satire. This showdown dissects their narratives, craftsmanship, cultural ripples, and lasting bite.

  • Unpacking the primal setups: how nuclear wastelands and foggy hamlets trap families in escalating sieges of savagery.
  • Effects extravaganzas: Rob Bottin’s lycanthropic transformations versus savaged realism in the dunes.
  • Which endures? Legacy, remakes, and why these colony horrors still haunt the genre’s wild frontiers.

Scorched Earth Siege: The Hills Have Eyes Unleashed

In the blistering Nevada desert of 1977, The Hills Have Eyes thrusts a hapless family on a cross-country RV jaunt into a nightmare of radiation-spawned cannibals. The Carters—led by the patriarchal Bob (Russ Grieve) and including pregnant Lynne (Dee Wallace), her husband Doug (Robert Burney), and infant grandson—veer off the beaten path after a flat tyre strands them amid abandoned atomic test sites. What begins as a minor mishap spirals when Pluto, a feral mutant scout played by the unforgettable Michael Berryman, severs their radio line and signals his clan: a blind patriarch, his rapacious offspring like the hulking Jupiter and cunning Mars, all deformed by decades of fallout from nearby nuclear experiments.

Craven crafts a relentless survival gauntlet. Doug barricades in the trailer as Pluto’s kin launch brutal raids, slaughtering Bob in a mobile home inferno and abducting Lynne and the baby. Flashbacks reveal the mutants’ origins: government test-site rejects exiled to the hills, scavenging like coyotes. The film’s power lies in its Darwinian cruelty; the Carters devolve into killers, with teen Bobby (Robert Houston) bludgeoning invaders and Doug igniting a savage counterattack. Key sequences pulse with visceral tension—the tarantula assault on baby Mike, the bone-chilling wolf howls masking human cries, and the climactic trailer explosion where Doug wields Pluto’s own claws against him.

Shot on 16mm for gritty authenticity, the production endured real desert hardships, mirroring the onscreen ordeal. Craven drew from tabloid tales of feral children and his own road-trip fears, infusing the film with class undertones: urban innocents versus irradiated underclass. Its premiere at drive-ins cemented it as a midnight staple, grossing modestly but scarring audiences with unfiltered violence that pushed beyond The Texas Chain Saw Massacre‘s boundaries.

Moonlit Therapy Trap: The Howling’s Lupine Lair

Shifting to the misty Northern California coast, The Howling (1981) masquerades as a psychological thriller before exploding into werewolf mayhem. TV anchor Karen White (Dee Wallace) grapples with repressed trauma after witnessing serial killer Eddie Quist (Dick Miller) climax in a peep-show booth. Referred to the “Colony” by therapist Dr. George Waggner (Patrick Macnee), a self-help haven for neurotics, Karen and husband Bill (Christopher Stone) arrive amid eccentric residents: voluptuous Marcia (Elizabeth Gracen), bombastic Jack (John Carradine), and the enigmatic Donna (Margaux Hemingway).

Dante’s script, adapted from Gary Brandner’s novel, layers red herrings masterfully. Karen’s hypnosis session unleashes night terrors, while Bill’s affair with Donna reveals her furry secret. The Colony unmasks as a werewolf commune thriving on fresh meat deliveries from city butcher Erle Kenton (Robert Picardo). Waggner, alpha of the pack, preaches harmony between man and beast, but Eddie’s rampage—morphing into a snarling hybrid amid bookstore erotica—forces a full-moon showdown. Practical wizard Rob Bottin steals scenes with transformations: vertebrae ripping through flesh, muzzles elongating in agony-ecstasy.

Influenced by Hammer films and An American Werewolf in London, the production blended MGM backlots with Big Sur locations, overcoming budget constraints through Dante’s pop-culture nods—like TV parodies and Dungeons & Dragons Easter eggs. Wallace’s raw screams anchor the hysteria, evolving from victim to vanquisher as she broadcasts the werewolves’ exposure live. The film’s subversive wit elevates it, critiquing self-help fads while delivering gore galore, from Jerry Warren’s silver-bulleted demise to the bonfire barbecue finale.

Remote Realms of Ruin: Isolation as the Ultimate Predator

Both films weaponise seclusion, transforming natural barriers into character-crushing prisons. The Carter family’s Route 66 detour strands them in thermonuclear badlands, where jagged rocks and endless dunes erase escape routes, echoing real Nevada test sites like Yucca Flats. This void amplifies paranoia; every rustle signals mutant ambush, forcing moral collapse as civilised norms erode.

Contrastingly, The Howling’s Colony feigns sanctuary—a lush, fog-shrouded village with cabins and a diner, subverting the rustic retreat trope. Yet its insularity breeds conformity; residents enforce the full-moon pact, turning therapy into indoctrination. Dante’s verdant claustrophobia, shot in widescreen, heightens the betrayal, much as Craven’s bleached palette desaturates hope.

Thematically, isolation probes humanity’s fragility. In Hills, it’s socio-economic: affluent vacationers versus fallout’s forgotten, a metaphor for America’s nuclear underbelly. Howling satirises urban alienation, positing lycanthropy as repressed id unleashed, with the Colony as a perverse commune mirroring 1980s New Age excesses.

Survival mechanics diverge sharply. Carters improvise with flares and traps, embodying gritty resourcefulness; Colony escapees wield silver and flames, allying with tech-savvy allies like the effects-artist sidekick Fred Francis (soon-to-be-famous puppeteer). Both climax in pyres, symbolising purification, yet underscore how proximity to monsters corrupts.

Beast Within: Mutations of Man and Myth

Monstrosity defines these colonies—Hills‘ mutants as grotesque extrapolations of humanity, hairless and scarred, their deformities (Pluto’s skull, Ruby’s hunch) evoking pity amid predation. Craven humanises them via the tragic matriarch and Ruby’s redemption arc, blurring victim-perpetrator lines in a cycle of violence unbroken by nuclear sin.

Werewolves in Howling reclaim lupine lore with postmodern flair: not cursed loners but socialised pack animals debating ethics. Bottin’s designs—elongated snouts, hyper-mobile jaws—ground folklore in physiology, influenced by evolutionary biology texts. Waggner’s speech on “man-beast harmony” philosophises the dual nature, paralleling Karen’s fractured psyche.

Gender dynamics sharpen the fangs. Lynne’s rape and infanticide in Hills horrify through maternal violation, catalysing revenge; Karen’s arc from hysteric to heroine subverts the screamer stereotype, her pregnancy echoing werewolf gestation myths. Both explore nurture versus nature, colonies as warped families perpetuating savagery.

Politically, Hills indicts military hubris—mutants as collateral of Cold War tests—while Howling skewers counterculture communes, implying liberation devolves to cannibalism. These readings endure, informing eco-horror and body-politic critiques.

Dread’s Sonic Palette: Howls, Whines, and Wind

Sound design elevates both to sensory assaults. Craven’s Hills employs diegetic barrenness—whipping winds, distant coyote yips morphing into mutant laughter—mixed with Elizabeth Selvin’s sparse score of atonal strings. The trailer’s creaks and baby cries pierce silence, building dread organically.

Dante amplifies with Pino Donaggio’s lush synth-orchestral cues, blending romantic swells and bestial roars. Iconic howls layer human gurgles over wolf calls, while TV static and transformation snaps punctuate humour-horror beats. Cross-cutting between Karen’s sessions and kills syncs audio unease masterfully.

Vocally, mutants’ grunts contrast eloquent werewolves, underscoring thematic rifts. Berryman’s guttural snarls humanise Pluto; Macnee’s silky menace sells Waggner’s cult charisma. These aural choices cement the films’ replay value, soundtracks becoming genre touchstones.

Effects Armageddon: Prosthetics Versus Pyrotechnics

Special effects crown these showdowns. Hills relies on practical grit: makeup artist David Ayers sculpted Berryman’s iconic dome and tribal scars using foam latex, while kills deploy squibs and animatronics for dog attacks. Low-budget ingenuity shines in the finale’s firestorm, real flames licking sets for apocalyptic verisimilitude.

Howling‘s Bottin, pre-Thing fame, revolutionised lycanthropy. His 15-minute transformations feature hydraulic skulls, bursting musculature, and a flayed wolfman dummy, all shot in gruesome slow-motion. Partial suits allowed actor mobility, blending animatronics with stuntwork for dynamic pack assaults.

Comparative impact: Craven’s effects prioritise realism, evoking revulsion; Dante’s dazzle with spectacle, wedding gore to glee. Both influenced RoboCop and Terminator artisans, proving analog supremacy over CGI precursors.

Production tales abound—Bottin’s hospitalisation from exhaustion, Craven’s cast dehydration—highlighting dedication amid shoestring finances.

Titans’ Shadows: Remakes, Ripples, and Rivalries

Legacies loom large. Hills spawned Alexandre Aja’s 2006 remake, amplifying sadism with digital sheen yet paling beside original’s rawness; a sequel and prequel expanded the mutant mythos. Craven’s blueprint shaped Wrong Turn and Martyrs, embedding backwoods cannibals in canon.

Howling birthed seven sequels, devolving into parody, but Dante’s vision inspired Ginger Snaps and Dog Soldiers. Its effects bible endures in Underworld, while Wallace’s role cemented her scream-queen status.

Cultural echoes persist: Hills in post-apoc like The Hills Have Eyes 2 (2007); Howling in lycan revivals. Versus verdict? Hills wins purity of terror; Howling for inventive fun—together, they map horror’s monstrous melting pot.

Neither cedes ground; both redefined colony creatures, proving remote horrors thrive eternally.

Director in the Spotlight: Wes Craven

Wes Craven, born August 2, 1939, in Cleveland, Ohio, to Baptist parents, grew up steeped in religious strictures that later fuelled his genre deconstructions. A National Merit Scholar, he earned a bachelor’s in English from Wheaton College and a master’s in philosophy from Johns Hopkins, teaching briefly before hitchhiking to New York in 1968. There, he edited hardcore pornography as pseudonym ‘Abe Snake,’ honing editing skills amid cultural upheaval.

Craven’s directorial debut, The Last House on the Left (1972), shocked with rape-revenge realism, drawing legal woes but critical acclaim. The Hills Have Eyes (1977) cemented his survival-horror throne, followed by Deadly Blessing (1981), a religious fanatic tale. Mainstream breakthrough arrived with A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), birthing Freddy Krueger and grossing $25 million on a $1.8 million budget.

The 1990s saw The People Under the Stairs (1991), skewering Reaganomics via home-invader mutants; New Nightmare (1994), meta-Freddy horror; and Scream (1996), revitalising slashers with $173 million worldwide. Sequels and Scream 4 (2011) followed, alongside non-horror like Music of the Heart (1999) with Meryl Streep.

Influenced by Ingmar Bergman and Night of the Living Dead, Craven championed social allegory—Vietnam in Hills, media violence in Scream. He produced Mime Your Language (1984) and mentored talents like Ari Aster indirectly. Knighted by genre fans, he succumbed to brain cancer on August 30, 2015, aged 76, leaving The Girl in the Photographs (2015) as swan song. Filmography highlights: Swamp Thing (1982, DC adaptation); Shocker (1989, electric-chair slasher); Vampire in Brooklyn (1995, Eddie Murphy comedy-horror); Cursed (2005, werewolf curse).

Actor in the Spotlight: Dee Wallace

Dee Wallace Stone, born December 14, 1948, in Kansas City, Missouri, as Deanna Bowers, overcame polio as a child through theatre therapy. Cheerleader and model, she studied at the University of Kansas before modelling in New York, then training under Milton Katselas in Hollywood. Bit parts led to Steven Spielberg’s The Hills Have Eyes (1977), her breakout as tormented Lynne, followed by iconic mom in E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (1982), blending maternal warmth with hysteria.

Wallace dominated 1980s horror: The Howling (1981) as scream-queen Karen, enduring transformations; Cujo (1983), battling rabid dog; The Haunted (1991), poltergeist matriarch. Diverse roles spanned 10 (1979) with Bo Derek, Critters (1986) gremlin comedy, and Secret Admirer (1985). TV credits include Harry and the Hendersons (1991-1993) as Bigfoot wife, voicing mom in The Lorax (2012).

Awards eluded majors, but fan acclaim peaked with Lifetime Achievement from Fangoria. Activism for animal rights and metaphysics informs roles; married cinematographer Christopher Stone (1980-1995, two children), then Skip Belyea. Recent: Red Knot (2014), Don’t Let Him In (2021) horror. Filmography: I Take These Men (1983, TV drama); Shadow Play (1986, thriller); Popcorn (1991, meta-slasher); The Lords of Salem (2012, Rob Zombie witchery); 31 (2016, Zombie hellride).

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