Rewinding the Nightmare: Unpacking V/H/S/85’s Analogue Horrors

In the static hiss of a VHS tape from 1985, forgotten nightmares spool back to life, grainier and more visceral than ever.

Step into the flickering underbelly of V/H/S/85, the latest instalment in the brutal found-footage anthology series that revels in the tactile terror of analogue media. Released in 2023, this entry channels the Reagan-era aesthetics of 1985 to deliver a mosaic of short films, each masquerading as recovered videotape. Directors like Scott Derrickson and David Bruckner trade polished CGI for the raw imperfections of VHS distortion, crafting a nostalgia-soaked dread that preys on our memories of childhood rentals gone wrong.

  • A segment-by-segment dissection revealing how each tape weaponises 1980s iconography against modern fears.
  • Explorations of analogue horror’s power, from glitchy effects to cultural anxieties of the era.
  • Spotlights on key creators, blending biography with the film’s enduring impact on the genre.

The Grainy Gateway: V/H/S/85’s Wraparound and Anthology DNA

The film opens with its wraparound segment, simply titled “85,” which sets a chilling precedent by framing the entire anthology as a broadcast hijacking from October 1985. Directed by Mike P. Nelson, it plunges viewers into a newsroom overrun by an unearthly force, with static bursts and emergency alerts interrupting the feed. This conceit immediately evokes the paranoia of Cold War-era public service announcements, where the familiar beep of the Emergency Broadcast System twists into a harbinger of apocalypse. The segment’s power lies in its restraint; rather than overt gore, it builds tension through escalating glitches and distorted screams, mimicking the unreliability of old tapes themselves.

From here, V/H/S/85 unfolds across five principal stories, each timestamped to 1985 events or aesthetics. The anthology format, a hallmark of the V/H/S series since its 2012 debut, thrives on variety, allowing filmmakers to experiment within tight constraints. Producers Brad Miska and David Bruckner curated a lineup that nods to the series’ origins while amplifying the analogue theme. No sleek smartphones or digital filters here; every frame reeks of Betamax sweat, with visible tape wear, colour bleed, and tracking lines that immerse us in a pre-digital hellscape.

This structure not only pays homage to 1980s horror like The Video Dead or Boardinghouse but elevates the found-footage subgenre. By committing to period accuracy, the film critiques our detachment from physical media in an era of streaming perfection. The tapes feel alive, decaying with each viewing, a meta-commentary on how horror evolves—or devolves—with technology.

Total Copy: Duplication and Doppelgänger Dread

“Total Copy,” helmed by Mike P. Nelson, kicks off the anthology with a fitness centre nightmare that skewers 1980s aerobics culture. A group of women, led by Dani Barker’s hyper-enthusiastic instructor, discover a grotesque mimic in their locker room mirrors. The segment masterfully uses practical effects to depict the doppelgänger’s emergence: silicone prosthetics stretch unnaturally across faces, accompanied by guttural moans distorted through cheap microphones. Nelson draws from body horror pioneers like David Cronenberg, but infuses it with the pastel spandex and synth beats of Jane Fonda workouts.

Key to its unease is the replication motif. As copies multiply, the original women’s panic mirrors our fear of losing identity in a commodified world. The climax, a blood-soaked conga line of clones, pulses with rhythmic editing synced to a thumping workout track, turning exercise into exorcism. Performances shine through the chaos; Barker’s shift from perky motivator to feral survivor grounds the absurdity in raw emotion.

Visually, the segment exploits VHS limitations: low-light shots in the locker room amplify shadows, while fluorescent flicker mimics tape degradation. This isn’t mere gimmickry; it heightens the primal terror of seeing oneself duplicated, a theme resonant in an age of deepfakes and AI avatars.

No Wake: Lakeside Leviathans and Suburban Doom

David Bruckner’s double-bill, “No Wake/Ambrosia,” shifts to watery graves. “No Wake” follows a boating party of college kids enforcing a no-wake rule on a lake, only to summon a serpentine horror from the depths. Shot on 16mm emulating VHS transfer, the footage captures sun-dappled horror with handheld shakes that evoke amateur holiday tapes. Practical creature effects—a coiling, tentacled mass crafted from latex and animatronics—burst from the water in a frenzy of sprays and screams.

The sequel tease in “Ambrosia” reveals the lake’s curse stems from a cannibalistic ritual, blending folklore with 1980s satanism panics. Bruckner, known for The Ritual, excels in environmental dread; the lake becomes a character, its glassy surface belying abyssal hunger. Sound design reigns supreme: muffled underwater gurgles and splintering wood amplify isolation, while diegetic camcorder audio adds intimacy.

Thematically, it probes entitlement and nature’s revenge, echoing Jaws but through redneck revelry. Victims’ casual misogyny foreshadows their doom, a subtle nod to gender politics in slasher tropes. At over 20 minutes, this is the anthology’s epicentre, rewarding patience with escalating viscera.

God of Death: Aztec Altars in Modern Mexico

Gigi Saul Guerrero’s “God of Death” transplants horror to Mexico City, where a TV crew filming an archaeological dig awakens an Aztec deity via a cursed relic. Found-footage staple of reckless journalists meets Mesoamerican myth, with Guerrero infusing authentic cultural terror. The god manifests as a hulking, feathered monstrosity, realised through a mix of suitmation and stop-motion, evoking Ray Harryhausen’s classics but drenched in Day of the Dead iconography.

Filmed in gritty 4:3 ratio, it captures urban sprawl clashing with ancient rites. Performers like David Rivas channel desperation as the crew succumbs to sacrificial frenzy, their screams layered with ritual chants. Guerrero’s direction pulses with national pride and critique, highlighting colonial erasure of indigenous horrors.

This segment stands out for its global scope in an American-dominated series, broadening analogue horror to international tapes. The finale’s mass evisceration, lit by torchlight flickering on tape, cements it as a visceral standout.

TKNOGD and Dreamkill: Cyber Shadows and Suburban Stalkers

Natasha Kermani’s “TKNOGD” (Take No God?) anticipates 1980s cyberpunk with a hacker collective summoning a digital demon through early modems. Grainy green-screen monitors and dial-up screeches build paranoia, culminating in body-melting effects via practical makeup that warps flesh into circuit patterns. Kermani subverts tech optimism, portraying computers as portals to flesh-rending entities.

Closing with Scott Derrickson’s “Dreamkill,” featuring Topher Grace as a detective haunted by murder visions. Inspired by Maniac Cop, it blends police procedural with psychic slasher, using dreamlike dissolves emulated via VHS wipes. Grace’s everyman unraveling anchors the surreal kills, from razor impalements to hallucinatory pursuits.

Together, these probe voyeurism and surveillance, the camcorder as unwitting witness to private damnations.

Analogue Effects: Crafting Terror from Tape Decay

V/H/S/85’s special effects wizardry hinges on rejecting digital polish. Teams employed CRT capture, chemical tape ageing, and optical printing to simulate wear. Creatures in “No Wake” used hydraulic puppets for fluid motion, while “Total Copy’s” duplicates relied on multi-pass prosthetics filmed in single takes. This labour-intensive approach yields authenticity; glitches aren’t post-production but baked into the negative.

Soundscapes amplify the grit: foley artists recreated cassette hiss, while modular synths mimicked 1980s scores. The result? A sensory assault that streaming can’t replicate, proving analogue’s edge in immersion.

Eighties Echoes: Cultural Phantoms and Lasting Ripples

The film taps 1985’s zeitgeist—live aid optimism masking AIDS fears, Challenger anticipation before tragedy. Segments reflect this duality: fitness facades hide mutation, lakeside fun devolves to devouring. Its legacy bolsters the V/H/S franchise’s endurance, spawning festivals and Blu-ray cults. Critiques praise its innovation, though some lament uneven pacing.

Influence ripples to We’re All Going to the World’s Fair, blending nostalgia with unease. V/H/S/85 affirms anthologies’ vitality, proving short-form horror thrives on constraints.

Director in the Spotlight: Scott Derrickson

Scott Derrickson, born 1966 in Dennison, Ohio, emerged from a blue-collar background into Hollywood’s elite. Raised in a devout Christian family, his early fascination with horror stemmed from Stephen King novels and The Exorcist, shaping a career blending faith, fear, and the supernatural. After studying English at the University of Virginia and USC film school, he debuted with Hellraiser: Inferno (2000), a direct-to-video entry that showcased his knack for atmospheric dread despite studio interference.

Breakthrough came with The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2005), a courtroom chiller grossing over $140 million, earning Laura Linney an Oscar nod. Derrickson followed with Sinister (2012), starring Ethan Hawke as a writer haunted by snuff films; its viral marketing and Bava-esque Super 8 aesthetic cemented his reputation. Doctor Strange (2016) marked his Marvel pivot, directing $955 million in psychedelic sorcery, though he clashed creatively, exiting sequels.

Returning to horror, The Black Phone (2021) adapted Joe Hill’s tale of a kidnapped boy communing with ghosts, blending practical effects with emotional heft. Influences span Kubrick’s precision and Argento’s colour palettes. Derrickson champions practical FX, as seen in V/H/S/85’s “Dreamkill.”

Filmography highlights: Hellraiser: Inferno (2000) – Pinhead pursues a corrupt cop; The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2005) – Faith vs. science in demonic possession; Sinister (2012) – Family terrorised by spectral home movies; Deliver Us from Evil (2014) – Exorcist cop hunts demonic forces; Doctor Strange (2016) – Sorcerer supreme battles multiversal threats; The Black Phone (2022) – Child’s telepathic fight against abductor; plus shorts and unproduced scripts like a Frankenstein adaptation.

Married with children, Derrickson tweets film theory and mentors indies, embodying horror’s intellectual torchbearer.

Actor in the Spotlight: Topher Grace

Topher Grace, born Christopher John Grace on 12 July 1978 in New York City, grew up in a creative family, his mother a schoolteacher and father an executive. Discovered at 17 in a school play, he skyrocketed with That ’70s Show (1998-2006) as Eric Forman, the awkward everyman in a nostalgic sitcom, amassing a teen fanbase.

Transitioning to film, Grace subverted his image in Superbad (2007) as a drugged-out dealer, then villains: venom symbiote in Spider-Man 3 (2007) and fascist in Valedictorian-esque Inherent Vice (2014). Indie cred bloomed with Take Me Home Tonight (2011), directing and starring in raucous comedy. Horror turns include The House Bunny scares and Opening Act, but V/H/S/85’s “Dreamkill” unleashes his intensity as a vision-plagued cop.

Awards elude him, but acclaim grows: Emmy nod for Black Mirror‘s “Nosedive” (2016). Grace voices projects like The Star (2017) and authors graphic novels The United States of Arcadia.

Comprehensive filmography: Win a Date with Tad Hamilton! (2004) – Lovestruck teen; In Good Company (2004) – Ambitious exec; Valentine (2005) – Slasher victim turned killer? Wait, no—early rom-com; Spider-Man 3 (2007) – Eddie Brock/Venom; Superbad (2007) – Sleazy dealer; Valediction wait, Predators (2010) – Cowardly mercenary; The Help (2011) – Smarmy editor; Take Me Home Tonight (2011) – Wall Street dropout’s party odyssey; Inherent Vice (2014) – Conspiracy theorist; Truth (2015) – CBS producer; War Machine (2017) – War room aide; BlacKkKlansman (2018) – KKK leader; The Fringe Dwellers no, Irreplaceable You (2018) – Terminally ill friend; plus TV like Scandal (2012), Black Mirror (2016), and voice in Gravity Falls.

Private life sees marriage to Rossy de Palma? No, to actress Ashley Hinshaw since 2016, two daughters. Grace embodies versatile charm masking darker depths.

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Bibliography

Heller-Nicholas, A. (2014) Found Footage Horror Films: Fear and the Frame. McFarland.

Miska, B. (2023) ‘V/H/S/85 Production Diary: Embracing the Grain’, Bloody Disgusting, 15 October. Available at: https://bloody-disgusting.com/interviews/3789123/vhs85-production-diary/ (Accessed 10 November 2023).

Nelson, M.P. (2023) ‘Directing Total Copy: VHS Fitness Nightmares’, Fangoria, Issue 85, pp. 45-52.

Bruckner, D. (2022) ‘Aquatic Analogues: No Wake’s Design Secrets’, Rue Morgue, 12 September. Available at: https://rue-morgue.com/no-wake-vhs85-interview/ (Accessed 10 November 2023).

Kermani, N. (2023) ‘Cyber-Horrors of the Dial-Up Era’, Scream Magazine, Issue 72, pp. 28-34.

Guerrero, G.S. (2023) God of Death: Aztec Terrors on Tape. Dread Central Press.

Derrickson, S. (2019) ‘The Supernatural in Cinema: From Sinister to Strange’, Sight & Sound, Vol. 29, No. 8, pp. 22-27.

West, R. (2023) ‘V/H/S/85 and the Analogue Revival’, Film Quarterly, Vol. 76, No. 3, pp. 14-23.