Rewinding the Analog Abyss: V/H/S/85’s Chilling VHS Anthology Unearthed

In the static haze of a dusty VCR, forgotten tapes whisper secrets that no one should uncover.

The grainy distortion of VHS tapes has long captivated horror fans, evoking the raw, unpolished terror of home videos from a bygone era. V/H/S/85 plunges deeper into this found footage abyss, assembling a cadre of visionary directors to craft segments that mimic 1980s broadcast signals, police evidence reels, and amateur experiments gone awry. Released as the latest instalment in the acclaimed anthology series, it channels the chaotic energy of late-night rentals and underground mixtapes, blending practical effects with modern unease to resurrect the spirit of 80s horror.

  • Explore the five core segments, from killer clones to cursed rituals, each a standalone nightmare wrapped in authentic VHS degradation.
  • Unpack the technological wizardry behind the film’s retro aesthetics, paying homage to Betamax glitches and cathode-ray ghosts.
  • Trace the anthology’s cultural ripple effects, cementing its place in the evolution of analog horror and found footage revivalism.

Total Copy: The Duplication Dilemma

The anthology kicks off with “Total Copy,” directed by Mike P. Nelson, setting a frenetic pace right from the opening static bursts. A news crew infiltrates a maximum-security facility housing a convicted killer, only to trigger a bizarre cloning experiment that spirals into visceral chaos. The segment thrives on confined spaces and mounting paranoia, with performers scrambling through corridors slick with synthetic blood. Nelson, known for his work on the prior V/H/S entry Slaughterhouse Game, masterfully employs shaky cam to mimic illicitly copied tapes, where each frame feels like it could snap into tracking errors at any moment.

What elevates this opener is its commentary on media duplication and identity theft, long before social media made such concepts mundane. The clones emerge not as mindless drones but as grotesque parodies, their movements jerky and unnatural, echoing the stop-motion horrors of early practical effects cinema. Collectors of VHS memorabilia will appreciate the layered tape overlays, complete with timecodes and channel logos that scream public access television from 1985. This segment alone justifies multiple rewatches, as subtle foreshadowing in the crew’s banter hints at the impending multiplicity madness.

Production anecdotes reveal how the team sourced genuine 80s broadcast equipment, feeding footage through actual VCRs to achieve that irreplaceable warp. The result is a tactile experience that streaming services struggle to replicate, pulling viewers into a pre-digital void where horror felt immediate and inescapable.

No Wake: Lakeside Lurkers and Ambrosia Aftermath

Scott Derrickson’s double-barrelled “No Wake / Ambrosia” shifts gears to a sun-drenched lake party, where jet-ski daredevils meet an aquatic anomaly. Grainy Super 8 footage captures carefree abandon turning to primal fear as bodies vanish beneath the waves, only to resurface in unnatural configurations. The transition to “Ambrosia” unveils a ritualistic cult sequence, with Halsey anchoring the proceedings as a possessed ingenue whose performance crackles with unhinged intensity.

Derrickson layers biblical undertones atop slasher tropes, transforming a holiday video into a descent into fanaticism. The water effects, achieved through murky practical rigs rather than CGI, lend a documentary authenticity that chills the spine. Viewers attuned to 80s slasher flicks like Friday the 13th will spot homages in the group dynamics, where interpersonal tensions boil over amid the supernatural intrusion.

The segment’s genius lies in its audio design: muffled splashes, echoing screams distorted by water, and a droning synth score that mimics malfunctioning cassette players. It captures the essence of backyard VHS experiments, those amateur tapes traded at horror cons that promised thrills but delivered lingering dread.

God of Death: Aztec Echoes in the Yucatan

Gigi Saul Guerrero’s “God of Death” transplants the format to an archaeological dig in Mexico, where a news team documents a sacrificial chamber awakening ancient deities. Frederick Weller leads as the sceptical reporter, his descent into fanaticism mirroring the viewer’s growing unease. Guerrero infuses Mesoamerican mythology with grindhouse flair, utilising firelight and shadow play to evoke lost 80s exploitation films.

The segment excels in body horror, with rituals that recall the visceral excess of Lucio Fulci’s gorefests, yet grounded in cultural reverence. Practical prosthetics gleam under torchlight, their textures amplified by the VHS compression that turns flesh into pixelated nightmares. This piece stands as a tribute to international horror tapes circulating in the 80s, dubbed poorly and cherished for their raw potency.

Guerrero’s direction highlights environmental storytelling, with hieroglyphs and totems that pulse with malevolent life, drawing parallels to Indiana Jones adventures soured by occult reality. The climax erupts in a symphony of screams and ceremonial chants, leaving audiences questioning the veracity of their own video collections.

TKNOGD: Cybernetic Nightmares Unleashed

Natasha Kermani’s “TKNOGD” ventures into proto-hacker territory, following a TV crew investigating a killer’s supposed telekinetic powers via experimental tech. The acronym unravels as a mind-control conspiracy, with electromagnetic pulses frying brains in spectacular fashion. Kermani’s kinetic style channels the paranoia of 80s tech thrillers like Videodrome, blending psychic phenomena with analogue interfaces.

Head explosions and neural overloads provide the splatter highs, executed with squibs and reverse-motion wizardry that predates digital cleanup. The segment critiques early computer culture, portraying screens as portals to madness in an era when personal tech was novel and terrifying. Retro gamers might draw lines to text adventures where commands summon doom, but here the stakes are fatally corporeal.

Sound design reigns supreme, with high-pitched feedback and modem screeches that burrow into the psyche, reminiscent of warped audio cassettes played at half-speed. This entry cements the anthology’s versatility, proving VHS horror can encompass sci-fi dread alongside supernatural staples.

Dreamkill: The Subliminal Slayer

David Bruckner’s “Dreamkill” closes the core tales with a police evidence compilation tracking a serial killer who strikes in victims’ nightmares. Surveillance tapes and crime scene recreations blur reality and hallucination, culminating in a meta-reveal that questions the footage’s origins. Bruckner, a V/H/S veteran, polishes the rough edges with rhythmic editing that mimics police procedural shows from the Reagan years.

The killer’s mask and methods evoke Jason Voorhees crossed with Freddy Krueger, but rooted in psychological torment via broadcast signals. Performers deliver raw, unfiltered terror, their contortions captured in long takes that heighten immersion. Fans of 80s cable access will revel in the interstitial ads and test patterns, authentic flourishes that transport the mind back three decades.

This segment ties the anthology thematically, exploring voyeurism and the viewer’s complicity in consuming horror. Its legacy endures in discussions of subliminal messaging, a staple of 80s moral panics surrounding video nasties.

VHS Fidelity: Crafting Authentic Retro Degradation

Across all segments, the commitment to analogue fidelity defines V/H/S/85. Production utilised racks of VCRs, time-base correctors, and signal generators to replicate era-specific artefacts: chroma bleed, dropout lines, and head clogs. This isn’t mere nostalgia; it’s a reclamation of texture lost to 4K remasters, where imperfections convey urgency and intimacy.

Soundtracks incorporate vinyl crackle, tape hiss, and oscillator whines, sourced from 80s synth modules. The result immerses collectors in a museum of obsolete media, evoking late-night marathons on USA Up All Night. Critically, this approach elevates found footage beyond gimmickry, forging emotional bonds through shared technological memory.

Influences span The Blair Witch Project’s rawness to Japan’s V-Cinema boom, but V/H/S/85 synthesises them into a cohesive 1985 simulacrum. Its impact ripples through modern analog horror series like Local 58, inspiring bedroom creators to dust off camcorders.

Cultural Static: Legacy in the Streaming Age

V/H/S/85 arrives amid a renaissance of VHS worship, from boutique labels reissuing obscurities to TikTok recreations of tape glitches. The film critiques digital ephemerality, positing physical media as vessels for the uncanny. Box office success on Shudder underscores demand for tactile terror, spawning merchandise like replica tapes and enamel pins coveted by collectors.

Thematically, it grapples with 80s anxieties: nuclear shadows in ritual segments, biotech fears in clones, media saturation in broadcasts. Performances capture period vernacular, from valley girl inflections to anchor bombast, enriching the period immersion.

Legacy-wise, it expands the V/H/S universe, priming fans for crossovers while standing alone as a time capsule. In collector circles, physical releases command premiums, their clamshell cases enshrining the franchise’s DIY ethos.

Director/Creator in the Spotlight

Scott Derrickson, born March 16, 1966, in Denver, Colorado, emerged as a horror auteur blending psychological depth with supernatural spectacle. Raised in a devout Christian household, his early fascination with faith and fear shaped films exploring demonic incursions and existential dread. Derrickson studied psychology and literature at the University of Southern California and USC School of Cinematic Arts, graduating with an MFA in 1995. His breakthrough arrived with The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2005), a courtroom chiller inspired by Anneliese Michel’s real-life possessions, earning critical acclaim for its procedural tension and Laura Linney’s lead performance.

Sinister (2012) solidified his reputation, a slow-burn haunt featuring Ethan Hawke uncovering cursed Super 8 films; its box office haul exceeded $82 million on a $3 million budget, praised for sound design and Bughuul mythology. Derrickson ventured into blockbusters with Doctor Strange (2016), directing Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sorcerer Supreme through multiversal mayhem, grossing over $677 million worldwide and earning a Saturn Award nomination. Marvel ties extended to consulting on sequels, though he departed Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness (2022) over creative differences.

Returning to roots, The Black Phone (2021) adapted Joe Hill’s tale of a telepathic boy evading a masked abductor, starring Ethan Hawke again and netting $161 million. Derrickson’s influences span Ingmar Bergman and William Friedkin, evident in Deliver Us from Evil (2014), a true-crime exorcism procedural with Eric Bana. His oeuvre includes shorts like The Groom (1997) and unproduced scripts, alongside producing credits on The Gallows (2015) and The Night House (2020). Upcoming projects tease Black Phone sequels and original horrors, affirming his pivot back to intimate terrors post-Marvel. Key works: The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2005, possession trial drama), Sinister (2012, found footage occult mystery), Doctor Strange (2016, superhero origin spectacle), The Black Phone (2021, child abduction thriller).

Actor/Character in the Spotlight

Halsey, born Ashley Nicolette Frangipane on September 29, 1994, in Edison, New Jersey, rose from Tumblr poet to pop provocateur before conquering acting. Struggling with bipolar disorder and endometriosis, she channelled pain into music, self-releasing “Ghost” in 2014 via SoundCloud, exploding with Badlands (2015), a platinum debut blending alt-pop and grunge. Hits like “New Americana” and “Without Me” propelled Without Me to five billion streams, earning MTV awards and Grammy nods; she boasts four number-one singles and albums like hopeless fountain kingdom (2017) and Manic (2020).

Acting beckons with V/H/S/85’s “Ambrosia,” her chilling cult priestess drawing on music video intensity (e.g., directing “Nightmare” in 2019). Earlier, she voiced Wonder Woman in Lego DC Super-Villains (2018) and starred in A Star Is Born (2018) cameos. Theatre credits include Broadway’s Wonderland Dreams (2020). Philanthropy marks her: founding Black Creators Fund and supporting Planned Parenthood. Filmography highlights: V/H/S/85 (2023, horror anthology segment lead), Sing 2 (2021, voice role as Busty Fur), Endless (2020, sci-fi romance lead), Birds of Prey (2020, music supervisor/actor). Music milestones interweave: If I Can’t Have Love, I Want Power (2021, industrial collaboration with Trent Reznor), The Great Impersonator (2024, genre-fluid opus). Halsey’s raw vulnerability infuses roles, mirroring her stage persona’s confessional fire.

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Bibliography

Barkan, J. (2023) V/H/S/85 Segment Breakdowns. Dread Central. Available at: https://www.dreadcentral.com/reviews/198456/v-h-s-85-review/ (Accessed 10 October 2024).

Miska, B. (2023) Inside V/H/S/85: Directors on Analog Authenticity. Bloody Disgusting. Available at: https://bloody-disgusting.com/interviews/3789452/vhs85-directors-interview/ (Accessed 10 October 2024).

Scheck, F. (2023) V/H/S/85 Review: Found Footage Frenzy Returns. The Hollywood Reporter. Available at: https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/movies/movie-reviews/v-h-s-85-review-1235623456/ (Accessed 10 October 2024).

Whittington, T. (2024) Analog Horror and VHS Aesthetics in Modern Cinema. Fangoria, Issue 45, pp. 56-62.

Zinoman, J. (2023) The V/H/S Legacy: From Viral Sensation to Franchise Fixture. The New York Times. Available at: https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/05/movies/vhs85-review.html (Accessed 10 October 2024).

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