Editorials
Why ‘Martyrs’ (2015) Is the Worst Horror Remake of All Time and Never Had a Chance
“Horror [films] should be a space of freedom, a territory for experimentation. But what happens is often the opposite.” These are the words of Pascal Laugier, in an Electric Sheep interview regarding his ethos on his horror classic Martyrs (2008). His desire with the premier piece of New French Extreme cinema was to peel away from the conventions of the many horror films he had seen before. To make something transgressive and decidedly not “politically correct”, pushing the boundaries through the horrific elements of the genre to unsettle the audience and leave them unable to predict what was going to happen next. And it was and still is a genuine success in that regard. It was provocative enough to earn an 18+ rating by the French Commission for Film Classification, an anomaly for a country with fairly relaxed ratings.
So understandably, his reaction to the 2015 Martyrs remake was going to be beyond negative. While promoting his film Incident in a Ghostland, Laugier reacted quite memorably when asked about the film. It’s a movie he claims he could only get through 20 minutes of, with some more colorful descriptors for how it made him feel that I’m not entirely sure we can say them here. And can you really blame him?
The Marketing That Made a Martyr of American Audiences
Hailed as one of the most unnecessary and poorly made horror remakes of all time, Martyrs (2015) was ambitious in its blatant rehashing. It had the audacity to market itself as “The Ultimate Horror Movie” in a now infamous movie poster that was set up at Berlin’s European Film Market in 2015. It was very cheap in how it got its viewers, banking on the shock and awe that the original generated to build a crowd. I have heard way too many stories of people being tricked into watching the 2015 version simply because it was the one advertised to them, horribly unaware that the 2008 version was an option.
With a prodigious studio like Blumhouse Films distributing it, it’s easy to understand how the remake got so many eyes on it. Which wouldn’t be so egregious on its own; had it been a shot for shot remake, an English localization for the subtitles-hating crowd, it might have worked. It could have even been a unique experience like Haneke’s Funny Games remake. Had it even just toned down the violence and recut to keep the original’s essence, I believe it might have found an audience; after all, a good deal of the film’s horror lies in what it implies rather than what we see.
But that wasn’t enough: it had to be rewritten from the ground up, and morphed into the most sanitized, most unproblematic story of friendship and flat characters you might ever see in a horror film.
Goodbye to (The Real) Lucie and Anna
If you aren’t familiar with the plot of the original Martyrs, please go watch Laugier’s original first, and return here to delve into the SPOILERS AHEAD. It’s a waste of good suffering not to.
The story of Lucie’s tragic relationship with Anna and the mystery of the creature haunting her was one that, while maybe a bit predictable to some viewers, was nevertheless a perfectly acted tale of trauma. The remake version is regrettably only made toothless by Mark L. Smith’s treatment of the script; there’s no dead romance, and no tragic failure by one to save the other. Just two gal pals doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. Or right thing, given it flattens the actions the duo take in trying to balance the moral scales of Lucie’s home invasion that kicks things off.
It’s not enough for Lucie to succumb to her mental illness and take her own life, she has to be gunned down saving a child with Anna, survive, and then die through martyrdom later (but only in time to be rescued and get her happy ending). There’s no moral ambiguity to her actions at the beginning of the film, because the cosmic debt of hurting people has been paid by her good actions. There is no shock of seeing the film switch main characters halfway through and deny you the escape from its world of sorrow and sacrifice. It’s a long and boring ride through maudlin flashbacks and weak attempts to scare you.
One of the Bleakest Endings in Horror History Exits Stage Left
And the reward for it all is the worst possible ending they could have gone for. The skincrawling martyrdom of Anna, flayed by her captors and sent into a state of telestic madness on the brink of death, is gone. It’s watered down to a painless-looking crucifixion that could have been an affair to remember if it had been done with any level of commitment to depicting how agonizing that barbaric kind of death was.
But here, it feels cheap.
The finale looks and smells like one of those megachurch plays, trading in the uncomfortably sterile environment that the pseudo-scientific torture took place in for flowing white curtains and dining room lighting. It’s ultimately undercut of any nuance and existential threat the original had, instead going for the incredibly American ending of Anna running in with a gun and killing members of the cult (as we all know, ideologies and systematic violence are easily destroyed by bullets). If there was ever a point where it cemented itself as Old American Blandness, the antithesis to New French Extreme, it would be the pithy one-liner response Anna has for the cult leader Eleanor when she kills her with an action movie headshot.
“What is it? What did she see?”
“You tell me.”
Of course, after delivering that, she begins to succumb to her earlier gunshot wound, curling up next to Lucie. It’s a pyrrhic victory where the two women ultimately die together, both experiencing the sensation of martyrdom and, maybe going to heaven? The scene’s cinematic language sure does imply a happy ending, with the music swelling as Anna and Lucie are carried off into another flashback of their happy childhood together. And the crowd goes mild!
The Wall of Noise That Is the Martyrs Remake
Turning the quiet and unsettling affair of the Mademoiselle and her secret society’s insidious motivations into a noisy and unimpressive rescue was the pinnacle of what made watching Martyrs (2015) a miserable experience. And really, when I stopped to give the film a chance and find out if it had any redeeming qualities, it’s the first qualifier that bothered me the most—the noise. I can forgive terrible dialogue, I can even forgive lousy lighting. But the sound was a pivotal element that didn’t need to be sacrificed to tell a different version of the story.
Barring one piece of music that plays during a pivotal moment of Lucie’s suffering (when she faces “the monster” for the first time in the family’s home), the original film’s audio and music is perfectly mixed. It isn’t overbearing, it doesn’t try to force you to feel anything with overblown sound effects and a reused soundtrack. Even Lucie and Anna’s staggered breaths and painful reactions are at the perfect volume. There isn’t a thing out of place, with every movement and noise painstakingly orchestrated to make you feel uncomfortable. It is an orchestra of negative emotions. And that analogy is what really made me realize what the Martyrs remake is.
Martyrs (2015) is bad pop music.
It’s too clean, it’s too loud, it’s underproduced at points and overproduced at others. It’s inoffensive, even with the same premise and many of the same beats as the original’s. It’s too deadened of its roots to communicate anything of value. It relies on trends and the climate around it to try and stand out, desperately grabbing at motifs it’s heard before and quashing them down into one-dimensional reenactments.
And like most bad pop songs, it never had a shot of crossing into people’s long-term memory as anything other than a faint tune you kind of remember. Instead of something that occasionally pops up in a retail store while you’re looking for jeans or in the supermarket’s frozen food aisle, you might hear it brought up in conversation. A streaming service will recommend it, and then just as soon as you gave an amused exhale through your nose (“like I’ll ever watch that again”), it will be gone once more.
Mourn Martyrs (2015), because it never had a shot to begin with.
The United States spent most of this year celebrating its 250th anniversary. There have been parades, fireworks, and endless reminders of what the nation wants us to think are its founding ideals. Yet anniversaries are as much about what we choose to remember as they are about what we choose to forget. There is another anniversary this year. Five years ago this month, Candyman was released. The fact that both that film and America are sharing an anniversary this year may have been an accident, but that makes it no less significant.
Released amid another national reckoning over race, Nia DaCosta’s film asks a question that every celebration of America ought to confront: Is it possible to commemorate this nation without fully reckoning with the violence woven into its history? More than a sequel to a horror classic, Candyman is a meditation on the ghosts that haunt America because it has never fully reckoned with the past that created them.
How the Original Candyman Confronted America’s Racial History
The original Candyman understood this. Released in 1992 and set in the almost post-apocalyptic urban decay that was Chicago’s Cabrini-Green housing projects, Bernard Rose’s film arrived only months after the L.A. Race Riots, a moment when this country was coming to terms with the way the country’s relationship with Black folks was shaped by decades of segregation and racism.
Most audiences saw a supernatural slasher about a hook-handed killer summoned by saying his name five times into a mirror. But beneath the horror was a far more unsettling story. Candyman was about the lingering consequences of America’s racial history and the way white America has sometimes turned Black suffering into myth instead of confronting the systems that produced it.
The film’s true horror was never simply Candyman. It was the realization that monsters can be born from histories a nation refuses to face. That is exactly where the 2021 film expands the original’s vision.
Nia DaCosta’s Candyman Turns One Ghost Into Many
Bernard Rose’s Candyman explored the legacy of a single act of racist terror. Nia DaCosta’s film argues that the tragedy wasn’t confined to Daniel Robitaille, the man who became the monster. The 2021 film posits that Candyman is not one man but many.
Daniel Robitaille was lynched for loving a white woman. Sherman Fields takes on the mantle of the supernatural slasher because he was beaten to death by police after being falsely accused of harming a child. Anthony McCoy ultimately becomes part of the same legend. Their stories span generations, but they are connected by a nation that repeatedly produces the same injustice under different names at different points in history. The genius of the sequel is that it transforms Candyman from an individual ghost into a symbol of America’s recurring racial violence.
Candyman Shows How History Repeats Itself
History, the film suggests, is not something that happened once. It is something that keeps happening. That is why Candyman is one of my favorite films to teach in my Film and Philosophy course.
Students walk into class expecting a horror movie. They leave wrestling with questions about history, memory, and justice. We spend little time talking about jump scares or gore. (Because, let’s be honest, there is not much of that in the film.) Instead, we ask why some histories become legends while others are forgotten, what societies owe their victims, and whether a nation can ever move forward without honestly confronting the violence that shaped it.
The Horror of Remembering What America Wants to Forget
A good horror film reveals what we fear. What makes Candyman great is how it reveals what we would rather not remember. That is what haunted me the first time I saw it, long after the credits had rolled.
Five years after its release, Candyman remains one of the most unsettling movies in recent years because the history it confronts is not safely behind us. The original film understood that America’s racial violence could not simply be buried, while the 2021 film showed how easily that violence can be reproduced across generations.
Its Unquestionable Legacy in Horror
As America celebrates 250 years, Candyman reminds us that commemorating the nation’s founding requires remembering all this country’s history, including the parts that make the celebration uncomfortable.
We cannot exorcise a ghost by refusing to acknowledge why it exists. Perhaps that is the film’s most important lesson. The past does not haunt us because we remember it. It haunts us because we don’t.
Sometimes it feels borderline ridiculous to gush about John Carpenter’s The Thing as much as I do. It’s gotten to the point where when I’m asked about my favorite horror film by both friends and strangers, a little bit of embarrassment tinges my expression as I answer; it feels so obvious and rarely surprises anyone. Saying I love The Thing when people expect me to bust out an obscure foreign horror film or a cerebral thriller makes me feel like a rosy cheeked child with a propeller hat and a giant lollipop. “Wow, you love one of the most popular horror films of all time, congrats!”
But it’s just the truth. The first film of John Carpenter’s “Apocalypse Trilogy”, all three of its films are among my favorites. But The Thing has a special place in my heart. It shaped my taste in horror, my taste in most media in general, to be honest. It’s become the gold standard, 10/10 baseline test for the vast majority of my reviews; it is a perfect film, so I judge other films against it. And it’s one of the few movies I have to run back to and watch yearly like clockwork (usually when I’m spending a part of winter tied to the couch). It is, in all regards, the perfect film. If it isn’t the perfect film, then it is at the very least the perfect sci-fi horror film.
So, what exactly qualifies The Thing for literal perfection? It’s a high bar to clear. This article, as informal as it is compared to most of my editorials, is an attempt to explain it.
Even if Carpenter Isn’t the Goat, His Team for The Thing Was
As far as crews go, John Carpenter’s The Thing had the cinematic equivalent of the ’96 Chicago Bulls behind it. We’re talking about an amalgam of some of the most talented people to ever grace the silver screens with their work, boasting alongside John Carpenter two of the heaviest hitters in all of cinematic history: Dean Cundey, and Rob Bottin. Now, we can debate all day about whether John Carpenter is the greatest of all time when it comes to horror directors. Personally, I’m just as liable to say Cronenberg, Del Toro, or Hooper as I am to say Carpenter.
But the key factor to remember here is that Carpenter is the coach, not the star player; the Phil Jackson, if you will. Yes, he is the visionary who directed a near perfect cast of players and composed a tale of pure, apocalyptic paranoia. More importantly, he put together and coordinated the team that would make his vision manifest as reality. And if Carpenter is Phil Jackson, Rob Bottin is the team’s Michael Jordan here, the greatest of all time.
(And to all my Lebron fans, I love you, but you have to sit down for this analogy.)
The Legend of Rob Bottin
Bottin’s story is borderline unbelievable, but it’s the best way to explain how abnormally skilled he is and what he brought to the table for Carpenter. At age 14, Bottin became an apprentice to the at-the-time GOAT Rick Baker after sending him a letter seeking an autograph while sharing his creature designs. He was a quick study under Baker, joining him on the ’76 King Kong and Star Wars, before bouncing to Carpenter’s The Fog and then iconic werewolf picture The Howling.
When he reunited with Carpenter in 1982, he now had 6 classic films under his belt and was moving like an FX bullet train. From ages 22 to 23, he worked on The Thing for 57 weeks in both pre-production and on set. Nearly 24/7 for 400 days, Bottin’s all-gas no-brakes work ethic made The Thing at the cost of his own health, and it resulted in him being hospitalized with pneumonia. He survived and went on to make Robocop. And at least one of your favorite films.
Because no conventional disease or weaponry can kill Rob Bottin.
The Thing Still Features Horror’s Best Practical Effects
Okay, that last bit might be hyperbolic, but the man sincerely put his life on the line to make special effects that haven’t been topped since. Not the best effects in just horror history, or science fiction history, but effects that haven’t been topped in any genre for over 44 years. Not by his mentor Rick Baker, not by Screaming Mad George, not by Alec Gillis (though shoutout to him for his criminally scrapped work on The Thing (2011), and even more criminally ignored work on Harbinger Down). I love Dawn of the Dead, believe me, I do, but he certainly isn’t being beaten out by Tom Savini’s body of work. And that isn’t to disrespect and say that all of the artists that I just mentioned are bad, they’re the best in the game! But Rob Bottin was just that much better.
This inevitably invites the counterpoint: “But it wasn’t just Bottin! Stan Winston and his people were the ones who worked on the Dog Thing to give Bottin’s crew a break, and that’s the best monster in the movie!”. To which I say: look me in the eye and tell me the Dog Thing sequence is better than the Palmer Thing sequence. That’s not even counting the Norwegian Thing, both Norris Things, and the absolutely masterful final creature work that was the Blair Thing. The only reason Bottin and his people didn’t win Academy Awards for their work was because they got jumped by E.T., The Dark Crystal, Conan the Barbarian, and Blade Runner all at the same time at the Oscars. It’s just a consequence of being released during the best year for movies ever.
Okay, Now We Can Talk About Dean Cundey
But of course, these effects are then supported by another true legend: Dean Cundey. Selling people on Rob Bottin being the greatest effects artist of all time, isn’t nearly as difficult as advocating for Cundey, who despite an impressive catalog of filmography, slowed down in the back half of his career. He’s often overshadowed in conversations when it comes to The Thing; it’s always talk of Carpenter’s directing, Bottin’s effects, and Ennio Morricone’s incredible soundtrack up front, and rarely any of Cundey’s work. He isn’t spoken about in the same breath as John Alcott or Michael Ballhaus, cinematographers whose work is associated with prestigious cinema because of their proximity to great directors.
Cundey might not be the director of photography your Martin Scorsese’s or Paul Thomas Anderson’s went running to, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t think he was the most important cinematographer in horror history, just for his work with Carpenter and Spielberg. He helmed three of the most influential films in all of horror with his lighting and camera operating: The Thing, Halloween, and Jurassic Park. The man’s fingerprints are automatically on the cultural DNA of all slashers, most practical effects-driven horror films, and the biggest gateway horror franchise in film history.
The Dream Team That Made The Thing Perfection
Cundey has gone on record saying that despite Carpenter’s input, he was effectively given free rein to light and frame The Thing. The man didn’t just know how to shoot effects to make them evoke true disgust from the audience, he was able to manipulate every aspect of the shot to terrify. His sixth sense cinematography wasn’t just for lighting and playing with shadows, but for the speed of camera movement, the power of his blocking, and for having a complete grasp of communicating texture and temperature.
And temperature is the soul of The Thing. John J. Lloyd’s production design of the research station and the great white expanse around it feels just as bone chilling as the film’s antagonist, thanks to Cundey. There isn’t a single flat shot in the thing, not a moment that doesn’t feel dynamic, and it’s because of Dean Cundey.
Now, all this being said about Bottin and Cundey, they are far from the only ones who synthesized this structurally perfect organism of a movie. Every bit of Todd C. Ramsay’s editing splices the film’s scenes together to move perfectly in-time. David Lewis Yewdall’s sound design and how it gave a voice to the horrors on screen will be etched into people’s brains forever. The point is that everyone, every single person who had a hand in making the film, helped make the movie flawless.
Like the cells of the thing from another world, each crew member on John Carpenter’s The Thing moved in concert with the next, in unison, to create the greatest sci-fi horror of all time. So, is it any wonder why 40 some years later, the film still has us all captured?
