“When they looked at me, they saw a devil — and maybe I did too — and now I had to look the part.”

Anthony’s rating: When you’re alone late at night and there’s nothing else to do and it happens to be on

Anthony’s review: Truth be told, from the moment it came out I always was tempted — nay, fascinated – to watch the 2013 movie adaptation of Joe Hill’s novel Horns. Yet I never did for one simple reason: I kept bumping on the name Alexandre Aja. The French director made a reputation for himself with the quite polarizing revenge-porn Haute Tension, which I strongly feel was nothing but an excuse to see how far you can take the whole violence-on-screen thing, one that would make even Tyler Durden roll his eyes at. That and the fact he later broke one of my sacred commandments: Thou shall NOT remake a Bruce Campbell classic.

But what I DID know about it kept me circling the drain round and round: Horns is based on a novel by Stephen King’s son, headlined by Daniel Radcliffe, and concerning a dude whose inner demons aren’t inner anymore. Who wouldn’t be tempted? Being a night-time dweller, I often browse streaming sites in the wee hours to find an old show or movie to keep myself awake, and seeing this one available I thought: Hey, take it as a sign and watch the damned thing.

The deed now done I will say this: Horns would have been a huge hit… in 1995.

The story centers on a young man called Ignatius, which is mentioned in full only once to probably avoid pile-driving home the fact that his name means “Fire Starter.” You need to know that, and now you do, you’re welcome. So Ig has been dating the love of his life since high school, but one night after an argument, she is killed in mysterious circumstances and left in the woods.

Ig is immediately condemned in the court of public opinion, and soon enough wakes up to find he has sprouted horns — even though no one seems to notice that other than him. What he alone also notices that in close proximity people can’t help telling him the truth by expressing the full extent of their deepest darkest thoughts. If true-crime shows have thought us anything, it’s that people in small blue-collar towns have a LOT of dark inside. With barely a push, the lad can lead people to act on those skin-deep impulses. It becomes a madhouse (a MADHOUSE!) and in a fun-to-watch way too.

The whole thing is filled to the rim with red-herrings and plot twists that make little sense other than to get the director whatever shot he wants. And for the most part, it doesn’t matter. The reason and cause for the transformation and powers are never addressed, nor sought to be; like Kafka’s protagonists are more busy dealing with their predicaments than to ever really look for its inception, we are far more interested in what Horny Potter finds behind the curtain than how or why he can even lift it. In the thick of it, two names came to mind: David Lynch for the strange waking-dream feeling we get, and Hitchcock for the McGuffin of it all. But then in the third act, one more name added itself at least from my perspective: Wes Craven.

Whatchu talkin’ about Willis? Well, after making a string of low-budget, bone chilling cult classics (Last House on the Left, The Hills Have Eyes, Nightmare on Elm Street) Craven wanted to do something different — a PG-rated supernatural thriller. And so he pitched Warner Bros on Deadly Friend, a macabre love story between a teen tech-genius and the dead, abused girl next door whom he sparks back to life with a computer chip (it was 1986, give the guy a break). The thing is, the studio thought the Elm Street guy would give them an Elm Street clone, not Romie-O & Julie-8, and took the film away from poor Wes to rework it into a generic ’80s teen splatterfest, in a way the very core creation of the Scream franchise.

My point? Watching Horns enter its homestretch felt like watching a ’90s teen-targeted thriller the likes of Final Destination, Urban Legend, et al. It basically becomes I Know What You Did Last Potter in a manner so blatant and boring you can almost hear the studio execs cackling. Ig’s journey becomes a basic whodunit, which in itself pulls the ultimate curtain of letting us realize how badly this thing is disjointed, not very well directed, and somewhat aimlessly acted. It’s a crying shame because the feverish feeling from the rest of the film deserved a much better mess of an ending, if any conclusion at all. But what we get is the meddling kids unmasking old man Jenkins and the obligatory tussle using a pitchfork against a 200lbs anchor chain that lands 10 times on a guy’s spine yet never breaks it.

In a perfect world, Netflix will wait the customary 15 years and reboot the story for a three-season show which will either fill the potholes with concrete or shatter the whole dang road to smithereens. Until then I do recommend Horns as a late-nite Radcliffe triple-feature with friends to enjoy the young man’s deliciously bonkers career choices, sandwiched between Swiss Army Man and Guns Akimbo.