Combat Shock/American Nightmares (1986)

“Don’t sit so close to the TV! You’ll ruin your eyes!” This statement has been uttered by every parent, in every form of media, since the popularization of the boob tube in the 1950’s. Of course, nuclear families weren’t quite as enlightened as we are today and they were busy eating their steak and donut sandwiches and smoking four packs a day. For safety’s sake, movies and television shows should be watched, at minimum, at a literal arm’s length. While some people like sitting in the front row of a movie theater, I’m not a fan and having to crane my neck up for two or more hours is not my idea of a party. We underestimated the popularity of Avatar back in 2009 and ended up sitting in the very front row of the 3D IMAX screening. It was rough. A local college was hosting a free screening of Chang-dong Lee’s Burning (2018) and I go the center seat...in the front row. I literally had to ball up my jacket and use it as a pillow because this was an extremely small screening room and that was my only option. Being that close can be an immersive experience, however, and our natural inclination to move away from the images depicted on a screen still doesn’t stop certain filmmakers from attempting to literally visualize what’s going on inside the human brain.

I’ve never taken MDMA, or ecstasy as it’s commonly known, but a friend who’s dabbled in said recreational drug informed me that Gaspar Noe’s Enter the Void (2009) was an accurate portrayal of what ecstasy does to the mind. In his words, the film “nailed it.” The emotional trauma and inner turmoil army veterans suffer due to PTSD has been portrayed onscreen multiple times. Some are successful and some come off as hackneyed, partially due to an overabundance of combat flashbacks and the familiar tropes and cliches most of these films “war at home” films follow, true-to-life though they may be. Having never experienced active combat myself, I can’t claim to even begin to comprehend what’s going on inside a mind damaged by this kind of experience, but through a combination of sight and sound, Buddy Giovinazzo’s American Nightmares (1986, more commonly known as Combat Shock) is one of the most visceral representations of a veteran’s fractured, dangerously disturbed mind.

I’ve never been a diehard fan of Troma Entertainment. Lloyd Kaufman and Michael Herz’s legendarily infamous and unabashedly tasteless company has provided me with some big laughs and a few major jaw-drops over the years. When I learned that Kaufman would be in attendance for a Q&A at Dragon Con, I was one of the first in line for the surprisingly late panel. You can imagine my disappointment when we were informed that Kaufman would not be attending and we were instead treated to a documentary on the making of Return to Nuke ‘Em High (2013). I lasted about 30 minutes, then went back to my room. Don’t get me wrong. Films like Class of Nuke ‘Em High, The Toxic Avenger, Terror Firmer, and even third-party efforts like Cannibal! The Musical, The Children, Killer Condom, Redneck Zombies, and Nightbeast hold a special place in my heart, but when I want cinematic insanity, I’m liable to look elsewhere, usually in foreign markets like Italy, France, or Japan. This may be due to the unrelenting goofiness of most Troma-based productions. Still, even though they bungled the marketing of Giovinazzo’s ugly, uncompromising, and bleak 16mm exploration of mental illness and despair, Combat Shock is often regarded as the finest film Troma ever released.

Initially shrugged off as just another Vietnam vet movie made on a shoestring budget and featuring amateur actors, the film gained a cult following and admiration from such exploitation luminaries as William Lustig, Jorg Buttgereit, Richard Stanley, John McNaughton, Jim VanBebber, and Scott Spiegel. Essentially a day-in-the-life character study, Giovinazzo cast his brother Rick, who composed the film’s evocative score and is now a prolific orchestrator (X-Men), as Frankie, a prisoner-of-war survivor haunted by vivid, disturbing dreams, and whose reality isn’t particularly rosy either. His pregnant, ex-prostitute wife Cathy (Veronica Stork, Class of Nuke ‘Em High II) sees what a desperate situation they’re in and begs him to find a job while she cares for their deformed child, whose appearance is likely due to Frankie’s exposure to Agent Orange during the war.

The film traces his journey and transformation from an anguished, hopeless, poverty-stricken man living in the slums of Staten Island to a homicidal maniac. Frankie has no idea that he’s sentencing his wife to death when she says, “You’re just waiting for the world to end,” to which he replies, “Well, the whole world’s gonna end any day now!”

The Staten Island swamps stand in for the rice paddies and jungles of Vietnam - De Nang, specifically. Frankie’s voiceover is heard throughout the film and although it smacks of Apocalypse Now and is a tad overused, the way in which he mutters “I go back there every night without fail. I know it isn’t real...something happened...I can’t remember what,” is haunting. He’s been separated from his platoon and has no recollection of the previous day's events. He stares at a Vietnamese woman and wonders, “She’s so beautiful, and yet why is she trying to destroy me?” The screaming inside his head increases as he levels his rifle at her, repeating “she’s just a girl!” over and over before shooting her. The sequence is shot with a mix of chaotic, almost too shaky handheld camerawork and surprisingly evocative nature photography. We know it can’t really be Vietnam, but it’s a decent effort. Frankie’s chased by the Vietcong and he passes through the site of an absolute massacre with dead bodies strewn about. There’s a man cut in half, blood everywhere, and of particular note is an exposed rib cage that cinematographer Stella Varvaris lovingly zooms in on. He wakes up screaming, and as noted sex offender Kevin Spacey once said, “This is the highlight of my day.”

Giovinazzo, whose credit as Buddy G. reveals an intriguing level of self-awareness, described Combat Shock as “a cross between Eraserhead and Taxi Driver,”; a vibe which I immediately picked up on loud and clear from the abrupt and very startling cut to the grey monster baby screeching distorted cries of hunger and pain. It’s grotesque, not to mention cheap-looking, but the urban decay and desolation which snakes its way through the film somehow makes the Ralph Cordero (Coraline, Paranorman) creation, which reportedly cost only $140 to make, plausible and even appropriate. They’ve got no food to eat, although later Cathy finds some presumably stale and heavily-featured Cocoa Krispies and some oatmeal for the monster baby. Buddy G’s dialogue isn’t terrible, just a tad stilted, but an argument that erupts when Cathy recommends Frankie ask his rich father for money features realistically overlapping dialogue: “I’m not taking sides! I’m just too hungry and tired to care anymore!” Like Lynch’s debut feature, the sound design is ominous and foreboding. Everyday noises and voices sound anything but normal, including the nasally voice of a woman who delivers the couple’s eviction notice. Even when Frankie isn’t onscreen, the film wants to make the viewer uneasy, with random screams, deafening faucet leaks, and a static TV which features an increasingly intense exchange between two unseen soap opera stars who keep repeating “Oh, John! Oh, Marsha!”

Although the score is indeed strong, the Casio-style walking music is terrible. Perhaps it might’ve been too much to play dispiriting music during every scene, but it cheapens the all-too-real footage of a recession-ravaged city. Then again, it’s very possible the music is meant to be irritating just to get under a viewer’s skin. Junkies are everywhere, including Frankie’s friend Mike (future producer/director Michael Tierno), who sports a green headband and steals some lady’s phony jewelry to trade for tainted smack. Half the film’s budget must’ve gone to the eye shadow department because everyone has dark circles under their eyes here. Nobody can sleep without a needle in their vein.

A trio of swarthy loan sharks roam the street and give Frankie a beat down. The casting of Combat Shock took place in the back of makeup effects artist Ed Varuolo’s comic book shop and they must’ve been tickled pink to cast these palookas. The leader, Paco (Mitch Maglio), has never heard of shirt buttons and sports the hairiest chest this side of Robin Williams. The other two are respectively a Hell’s Angels-type leather daddy and somebody who can’t decide whether he’s a mafioso or Borat. They warn Frankie that if he doesn’t pay up, they’ll come for his wife and kid. One even says they’ll sell the baby to the freak show because “they pay extra for retards.”

Frankie stands in line at the unemployment office amongst ugly, ugly people and we get a few fleetingly bizarre events, like a random hot biker chick who appears to motion for Frankie to join her before riding off, never to be seen again. The social worker, played by a cameoing Buddy G., has the most bizarre bit of dialogue in the entire film, which he delivers in an amazing office that features a Dawn of the Dead poster. “Life is hot, Frankie, and because life is hot, I am compelled to remove my jacket.” What the fuck? There’s no work available and Frankie’s on his own. His plight is hopeless and the film shifts away from him for a while.

Initially, I felt the sudden change in focus to Mike the junkie odd and smacked of running time-padding, but to its credit, one thing does lead to another and it eventually circles back around to Frankie. Mike steals the woman’s jewelry, attempts to trade it along with a service revolver for smack from Paco and his gang “How ‘bout you inject it in your face?,” but they give him “shit.” In a knowing moment which I’ve never seen in a film, Mike looks amongst some rubble for a clean needle he can use. Finding several used ones, he ends up sprinkling the heroin powder on his disturbingly black and mangled arm. The woman shows back up, presumably to get her jewelry back, and ends up stealing his revolver.

In a melodramatically overwritten scene, Frankie finally calls his rich, racist father (Leo Lunney), who tellingly worries that the phone call is from “another collection agency.” It’s unfortunate that this scene employs a great deal of “tell, don’t show,” particularly since the flashbacks to Frankie in captivity, where he hallucinates maggots eating him, a torture scene set in a bizarre black void where his fingers get the business end of a pair of pliers, and even a recovery sequence in a hospital are solid. These moments give the film a Jacob’s Ladder feel. Through voiceover, we get the idea that his father didn’t approve of Cathy or his friends, particularly his black ones. Their long conversation covers his dad’s bankruptcy and receiving the news of Frankie’s death in Saigon along with the truth of Frankie going AWOL because his platoon had come upon a village that had committed mass suicide and the troops’ subsequent desiccation of the bodies to frighten the Vietcong. It’s fine, but I could’ve at least used a few shots of Frankie deserting or something a little juicier than a simple conversation.

We get a very amusing but starkly shot scene between child prostitutes calling each other “bitch” and Frankie tries to connect with a tarted-up youngling. Her big bad pimp (Arthur Saunders) shows up and, responding to a comment by one of his other ladies of the night, responds with the brilliant: “If I want a song and dance, I’ll get Gene Kelly!” If this weren’t awesome enough, a prostitute feigns ignorance to the great hoofer’s fame and you half expect him to spin around and shout, “Bitch! Don’t you appreciate the arts?!”

Frankie’s got no more options left, so he ends up following the woman from earlier and snatching her purse, inadvertently arming himself. The trio of mooks happen to be nearby and give chase. It’s all a bit silly and it’s officially impossible to look cool while running down a flight of stairs. They catch up, beat him to a pulp, and Paco decides that now’s the time to be a moralist. “Frankie, Frankie...you shouldn’t resort to crime. It’s no way to solve society’s problems. You know, because this is stolen money, I can’t even put it toward your debt.” In a fabulous twist, the gun happened to fall near Frankie and all they find in the purse are bullets. They turn and Frankie wastes them. It’s pretty badass.

We get to the controversial and insanely violent finale. There have been countless stories of disturbed men murdering their entire family and this film does a more than credible job visually depicting how a man could come to that point. A beautiful shot where footage of Frankie’s time in Vietnam is projected onto his face takes place and he comes to the realization that he was the one who massacred the village, not his platoon. Even worse, he flashes back to the girl he shot and hallucinates her transformation into Cathy. You can see the look in his eyes and you know he’s completely snapped. Firing bullet after bullet into his pregnant wife, he then turns to his deformed son, pauses, then fires point blank, causing the baby to fly into the side of its crib. He picks it up and places it in the oven, setting it to over 550 degrees. Now, I’m no master chef, but you can’t bake a baby like that, Frankie! You put it up that high, the outside will get burnt while the inside’ll still be cold! Think man, think! Anyways, he downs a glass of rotten milk and blows his head off right as the cops (who apparently exist in this hellhole) show up. A shot of a subway car rolling into the distance is seen as the voiceover concludes: “I go back there every night. Without fail.”

Giovinazzo’s editing is jagged and harsh; perfectly depicting Frankie’s warped and sensitive reality. The film begins quite strong but begins to meander during the middle section. Some of the acting isn’t quite up to snuff, but considering the budget, the production value is stretched as far as it can go, resulting in a grimy nightmarish vision. With a more experienced cast and more of a focus on its leading man, Combat Shock/American Nightmare might’ve been an all-timer. Instead, it’s an intermittently powerful muddle with a striking level of brutality.