Why do I do this to myself?
Ah, the perils of being a completionist. My wife and I watched seven seasons of Sons of Anarchy despite the fact that it peaked in season two, and became pretty much insufferable by four or five. I’ve professed my love for Freddy and the Nightmare on Elm Street series plenty in these marathons, but the truth is that the truly great installments are limited to the first and third movies, and the opening scene of number two. Yet, here we are, taking a look at the universally reviled Dream Child. Call it morbid curiosity, but I had to see for myself.
I’ll get the positive out of the way first (it won’t take long.) There is a lot of creativity in Freddy’s kills here. They aren’t very good, aside from a wild body-horror motorcycle sequence, but at least there is effort. Alice, the final girl from Nightmare 4, is back, and she is considerably more tolerable than her soon-to-be-murdered friends. She is also (SPOILERS, I guess, but seriously don’t watch this movie) the only teen to make it through two films alive. Beyond that, there is little to admire in this misguided sequel that signaled the beginning of the end of Freddy’s massive popularity. I would typically take a little time to describe the plot at this point in the review, but this movie is presented with all the clarity of a hyper-active six-year-old trying to explain theoretical physics (also, English is their second language.) Somehow, Freddy is using Alice’s unborn fetus as a means to attack her friends while they are awake, breaking the central tenant of the movie’s universe while simultaneously introducing a lot of unwelcome baby imagery to the franchise. We get flashbacks to the night of Freddy’s conception, giving a wholly unneeded visual representation of the grisly backstory introduced in Dream Warriors. Almost nothing makes sense, and even the few elements that do make sense are lousy.
I took a lot of digs at The Dream Master, deservedly so, but I was not prepared for how much worse it could get. Krueger is presented as a parody of himself at this point, punctuating every labored pun with a forced cackle or a tired “bitch!” Robert Englund tackles the role with just as much gusto as always, but he is given nothing to work with in terms of writing or direction. The fact that Freddy remains such a beloved horror icon despite black marks like this is a testament to Englund and Wes Craven’s original vision. I remain a devotee, although it will take a while to get the foul taste out of my mouth from this installment. With any luck, I can rehab with the first few films of the series and forget that Freddy ever came back after his climactic showdown with Nancy Thompson at the end of the third movie. Well, at least until next year when I review Nightmare on Elm Street Part 6.
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