Okay, dim the lights, maybe crack open something cold. Let's talk about a film that perfectly embodies that strange, slightly off-kilter energy lingering at the tail end of the 80s slasher boom. I’m talking about Cutting Class (1989), a movie that feels less like a straight-up horror flick and more like a bizarre high school drama that occasionally remembers people need to die horribly. It’s got this peculiar vibe, like someone spiked the prom punch with something genuinely sinister, leaving you unsure whether to laugh nervously or check the locks.
Sunshine and Psychosis
The film opens not with creeping dread, but with the almost aggressively bright facade of a typical American high school. We meet Paula (Jill Schoelen, a familiar face for any self-respecting late-80s horror fan after The Stepfather), caught in a triangle between the school's golden boy jock, Dwight (Brad Pitt, yes, that Brad Pitt, years before superstardom hit), and the recently released-from-a-mental-institution Brian (Donovan Leitch Jr.). It sets up a standard teen dynamic, but there’s an immediate undercurrent of wrongness. Brian's return coincides with a string of increasingly gruesome "accidents" and murders targeting students and staff. Is the troubled kid slipping back into his old ways, or is something darker lurking behind Dwight's perfect smile? The film plays coy, letting the suspicion hang heavy in the air, thick as the hairspray fumes undoubtedly were on set.
What makes Cutting Class stick in the mind isn't necessarily masterful suspense, but its willingness to lean into the weird. The kills, when they come, often have a streak of dark, almost absurd humour. Think less Halloween's cold efficiency, more bizarre setups involving photocopiers, pottery kilns, and even the American flag. It’s this tonal tightrope walk that defines the experience – one minute you're watching standard teen angst, the next minute there's a truly nasty bit of practical gore that feels jarringly real. It’s this unevenness, this sense of not quite knowing what the film wants to be, that generates a unique kind of unease. Did that sudden burst of violence feel earned, or just… dropped in?
Before They Were Stars
Of course, the unavoidable trivia magnet here is Brad Pitt. Seeing him here, all swagger and questionable late-80s fashion, is a fascinating time capsule. It’s not a deep role, mostly requiring him to smolder and act suspicious, but the raw charisma is undeniably there. It’s wild to think this low-budget slasher, reportedly made for peanuts (though exact figures are elusive, typical for these video store staples), holds such an early artifact of one of Hollywood’s biggest future stars. Legend has it Pitt beat out Christian Slater for the role – imagine that version!
Jill Schoelen anchors the film admirably as Paula. She had already proven her scream queen credentials, and brings a relatable vulnerability that makes you root for her amidst the chaos. Donovan Leitch Jr. (son of the folk singer Donovan) effectively portrays Brian’s damaged sensitivity, keeping you guessing about his true nature. The chemistry between the leads fuels the central mystery, even when the script sometimes feels like it's making things up as it goes along. Fun fact: Schoelen and Pitt reportedly dated during and after filming, adding another layer to their on-screen dynamic.
The direction by Rospo Pallenberg is… interesting. Pallenberg is far better known as the screenwriter who collaborated closely with John Boorman, notably co-writing the ambitious and visually stunning Excalibur (1981). His transition to directing this high school slasher feels like a jarring shift, and frankly, the visual flair doesn't quite translate. The film often looks functional rather than inspired, relying more on the inherent creepiness of empty school hallways and the shock value of its kills than sophisticated camerawork or lighting. Yet, perhaps this almost plain style contributes to the unsettling feeling – the horror erupts within the mundane, without flashy warnings.
That Dusty VHS Charm
Watching Cutting Class now feels like unearthing a slightly warped memory from the back aisles of the video store. It doesn't possess the iconic status of a Nightmare on Elm Street or the relentless intensity of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Its pleasures are quirkier, rooted in its oddball tone, its snapshot of future stars, and its place as a peculiar footnote in the slasher genre's evolution (or devolution, depending on your perspective). The practical effects, while dated in places, still have that tactile quality that CGI often lacks – the kiln scene, in particular, retains a nasty little punch. Doesn't that slightly unpolished feel contribute to its strange charm?
It’s not a masterpiece, not by a long shot. The plot has holes you could drive a school bus through, and the blend of tones can be more awkward than artful. But there’s an undeniable energy to it, a kind of gonzo commitment to its premise that’s oddly endearing. It captures that late-80s moment when the slasher formula was getting stretched, twisted, and sometimes broken, resulting in fascinating oddities like this. My own well-worn tape, rented countless times from the local ‘Video Zone’, attests to its strange rewatchability back in the day.
Rating: 6/10
Justification: Cutting Class earns a solid 6 primarily for its curiosity factor – seeing Brad Pitt pre-fame is a major draw, and Jill Schoelen delivers a capable final girl performance. The film’s bizarre blend of high school drama, dark comedy, and slasher violence creates a uniquely unsettling, if uneven, atmosphere. While hampered by inconsistent direction and script weaknesses, its handful of memorably strange kills and its status as a distinct artifact of the late-80s VHS era give it undeniable nostalgic value and cult appeal. It’s flawed, yes, but far from forgettable.
Cutting Class remains a fascinating slice of late-decade horror weirdness, a film whose quirks and notable casting ensure it still gets talked about by retro fans huddled in the glow of their modern screens, remembering the hiss and click of the VCR.