The Horror, The Horror: 'Vanishing on 7th Street' and 'We Are What We Are'

The socially conscious horror film has been a mainstay in the genre in the 43 years since George Romero’s “Night of the Living Dead” blended the undead and potent social commentary.

Two films – Brad Anderson’s creepy “Vanishing on 7^th Street” and Jorge Michel Grau’s grim “We Are What We Are” – opening this week keep this tradition alive.

In Anderson’s picture, the world ends with not a bang, but a flicker. The film gives more than a few nods to Rod Serling’s “The Twilight Zone,” right down to Hayden Christensen’s newsman stepping on a pair of glasses as did Burgess Meredith in the legendary “Time Enough At Last” episode.

Christensen’s character, a woman in a hospital (Thandie Newtown), a young kid (Jacob Latimore) and a movie projectionist (John Leguizamo) find that the denizens of Detroit have all disappeared, their clothes strewn about the street, following a sudden blackout.

The survivors soon realize they must stay in the light to avoid being swallowed up by the looming, whispering shadows that follow their every step. But the sun keeps rising later and later each day and goes down earlier and earlier.

Anderson does not take great pains to explain the cause of the power outage nor the disappearances. There are a few passing references to the “Lost Colony” of Roanoke Island in the 16^th century and the cryptic message - “Croatoan” – that missing group left behind.

The director also does not beat his audience over the head thematically. A scene in which a jukebox, complete with 1950s nuggets, and various other electrical appliances light up a bar in which the film’s four characters are holed up may drive home the point of how much we, as humans, depend on electricity to survive. But a chide from one character to another to save energy enforces plot more than the film's raison d'etre.

Despite its slightly unnecessary ending, “Vanishing” is a creepy delight. It’s a subtle horror film, but it will still make you grateful once the theater returns to being a well-lit room.

“We Are What We Are” could make a vegetarian out of even the most dedicated carnivore.

The film opens with an old man stumbling down a Mexico City street, stopping to glare hungrily at some female mannequins in a store window, foaming black bile and then keeling over dead.

This man, we discover, is the patriarch of a poor clan – grim wife, devious sister, hair-trigger tempered older son and responsible, but depressed younger son – that dwells in a dimly lit basement home and regularly practices “The Ritual.” This involves stealing away prostitutes or destitute children off the street, carving them up and devouring them. The picture is Jonathan Swift by way of Umberto Lenzi.

Once they discover their breadwinner – er, flesh gatherer – is dead, the siblings must decide who will take over as the leader. Thrown into the mix are sibling rivalry, sexual tension and a thirst for parental acceptance. There are also two bumbling cops investigating the case who provide the film’s few comedic moments.

“We Are What We Are” is creepy – its grimy photography and-low key performances are more disturbing than its gory set pieces, which are relatively few and far between.

But the film suffers from its share of problems. There is a history between the characters, but it is hinted at, rather than fully developed. While I’m not sure I can safely say Grau’s sympathies are with the cannibals, we are supposed to be made to feel tension when they come close to getting caught as they bag a prostitute. But the scenes lack suspense.

And there’s something a bit assaultive in the film’s depiction of violence. I know, it’s a film about cannibalism, right? But is it really necessary to show the battered face of a prostitute beaten to death by the clan not just once, but twice? Grau’s movie is just arty enough not to be dismissed as Grand Guignol. Individual scenes – the opening sequence of Papa Cannibal ambling down the street, a character’s wandering around a nightclub - stand on their own but the film, alas, lacks – wait for it – bite.

For a better example of the genre, check out Claire Denis’s gorgeous shocker, “Trouble Every Day.”