Guilty Pleasure No. 96: The Hidden (dir. by Jack Sholder)

The Hidden is a guilty pleasure from 1987, a sci-fi action romp that barrels into B-movie territory with zero brakes and maximum glee. It’s the kind of flick you stash away for those late-night binges when no one’s judging.

Right from the explosive opener, a squeaky-clean bank clerk named Jack DeVries flips the script. He storms a Wells Fargo branch like a one-man apocalypse, gunning down guards and peeling out in a stolen Ferrari for a high-octane chase that leaves LAPD scrambling. Cops riddle him with bullets in a spectacular crash, but as he flatlines in the hospital, out slithers a pulsating alien parasite—a glowing, tentacled slug that prizes luxury cars, blaring rock anthems, and indiscriminate slaughter above all else.

It wastes no time hopping into fresh meat, turning an arms dealer into a walking arsenal, then a sultry stripper who turns deadly seduction into a bloodbath. Cue Detective Tom Beck, Michael Nouri’s world-weary LAPD vet with divorce papers and a pint-sized daughter sharpening his edges. He teams up with the enigmatic FBI agent Lloyd Gallagher, Kyle MacLachlan dialing up the eerie charm like he’s fresh off Blue Velvet. Gallagher’s no standard G-man—he skips the coffee, eyes suspects like prey, and knows way too much about this interstellar joykiller. Beck’s gut screams “weirdo,” but with bodies piling up, he’s along for the parasitic ride. Their mismatched partnership becomes the beating heart of this wild chase.

Diving deeper into why The Hidden earns its guilty pleasure crown, it’s all about that unapologetic mash-up of genres. Think Lethal Weapon‘s buddy-cop fireworks fused with The Thing‘s body-horror paranoia, wrapped in a low-budget package that punches way above its weight.

The alien doesn’t just possess—it corrupts with cartoonish vice. It blasts Metallica’s Master of Puppets while mowing down traffic, guzzles ice cream cones mid-rampage, and even puppeteers a German Shepherd into a jogger-shredding beast. Hosts shrug off shotgun blasts, car wrecks, and point-blank headshots, laughing through the pain like invincible demons. This cranks the tension during chases from neon-lit strip joints to posh art auctions gone haywire.

Picture Brenda Lee, played with fierce allure by Claudia Christian, grinding on a mark before ventilating him and trading bullets with highway patrol—it’s equal parts sexy, scary, and stupid fun. Then there’s the mannequin factory showdown, a claustrophobic bullet ballet with plastic dummies exploding in slow-mo glory. Director Jack Sholder, hot off A Nightmare on Elm Street Part 2, keeps the pedal floored across 98 taut minutes. He blends practical effects that ooze tangible grossness—no lazy CGI, just squelching tentacles and slime trails that still unsettle on modern screens. The creature’s big reveal, bursting from a gut in a hospital bed? Pure visceral nightmare fuel that lingers like bad takeout.

But let’s talk about the real magic: Nouri and MacLachlan’s chemistry, which transforms potential cheese into something oddly heartfelt. Beck is the everyman anchor—tough exterior hiding a soft spot for his ex and kid. She clocks Gallagher’s off vibes immediately, hiding behind Dad during their first meet-cute awkwardness. Gallagher’s the alien hunter in human skin, pursuing his nemesis from the galaxy’s edge to Earth. MacLachlan nails the wide-eyed alien tourist act: fumbling forks at pizza joints, blanking on human etiquette, yet unleashing a phaser-like zapper with cold precision.

Their dialogue zings with natural friction—Beck barking “What the hell are you?” while Gallagher parries with vague cosmic lore. It builds to warehouse confessions amid flying lead. It’s 48 Hrs. with extraterrestrials, punctuated by hilarious side beats: Beck’s partner Cliff Willis (Ed O’Ross) biting the dust early, precinct captain Ed Malvane (Clarence Felder) getting briefly slimed into a foul-mouthed tyrant, even a senator’s rally turning into invasion bait. The supporting roster shines without stealing thunder—Christian’s tragic dancer, Richard Brooks’ scumbag john. They all flesh out LA’s underbelly as the perfect playground for alien anarchy.

Layer on the sly socio-satire, and The Hidden reveals sneaky smarts beneath the schlock. This parasite’s a yuppie id unleashed, embodying Reagan-era ’80s gluttony: crashing Porsches, bankrolling hooker sprees, amassing arsenals. All while plotting to hijack presidential hopeful Senator Holt for an Oval Office coup that’d summon its mothership armada. It’s a gleeful middle finger to excess, with the slug reveling in what humans suppress—pure hedonistic rampage from Malibu beaches to political podiums. Sholder doesn’t belabor the point; he lets the absurdity sell it. Like the arms dealer’s arsenal haul or the dog’s park massacre underscoring unchecked impulses.

Sound design throbs with synth-wave synths and guitar riffs that propel every stunt. Michael Convertino’s score swells dramatically for emotional beats. Dialogue veers from pulpy gold (“Pain? What’s that?”) to poignant, especially Gallagher schooling Beck on alien resilience versus human spirit.

Flaws? Sure—the third act rushes to a flamethrower climax and bittersweet farewell. Some effects betray the budget in brighter scenes, and plot holes gape if you squint (how’d the slug learn English so fast?). Yet it owns every imperfection, turning cheese into charm.

Ultimately, The Hidden endures as peak cult guilty pleasure, outshining flashier ’80s peers by blending brains, brawn, and balls-to-the-wall entertainment. It foreshadows Men in Black‘s fish-out-of-water agents and Venom‘s symbiote chaos. All while delivering practical FX wizardry that CGI eras envy. Nouri’s magnetic lead turn should’ve rocketed him higher; MacLachlan’s proto-Lynchian quirkiness fits like a glove. Stream it on whatever dusty platform hosts it, or snag a VHS for authenticity—pair with beer and zero expectations for two hours of adrenaline-spiked joy.

The finale’s sacrificial gut-punch lands because you’ve bonded with these oddballs, capped by Beck’s wry nod to humanity’s messy soul. It’s dumb when it wants, deep when it surprises, always a rush. Slug-slinging sci-fi doesn’t get guiltier or greater. Dive in, emerge grinning, no regrets.

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