Review: The Monster Squad (dir. by Fred Dekker)


“Creature stole my Twinkie.” – Eugene

Released in 1987, The Monster Squad has lived one of those strange afterlives that cult films sometimes enjoy—ignored or even ridiculed upon release, only to become a beloved artifact for the generation that found it later on VHS. Directed by Fred Dekker and co-written with Shane Black, the movie occupies an awkward but endearing space between horror, comedy, and kids’ adventure. It never fully settles into one tone, and that’s part of both its charm and its problem. Watching it today, the film feels like The Goonies took a detour through a drive-in double feature of Dracula and The Wolf Man. It’s clunky, funny, occasionally mean-spirited, and loaded with enthusiasm—qualities that make it a thoroughly guilty pleasure for fans of ’80s genre mashups.

The story wastes no time getting into its madcap premise. A group of suburban preteens calling themselves “The Monster Squad” find that the classic Universal-style monsters are real, and worse, they’ve come to town. Count Dracula has a plan to plunge the world into darkness using an ancient amulet, and to succeed he enlists a roster of familiar faces: Frankenstein’s Monster, the Mummy, the Gill-Man, and the Wolf Man. This roster is fan-service before fan-service was a marketing term—a kid’s monster toybox brought to life. The squad, of course, must stop them, armed with comic-book knowledge, wooden stakes, and a blend of reckless courage and youthful sarcasm.

Dekker’s direction and tone play like a movie made for kids but smuggled in some heavy teenage energy. There’s violence, crude jokes, and occasional language that Hollywood would never let slip into a PG-friendly franchise today. Yet that rough edge is part of why The Monster Squad aged into cult status. It’s unapologetically of its time, operating on the belief that kids can handle scares as long as they’re fun and that suburban fantasy can, for a while at least, coexist with real danger. The movie’s depiction of childhood feels filtered through a stack of comic books and Creepshow issues—hyper absurd but still emotionally grounded in a way only ’80s adventure films seemed to pull off.

The kids themselves are a mixed bunch of believable archetypes. There’s Sean (André Gower), the de facto leader with a bedroom plastered in monster movie posters; Patrick (Robby Kiger), his wisecracking sidekick; Rudy (Ryan Lambert), the too-cool-for-school older kid who smokes, rides a bike, and somehow becomes the squad’s weapons specialist; and Eugene (Michael Faustino), the youngest, who still sleeps with his dog and writes letters to the Army for backup. They’re joined by Horace, nicknamed “Fat Kid,” played with surprising vulnerability by Brent Chalem. Each character is drawn broadly but memorably, and even when the dialogue veers into dated humor, there’s an underlying sincerity. You can tell Dekker and Black really liked these kids. They might use slingshots and one-liners, but what unites them is their intense sense of loyalty to one another—the kind of friendship that survives both bullies and broomstick-wielding vampires.

If there’s an emotional anchor, oddly enough, it’s the relationship between the squad and Frankenstein’s Monster, played by Tom Noonan in an unexpectedly gentle performance. When the creature befriends the kids, particularly little Phoebe (Ashley Bank), the film shifts momentarily from wisecracks to something close to tenderness. Noonan gives the character a shy uncertainty, a weary loneliness that offsets the visual absurdity of the rubbery monsters around him. There’s even a tinge of tragedy in his final act, which echoes Frankenstein’s literary roots—a moment of real feeling buried inside an otherwise loud and gleefully messy creature romp.

The monsters themselves, created by legendary effects artist Stan Winston, are among the film’s biggest draws. Each design feels like a loving upgrade to the old Universal look—recognizable but more feral, angular, and rooted in late-’80s aesthetics. The Wolf Man, for example, looks simultaneously comic and menacing, while the Gill-Man costume still impresses for its texture and movement decades later. The decision not to rely on stop motion or heavy opticals gives the monsters a tactile presence that CGI could never capture. There’s something about watching full-bodied suits and prosthetics move in real space that makes the threats feel tangible even when the stakes are goofy. These creatures are fun to look at, even when the script doesn’t give them much to do beyond roar and stalk across smoke-filled sets.

Shane Black’s fingerprints are all over the dialogue—the sardonic banter, the genre in-jokes, the affection for both pulp tropes and subverting them. But perhaps because the film was marketed partly as family adventure and partly as horror spoof, it often can’t decide whether to play sincere or ironic. Some scenes lean heavily on nostalgic affection for monster movies, while others feel almost mean in their mockery of small-town innocence. The tone whiplash means The Monster Squad doesn’t build much consistent momentum; one minute it’s heartfelt, the next it’s a barrage of sarcastic one-liners. Still, its rough tonal juggling has a ragtag energy that keeps it lively, and the sheer commitment to blending genres is endearing.

When it comes to pacing, the movie flies by in under 80 minutes, which turns out to be both blessing and curse. On one hand, there’s no filler—every scene moves briskly to the next piece of monster mayhem. On the other, the movie’s emotional beats and mythology barely have time to breathe. We get glimmers of backstory (like Dracula’s cryptic hunt for the amulet and Van Helsing’s prologue battle) that hint at a larger world that the film never really explores. You sense that Dekker and Black were operating under the fantasy logic of childlike storytelling: don’t explain too much, just move fast enough that no one questions it. It works, more or less, because of the film’s sheer enthusiasm, but it leaves you imagining a richer version of this story that never quite made it onscreen.

Looking back from today’s lens, some parts of The Monster Squad show their age more harshly. Certain lines and stereotypes that went unnoticed in the ’80s now feel jarring, even uncomfortable, and the film’s cavalier tone sometimes undercuts moments that should feel more innocent. Yet despite that, most viewers who revisit it with awareness of its era find themselves disarmed by its sense of fun. There’s no cynicism driving it—it’s pure genre love, messy and sincere, like a handmade Halloween costume that’s somehow cooler precisely because it’s imperfect. The film represents a time when kids’ movies were allowed to have teeth, blood, and a few scary moments, trusting that a young audience could handle being spooked without needing everything smoothed over.

For many fans, The Monster Squad works less as a polished film and more as an experience—a flashback to VHS sleepovers, bad pizza, and rewinding favorite scenes. The movie’s newfound appreciation, fueled by screenings and documentaries like Wolfman’s Got Nards, speaks to that nostalgic bond. It’s less about objective greatness and more about the feeling it preserves. Sure, some of the jokes fall flat, and the plot functions mostly as connective tissue between monster gags, but few movies embody the gleeful chaos of late-’80s pop horror as affectionately as this one does.

The Monster Squad earns its title. It’s not a flawless film, nor even a particularly coherent one, but it’s deeply fun, carried by the conviction that monsters—real or imaginary—are made to be fought with courage, humor, and friends who have your back. Watching it now is like flipping through an old comic book you used to love: you can see every crease and faded color, but that doesn’t make it any less special. And in a cinematic era saturated with irony and nostalgia pastiche, The Monster Squad still feels refreshingly earnest about its own weirdness. Maybe that’s its secret power.

Under the Sea: Goliath Awaits (1981, directed by Kevin Connor)


1939.  War is breaking out across Europe.  The British luxury liner Goliath is torpedoed by a German U-boat.  Presumed to be lost with the ship are a swashbuckling film star, Ronald Bentley (John Carradine), and U.S. Senator Oliver Barthowlemew (John McIntire), who may have been carrying a forged letter from Hitler to Roosevelt when the boat went down.

1981.  Oceanographer Peter Cabot (Mark Harmon, with a mustache) comes across the sunken wreck of the Goliath.  When he dives to check out his discovery, he is shocked to hear big band music coming from inside the ship.  He also thinks that he can hear someone tapping out an S.O.S. signal.  When he looks into a porthole, he is stunned to discover a beautiful young woman (Emma Samms) staring back at him.

Under the command of Admiral Sloan (Eddie Albert), who wants to retrieve the forged letter before it does any damage to the NATO alliance, Cabot and Command Jeff Selkirk (Robert Forster) are assigned to head an expedition to explore Goliath.  What they discover is that, for 40 years, the passengers and crew have survived within an air bubble.  Under the leadership of Captain John McKenzie (Christopher Lee), they have created a new, apparently perfect society within the sunken ship.  Cabot discovers that the woman that he saw was McKenzie’s daughter, Lea.

McKenzie is friendly to Cabot and his crew, explaining to them the scientific developments that have allowed the passengers and crew to not only survive but thrive underwater.  The only problems are a group of outcasts — the Bow People — who refuse to follow McKenzie’s orders and Palmer’s Disease, an infection that only seems to infect people who are no longer strong enough to perform the daily tasks necessary to keep McKenzie’s utopia functioning.   Even when people on the boat die, they continue to play their part by being cremated in Goliath’s engine room and helping to power the ship.

Everything seems perfect until Cabot announces that he has come to rescue the survivors of the Goliath.  Even though Goliath is starting to decay and will soon no longer be safe, McKenzie is not ready to give up the perfect society that he’s created.  McKenzie sets out to prevent anyone from escaping the Goliath.

Goliath Awaits is a massive, 3-hour production that was made for television and originally aired over two nights.  (The entire 200-minute production has been uploaded to YouTube.  Avoid the heavily edited, 91-minute version that was released on VHS in the 90s.)  It’s surprisingly good for a made-for-TV movie.  Because a large portion of the film was shot on the RMS Queen Mary, a retired cruise ship that was moored in Long Beach, California, Goliath looks luxurious enough that you understand why some of the passengers might want to stay there instead of returning to the surface.  Beyond that, Goliath Awaits takes the time to fully explore the society that McKenzie has created and what it’s like to live on the ship.  McKenzie may not be as benevolent as he first appears to be but neither is he a one-dimensional villain.

Mark Harmon is a dull lead but Robert Forster is just as cool as always and Christopher Lee is perfect for the role of misguided Capt. McKenzie.  The movie is really stolen by Frank Gorshin, who is coldly sinister as Dan Wesker, the Goliath’s head of security.  McKenzie may by Goliath’s leader but Wesker is the one who does the dirty work necessary to keep the society running.

Goliath Awaits also features several character actors in small roles, with John Carradine, Duncan Regehr, Jean Marsh, John McIntire, Jeanette Nolan, Alex Cord, Emma Samms, and John Ratzenberger all getting to make a good impression.  (Ignore, if you can, a very young Kirk Cameron as one of the children born on the Goliath.)

Goliath Awaits is far better than your average made-for-TV movie from the 80s.  With any luck, it will someday get the home video release that it deserves.

 

A Movie A Day #330: The Banker (1989, directed by William Webb)


It’s hard out here for a pimp and even worse for a banker.

Spaulding Osborne (Duncan Regehr) is a successful banker at the height of the 80s but handling all that money can be stressful.  Everyone needs a way to relax.  Osborne unwinds by painting his face like a tiger and murdering prostitutes with a laser sighted crossbow.  A worshipper of the ancient Gods, Osborne believes himself to be immortal and sees his murder spree as a way to collect souls.  Two pimps (Leif Garrett and Jeff Conaway) keep Osborne supplied with victims.  When Osborne suspects that one of the pimps has betrayed him, he demands that the pimp name all of the seven dwarves if he wants to live.  It pays to know your Disney.

What Osborne didn’t count on was that the chief of police (Richard Roundtree) would assign one of his weariest detectives, Dan (Robert Forster), to the case or that the detective’s TV reporter ex-wife (Shanna Reed) would get promoted to the anchor desk and start a crusade to have him captured.  Can Detective Dan capture Osborne before Osborne kills every prostitute in the city?  Will Dan be able to protect his ex-wife from the banker?

A film about a greedy banker who kills poor people on the side?  The Banker was released twenty years too early.  If it had been released in 2009, it probably would have an Oscar.  Instead, it was released straight-to-video in 1989 and exiled to late night Cinemax.  Unfortunately, the idea behind The Banker is more interesting than the execution, with most of the kills happening offscreen and any social commentary being rushed through so that the movie can get to the next nude scene.  Not surprisingly, the best thing about The Banker is Robert Forster, who is at his world-weary best.  Forster went through some tough times before Quentin Tarantino resurrected his career with Jackie Brown but movies like The Banker show that Forster never stopped giving good performances.