There are good director's cuts and there are bad director's cuts. The theatrical cut of Michael Cimino's "Heaven's Gate," which feels like an incredulous, 149-minute epyllion of dirt and dust filmed through a glaze of vaseline, is a shell of the much longer, 219-minute director's cut, which somehow feels shorter, more coherent, more gorgeously tragic. That's a good director's cut. Sergio Leone's four-hour anti-gangster tragedy "Once Upon a Time in America" was butchered by studios, purging it of its suspense, its character progressions (and mutations), the ethereality created by Leone's nonlinear narrative. The theatrical cut is an abomination, heartbreaking in all the wrong ways; the four-hour version is sublime, earnestly heartbreaking, and a great director's cut. James Cameron's "Aliens" and "Terminator 2," two great, lean, tight, tense action-thrillers with impeccably efficient (and effective) pacing and startling effects, are both bloated and tranquilized in his unnecessary director's cuts. Cameron negates suspense by showing what was previously left to the audience's collective imagination (the aliens storming the impromptu bastion while automated turrets fire unrelentingly, their ammo counters rapidly ticking down, for example). Both of these are bad director's cuts.
Ridley Scott engendered the director's cut after the troubled production of his eventual-classic "Blade Runner," during which time the cast and crew slowly developed a fierce ire for the director, and studios, fearing the film's ambiguity would lead to confusion and consequently low ticket sales, injected a much-maligned, lifeless voiceover from Harrison Ford, doing his best impersonation of a corpse. Scott's multiple cuts of the film, to which he was still making changes just a few years ago, raise questions about the nature of the director's cut. Is the director's cut the "real" cut of a film? Is it a more authentic and faithful emulation of the artist's initial vision, a la Cimino and Leone? Or is it more akin to a remix, a secondary product cobbled together afterwards? Are they simply director indulgences, like the Cameron cuts? And how do you judge a director's cut? Does the director's cut add anything integral, or alter the meaning of the work, or simply re-slather the fatty, disposable parts that were cut for a reason?
These questions linger in the mind like heavy fog while watching the new "Cabal Cut" of Clive Barker's "Nightbreed," which is currently touring select theaters and undergoing a digital restoration for an eventual Blu-ray release. (the studio responsible for the cut, Seraphim, refers to this as the "Kitchen Sink" cut because it had everything Barker shot in it.) "Nightbreed," a cult favorite of the midnight crowd, holds an intriguing place in the pantheon of horror; it was one of two would-be classic horror films hacked-and-slashed by studio heads in 1990, that strange synapse between the gaudy Reagan-era slashers and "The Silence of the Lambs." Its director's cut has been sought-after for years, sometimes referred to as the Holy Grail of horror director's cuts, and its reputation has grown monstrously. The other film, William Peter Blatty's "The Exorcist III," took a little longer to build its following, probably because audiences had yet to get the acrid taste of "The Exorcist II: The Heretic" from their mouths. Blatty's film is at once akin to "Nightbreed" in the usurpation of its director, and oddly antipodal to Barker's film in the type and extent of studio interference. One film was a minor art house masterpiece tainted by studio interference; the other was a bad film whittled down into a shorter but equally bad film.
Both "The Exorcist III" and "Nightbreed" were passion projects of their creators; both artists authored the source material for their films, and both artists adapted said material themselves, would-be auteurs kept on a tight leash by studio heads. Blatty's film takes Lieutenant William Kinderman (George C. Scott), a minor character from the original "Exorcist" (then played by Lee J. Cobb, who died in 1976), and puts him front and center. Kinderman, like the film he's inhabiting, is serene, smart, and soft-spoken, but prone to sudden outbursts that make the arteries in your neck swell. Kinderman is investigating a series of religious-themed murders that defy rational explanation, and slowly, through episodes of increasingly unnerving reveals, learns that the killings may be rooted in the supernatural. It's a quiet and slow film, and Blatty strikes the right balance between showing us the horrors dwelling in the dark heart of man and allowing our imaginations to fill in the long pauses with terrors best left unseen. Every shot serves one of two purposes: build suspense, or deliver a gotcha moment, and Blatty handles both with deft confidence.