Editor’s Note: This was originally published for FANGORIA on May 6, 2005, and we’re proud to share it as part of The Gingold Files.
To answer the most obvious question first: Yes, Paris Hilton dies a spectacularly, satisfyingly horrible death in House of Wax. Those attending the movie to see her demise will absolutely get their money’s worth. To answer the second most obvious question: No, her performance isn’t that terrible, which has as much to do with the role as it does with her. You could look at her presence here as an unfortunate sop to trendism on the part of Dark Castle Entertainment, which has cast Oscar winners in three of its previous four films (and has another, Hilary Swank, upcoming in The Reaping)—or you could shrug and acknowledge that the part of House of Wax’s Paige doesn’t require a great deal of depth and thespic ability. Any actress of the right age could have played the role, so you can’t really blame the producers for angling for a bit of extra publicity.
But enough about her—it’s also hard to get too upset about House of Wax being yet another remake in these remake-happy times, since beyond the very basic premise of people being made into wax figures, it has nothing to do with the 1953 Vincent Price classic (itself a do-over of 1933’s Mystery of the Wax Museum). What it much more closely resembles is 1979’s Tourist Trap, and the best thing about this House is how it approximates the down-and-gritty ambience of ‘70s horror favorites. There’s palpable backwoods/rural-town atmosphere and a refreshing lack of gloss, and director Jaume Collet-Serra doesn’t skimp on the nastiness. There are moments here that will likely make even the hardiest genre fan cringe, and will warm the hearts of those who have decried the recent trend toward PG-13 horror.
What House of Wax also has in common with some vintage youth-in-peril movies, unfortunately, is victims who are dummies even before they undergo the waxing process. The six Louisiana youths (none of whom have Southern accents, of course; only the villains and a briefly seen sheriff are allowed that “quirk” of authenticity) who wind up stranded in a town of horrors may be attractive and personable, but they have the brains of blue jays and the survival instincts of lemmings. They’re constantly wandering into dark rooms and buildings they shouldn’t and not holding onto weapons they should, and when one girl who’s bound to a chair manages to free one hand, she doesn’t bother trying to unstrap the other. All this foolish behavior seems contrived to keep the characters in harm’s way for as long as possible—not a wise decision in a movie that, at 113 minutes, could use some trimming.
The settings they wander through, on the other hand, are spooky enough to hold the interest. The little village of Ambrose, the house where the bad guys dwell and especially the title museum have been crafted by ace Australian production designer Graham “Grace” Walker for maximum creep factor, and cinematographer Stephen F. Windon, who has previously done glossier work on the likes of Deep Blue Sea and Anacondas, drenches the images in moody, threatening darkness. There’s a tense setpiece in a movie theater populated by mannequins “watching” What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, but the team’s greatest achievement is the House of Wax itself. The best inspiration in Chad and Carey W. Hayes’ script is that the moniker is literal: The entire place, from walls to furniture and, of course, the figures populating it, is made out of wax.
The Hayeses are twin brothers, which no doubt inspired the fact that the evil Bo and Vincent (both played by Brian Van Holt) are too—and heroine Carly (Elisha Cuthbert) and Nick (Chad Michael Murray), the bad boy of the group, are twins as well. The dichotomy between Carly and Nick, fueled by the presence of the former’s cleancut new boyfriend Wade (Jared Padalecki), seems set up as a parallel to the handsome Bo and the scarred, masked Vincent, but that’s about it as far as character exploration goes. The filmmakers are much more interested in how these kids can be stalked, killed and, like everyone else in the town, encased in wax. The process by which this happens is lovingly, elaborately detailed, and there’s a nicely squirmy bit involving a very recently transformed victim, but Collet-Serra and co. know that what makes the audience really squirm are the smaller, more “identifiable” acts of violence, and inflict horrible acts upon fingers, lips and Achilles’ tendons.
Other than a rather limp attempt at a scary open ending, House of Wax gets better as it goes along, with a spectacular last act that takes full advantage of the museum’s unique construction. If the story didn’t take so long to get there, and its visitors were a little wiser about self-preservation, the movie could’ve been worthy of enshrining in a museum itself. But you don’t have to be a non-fan of Hilton to enjoy the commitment to unapologetic grisliness that sets House of Wax apart from many of its recent brethren.
