"Hey, sausage dick. Man, listen up! 'Brainscan. The ultimate experience in interactive terror. Brainscan is not for the squeamish!"
I once had a history teacher who claimed if you watched all of the movies about the “old west,” they would last longer than the actual time period itself, not to mention give you the wrong impression of what the frontier was like. I’ve never verified if that’s true or not, but I have to think the same logic applies to the virtual reality craze of the 90s. If Hollywood was to be believed, the 90s were a VR utopia, full of technology that transported us to different planes of reality; however, the truth is that’s pretty much all there was to it: some gimmicky movies, plus the disappointing launch of the Virtual Boy. Otherwise, it was all a pipe dream. One of these movies was Brainscan, which is so 90s it probably tastes strongly of Dunkaroos*. This is not a suggestion that you ingest Brainscan, though; in fact, few would even recommend watching Brainscan. I’m not one of those people. You know me by now: if something is this thoroughly 90s (and certainly anything featuring Edward Furlong and soundtrack boasting the likes of Mudhoney, Primus, and Tad qualifies), it’s going to be my kind of shit on some level.
Furlong is Michael Brower, a moody teen who basically lives alone in a huge house since his dad’s always away on business. Haunted by the car accident that claimed his mother’s life, Brower broods in his room, surrounded by stacks of Fango and an elaborate AV system. As the president of his school’s horror movie club, he’s always chasing the genre’s next big thing. When his buddy Kyle (Jamie Marsh) stumbles across a video game called Brainscan, the two just know they have to check it out. Despite the game’s cryptic instructions and ominous warnings, Michael jumps right into the ultra-realistic simulation, where he carries out a horrific murder. But it turns out this is no game: Michael is shocked and disgusted when local headlines announce the actual homicide he’s committed. Soon enough, he’s visited by The Trickster (T. Ryder Smith), the game’s nefarious host who continues to goad Michael into taking his game to the next level.
Brainscan is one of those movies that sounds silly as shit but doesn’t quite know it’s silly as shit. Therefore, it is, in fact, silly as shit anyway as it puts on a straight face, its long hair dangling in its eyes in an attempt to be serious and cool. If Brainscan was a 90s teen, it’d be those of us who brooded as dragged around enormous wallet chains as our Jncos dragged the ground. Nobody can take it seriously, no matter how much it insists upon it with its moody lighting and somber George Clinton (!) score. Michael’s traumatic memories and subsequent tumultuous adolescence frame the story, yet it somehow seems incidental. At the end of the day, Brainscan is a movie where a Freddy Krueger wannabe hypnotizes Edward Furlong into committing murders under the guise of a video game. Suddenly, the Virtual Boy doesn’t seem to be that disastrous since it only killed a bunch of kids’ enthusiasm at Christmas.
But there’s also an upside to a movie with that description because, holy shit, who wouldn’t want to watch this? Brainscan is one of those movies where the general aesthetic and time period is too alluring, at least to a certain set. I imagine it’s a very narrow set, but I’m part of it. Save for the whole committing murder thing, Michael’s existence seemed like the absolute dream to me back in the 90s: there wasn’t a cooler motherfucker on the planet than Furlong at this point, and here he is running a horror movie club and living in an attic space wallpapered with Fangoria. His computer is not only able to play VR simulators, but it’s also tricked out with Igor, a digital personal assistant that screened and made phone calls for him. Not that Michael has a ton of phone calls to make, mind you; mostly, he calls Kimberly (Amy Hargreaves), the girl next door but hangs up before she answers. To be fair, it is healthier than his other obsession, which involves peeping on her and taking pictures of her as she changes. Probably not the most healthy relationship, and, as you can imagine, things become really complicated once Michael starts gutting people and covering up his tracks.
But despite my weird affection for it, I have to admit Brainscan doesn’t totally work. There’s the obvious tonal clash between the material and the approach, especially whenever the Trickster is involved. Smith’s performance is broad and silly, putting him at odds with the otherwise grungy, bleak vibes. What’s more, The Trickster simply doesn’t do shit. He’s basically the devil on Michael’s shoulder, leading him down a dark path with corny wordplay. He’s basically one of those devious cartoon characters from an anti-drug PSA, only he’s trying to get this kid to murder people for whatever reason. Between The Trickster and the hard-ass principal who detests Michael’s horror club, you could almost make the case that Brainscan is an exploration of the residual parental hysteria surrounding horror, here making its final drips in the 90s. The only problem with that is the exploration doesn’t particularly go anywhere, and seems to actually suggest that maybe the hysteria had some basis. After all, Michael succumbs to the temptation of the game and commits murder inspired by the media he’s consuming. Go far enough down this path, and you seem to have a horror movie that makes a case against horror movies.
Of course, you can’t go all the way down that path considering Brainscan changes course at the last moment, revealing that all of this has been Michael’s dream. Quite frankly, it’s a galling cop-out in some respects, mostly because it’s never foreshadowed and the movie goes out of its way to cheat viewers with elaborate scenes that don’t even involve Michael. This is the ultimate example of a twist for the sake of a twist: it’d be one thing if this elaborate dream somehow completed a character arc for Michael that allowed him to overcome the traumatic memories of his dead mother. Mostly, though, it just results in him working up enough courage to finally ask Amy out, only for her to reply “maybe. It’d be funny if it didn’t stir up painful adolescent memories of wondering just where you stood with your crush. I suppose you could make the case that the twist is the punchline to an elaborate gag, one that insists that all of this shit is silly. No, horror obsessives aren’t going to commit murder in the name of chasing the next genre-related high, nor does media have the power to rot their brain. I will choose to give acclaimed filmmaker John Flynn the benefit of the doubt here. Directing Rolling Thunder earns you that kind of respect in this household.
Sadly, there’s little indication of Flynn’s mastery evident here. Sure, he brings a workmanlike steadiness to the production: Brainscan at least looks and feels like a legitimate production, but there’s not much in the way of artistic flourishes to really bring the material to life. An extended POV shot of the first murder provides a glimmer of hope that Flynn will bring some panache, but it’s mostly a false hope. Maybe the biggest surprise is the relative lack of gore, too: at the very least, Brainscan might have worked on some levels had it featured some elaborate murder sequences to take advantage of the premise. Instead, it’s a little dull in this respect, another reflection of the movie’s misguided attempt at self-seriousness and restraint. Any right-minded person would have glimpsed this premise and decided to just let it rip. Flynn’s direction, on the other hand, feels tepid and bored. If not for the 90s of it all, Brainscan would be pretty forgettable. Good thing I have a weakness for cocktails involving Furlong, flannel, and Mudhoney. I don’t expect most rational people to share that taste; cool people, though? I’m afraid you can’t be in my horror movie club if you’re not down with The Trickster.
*I borrowed this phrase from my buddy Nat Brehmer, who you should definitely follow on Twitter.
