by Barry Meyer
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Iconic movie killers sporting unique head gear has become all too common in horror cinema these days. You’ve got Jason and his goalie mask, Freddy with his Fedora, the Gorton’s Fisherman and his yellow spray hat in I Know What You Did Last Summer - and now you have Devon and his baseball cap. Sort of a let down, I know.
Plagued by the ten-year-old mysterious murder of Devon Anderson, the town of Canyon City still harbors curiosity over what happened to the young victim’s body and the parents accused of killing him. Little does anyone know, Devon is still alive and well and living in his Grandparents attic. One day the now teenaged lad decides to show his gratitude to his Grandparents for all the free room and board, and also for the sharp looking baseball jersey they gave him for his Birthday, and he thanks them by showing them the business end of his shiny new baseball bat (tricked out with a circular saw blade). When Devon starts taking his batting practice to the town’s folk, the local kids are convinced that Devon has come back from the grave. And when the killer strikes too close to home, they begin to wonder who among them could secretly be the maniacal slasher. All the bickering over which kid might really be Devon’s ghost (is it the loner punk with the leather jacket and eye make-up, or the daughter of the DA who got Devon’s druggie parents off of murder charges, or any of the other non-descript kids?) becomes a moot point, since all the kids have gathered together under the bleachers at the High School football game at the same time Devon is dispatching his latest victims. Yeah, nothing kills a good suspenseful whodunit teen-slasher mystery quicker than when the filmmakers naively cancel out all the suspects right off the bat. Nonetheless, the kids bicker endlessly, accusing each other of murder, all while Devon whittles down the batting order - one stupid, horny teenager at a time.
For all it’s dumbness, Devon’s Ghost is a fairly slick looking flick - nice camera work, cool gore FX - but the misguided script and direction only prove that the Indie Horror world has far more skilled technicians than creative minds. If Devon’s Ghost and I were on a date, I don’t think he’d get past second base.
Barry Meyer does most of his striking out in Jersey, the Home of Baseball.
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