s a young man named Tim Galen (Duncan McIntosh), scion of a family that established the town of the same name, writhes from a horrific nightmare at what seems to be late at night, two teenagers in the same town are attacked while taking a mid-day swim at the local quarry. Subsequent developments in the film seem to indicate that these two events are supposed to have taken place simultaneously, which would establish Galen as one of the few small New England towns with several time zones.
Dr. Sam Cordell (Cassavetes), the local surgeon and pathologist, who doesn't approve of his daughter Jenny's (Erin Flannery) relationship with Tim, is called to examine the victims. The evidence, which includes traces of blood-red semen, supports a supernatural explanation, but the investigator from the state attorney general insists it was a gang incident. More murders ensue, including those of a family in their home, and of a young girl watching an awful rock-performance film at the local movie theater.
As Dr. Cordell discovers that the rapist-murderer is an incubus, a form of sexual demon known to mate with witches, the trail leads to Tim Galen, whose dreams seem to trigger the murders. ...
Even the actors are bored
John Cassavetes was a distinguished actor, writer and director whose significant contributions to the art of film should not be judged by his bored performance in this abysmal low-budget shocker. As a small-town surgeon whose investigation of a series of brutal sex killings gradually leads him a supernatural explanation, he doesn't need to emote for the ages, but he should at least show some vague, theoretical interest.
With the exception of one notable blowup, far too late for the film to start showing its first signs of energy, he doesn't even look like he's paying all that much attention.
Even when a sinister local matron brags about her own involvement in a witch killing, years earlier, he's not just blank-faced, he's downright somnolent. He looks like a guy operating on two hours' sleep who just listened to a doddering aunt drone on about orchids. Whether facing the horrific aftermath of supernatural violation or trying to pick up the annoying local reporter lady, his one facial expression, a sort of grimace, seems less the performance of an actor staying in character than that of an artist disgusted with what the state of his bank account requires him to do for money.
The saddest thing about The Incubus is that you sympathize. The film is as static as any film about a brutal murder spree could possibly be, it's acted just as badly by everybody else involved, it's ineptly edited, and it's spotted by the kind of dialogue howlers that would have made the film entertaining if there were any more of them. After a while, you start watching for those moments where the film utterly fails to provide the illusion of reality. There's one moment where tires screech and we cut to Cassavetes wearily climbing out of a car. It's a simple cut, and it takes an inept film indeed to blow the illusion that it was his car that just screeched to a halt. But The Incubus manages it.
The assaults are brutal, and Cassavetes as medical examiner is required to describe the damage in explicit gynecological detail—none of which titillates, shocks or provides a moment's interest. As for the story, it doesn't so much come to a conclusion as simply stop. The film ends on what is supposed to be a scene of sheer bone-chilling horror but is instead nothing but distilled frustration.
The DVD's only extra is the theatrical trailer, which manages to make the film look interesting. Bravo to the editors of coming attractions.
