Love Letter to Horror High (1973) _(a.k.a. Twisted Brain)

Oh, Horror High, you sweet, sweaty fever dream of a movie—you are the unholy union of Jekyll, Hyde, and gym class dread, shot on what looks like a half-case of expired 16mm film and too many Dr. Peppers. And I wouldn’t have you any other way.

I met you like most misfits met their first B-movie soulmate—somewhere between Disc 3 and 4 of a battered Mill Creek “Drive-In Classics” set. No menu screen, no subtitles, no restoration. Just a scratchy jump cut into your musty little world where high school is hell, the janitor’s got a vendetta, and the chemistry lab holds dark secrets and cheaper ones still.

You gave us Vernon Potts: that ultimate ‘70s nerd archetype, all bad hair and low self-esteem. The kind of kid who looks like he listens to AM radio and whispers secrets to his beakers. But you didn’t stop there. Oh no. You mutated him. You turned that soft-spoken honor student into a hulking, chemically-enhanced vengeance machine. Hyde by way of home ec.

And the deaths—baby, you tried. Each kill feels like the local theater department raided a hardware store and said, “Let’s go.” Janitor in the acid vat? Teacher in the locker room? Check and check. Even when you couldn’t afford the gore, you sold the atmosphere: flickering fluorescents, empty hallways echoing with dread, and that soundtrack—equal parts moog madness and Casio doom.

And let's not forget the performance of Austin Stoker (yes, Assault on Precinct 13 royalty), lending some actual gravitas to a movie that really doesn’t deserve it—but desperately needs it. That’s the beauty of Horror High—it’s trying so damn hard to be something big, even when the seams are showing and the boom mic is wobbling in the corner.

But beyond the blood and budget, there’s something weirdly genuine here. Maybe it’s Vernon’s teen angst distilled through a grindhouse lens. Maybe it’s the way your world feels half-dream, half-detention slip. Or maybe it’s just that particular Crown International charm—where sincerity, sleaze, and sci-fi all crowd into the same wood-paneled rec room.

You weren’t made to last, Horror High. You were made to screen at 11:45 p.m. on a triple-feature bill in a drive-in that sells stale popcorn and LSD under the counter. But you did last. In basements, in bootleg DVD collections, in the hearts of weirdos like me.

So thank you, Horror High. For the weirdness. For the vinegar sweat. For Vernon’s rage and his terrible haircut. You were never prom queen, but you were always the realest girl at the dance.

Love forever, A proud child of the budget box set revolution