Dear readers, though I try not to be too overtly maudlin about the passing of my heroes, I find I need considerable periods of reflection before revisiting their works. Despite the length of time since his passing I still grieve daily for Wes Craven and hope that some day soon I might find myself contemplating voodoo zombies and sex criminals without a surge of melancholy coursing through me. Tobe Hooper is the latest fallen great that I have heaved myself out of mourning to confront once more and though I was tempted to employ the secure footing of a familiar classic, I decided to adopt a little of the pluckiness Mr. Hooper demonstrated in his own career and venture into strange new territory, taking in an under-discussed collaboration between one of the horror genre's great directors and one of its most cherished performers. 

After being submitted to the sort of top secret government experiment that never seems to go anyone’s way, a chipper pair of radiation doused newlyweds give birth to a baby boy on the anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima, a coincidence that an attending general notes is, “pretty funny.” Droll fortuity aside, these two lovebirds immediately go up in a surprisingly romantic postpartum blaze, leaving behind their newborn son. This atomic orphan grows up to be Sam (Brad Dourif) a regular sort of fellow doing his best to live a regular sort of life. Despite a few headaches, a birthmark and some hazy details about his parentage, Sam seems to be getting along just fine.

But his secure sense of ordinaryness is thoroughly shaken when a series of people connected to him die unexpectedly from spontaneous human combustion. These untimely immolations lead him to all manner of uncomfortable questions about his stewing psychic potential. Sam becomes increasingly agitated as the charred bodies pile up and he is not consoled to any degree by the truth about his parents. A bloody pyrokinetic storm ensues with Sam alternately igniting others and setting himself ablaze, flames jetting from his open wounds as he murders innocent public servants, sinister military conspirators and John Landis. 

Brand Dourif’s sizzling energy is a natural match for an atomically charged entity. Though Mr. Dourif’s only Academy recognition came by way of his performance in One Flew Over the Cucuckoo’s Nest (1975), I think perhaps the most remarkable effort of his career is in the first half of this film, where his superhuman powers of transformation turn him into something unthinkable -- a halfway normal individual. Though Spontaneous Combustion eventually does allow for the wide-eyed screaming and grimacing that cemented his place in the horror genre, these electrifying early moments where Mr. Dourif is but a young waif without a trace of seething psychosis are a revelation. Like the Walkens, Dafoes and Shannons of the world, Mr. Dourif proves that just because he's an unsettling oddity doesn't mean he isn't also a fine actor.

Spontaneous Combustion runs 97 minutes and is rated R.