Madman Marz Enters the Third Class of the Hall of Killers
It is official. The man, the myth, the campfire story that came to life, Madman Marz has officially taken his place in the third class of the Hall of Killers. That is right, the hulking, howling woodsman with the worst temper in horror cinema has joined the ranks of horror’s more questionable alumni. He is not rubbing shoulders with the likes of Jason Voorhees or Michael Myers, but he has earned his seat next to other cult icons who make up for fame with pure feral enthusiasm.
For the uninitiated, Madman (1981) is a low budget slasher that never quite got the attention it deserved at the time, which is surprising considering it involves camp counsellors, full moons, and a murderous legend who appears when you dare to say his name aloud. Yes, it came out the same year as Friday the 13th Part 2, and yes, it was about a killer in the woods picking off counsellors one by one. But while Jason had his hockey mask and mother issues, Marz had something even better — a beard that looked like it could sand down furniture and an axe big enough to fell a forest.
The story goes that Madman Marz was once a violent farmer who, after an especially bad day, murdered his wife and children with an axe. The townsfolk, apparently unimpressed by this display, hanged him from a tree. When they returned the next morning, his body was gone. Now he stalks the woods, waiting for foolish teenagers to summon him by speaking his name. It is simple, it is silly, and it is exactly the kind of urban legend you tell your friends at a sleepover when you want them to wet themselves just a little.
Director Joe Giannone managed to turn that campfire tale into one of the most atmospheric slashers of the early eighties. Shot in upstate New York on a shoestring budget, Madman takes place at a remote camp for gifted children — although given their behaviour, one might question the admissions policy. The film’s charm lies in its straightforwardness. There are no twists, no hidden metaphors, no deep psychology, just the pure primal joy of watching a huge man leap out of the dark and swing an axe at unsuspecting youths.
Paul Ehlers, who played Marz, gave the role his all. Under layers of makeup, prosthetics, and enough fake dirt to start a compost heap, he turned what could have been a simple monster into a genuine horror presence. His Marz is not a silent, stoic killer like Michael Myers; he grunts, growls, and occasionally lets out a bellow that sounds like a wounded bear being insulted. If there were an award for Most Enthusiastic Growl in Horror, he would have won it easily.
One of the reasons Madman has endured is its tone. It is both scary and unintentionally hilarious. The deaths are inventive, the lighting so moody it could give a poet an existential crisis, and the soundtrack is a bizarre mix of synth and wailing that could only have come from 1981. The campfire song at the start alone deserves to be in a museum of horror oddities. It is as if someone dared Giannone to make a slasher that was part legend, part disco nightmare, and he cheerfully obliged.
Of course, Madman never became a mainstream success. It made some money, then quietly disappeared into VHS obscurity, living on in the hearts of horror fans who discovered it late at night on fuzzy television screens. Over the years, though, its reputation grew. It became one of those films passed around like a secret — “Have you seen Madman? No? You need to.” Today, it is rightfully seen as a cult gem and a reminder that horror does not always need a franchise or a marketing budget. Sometimes all you need is a moonlit forest, an urban legend, and a man who should probably not be trusted with sharp objects.
Marz’s induction into the third class of the Hall of Killers feels fitting. He is not polished enough for the upper tiers like Freddy or Pinhead, but he has a certain rustic honesty that makes him lovable. He is the kind of killer who probably still lives in the woods, not because he has to, but because he prefers it. He is the working man’s maniac, a salt-of-the-earth slasher who just wants to swing his axe and scream at the moon in peace.
So here’s to Madman Marz, the bearded butcher of the backwoods. Long may his legend echo around the campfire, and long may he terrify anyone foolish enough to say his name aloud.
