Released at the height of slasher movie mania, “A Nightmare on Elm Street” dared to be different. Based, in part, on a series of incidents where teenagers were dying in their sleep (recounted terrifyingly in Rodney Asher’s documentary “The Nightmare”), the bookish Wes Craven decided to make a scary movie that was steeped in occult ritual and ageless mysticism and ripe with metaphor.
Robert Englund’s Freddy Krueger isn’t just a ghostly serial killer; he’s a Norse god of mischief — a creature of pure id and the embodiment of teen angst. The dream element meant that the suspense set pieces could be festooned with surrealistic flourishes, which only added to its power. And while the sequels often skewered towards horror-comedy territory, the original is turn-your-blood-into-ice-water scary. The rightful beginning of a cinematic phenomenon.
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