All The News That’s Fit To Bleed.
Of all the monsters in The Night Flier, only one arrives by private plane. The rest write headlines for a living. Stephen King’s tabloid-fuelled vampire story was always less about bloodsuckers and more about the human appetite for carnage dressed as news, and Mark Pavia’s grimy 1997 adaptation leans into that cynicism with deliberate relish.
Richard Dees (Miguel Ferrer) is a jaded reporter for the sleazy tabloid Inside View, is assigned to investigate a string of bizarre murders at rural airports. Reluctantly, he takes on the assignment only to find himself competing with an ambitious young cub reporter Katherine Blair (Julie Entwisle), who still believes in journalism as a public service. As Dees tracks the carnage from airfield to airfield, pursuing the mysterious black airplane whose arrival seems to presage another killing, the line between predator and prey begins to blur, as something ancient and airborne is always one runway ahead.
Miguel Ferrer is note perfect as a bottom-feeding reporter for Inside View who treats murder scenes like photo ops and views grieving families as speed bumps. Ferrer doesn’t soften Dees with charm or moral shading, he plays him as an unapologetic parasite, all barked orders and cigarette breath, forever irritated that the world won’t just bleed on schedule. His credo is “Never believe what you publish and never publish what you believe.” and Ferrer commits to it with gusto. The deeper and darker his suspicions become, the more he can’t let the story go, until it consumes him completely, which is what makes The Night Flier work so well: it doesn’t ask us to care about him, only to follow him on his slow descent.
King’s original short story was lean, nasty, and tight with perspective and the film expands things just enough to make the story reach feature length without losing the sweaty tension and claustrophobia. Julie Entwisle’s cub reporter subplot is the major cinematic concession, not quite a foil – Dees barely tolerates her – but a reminder to the audience that Dees’ worldview is a choice, not a professional obligation. It also sharpens the film’s themes: Dees isn’t driven by desperation; he’s addicted to darkness and the distribution of misery and mayhem. He’s the first Stephen King adaptation character you just know would have a Twitter account, still.
Pavia uses his modest TV movie budget with skill. The Night Flier looks and feels like something deliberately unpleasant and tawdry, a video nasty from the bottom shelf of Blockbusters. Dingy crepuscular airports, murky motel rooms, greasily grim lighting gives scenes an almost guerilla filmmaking feel. Dees’ tabloid world is a world stripped of glamour and dignity. There’s no romanticism here, just sleaze and slaughter going from terminal to terminal. The attack sites are shot like crime scene flashbacks, grainy and stark, keeping the blood real and the threat intangible for most of the film. When The Night Flier is finally revealed, it’s worth the wait. He’s no erudite east-European aristocrat or debonair fanged lothario; he’s a snarling blend of Nosferatu and naked mole rat with a dash of Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler, his mouth more a jagged septic wound than a seductive grin. But the vampire isn’t the centrepiece, he’s the punchline. The real story is Dees, and how far he’ll go to turn someone else’s tragedy into his headline and that’s the part The Night Flier nails. It’s cheap and nasty in all the best ways and leaves you feeling grubbier for having watched it – and eager to watch it again.
