ing most of the film’s last half merelynscrambling to survive. It could hardlynbe othervi^ise, with the characters fightingna completely impersonal forcenabout which they know very little. Innfact, Satan never does achieve releasenfrom his prison, and all we ever actuallynsee of him is half of his right armnprotruding from a mirror.nThus the film quickly devolves, afternits clever beginning, into a typical JohnnCarpenter production. Carpenter,nwhile occasionally directing inventivenaction-adventure films like Escapenfrom New York and Big Trouble innLittle China, is best-known for Halloween,nThe Fog, and the 80’s remakenof Howard Hawks’ The Thing. Likenmost of Carpenter’s work, Prince ofnDarkness is liberally dosed with randomnviolence and mayhem, includingndeaths by impalement and bludgeoning,na man’s body consumed fromnwithin by insects, green slime spewingnfrom people’s mouths, and a womannwhose body decays horribly while shenstill lives. In Prince of Darkness Carpenternagain weds undeniable filmmakingntalent with only the haziestnsense of what ideas he wants it tonexpress.nThis bit of filmic mayhem would benof little interest if it weren’t the firstnexample of New Age thinking in a verynpopular genre, the horror film. IfnPrince of Darkness follows the usualnrelease pattern of contemporary Hollywoodnfilms—which it almost certainlynwill — its short theatrical run will benMOVING?nLET US KNOW BEFORE YOU GO!nTo assure uninterrupted delivery ofnChronicles, please notify us in advance.nSend change of address on this form withnthe mailing label from your latest issue ofnChronicles to: Subscription Department,nChronicles, P.O. Box 800, Mount Morris,nIllinois 61054.nNamenAddress_nCitynState_ _Zip_n461 CHRONICLESnfollowed by a release on videocassette,na tour of the cable movie channels,nand, finally, syndication to broadcastnTV stations. By the time the filmnfinishes its run, literally millions ofnpeople will have seen it, and have beennexposed for perhaps the first time to annorganized, fairly comprehensive introductionnto New Age theology. Fornthose who don’t subscribe to the NewnAge movement, Prince of Darknessnwill be seen as the first shot across thenbow. It probably won’t be the last.nSam Kamick is a screenwriter livingnin Madison, Wisconsin.nPOP CULTUREnPhil Ochs and thenOld Profnby RA. HillnEvery student radical at Granada HillsnHigh School showed up before firstperiodnclass on the morning of Octobern12, 1969—but we didn’t stay long.nCharged with excitement and righteousness,ntwo dozen or so junior longhairs,nfreaks, yippies, and hippiesnformed a ragged line and marched pastnthe classroom buildings, past the schoolngates, and onward to Northridge StatenCollege for the Moratorium. Collegenstudents across the country were boycottingnclasses, gathering for demonstrations—nTricky Dicky had gonentoo far with his fascist-racist-imperialistnbombing of Cambodia! — and we enlightenednhigh-schoolers, straggling upnZelzah Avenue in the smoggy, alreadynbaking San Fernando Valley day, werendetermined to be a part of the grandnprotest.nDave Barber, our official yippie, wasntowards the front, hair streaming behindnhim and wire-rimmed glasses slidingndown his nose. Every few steps he brokeninto a crouch and pointed his plastic GInJoe burp gun at passing motorists. Hisnmanic grin and huge black pupils registerednaround 500 mikes of purple haze,ntangerine flash, blue owsley, or whatevernLSD was going around that week.nSue Ronson, AKA Runaround Sue,nswung along beside him in her finestnbeads, bells, and patches; a MarilynnMonroe in rags, a Gifted StudentsnnnProgram dropout and former Jr. MEN-nSA prodigy gone barefoot flower child.nBehind them a few paces, John Newtonnfrowned mightily. Newton dressed conservativelynfor this group—short hair,nnew jeans, desert boots, blue work shirt,nblack tie, and briefcase—but his credentialsnwere impeccable: SDS member,nlittle-red-book quoter, tirelessnMarx-reader, and mimeograph tractnpasser. He marched along, keeping hisnfrown trained on Dave and Sue, studiouslynignoring Stoney Andy Bordner’snattempts to push a joint in his face.n”C’mon, man, take a toke, take antoke, what are you a narc or what?”nAndy rasped nasally. He didn’t knownmuch about radical politics, Cambodia,nor moratoriums, but he had the rightnattitude: his motto was “F the Pigs”nand he never missed a party, even if henhad to walk to it.n”Wow, man, how much longer? I’mnthrashed, man; I hope this is a f—in’nsit-in we’re going to!”nThe rest of us fell somewhere withinnthese social parameters. Abbie Hoffmannwas Dave’s god, and I’d gotten a kicknout of Abbie’s opus. Revolution for thenHell of It, myself. The summer before,nI’d joined Dave in a few yippie guerrillantheater raids around town. As annovice socialist, I traded books withnJohn; he’d turned me on to EldridgenCleaver’s Soul on Ice, then “now thatnI’ve got your attention,” a volume ofnessays by Herbert Marcuse. I also likednto party with Stoney Andy occasionally.nAnd, like every other male in ourncrowd, I was in love with Sue.nWe swept into the college, past thennervous stares of the campus police.nThis was It, I thought, righteous historyngoing down: a coming together ofnthe young enlightened, a harbinger ofnthe peaceful counterculture revolutionnI was sure I would see before I was 25.nThe scene on the quad was all I’dnhoped for: banners, booths, guitars, lotsnof petitions and mimeographed broadsidesngoing around. I saw bikers,nChicanos, road hippies with little longhairednkids, Black Panthers, and HarenKrishnas. Up on stage a guy in a beretnwas screaming into a microphone; belownhim a lively mass shouted encouragement,nshaking fists in the blacknpower salute or “flashing the peace,”nwith two fingers in a V sign.nOur high-school contingent begannto disperse into the crowd. Dave start-n