Anthology horror films are like pizza: even when they’re bad, they’re still kind of fun. Except Campfire Tales, which is less like pizza and more like a gas station microwave burrito that’s been sitting under a heat lamp since the Clinton administration. Sure, it’s technically food, but you’ll regret it by the second bite.
This 1997 direct-to-video Frankenstein’s monster of three horror shorts, duct-taped together by a framing narrative about pretty people whining around a campfire, tries to be Creepshow or Tales from the Crypt. Instead, it feels like the Goosebumps episode nobody wanted, except they replaced the puppet Slappy with James Marsden in a flannel shirt.
The Hook: An Urban Legend That Should’ve Stayed Parked
The movie opens with the most recycled campfire tale of all: the hook-handed killer. You know the one. Teen couple parked at makeout point, radio warns of an escaped maniac, girl gets nervous, boy rolls his eyes, and then—bam!—hook on the door handle. Campfire Tales treats this like a shocking revelation, as if no one in 1997 had ever heard it before.
But instead of atmosphere, we get Amy Smart screaming at James Marsden like he just forgot their Olive Garden reservation. And Marsden, bless him, looks like he’s trying to decide if this gig is worth missing auditions for Dawson’s Creek. By the time the hook finally appears, you’re not scared—you’re rooting for it to hook the script and drag it into the woods.
The Framing Device: Beautiful Idiots in the Woods
The real horror begins when four crash-test-dummy teens (Marsden, Christine Taylor, Christopher Masterson, and Kim Murphy) crash their car and end up in the ruins of an old church. Naturally, instead of finding help, they decide to tell each other scary stories around a fire. Because when you’ve just smashed your car into a ditch, what better way to pass the time than to summon evil spirits with your best Are You Afraid of the Dark? impressions?
This framing story is the cinematic equivalent of eating packing peanuts. It’s bland, pointless, and vaguely toxic. The teens are so forgettable that when the twist ending reveals they’re all dead, you shrug and think, “Good. Saves me the trouble of remembering their names.”
Story One: Honeymoon from Hell
The first tale stars Ron Livingston and Jennifer Macdonald as newlyweds who ignore a local warning (always a good idea) and park their RV in monster country. Before long, a creature stalks them, Ron gets his throat squeezed like a stress ball, and Jennifer has to fend for herself.
On paper, this could work. In execution? It’s basically a Motel 6 commercial with blood packs. The “creature” is shown sparingly, probably because the budget for monster effects was roughly equivalent to a Subway sandwich combo. At one point, Jennifer pepper sprays it, which is both hilarious and sad—like watching someone try to defeat Godzilla with Axe body spray.
And poor Ron Livingston. You can see the misery in his eyes, the quiet “someday I’ll get Office Space and escape this VHS graveyard.” Until then, he’s hanging upside down like a piñata with intestines.
Story Two: People Can Lick Too (Yes, That’s the Actual Title)
This segment is based on another campfire classic: little girl thinks she’s petting her dog, but surprise—it’s actually a deranged man licking her hand. It’s supposed to be terrifying. Instead, it plays like a rejected PSA about internet safety.
We meet Amanda, an 11-year-old who spends her nights chatting online with a stranger who claims to be “Jessica.” Spoiler: it’s a grown man. (To Catch a Predator, eat your heart out.) Her older sister ditches her to hang with her boyfriend, leaving Amanda alone with her doomed dog.
The scares rely entirely on jump cuts and ominous AOL vibes. When the words “People can lick too” appear in lipstick on the mirror, it’s meant to be chilling. Instead, it feels like the director is wagging his finger at us for being online too much. In 1997, maybe that worked. Watching in 2025, it just looks like the villain was rejected from Law & Order: SVUfor being too obvious.
And yes, the dog dies. Because this movie knows how to really alienate an audience: don’t kill James Marsden, kill the family pet. Truly, the monster here is the screenwriter.
Story Three: The Locket (a.k.a. Ghost Girlfriend Theater)
The final story is the cinematic equivalent of falling asleep in a Cracker Barrel. A biker named Scott gets stranded, meets a mute beauty with a chalkboard (Jacinda Barrett), and spends the night in her creepy farmhouse. Cue a murderous dad, time loops, severed heads, and ghosts who really should’ve unionized for better scripts.
Scott and Heather share a night under a tree, and in the morning, he discovers her locket contains a photo of both of them… in old-timey clothes. Then her head falls off into his lap, because subtlety was outlawed in 1997.
The whole thing feels like a rejected Twilight Zone pitch rewritten by someone who thought “mute women with chalkboards” was peak horror. It drags on forever, like being stuck in a haunted DMV. By the time Heather’s noggin drops, you’re cheering—not because it’s scary, but because it means the end credits are mercifully close.
The Twist Ending: Surprise, You’re All Dead!
After the stories, our four campfire idiots discover they didn’t survive their crash. Shyamalan must’ve spit out his Yoo-hoo when he saw this one. Except here, it’s about as surprising as finding a hair in your soup at Denny’s.
The movie tries to tie the tales together by having characters from the stories show up as paramedics at the crash site. It’s meant to be clever, but instead it feels like the filmmakers are just reusing actors because they couldn’t afford more.
Final Verdict: More Lukewarm Marshmallow Than Scary Fire
Campfire Tales wants to be a scary anthology for the MTV generation. What it delivers is a glorified “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark” knockoff, minus the charm, minus the scares, and minus any reason to stay awake.
The acting ranges from “future stars slumming it” (Marsden, Christine Taylor, Amy Smart) to “random soap opera auditions.” The effects are nonexistent, the stories are recycled, and the scares feel about as threatening as a soggy graham cracker.
Worst of all? It commits the cardinal sin of horror anthologies: it’s boring. Even the campfire itself looks like it’s trying to burn out early to avoid being in the film.
