That's right, there is something out there.

And when is the campfire scene over?

When the campers are dead.

Jon Keeyes, the Fort Worth movie buff who made AMERICAN NIGHTMARE, does know his horror history and his horror rules, and, of course, he injects all the little "Scream"-type inside references to past horror movies. Somewhere along the way, though, he manages to create an original maniac psycho knife- through-the-gizzards killer. Debbie Rochon may be, in fact, the first convincing female psycho since the girl in "Sleepaway Camp," who actually, now that I think about it, turned out not to be a girl at all (boating accident--let's not go there).

Debbie, on the other hand, is very much a female, and her exotic good looks have been seen in such B mini-classics as "Abducted 2: The Reunion," "Tromeo and Juliet," and, of course, the immortal "Broadcast Bombshells." In "American Nightmare" we know from scene Numero Uno that it is her and only her who's doing the killing. This detracts a little from the normal suspense, but fortunately she's able to decimate the cast with a little over-the-top erotic style. Apparently loosely based on the infamous San Antonio serial-killer nurse, she uses a late-night pirate-radio deejay to get her "I'm Killing All Your Friends" message out to the Halloween-night party crowd, and when that doesn't work, she uses her laptop to hot-chat the soon-to-be-dead young people. Add to this that ubiquitous horror device, the cell phone, and she's really the first Multi-media Serial Killer.

Don't worry, though, because when it's time to do the nasty knife thing, she slices and dices like the best of her testosteronal counterparts. Jason had a mama. She's got a daddy. I don't want to give it away, but this is one sick party girl.

The story runs into a little trouble about two-thirds of the way through, when the lame love-interest couple repeatedly do incredibly stupid things--like letting the killer walk away, not calling the police, and going wherever she tells them. They could have at least had the obligatory stupid cop who says, "Aw, you kids, it's just a bunch of trick-or-treaters!" Instead they set up one killer-confrontation scene after another, leaving us to savor the style of the psycho while not quite buying the motivations of the people destined to live on as the credits roll.

One more minor quibble: It's fine to protect the sequel potential, but in the big climactic scene, Debbie just turns on her heel and walks out of the building. Shouldn't she get horribly scarred by acid? Or something?

Anyhoo, a fine debut by a very promising director out of the state of Texas, with its long and honorable horror traditions.

Four breasts. Eight dead bodies. One burial alive. Corpse- beating. Grave-stabbing. Slicing. Dicing. Filleting. Multiple stab wounds. Outdoor rave bikini-dancing. Drug-induced wife- stabbing. Gratuitous shower scene. Gratuitous Brinke Stevens. Voodoo Fu. S&M Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Brandy Little as the babysitter haunted by her sister's disappearance at the gruesome campfire massacre the year before; Chris Ryan, a real-life morning deejay at KEGL in Dallas, as the kinky macabre pirate-radio call-in host who says "That's the spirit of Halloween! Kids in the hospital! Hope there's enough room!"; Johnny Sneed, as the shy sensitive computer-nerd boyfriend hero, who says "I just know Halloween is a bad time for her"; and, of course, Debbie Rochon, as the pill-popping defrocked nurse with a knife and a thing for pain.

Three stars. Joe Bob says check it out.

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