At the end of the initial post about
this topic, I ended with this poster promoting the 1981 film
Possession and the idea that
images, such as those depicted on movie posters, are open to several,
if not to many, possible interpretations, each of which interpretations could
give rise to a story, at least theoretically. In other words, a set
of images could become the basis of two or more stories, rather than
just one.
The
Possession poster showcases the back of a topless brunette, whose sleek skin
suggests that she is likely young, as does her luxuriant, shoulder-length hair.
The very top of the cleavage of her buttocks shows within the “V”
of a low-riding garment, the exact nature of which defies definite
identification.
The
background is black, suggesting night (or evil), and her head is
surrounded by an eerie aura, from either side of which projects a
pointed beam reminiscent of a horn. Hands lie upon her shoulders—her
own, it seems, and yet, inexplicably, they look old, and they end in
sharp claws, two of which puncture her flesh, just below her
right shoulder, producing blood that trickles down her back.
Below
the figure, blood-red letters spell “Possession”; the dot over
the “i” is vaguely like a Valentine's heart.
Is the
film about demonic possession, as indicated by the horns, the demon's
hands, and the blood, or does the movie concern romantic
possession, as suggested by the half-naked woman and the Valentine's
heart? The caption, below the image of the woman, suggests that both
views are correct: the picture shows “Inhuman ecstasy fulfilled.”
However,
there are also other possibilities, the words, in white, above
the female figure, suggest: "Is it desire? Or violation? Devotion? Or
bondage? In any case, “our hidden fears will be aroused,” the
text promises.
Probably,
we will wonder who the woman is. Or, perhaps what
she is. Some of the possibilities that might spring to mind are:
Mother
of the Antichrist
Succubus
Witch
We
might also ask what “hidden fears” are tapped by the image of
evil, of sensuality, of dark devotion, of deviltry, of sexuality, of
seduction. Are we afraid of being seduced by darkness, by the devil,
by our own improper carnal desires? Maybe all of the above?
By
raising several possibilities, the poster makes viewers curious, but
it also confuses, just as potent temptations and seduction and a
variety of interpretations as to just what a woman represents (and
what opportunities she presents) may make one feel confused, even
afraid. One is overwhelmed by possibilities, some of which may be
appealing and desirable, others of which may be disgusting and
terrifying.
As is
often the case, the poster's images are ambiguous, multivalent, even
conflicting. Ultimately, they may be unsettling, alarming, and
frightening.
Perhaps a novel that takes a similar approach would, transcending the merely possible by multiplying the possibilities of
interpretation, would achieve artistic respect. Sometimes,
rather than being taught a lesson, it might be better if we were
taught that an experience, fictional or dramatic, might reflect
actual life experiences which, likewise, are open to several
interpretations.
Life, such a work might teach readers or moviegoers,
is complicated and, often, mysterious or ambiguous, if not
meaningless and full of angst. Such fiction is horrible, indeed, like some of the situations real people actually do face in their everyday lives.
In the wilderness, we have little control over our surroundings, and,
whether a provincial park, a rain forest, a crocodile-infested area
along a flooded river, or another forbidding location, our environment
can be hostile, dangerous, or even deadly.
Trees obscure lines of
sight; darkness impedes vision; sounds in the darkness seem ominous.
Especially in remote locations, the wilderness isolates us, cutting us
off from civilization and the assistance that social institutions and
government agencies could otherwise provide. No ambulances, fire trucks,
or police cruisers are standing by; no emergency telephone operators
await our calls; no infrastructure of highways, hospitals, and other
resources is available.
In movies that combine horror with
wilderness environments, characters are likewise vulnerable and
helpless. They are alone, in the dark, among wild animals or other
threats. They may find themselves in the presence of killers, some of
whom could be family members or friends. These 10 wilderness horror
movies based on horrific true stories may make us think twice about
power outages, camping, traveling, or even staying home alone.
The listicle for which the above paragraphs are the introduction appears on Listverse.
In this post, Michael Williams contributes another superb article, full of insights, concerning the inner workings of plots related to all genres of fiction. (Thank you, Michael!)
Writers in various genres
have tried-and-true ways not only of beginning, but also of
continuing, stories, of extending them though their narratives'
middle courses, of connecting the beginnings of the tales with their
endings.
Let's review some of the
traditional ways in which writers accomplish this objective while
maintaining, or even heightening, suspense.
In Desperation,
after gathering his characters together, Stephen King uses
various mechanisms of repetition to keep his novel moving along while
maintaining or heightening suspense, among which techniques are—
Adding new arrivals
to the ranks of Sheriff Collie
Entragian's captives;
Increasing
characters' personal stakes in the conflict between Sheriff Collie
Entragian and the demon Tak. (For example, David's kid sister “Pie”
is killed);
Requiring
Tak to “jump” from one possessed person to another after the
demon's intensity physically destroys one after another of his
temporary hosts; and
Following
one bizarre incident with another.
The
middle of Dorothy's quest involves the use of such tactics of development as—
Frustrations
of her desire to return home to Kansas by various means, including
the Wicked Witch of the West and the Witch's minions' attacks;
problems associated with the Wizard (fraud), the Scarecrow (lack of
self-confidence), the Tin Man (susceptibility to rust), and Cowardly
Lion (cowardice), and Toto (aggression); and problems associated
with herself (passivity, dependence, uncertainty); and
Dorothy's
ignorance of her ruby slippers' power to transport her home at any
time.
Geoffrey
Chaucer extends The Canterbury Tales by—
Descriptions
of each of the characters;
Each
character's telling of a tale;
Other
characters' reactions to the tales; and
Arguments
among the characters.
The
movie Armageddon
develops the middle of its plot by—
Having
the characters undergo training;
Teaming
Americans with Russians;
Missing the landing point;
Performing drilling operations;
Exploding methane gas;
Dying (on the part of most of the landing party).
Many
detective stories advance their plots by—
Showing the interviewing
various suspects;
Disclosing clues (or red herrings)
Otherwise
investigating a crime (usually a murder).
In
horror stories, the middle of the narrative often progresses by—
Expanding
the area involving the initial situation to include other towns, a whole country, or the entire
world;
Introducing
new characters (often victims);
Seeking
clues as to the nature and origin of an unfamiliar or alien
creature, force, or situation; and
Varying
the types of threats;
Fending
off attacks.
Falling Down
uses these methods to get from A (the beginning) to Z (the end):
Introducing
new characters;
Providing
examples of moral, economic, and political decline;
Developing
the contrasting parallel personal lives of William Foster and Detective
Martin Prendergast;
Escalating
Foster's aggressive behavior; and
Visiting
various areas of the city.
In
developing the middle of a story, writers keep these purposes in
mind:
The
beginning of the story must connect to the end of the story in a
logical, emotionally satisfying way, and the middle of the story is
the connector between these two points;
The
middle of the story's incidents are related through cause and
effect;
The
middle of the story must escalate the conflict and, therefore, the
suspense;
The
middle of the story must be appropriate for the story's genre (for
example, things allowed in horror aren't usually welcome in a
romance);
The
middle of the story (usually, the middle of the middle) contains the
plot's turning point;
The
middle of the story is developmental: it develops elements
introduced by the story's beginning: multiplies horrors
[Desperation],
complexities a quest [The Wizard of Oz];
more fully characterizes its players [The Canterbury
Tales]; increases an already
difficult challenge [Armageddon];
exemplifies a character's point of view [Falling Down];
The
middle of the story's tone must be appropriate to the story's genre
and theme.
Characters,
incidents, settings, processes, and motives are among the persons,
places, and things that inspire horror. Pretty much anything can, as
long as it is eerie or lends itself to an eerie interpretation.
For
moviemakers, images often suggest horror. (They also horror to many
writers of other genre fiction as well, of course; C. S. Lewis, the
author Christian and children's fantasy and science fiction, for
example, said his stories often began with images.)
When
examining a picture—never merely lookat a picture, whether
it's a drawing, a photograph, a painting, or some other visual
representation; study
it in detail; then, wait a while and study it again—ask yourself,
Which question do I first
ask myself about the picture: who? what? when? where? how? or why?
The
right picture will speak to you. How can you be sure the picture
you're studying is the “right picture?” Easy. If it is, it will
let you know; it will speak to you.
Not
literally, of course. Not out loud. But it will suggest questions,
imply ideas, elicit emotions, show relationships between one of its
elements—color, perhaps—and others—texture, maybe, or shape.
One thought, one intuition, one feeling will lead to another and
another.
Before
you converse with pictures, it's helpful to know what sort of things
to study. Remember, too, that, in the Western world, people are
taught to read from left to right and from top to bottom. The most
important part of the image will be positioned close to the center of
the image.
Here
are some basic elements to consider: contrasts, colors, distance,
intensity, overlapping of objects, placement, position, shapes,
sizes, structural pattern (e. g., horizontal, diagonal, vertical,
sectional), text (if any), and textures.
On
the figurative level, consider whether the image alludes to anything
beyond itself, such as a work of art or an historical period; look
for visual metaphors; consider symbolism; and determine whether
personification is used. Often, if the picture has symbolic or
metaphorical significance and text, the text will act as the key to
unlocking the literal meaning suggested by the visual figure of
speech.
If
figures are included in the image, consider their sex, gender, age,
financial status, social class, costume, facial expression, posture,
pose, body language, and relationships to other figures, if any, and
to the objects, or “props,” if any, and the landscape or interior
space shown in the image.
Now,
let's try a simple exercise, using this image:
What
question first addresses itself to me is, Why
is the doll crying? In other words, I am most interested in the
question of motive. If
I am uncertain, I may hazard a guess, indicating it as such by
following the guess with a question mark in parentheses; if, as yet,
I have no answer, I will indicate this by using just a question mark.
Now
that I've determined my chief interest in the image, I should answer
the other, related questions:
Who? = doll
What? = crying
When? and Where = In the
darkness
How? = magic (?)
Why? = ?
Next,
I will “read” the image from right to left and from top to
bottom, making notes concerning questions, ideas, emotions, and
relationships between one of its elements of the image:
Right
eye is half-closed; left eye, open
Right
eye is dark; right eye, blue
A
teardrop on the doll's left eye suggests the toy is crying
In
comparison to the nose and mouth, the doll's eyes are exceptionally
large—why?
There
is no background, just a close-up of the doll's seemingly large,
round face
The
face is cracked and worn
These
are my initial observations. I should ask what each is intended to
suggest or mean. (In studying an image, especially if it was produced
by a professional artist, we should assume that every detail is
carefully thought out and is present for a purpose.)
The
right eye suggests thought, reflection; it seems to look inward. The
left eye is open; the doll sees, but it also cries: whatever the
doll sees seems to make it sad.
There
is only a single, large teardrop, which seems to imply that either
the doll is no longer crying or has only just begun to cry; either
it has cried itself out or it is only now being moved to tears.
The
relatively large eyes focus the viewer's attention on them, rather
than on its nose or mouth. Its vision, thought, and emotion and what it sees are the important
things.
The
setting is unknown, other than by darkness; the time and place are
irrelevant. However, the darkness could symbolize fear, ignorance,
or death, since black is often associated with one or all of these
emotions or states of existence. The large size of the face also
focuses the viewer's attention on the doll's face. Its face, the
symbol of identity, like the doll's behavior—crying—are the focal
points of the image, suggesting that these are the most important
features of the picture.
The
crack in the doll's right cheek and the wear on its face could
symbolize its suffering; it seems careworn, tired, and slightly
injured.
Add
any additional observations:
The
image makes use of personification and symbolism.
None
of my observations answers my original question: Why
is the doll crying? In other words, what is its motive?
At
this point, we are beyond the image. We are asking ourselves a
question that the image itself does not, and cannot, answer.
Therefore, we must use our imaginations, our knowledge of human
nature, and our own experiences as human beings to guess why a doll,
if it were capable of crying, might weep. In doing so, we should also
be true to the questions, ideas, emotions, and the relationships
between the focus feature of the image (in this case, the doll) and
the image's other, related elements.
We
can start by listing facts known about dolls:
A
doll usually belongs to a girl.
A
doll may be given to a girl as a gift, perhaps by her parents.
A
girl often invests her doll with a “personality” (personifies
the doll).
When
a girl is not playing with her doll, the doll is often left by
itself, perhaps in a dark place, such as a closet or a toy box.
A
girl may project her own emotions onto her doll.
A
girl may assign the role she plays in her present life to her doll.
Based
on these thoughts, we might construct a scenario to explain our
original question, Why
is the doll crying?
Melinda Jackson abandons her
doll, Bessie—not to a closet or to a toy box this time, but to the
alley behind her house, beside the trash cans to be
collected, along with the other trash, by the city's sanitation crew.
Melinda is sad to say goodbye to Bessie, who's been her dearest
companion, her confidante, her best friend for most of her life.
They've been through a lot, good times and bad. But Melinda is older
now—too old for Bessie—and, so, Melinda abandoned her doll. She
imagines Bessie alone in the dark alley, frightened and in despair,
crying, as Melinda herself is crying. But it is only a tear. She
brushes it away. Besides, Bessie is just a doll. Bessie can't really
cry.
The
idea for the story suggests three parts:
Melinda
becomes aware that she is “too old” for a doll. (Maybe she has a
sleepover and her friends make fun of her for still having a doll.)
Melinda
is sad to say goodbye to her doll, but, convinced the time has come
to part with Bessie, Melinda places Bessie in the dark alley behind
her house to be hauled away by the city's sanitation crew.
Twist
ending
We
need to surprise the reader with an unexpected outcome to the story.
With Melinda's new awareness that she is “too old” for a doll (Part
I) and Melinda's abandonment of her doll so that Bessie can be hauled
away by the city's sanitation crew (Part II), we have set up the
expectation, in the reader's mind, that Bessie will be discarded.
There are several ways the story could end with a twist:
One of the sanitation crew
could take Bessie home for his own daughter to “adopt.”
A dog could carry Bessie home,
where another girl could “adopt” Bessie.
Bessie
really could be magical, and she could return to Melinda, who
decides to keep her, after all.
Adopt
one of these twists or (or another possibility) and use it to write
part three of the story's summary:
III. Recovering from her
fright, Bessie walks back to Melinda's house, returns to
the girl's bedroom, with muddy feet, and takes her customary place
of honor on Melinda's bed. Shocked, Melinda decides Bessie is magic
and decides to keep her, regardless of her the taunts of her "friends."
The
fifteen basic needs identified by advertising executive Jib Fowles
should also be considered in relation to the image: the need to
achieve, the need for aesthetic sensations, the need for affiliation,
the need to aggress, the need for attention, the need for autonomy,
the need to satisfy curiosity, the need to dominate, the need to
escape, the need to feel safe, the need to nurture, the need for sex,
the need for prominence, and physiological needs (food, drink, sleep, etc.).
For example, in the sample story, Madeline feels the need for
affiliation (she has a sleepover), and Madeline feels the need for
autonomy (she feels that it is time for her to say goodbye to her
doll). By appealing to one or more of these basic needs, a story is
likely to allow readers to develop empathy for the narrative's
characters—in the case of the sample story, for both Madeline and
Bessie.
If
you'd care to try this approach for a story of your own, you might use
the following (or some other) image:
It
was fashionable in Hollywood, at one time, to produce movies that
have alternate
endings. Hollywood executives hoped that, by trying out two or
more endings for the same movie on test audiences, they could
determine which one viewers enjoyed most, which might translate into
more ticket sales (i .e., dollars) at the box office.
For
short story writers and novelists, however, there may be other
benefits
to devising possible alternate endings. In doing so, however, authors
should follow Aristotle's dictum
(and Edgar Allan Poe's advice)
that a story's ending should end in a manner that does not destroy
the integrity of the rest of the plot.
Devising
possible alternate endings to a story can also assist writers in
selecting the most appropriate, effective, and memorable ending
possible from an array of alternatives.
In
addition, imagining possible alternate endings can, perhaps, improve
the story, because a new possibility might round out, explain, or
otherwise complete the narrative in a more believable or otherwise
satisfying manner than the original ending. (We're speaking, now, of
works in progress, rather than published, stories.)
Imagining
alternate endings could also produce unexpected or better twist
endings than the one a writer originally had in mind.
Current
ending: Raut, who has cuckolded Horrocks, is doomed when a
blast-furnace cone lowers him into the furnace, while Horrocks pelts
the adulterer with hot coals.
Alternate
ending: Horrocks seizes Raut by the arm, shoving him into the
path of an oncoming railway tram. (This incident occurs earlier in
the story, but, at this point, Horrocks is terrorizing Raut and, at
the last minute, pulls him to safety; revised, the original story
would end with this incident, without Horrocks pulling Raut from the
tram's path.)
Current
ending: An entry in Morgan's diary reveals that the creature he
hunts is invisible because its color is imperceptible to the human
eye.
Alternate
ending: Both Morgan's friend Harker, who witnessed Morgan's death
and Morgan himself are insane, the former because of his fantastic
testimony at the coroner's inquest concerning the cause of Morgan's
death, the latter because, in writing of the incident in his diary,
he described it in a manner that is consistent with Harker's account
of the occurrence. On suspicion of having killed, and possible
brainwashed Morgan, Harker is arrested and held for trial.
Current
ending: Horsemen frighten off the werewolf guarding and keeping
an English hotel guest warm in a forest and take him back to the
hotel; they were dispatched at the request of a Transylvanian count
named Dracula.
Alternate
ending: The horsemen arrive to find the Englishman's throat torn
out by the werewolf feasting upon his corpse.
"The Signalman" by Charles Dickens
Current
ending: The narrator learns that a signal-man, seemingly
mesmerized by something he saw, was struck and killed by an
approaching train after ignoring the engineer's repeated warnings to
get off the track.
Alternate
ending: The train strikes the signal-man, but investigators
cannot find his body; on the anniversary of his supposed death, the
signal-man again appears on the track and is struck, but, afterward,
investigators cannot find a body.
Often,
in horror stories and films, a secret, past or present, drives and
directs protagonists' or antagonists' actions:
Schizophrenia
(Norman Bates [Alfred Hitchcock's
1960 film adaptation of Robert Bloch's 1959 novel Psycho],
Brian De Palma's 1980 film Dressed to Kill,
and David Calloway [John Polson's 2005 film Hide and
Seek]);
crimes
of various kinds (Marion Crane's adultery
and theft
and Norman Bates's murder
in Psycho; Grace
Newman's murders in Alejandr Amenábar's 2001 film The
Others; Freddy Kreuger's murders
in Wes Craven's 1984 film A Nightmare on Elm Street;
the teenage friends' murder in Jim Gillespie's 1997 film adaptation
of Lois Duncan's 1973 novel I Know What You Did Last
Summer; Horrocks's wife's
adultery with Raut in H. G. Wells's 1895 short story “The Cone”;
deceit
or betrayal
(Marion Crane's adultery and her theft of her employer's money in
Psycho;
the adultery of Horrocks's wife and lover Raut in “The Cone”; the
teenage characters' attempt to cover up what they believed to be
their killing of a man in I
Know What You Did Last Summer);
sexual
deviance (voyeurism
in Michael Powell's 1960 film Peeping Tom,
Victor Zarcoff's 2016 film 13 Cameras, and Psycho;
lesbianism
in Daphne du Maurier's 1938 novel Rebecca and
Shirley Jackson's 1959 Gothic horror novel The Haunting of
Hill House; transvestism
in Hitchcock's Psycho,
Brian De Palma's 1980 film Dressed to Kill,
Jonathan Deeme's 1991 film adaption of Thomas Harris's 1988 novel The
Silence of the Lambs; and
transgenderism
in Robert Hiltzik's 1983 film Sleepaway Camp;
and sadism
(Robert Harmon's 1986 film The Hitcher);
past
psychological trauma (the
denial of Angela Baker true sex and gender in Sleepaway
Camp and Carrie White's
victimization by high school bullies in Stephen King's 1979 novel
Carrie and Brian De
Palma's 1974 film adaptation of the book);
vengeance
(many
horror stories and movies, including Edgar Allan Poe's 1846 short
story “The Cask of the Amontillado,” “The Cone,” A
Nightmare on Elm Street,
I Know What You
Did Last Summer,
and a host of others); and
suggestibility(the narrator-protagonits's
runaway imagination in H. G. Wells's 1894 short story “The Red
Room” and, possibly, the protagonist of Bram Stoker's 1891 short
story “The Judge's House” and his 1914 short story “Dracula's
Guest”).
As
we can see, the same story or film may contain multiple instances of
secret motivators: Hitchcock's Psycho
contains two characters,
Marion Crane and Norman Bates, who, between them, are driven by no
fewer than four types of secrets: schizophrenia, crime (murder),
sexual deviance (voyeurism) (Bates) and deceit or betrayal
(adultery), and crime (theft) (Crane).
On
the surface, such characters appear to be normal and to be motivated
by ordinary drives, such as the need to nurture, the pursuit of
profit, affiliation, pleasure, leisure, generosity, and kindness. The
normal, apparent motivations of these characters seem to “explain”
them; in reality, however, they merely disguise their true desires,
aims, and purposes; they are red herrings, not clues, to the nature
of the characters, fictitious personas that allow the characters to
act without arousing suspicion. Marion Crane is a thief, but she
poses as a traveler. The protagonist of Peeping
Tom and the landlord in
13 Cameras
are both voyeurs and murderers, but the former poses as a
photographer, the latter as nothing more than a landlord. Horrocks,
in “The Cone,” is a vengeful victim of adultery, but he poses as
a tour guide of sorts. The schizophrenic in Hide
and Seek poses as a
nothing more than a psychiatrist who has his daughter Emily's
psychological welfare at heart.
The
disguise of normality is also disarming. It suggests that dangerous
characters are either harmless of beneficial: a motel owner, teenage
friends, scientists, a camper, a mother, a doctor. The disguise of
normality makes it easier for such characters to stalk and slay their
prey. Indeed, such characters can even appear to be the victim,
rather than the victimizer, to him- or herself, if not to the public
(although they often appear to be the victim to the public as well,
at least for a time): David Calloway and Grace Newman are examples.
Stories
and films in which a secret is at the heart of one or more
characters, whether protagonist or antagonist or both, suggest a
threefold division of plot: Part I: Appearance is maintained through
the adopted persona; Part II: the character's secret is discovered or
revealed; and Part III: reality is exhibited as the character's true
identity is perceived.
In
The Annotated Poe, the
observation is made that Edgar Allan Poe's work has suggested
storytelling techniques that filmmakers have adopted in dramatizing
their scripts:
.
. . his influence in the history
of cinema has been profound. He has since the early days of
motion pictures provided filmmakers with subjects, while influencing
the development of cinematic theory and technique (21).
For
example, Poe “anticipates the technique of cinematic montage,
in which brief shots are joined together to form a sequence that
compresses space, time, and information” in order to accelerate
“the action of the story, propelling readers towards its climax”
(43).
In
addition, Poe pioneered the narrative equivalent of alternating
close-up shots, distance shots, and extreme close-ups combined with
sound effects:
Poe
depicts Metzengerstein
in close-up (the “agony of his countenance'”, pulls back to show
him from a distance (“the convulsive struggling of his frame”),
and then supplies an extreme close-up (“his lacerated lips, which
were bitten through and through”). The rapid shifting of the images
quickens the narrative pace, which the ensuing cacophony of sound—the
shriek of Metzengerstein, the clatter of hooves, the roar of the
flames, and the shriek of the wind—further intensifies, thus
providing a running start for the horse's final bound up the stairs”
(34).
There's
no reason that the cinema shouldn't return the favor, as short story
writers and novelists adopt some of the camera
angles that directors and cameramen (and women) have found most
effective in filming horror movies.
In
doing so, the writer simply adopts the strategy of using description
to depict in words what the camera would show in images. In writing,
the writer is also the director and the cameraman (or woman); the
writer, therefore, calls the shots.
Here
are a few examples. (In the descriptions, specific references to
characters and situations have been deliberately eliminated in the
interests of describing more generic scenes. The video clips are more
specific, suggesting how particular writers, actors, directors, and
other filmmaking crew members have depicted such situations.)
The
extreme closeup is called for when “specific facial
expressions” indicate that action “that might scare . . . a
character” is about to occur or “has happened.”
Here's
the same scene, from Stanley Kubrick's The Shining (1980),
captured in the “camera” of descriptive writing:
Behind
him, above the immense fireplace and its burning log, a mural of
stylized girls in triangular skirts adorns the wall. To the left, Art
Deco windows are set in the wall, beneath a mounted moose head; a
table; chairs; twin candles in matching wall sconces. But decorative
features are indistinct, pale, ghostly images, suggestions, more than
realities. One's gaze is drawn to and fixated upon him.
His high forehead, his winged eyebrows, his staring eyes, his parted
lips command absolute attention, allegiance, devotion, as does his
stance, exuding confidence and power. As I approach, his features
remain the same; he does not blink, does not stir, does not change.
Nearer still, and his eyes, his gaze, without altering, expresses, in
its stillness and intensity, in its indomitable and unchanging will,
in its immutable and insistent being,
a demonic essence, at once both terrifying and mesmerizing,
inescapable and compelling.
A
point-of-view shotcaptures a
character's own visual experience, showing what he or she would see
in a particular situation, letting the reader view the scene as
character sees the action.
The
opening scene of John Carpenter's Halloween (1978):
Movement,
a march, a cadence measured and purposeful, past a jack-o-lantern
flickering from the fire inside; past dark foliage shapes; past the
shadows of leaves upon a wall white in the darkness, to a scene
framed by a window: inside a teens locked in an embrace kiss,
frantic, until they hear a sound; they break, listening. Then, they
run upstairs, excited. Movement, march, cadence, in reverse, back
past the leaf-shadows, the dark foliage shapes, the fiery carved
pumpkin, to the front yard. Up. The second-story window is
illuminated, then dark. Around, through the darkness, to the door
through the windows of which shows the kitchen. Enter. Light. Stove.
Sink. Open a drawer, remove a knife, huge and sharp of edge and
point. Dining room: table, candles, chairs, sideboard, shadow of a
chandelier upon a wall. Hallway. Living room: television, rocking
chair, sofa, pole lamp. A staircase, leading up. The teenage boy,
walking downstairs, exits the front door, closing it behind him. Up
the stairs, past a painting, framed and hanging on the wall, into the
darkness. Cast-off clothing on the floor: jacket, bra, panties. The
corner of a chair. Through a doorway, she sits, naked, the teenage
girl, running a brush through her hair. Behind her, the bedding is in
disarray, disheveled with the remnants of her lust. She brushes her
hair. Turns. Screams, covering her breasts with her hands, modest
now. The stabbing of the knife. Her fall, a collision with a dresser
and the floor. Down the stairs, through the darkness. Ceiling lights,
the foyer's hardwood floor, the door, opening upon deeper darkness
and car lights. A man and a woman, hurry through the night, toward
the house, their parked car abandoned. The mask is pulled away, and
the killer, bloody knife in hand, their eight-year-old son, a clown,
is revealed, is born,
this Halloween.
The
over-the-shoulder shot
is used either to suggest that a character is conversing with another
character or that another character is following the character shown
in the shot. This camera angle focuses on a single character,
emphasizing him or her, but implies that one or more other
characters, although unseen, are also present. It can also set up a
shock; for example, “the character could turn around and look
possessed.”
Grace
Newman learns something about herself in this scene from The
Others (2001):
Seated
on the floor, her back to the door, covered in a heavy, white voile
veil and bundled in a matching dress, her young daughter, the
puppeteer, has gnarly, old hands; an aged face, half-hidden beneath
the ectoplasmic veil, attempts to deceive, but the pale, shocked
thirty-year-old redhead in the black dress is not deceived: she knows
this person, this thing,
is not her daughter.
The mother chokes the old crone, the impostor, the changeling; yanks
the veil from her; and sees—the child in the dress is
her daughter, after all. The child stares at her mother in disbelief,
in terror: the stranger, her mother, this mad woman who disowned her,
has tried to kill her!
The
establishing shot,
“usually shot at a distance” is 'a wide shot” that sets the
scene by showing the site of upcoming action. Such a shot may be
devoid of characters; if characters are present, they are merely
window dressing, part of the scene itself—unless and until the
“camera” (the description) zeroes in on them, picking them out
from the crowd.
Stanley
Kubrick's establishing shot is the sequence with which The
Shining
begins, as Jack Torrance drives to the Overlook Hotel:
A
dark blue lake, a green island in its midst, parallels a two-lane
mountain road meandering, a gray ribbon, or a snake, through a forest
thick with shaggy conifers, passing no other cars for miles and
miles. Wide, open land stretches away, before the mountains' jagged,
snow-covered peaks. The car looks like a toy, as it follows the
sweeping grandeur of the terrain. Up a slope, tight against a cliff
on the right, a sheer drop-off on the left shored up by a retaining
wall, the yellow VW rounds a curve, and the highway seems to open up,
wide. Finally, another car, a white limousine—stalled, it seems—is
seen; the VW swings past, leaving it behind. Ahead, a tunnel plunges
through the mountainside beneath the pines; for a few moments, the VW
disappears, then emerges, passes another stopped car, on the left
shoulder, continuing to pursue the highway between the towering cliff
on the right and the plummeting drop-off on the left. Passing another
car—the third in what seems forever—the yellow VW now travels
along a stretch of road cut into the steep slope of the mountainside
itself; gone, for the moment, are the cliffs; all is mountainside,
green with grass and stands, but no forests, of pines. In the
distance, craggy mountains loom. Another car, a canoe on top, passes,
and then, there is snow on the mountains and the roadside. At the
base of a mountain decorated with fields of snow, a hotel sits,
immense in itself, but tiny compared to the mountain rearing behind
it, into the clear, dark-blue sky. Finally, the yellow VW has
arrived.
The
wide shot
is similar to the establishing shot, but the wide shot focuses on the
characters and can lend a sense of depth to the action' all the
characters and objects are in focus and perspective, so this shot
equalizes rather than highlights characters, objects, and actions.
Another
clip from Halloween
includes a wide shot:
A
young woman in blue denim bell-bottom jeans and a light-blue blouse,
hands in pockets, mounts the steps leading from a suburban lawn to a
broad porch. At the entrance flanked by windows, she rings the
doorbell, leans left to peer into the window, turns, and leaves, back
across the porch and down the steps. She crosses the front yard,
passes the porch railing and the fiery jack-o-lantern seated there,
walks down the side of the house, with her shadow on the wall, and is
lost to the darkness. She emerges from the night, approaching the
back door, which is open. She hesitates. Steps into the kitchen,
closing the door behind her. Passing through dark rooms, she climbs
the stairs to the second floor, and is swallowed by the darkness. To
her left, at the top of the stairs, light shines around and beneath a
closed door. She approaches, down the hallway. Illuminated by ambient
light, her face is a picture of curiosity. She opens the door, and
her eyes widen. Laid out in the bed, her arms extended so that her
corpse forms a cross, a woman lies, dead; a headstone propped behind
her, against the head of the bed, reads, “Judith Myers.” A
pumpkin, lit by candlelight, grins on the night table beside her.
Gasping, the young woman covers her mouth in her hands and backs into
the wall behind her. She turns, and the body of a young man,
suspended upside-down, swings through the doorway beside her, back
and forth, back and forth, back and forth. She retreats, and a
cabinet door opens to reveal a blonde woman her own age, blouse open,
breasts revealed, staring at nothing. She flees into the hallway,
crying, distraught and terrified, leaning against another room's
doorjamb. A white mask appears in the darkness of the room beside
her. The masked man emerges, and a butcher's knife plunges, ripping
the sleeve of her blouse. She turns, falls over the staircase
railing, onto the steps, and slides down the stairs. The masked man
follows, standing at the head of the stairs for a moment, framed by
the light of the room behind him, where the two female corpses are
posed and the male body is rigged. Not dead, the young woman rises
and steps forth, into the darkness.
The
high-angleshot
looks down on the action, making characters, objects, and settings
seem small and insignificant, thus heightening their vulnerability.
Breaking
Bad: Crawl Space
(2011), directed by Scott Winant, alternates between high-angle shots
and low-angle shots. The low-angle shots show a man in a crawlspace;
these shots alternate with high-angle shots showing a blonde woman in
the house, looking down at him.
A
man on his hands and knees tears frantically at a sheet of plastic.
He turns over, clutching bundles of cash. A blonde woman peers down
at him. He demands to know something. Taken aback, the woman shakes
her head. Lying on his back in the crawlspace, he kicks his heels,
dislodging dirt, yelling up, through the opening in the floor that
connects the crawlspace to the house. She gasps. In the crawlspace,
he looks desperate. She closes her eyes, makes a response. He stares
up at her, disbelief on his face, as asks more questions. Frightened,
she explains. He puts his hands atop his head. She apologizes. He
rants, clenching his fists. She kneels, looking down upon him,
concerned. He rolls onto his left side, hands covering is face,
whimpering. He rolls back onto his back, weeping and sobbing. She
looks down, pity on her face, and makes a comment. His wailing turns
to laughter, and her rolls onto his left shoulder, then onto his back
again. Looking both concerned and frightened, the blonde woman backs
away from the opening to the crawlspace, into the hallway. Elsewhere,
a woman in dim light paces back and forth as she talks on a cell
phone. The blonde walks along a hallway, past the door to a kitchen,
and picks up the receiver to a telephone on a kitchen counter
accessible from the hallway. She starts to talk, walking away, down
the hallway. In the crawlspace, among the bundled cash, the man
continues to laugh, as the view of him, framed by the opening to the
crawlspace, becomes more and more distant, suggesting he is
insignificant, alone, vulnerable, and trapped.
A
shot similar to the high-angle shot, the bird's-eye
view shot
also looks down upon a character. Thanks to the bird's eye view shot,
which looks 'straight down . . . usually [at] a setting” or a
“place,” a character appears “short and squashed,” which
makes this shot “effective in a
horror movie” in which a character's movement is being tracked or
as an establishing shot.
The
low-angle shot is
the opposite of the high-angle shot, looking up to another character,
object, or aspect of the setting. This shot can suggest a character's
lack of power or authority and can indicate confusion and
“disorientation.”
The low-angle shots showing the
man in the crawlspace alternate with the high-angle shots showing the
woman in the house, looking down at him.
A
shot similar to the low-angle shot, the worm's
eye view shot
also looks down upon a character. In the worm's eye view shot, the
angle is even lower than that found in the low-angle shot. The angle
in the worm's eye view shot is so low that it could be a worm's
vision on things. This angle makes “things look tall and mighty”
and can show a character “walking around a house” or some other
location, without giving away the character's identity.
The
canted-angle shot
sets a character at a diagonal, tilting him or her, and suggests
“imbalance and instability,” especially if it is combined with a
point of vie shot. The canted angle shot implies that “something
strange is about to happen.”
This
example of the canted-angle shot, from Cindy Kaye's Dutch Angle:
The Movie (2016) could be
described this way:
A
closed door at the end of a hallway, like the door frame, the vase of
flowers at the in the hallway, near the door, the walls, and the
corridor itself, tilt to the left. Another door opens, and a boy
leans out. He looks at the door at the end of the hall. He starts
toward it. The lights go out. The lights come back on. They blink,
off and on, off and on. The boy turns left at the end of the hall.
The lights go out. When they come on again, he is walking down the
stairs to the first floor. The lights continue to blink off and on.
At the bottom of the stairs, he turns left. The lights continue to
blink off and on. Through an open doorway, the boy is seen lying
prone, on the floor of a chamber that appears to be a dining room: it
is furnished with a table and chairs and a cabinet full of dishes,
but, there is also a made-up bed in the room. The lights go out; they
do not come on again.
By
deciding on the elements you want to include in a situation and the
envisioning it as a scene, you can write descriptions that have
immediacy, drama, unity, and coherence. At the same time, such
descriptions will appeal to readers' senses, heightening
verisimilitude, and facilitating the identification between the
reader and the characters involved in such situations. Such
descriptions guarantee that the scene you describe will have
characters in conflict, thematic significance, narrative purpose, and
interconnection with previous and subsequent scenes as well as a
cause-and-effect relationship with other scenes in the plot.
It
helps, when writing short stories or novels, to plot them
meticulously, even to the storyboarding level that Alfred Hitchcock
used in planning his movies' plots and the way action would be
presented and appear on the screen. His care about details of
audiovisual storytelling are one of the reasons for his great
success and the respect he received and continues to receive. Best of
all, the techniques he used, one of which was calling the shots well
before filming a movie, are available to all storytellers and to
storytellers of all kinds.
Sometimes, in demonstrating how to brainstorm about an essay topic, selecting horror movies, I ask students to name the titles of as many such movies as spring to mind (seldom a difficult feat for them, as the genre remains quite popular among young adults). Then, I ask them to identify the monster, or threat--the antagonist, to use the proper terminology--that appears in each of the films they have named. Again, this is usually a quick and easy task. Finally, I ask them to group the films’ adversaries into one of three possible categories: natural, paranormal, or supernatural. This is where the fun begins.
It’s a simple enough matter, usually, to identify the threats which fall under the “natural” label, especially after I supply my students with the scientific definition of “nature”: everything that exists as either matter or energy (which are, of course, the same thing, in different forms--in other words, the universe itself. The supernatural is anything which falls outside, or is beyond, the universe: God, angels, demons, and the like, if they exist. Mad scientists, mutant cannibals (and just plain cannibals), serial killers, and such are examples of natural threats. So far, so simple.
What about borderline creatures, though? Are vampires, werewolves, and zombies, for example, natural or supernatural? And what about Freddy Krueger? In fact, what does the word “paranormal” mean, anyway? If the universe is nature and anything outside or beyond the universe is supernatural, where does the paranormal fit into the scheme of things?
According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the word “paranormal,” formed of the prefix “para,” meaning alongside, and “normal,” meaning “conforming to common standards, usual,” was coined in 1920. The American Heritage Dictionary defines “paranormal” to mean “beyond the range of normal experience or scientific explanation.” In other words, the paranormal is not supernatural--it is not outside or beyond the universe; it is natural, but, at the present, at least, inexplicable, which is to say that science cannot yet explain its nature. The same dictionary offers, as examples of paranormal phenomena, telepathy and “a medium’s paranormal powers.”
Wikipedia offers a few other examples of such phenomena or of paranormal sciences, including the percentages of the American population which, according to a Gallup poll, believes in each phenomenon, shown here in parentheses: psychic or spiritual healing (54), extrasensory perception (ESP) (50), ghosts (42), demons (41), extraterrestrials (33), clairvoyance and prophecy (32), communication with the dead (28), astrology (28), witchcraft (26), reincarnation (25), and channeling (15); 36 percent believe in telepathy.
As can be seen from this list, which includes demons, ghosts, and witches along with psychics and extraterrestrials, there is a confusion as to which phenomena and which individuals belong to the paranormal and which belong to the supernatural categories. This confusion, I believe, results from the scientism of our age, which makes it fashionable for people who fancy themselves intelligent and educated to dismiss whatever cannot be explained scientifically or, if such phenomena cannot be entirely rejected, to classify them as as-yet inexplicable natural phenomena. That way, the existence of a supernatural realm need not be admitted or even entertained. Scientists tend to be materialists, believing that the real consists only of the twofold unity of matter and energy, not dualists who believe that there is both the material (matter and energy) and the spiritual, or supernatural. If so, everything that was once regarded as having been supernatural will be regarded (if it cannot be dismissed) as paranormal and, maybe, if and when it is explained by science, as natural. Indeed, Sigmund Freud sought to explain even God as but a natural--and in Freud’s opinion, an obsolete--phenomenon.
Meanwhile, among skeptics, there is an ongoing campaign to eliminate the paranormal by explaining them as products of ignorance, misunderstanding, or deceit. Ridicule is also a tactic that skeptics sometimes employ in this campaign. For example, The Skeptics’ Dictionarycontends that the perception of some “events” as being of a paranormal nature may be attributed to “ignorance or magical thinking.” The dictionary is equally suspicious of each individual phenomenon or “paranormal science” as well. Concerning psychics’ alleged ability to discern future events, for example, The Skeptic’s Dictionary quotes Jay Leno (“How come you never see a headline like 'Psychic Wins Lottery'?”), following with a number of similar observations:
Psychics don't rely on psychics to warn them of impending disasters. Psychics don't predict their own deaths or diseases. They go to the dentist like the rest of us. They're as surprised and disturbed as the rest of us when they have to call a plumber or an electrician to fix some defect at home. Their planes are delayed without their being able to anticipate the delays. If they want to know something about Abraham Lincoln, they go to the library; they don't try to talk to Abe's spirit. In short, psychics live by the known laws of nature except when they are playing the psychic game with people.
In An Encyclopedia of Claims, Frauds, and Hoaxes of the Occult and Supernatural, James Randi, a magician who exercises a skeptical attitude toward all things alleged to be paranormal or supernatural, takes issue with the notion of such phenomena as well, often employing the same arguments and rhetorical strategies as The Skeptic’s Dictionary.
In short, the difference between the paranormal and the supernatural lies in whether one is a materialist, believing in only the existence of matter and energy, or a dualist, believing in the existence of both matter and energy and spirit. If one maintains a belief in the reality of the spiritual, he or she will classify such entities as angels, demons, ghosts, gods, vampires, and other threats of a spiritual nature as supernatural, rather than paranormal, phenomena. He or she may also include witches (because, although they are human, they are empowered by the devil, who is himself a supernatural entity) and other natural threats that are energized, so to speak, by a power that transcends nature and is, as such, outside or beyond the universe. Otherwise, one is likely to reject the supernatural as a category altogether, identifying every inexplicable phenomenon as paranormal, whether it is dark matter or a teenage werewolf. Indeed, some scientists dedicate at least part of their time to debunking allegedly paranormal phenomena, explaining what natural conditions or processes may explain them, as the author of The Serpent and the Rainbow explains the creation of zombies by voodoo priests.
Based upon my recent reading of Tzvetan Todorov's The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to the Fantastic, I add the following addendum to this essay.
According to Todorov:
The fantastic. . . lasts only as long as a certain hesitation [in deciding] whether or not what they [the reader and the protagonist] perceive derives from "reality" as it exists in the common opinion. . . . If he [the reader] decides that the laws of reality remain intact and permit an explanation of the phenomena described, we can say that the work belongs to the another genre [than the fantastic]: the uncanny. If, on the contrary, he decides that new laws of nature must be entertained to account for the phenomena, we enter the genre of the marvelous (The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, 41).
Todorov further differentiates these two categories by characterizing the uncanny as “the supernatural explained” and the marvelous as “the supernatural accepted” (41-42).
Interestingly, the prejudice against even the possibility of the supernatural’s existence which is implicit in the designation of natural versus paranormal phenomena, which excludes any consideration of the supernatural, suggests that there are no marvelous phenomena; instead, there can be only the uncanny. Consequently, for those who subscribe to this view, the fantastic itself no longer exists in this scheme, for the fantastic depends, as Todorov points out, upon the tension of indecision concerning to which category an incident belongs, the natural or the supernatural. The paranormal is understood, by those who posit it, in lieu of the supernatural, as the natural as yet unexplained.
And now, back to a fate worse than death: grading students’ papers.
Anyone who becomes an aficionado of anything tends, eventually, to develop criteria for elements or features of the person, place, or thing of whom or which he or she has become enamored. Horror fiction--admittedly not everyone’s cuppa blood--is no different (okay, maybe it’s a little different): it, too, appeals to different fans, each for reasons of his or her own. Of course, in general, book reviews, the flyleaves of novels, and movie trailers suggest what many, maybe even most, readers of a particular type of fiction enjoy, but, right here, right now, I’m talking more specifically--one might say, even more eccentrically. In other words, I’m talking what I happen to like, without assuming (assuming makes an “ass” of “u” and “me”) that you also like the same. It’s entirely possible that you will; on the other hand, it’s entirely likely that you won’t.
Anyway, this is what I happen to like in horror fiction:
Small-town settings in which I get to know the townspeople, both the good, the bad, and the ugly. For this reason alone, I’m a sucker for most of Stephen King’s novels. Most of them, from 'Salem's Lot to Under the Dome, are set in small towns that are peopled by the good, the bad, and the ugly. Part of the appeal here, granted, is the sense of community that such settings entail.
Isolated settings, such as caves, desert wastelands, islands, mountaintops, space, swamps, where characters are cut off from civilization and culture and must survive and thrive or die on their own, without assistance, by their wits and other personal resources. Many are the examples of such novels and screenplays, but Alien, The Shining, The Descent, Desperation, and The Island of Dr. Moreau, are some of the ones that come readily to mind.
Total institutions as settings. Camps, hospitals, military installations, nursing homes, prisons, resorts, spaceships, and other worlds unto themselves are examples of such settings, and Sleepaway Camp, Coma, The Green Mile, and Aliens are some of the novels or films that take place in such settings.
Anecdotal scenes--in other words, short scenes that showcase a character--usually, an unusual, even eccentric, character. Both Dean Koontz and the dynamic duo, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, excel at this, so I keep reading their series (although Koontz’s canine companions frequently--indeed, almost always--annoy, as does his relentless optimism).
Atmosphere, mood, and tone. Here, King is king, but so is Bentley Little. In the use of description to terrorize and horrify, both are masters of the craft.
A bit of erotica (okay, okay, sex--are you satisfied?), often of the unusual variety. Sex sells, and, yes, sex whets my reader’s appetite. Bentley Little is the go-to guy for this spicy ingredient, although Koontz has done a bit of seasoning with this spice, too, in such novels as Lightning and Demon Seed (and, some say, Hung).
Believable characters. Stephen King, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, and Dan Simmons are great at creating characters that stick to readers’ ribs.
Innovation. Bram Stoker demonstrates it, especially in his short story “Dracula’s Guest,” as does H. P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe, Shirley Jackson, and a host of other, mostly classical, horror novelists and short story writers. For an example, check out my post on Stoker’s story, which is a real stoker, to be sure. Stephen King shows innovation, too, in ‘Salem’s Lot, The Shining, It, and other novels. One might even argue that Dean Koontz’s something-for-everyone, cross-genre writing is innovative; he seems to have been one of the first, if not the first, to pen such tales.
Technique. Check out Frank Peretti’s use of maps and his allusions to the senses in Monster; my post on this very topic is worth a look, if I do say so myself, which, of course, I do. Opening chapters that accomplish a multitude of narrative purposes (not usually all at once, but successively) are attractive, too, and Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child are as good as anyone, and better than many, at this art.
A connective universe--a mythos, if you will, such as both H. P. Lovecraft and Stephen King, and, to a lesser extent, Dean Koontz, Bentley Little, and even Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child have created through the use of recurring settings, characters, themes, and other elements of fiction.
A lack of pretentiousness. Dean Koontz has it, as do Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, Bentley Little, and (to some extent, although he has become condescending and self-indulgent of late, Stephen King); unfortunately, both Dan Simmons and Robert McCammon have become too self-important in their later works, Simmons almost to the point of becoming unreadable. Come on, people, you’re writing about monsters--you should be humble.
Longevity. Writers who have been around for a while usually get better, Stephen King, Dan Simmons, and Robert McCammon excepted.
Pacing. Neither too fast nor too slow. Dean Koontz is good, maybe the best, here, of contemporary horror writers.