The Online
Etymology Dictionary is not
only interesting in itself, but it is also a reminder of the beliefs,
attitudes, and, yes, fears (among other influences) that inspire words
associated with language and, in the case of the topic for this post,
horror.
“Troll,”
for example, originally alluded to a “supernatural being in
Scandinavian mythology and folklore and derived from the Old Norse
troll,
referring to a “giant being not of the human race, evil spirit,
monster.” Its first recorded use, the Online
Etymology Dictionary
states, was in a court document concerning a case associated with
witchcraft and sorcery. Allegedly, “a certain [witch named]
Catherine” witnessed trolls rise from a churchyard in Hildiswick.”
First conceived as giants, they were later believed to be “dwarfs
and imps supposed to live in caves or under the ground.” Moreover,
these formerly fierce beings became “obliging and neighbourly;
freely lending and borrowing, and elsewise keeping up a friendly
intercourse with mankind,” their thieving ways notwithstanding.
The
dictionary's entry concerning the werewolf
indicates that belief in these creatures, as people “'with the
power to turn into a wolf' . . . . was widespread in the Middle
Ages.” Apparently, it was also widely believed in Persia, where
present-day Iran's ancestors named the October Varkazana,
or the month of the “Wolf-Men.”
Teratology,
once the study of monsters, is now the study of physical
abnormalities, such as those resulting from birth defects and
“reproductive and developmentally-mediated disorders.” Its
previous subject matter provides some interesting and, indeed,
surprising insights into the origin of the concept of the monster as
a horrific figure. Originally, a monster
was an omen, sent by God to warn humanity (or a nation) of his
displeasure; if the people didn't repent of their wickedness, God
would follow his warning with punishment. Thus, for example, a pair
of conjoined twins or a hermaphrodite would be taken as an admonitory
message to be ignored at a people's own peril. As the Online
Etymology Dictionary entry
for this term reads, in part, “monster” derives from “Latin
monstrum,”
referring to a 'divine omen (especially one indicating misfortune),
portent, sign; abnormal shape; monster, monstrosity,' [and means a]
figuratively 'repulsive character, object of dread, awful deed,
[or] abomination.'” Writers and readers of contemporary horror fiction
might do well to keep this history of the word's meaning in mind the
next time they take up a copy of Frankenstein
or The Island of Dr. Moreau.
Couldn't the scientists' monsters have been warnings sent by God,
through the labors of Frankenstein and Dr. Moreau?
The
lamia first
seems to have been envisioned as a mermaid-vampire hybrid, but was
later envisioned as a half-woman, half-serpent vampiric creature.
Interestingly, the transformation of the lamia from mermaid to
serpent-woman might have been suggested by the word lamia's
association with “swallowing,” just as her erotic charm might
have been suggested by the word's original link to lechery and her
sorcery to the term's original connection to sorcery: “female
demon, late 14c., from Latin lamia
[meaning] 'witch, sorceress, vampire,' from Greek lamia
[meaning] 'female vampire, man-eating monster,' literally 'swallower,
lecher,' from laimos 'throat, gullet.'” The snake-like form of the
lamia might have been based upon the idea that she was something of a
personified gullet, since a snake has such a form.
Alluring,
the lamia enthralled men with her charms (and, perhaps, with a bit of
witchery, but, when her beauty and magic were no longer strong enough
an attraction, she would kill and devour him, as the following
passage suggests:
Also kynde erreþ in som beestes wondirliche j-schape,
as it fareþ in a beest þat hatte lamia, þat haþ an heed as a
mayde & body as a grym fissche[;] whan þat best lamya may fynde
ony man, first a flatereþ wiþ hym with a wommannes face and makeþ
hym ligge by here while he may dure, & whanne he may noferþere
suffice to here lecherye þanne he rendeþ hym and sleþ and eteþ
hym. [Bartholomew Glanville, c. 1360, "De proprietatibus rerum,"
translated by John of Trevisa]
Translation:
An error among some kinds of animals sometimes results in a
wondrous shape, such as that of the lamia, which has a woman's head and
the body of a horrible fish. When a lamia finds a man, it flatters
him with its beauty and makes him linger beside her until her charms
no longer enthrall him, whereupon she slays and eats him.
[Bartholomew Glanville, c. 1360, the
Property of Things,
translated by John of Trevisa]
Many
other words associated with horror fiction also have interesting
origins and histories, some of which could suggest new takes on old
topics or altogether new approaches to such fiction.
Falling Down: The adventures of an ordinary man at
war with the everyday world
Think of a few literary characters or
movie characters who made an indelible mark on you. Ask yourself, why
do I remember these particular characters when I've forgotten so many
others? What makes these characters, but not others, memorable?
Probably, you will identify certain
characteristics, behaviors, attitudes, values, beliefs, and even
views of the world. The characters you admire will probably have
acted honorably, valorously, heroically. Those you recall, perhaps
with a shudder, feeling fear, disgust, or horror, as evil or
dangerous probably strike you as contemptible or loathsome because
of, paradoxically, their characteristics, behaviors, attitudes,
values, beliefs, and world views. While the admirable characters
support others, the contemptible are usually interested in serving
only themselves. More specifically, though, how are
characters sketched by writers?
Most are collections of personality
traits. These traits are then implied through the characters'
actions, or behavior, including the words they speak, that is,
through dialogue. In movies and, more than ever before, in novels,
behavior is the means by which personality traits, attitudes, values,
beliefs, and world views are shown.
In the thriller Falling Down (1993),
William Foster, an unemployed engineer, sees society as “falling
down” right before his eyes. While the movie leaves no doubt that
society is, in fact, in a state of partial collapse, it is also true
that Foster himself is “falling down.” He's lost his job. His
marriage has ended in divorce. His ex-wife, Beth, has been awarded
sole custody of their daughter Adele, and has secured a restraining
order against Foster, who has a penchant to act aggressively, even
violently, toward others, including, apparently, Beth herself. Foster
has lied to his mother, with whom he stays, telling her that he is
still employed. In fact, he carries an empty briefcase around town,
wearing out shoe leather as he wanders more or less aimlessly until
he conceives of the idea of visiting Adele on her birthday, despite
the restraining order that has been issued against him and Beth's
clear demands that he avoid contact with her and Adele.
Throughout the film, as Foster
encounters escalating example after example of the increasingly
extreme societal decline he is convinced has overtaken life in Los
Angeles and, perhaps the United States as well, he himself collapses
further and further psychologically and he reacts to the instances of
social decline with more and more extreme behavior, ratcheting up his
aggression and violence, revealing himself to be a truly unstable and
dangerous man.
In the film, social decline is
reflected by other types of decline as well—declines in technology,
in government, in civility, in business relations, in attitudes
regarding racial and gender equality, and in class privilege.
Heavy traffic
On a terribly hot day, the air
conditioner in Foster's car won't work. He abandons the vehicle,
leaving it in a traffic jam, and sets off on foot across the city.
My rights as a consumer
Wanting change to call his
ex-wife, he asks for, but is refused, change for a dollar. He is told
that he must buy something first. He reacts by breaking up the
proprietor's merchandise and ranting about his greed. Foster also
takes issue with the owner's pronunciation of “five” as “”fie,”
insulting him by telling him that, as an immigrant, he should have
“the grace to learn the language,” especially after all the money
the United States has given the store owner's country.
Territorial dispute
Next, he encounters two Latin street
thugs who try to rob him. Foster uses a baseball bat to beat them
into retreat and picks up a gun one of them drops. Later, these
thugs, accompanied by other gang members, spray bullets at Foster
during a drive by, missing their target but wounding several innocent
bystanders. When they wreck, Foster takes their cache of guns,
shooting the diver in the leg.
Ganging up on D-Fens
At a park, Foster is accosted by an
aggressive panhandler after he sees rude people shoving others as
they storm a bus that has stopped to pick up passengers, a billboard
decrying child abuse, and alcoholics openly drinking in public. He
flings his briefcase at the panhandler, telling him he can have it.
Inside, the angry panhandler finds nothing but a sandwich and an
apple—the lunch Foster's mother had packed for him.
Late for breakfast
Foster's attempt to order breakfast a
few minutes after a fast-food restaurant has changed to its lunch
menu elicits sarcastic, condescending remarks from the server and the
restaurant's manager. Foster responds by shooting an automatic rifle
into the ceiling and terrifying both the staff and the diners, before
leaving. Although, once he resorts to gunfire, the manager fills
Foster's breakfast order, he leaves the food behind, saying the fries
are limp and cold and the hamburger looks nothing like the one shown
in the oversize photograph that advertises it.
Not economically viableVisiting a
swat meet to buy a birthday present for Adele, Foster observes a
young black man in a business suit lamenting a bank's refusal to
grant him a loan, crying to passersby, as he is being arrested, “I'm
not economically viable.” He catches Foster's eye. “Remember me,”
he says, and Foster nods.
Out of order
When he attempts to make a telephone
call to Beth, a man rants at him from outside the telephone booth,
demanding that he hurry. Foster reacts by shooting up the booth with
an automatic rifle. “I think it's out of order,” he tells the
terrified man.
Nick's back room: "I'm with you"
In an army surplus store, which
Foster visits to buy a pair of boots to replace his worn shoes, he
encounters the store's sexist, racist neo-Nazi proprietor, who
insults a female detective and a gay couple before turning on Foster,
when Foster denies being “just like” him, and attempts to hold
Foster at gunpoint until the police he plans to summon arrive. Foster
manages to kill the neo-Nazi befolatere continuing his trip across
town.
Something to fix
Suspecting road work is not needed
but is underway simply to waste taxpayers' money by providing work
for the city's department of transportation workers, Foster uses a
rocket-propelled grenade launcher he has taken from the street thugs
to destroy a tunnel in order to give them some actual work to do.
Passing through
At a gold course, he shoots a golf
cart after a golfer challenges his presence on the course, claiming
that the links belong solely to him and the other members of the
country club upon whose property Foster trespasses. The irate
golfer's nitroglycerin pills are aboard the cart, which coasts
downhill, into a lake, leaving the golfer, who has a heart attack
when Foster shoots at the cart, to die “wearing [his] funny little
hat.”
Obsolete; like it was before
After climbing a wall that surrounds
an exclusive estate, Foster briefly kidnaps the caretaker, his wife,
and their young daughter, as he hides from a helicopter flying over
the area. When he learns that the estate is owned by a plastic
surgeon, Foster says “the system” has betrayed him, rewarding the
plastic surgeon, whose work, he implies, is merely aesthetic, rather
than rewarding him, an engineer whose work in the defense industry
protects America. When he realizes he has frightened the girl, he
leaves the family, resuming his trek, now that the helicopter has
left the area.
Officer down and the pier: all points
converge
Finally, toward the end of the movie,
after shooting Detective Sandra Torres, Foster holds his wife at
gunpoint, intending, Sergeant Prendergast says, to shoot them.
End Credits
In addition to showing Foster's
personality—his traits, behaviors, attitudes, values, beliefs, and
world view—as he reacts to various incidents which confirm his
belief that society is “falling down,” even as his own psyche
collapses, the film shows how inappropriate, unnecessary, and
dangerous his reactions are by contrasting them with another
character who encounters similar problems as those which face Foster.
Using a foil, a character whose behaviors, attitudes, values,
beliefs, and world view strongly contrasts with those of another,
opposing character, is a tried and true means of characterization
which Falling Down uses to good effect.
Prendergast is Foster's foil. Foster
has “lost” a daughter; Prendergast has lost one through the
girl's death. Foster's marriage has ended in divorce. Prendergast's
wife, Amanda, suffers from anxiety, which makes her feel the need to
control her environment and to order both her own and Prendergast's
lives. Foster has been fired from his job. Despite less-than-ideal
working conditions, Prendergast wants to remain on the Los Angeles
Police Department's force, but Amanda wants him to retire to Lake
Havasu City, Arizona. Both Foster and Prendergast see a collapse of
social traditions, organizations, institutions, and mores, but—and
here is the chief difference between these men who, to a large
degree, live rather parallel lives—Foster feels cheated by “the
system” and wants what he considers to be his due, whereas
Prendergast is content to prop up society and to help to protect and
defend it against its threats, including Foster himself. The use of
Prendergast as Foster's foil more sharply defines the
characteristics, behaviors, attitudes, values, beliefs, and world
views of both the unemployed defense engineer and the detective.
Such techniques of characterization
are widely used as time-tested ways of sketching characters because
they are effective. By showing characters react to a variety of
situations and incidents and by contrasting these reactions with
those of another character who is the opposite in his or her
characteristics, behaviors, attitudes, values, beliefs, and world
views, writers create indelible characters who stand out as memorable
individuals. Such an approach can be, and is, used in all genres of
fiction, both on the page and on the soundstage.
Note: The subheadings are from the
"Scene Index" for the film, as provided on its DVD release.
Although there are several
patterns of plots, one is the three-part structure described by
Aristotle in his Poetics:
beginning, middle, and end. We can think of this three-part structure
as consisting of a cause of an action by which action an effect is
produced:
Cause
Action
Effect
Every
effect, or outcome, can be either comic (end well for the
protagonist) or tragic (end poorly for the protagonist).
With
this in mind, many varieties of plots can thus be developed:
The
Problem-Solution Plot
Problem
Solution
Effect
(Outcome)
As Good As It Gets
(1997) uses this plot:
Problem:
Misanthropic Melvin Udall suffers from an obsessive-compulsive
disorder
Solution:
Melvin falls in love with Carol Connelly, a server.
Outcome:
Through his relationship with Carol, Melvin reaches the point at
which he can overcome his obsessive-compulsive disorder.
The
Sex-Violence Plot
Sex
Violence
Outcome
Fatal Attraction (1987)
uses this plot:
Sex:
Dan Gallagher has an affair with Alexandra "Alex"
Forrest.
Violence: Unstable
and possessive, Alex refuses to end the affair, attacking Dan's
wife, Beth.
Outcome: Dan rescues
Beth, who shoots Alex, preventing her from killing her husband.
The
Masquerade-Unmasking Plot
Masquerade
Unmasking
Outcome
The
Crying Game (1992) uses this
plot:
Masquerade: Dil, a transvestite, masquerades as a
woman.
Unmasking: Dil's true sex is revealed as she is about
to have sex with Fergus.
Outcome: Fergus and Dil remain close friends.
The
Victimization-Vengeance Plot
Victimization
Vengeance
Outcome
Sudden
Impact (1983) uses this plot:
Victimization: Jennifer Spencer and her sister are
raped.
Vengeance: One by one, Jennifer kills the rapists.
Outcome: Detective “Dirty Harry” Callahan learns
the serial killer's identity, but lets Jennifer walk.
The
Temptation-Sin Plot
Temptation
Sin
Outcome
Joan
of Arc (1999) uses this plot:
Joan of Arc is tempted to commit the sin of pride.
Joan arrogantly insists on attacking Paris.
Joan repents and receives God's forgiveness.
The
Status Change-Adaptation Plot
Status Change
Adaptation
Outcome
Shakespeare's King Henry IV, Part II uses this
plot:
Status Change: Prince Hal becomes King Henry IV.
Adaptation: Henry IV adapts to his new status, becoming
responsible and wise.
Outcome: Henry IV defeats his enemies and rules well.
The
Threat-Response Plot
Threat
Response
Outcome
Alien
(1979) uses this plot:
Threat: An alien aboard the Nostromo space tug
threatens Warrant Officer Ripley and the rest of the vessel's crew.
Response: Ripley fights the alien.
Outcome: Using her wits, Ripley defeats the alien,
opening an airlock, which causes the creature to be sucked from the
vessel, and blasts it with Nostromo's engine exhausts.
The
Role-Reversal Plot
Role
Reversal
Outcome
The
Final Girl (2015) uses this
plot:
Role: Veronica poses as a helpless young woman,
allowing four teenager serial killers to “lure” her into a
forest as their next intended victim.
Reversal: Actually a highly trained assassin, Veronica,
the boys' intended prey, becomes the predator.
Outcome: One by one, veronica kills her would-be
killers.
There are plenty of other variations on this basic plot
pattern. Perhaps we will consider others in a future post.
One
of the X-Files's enduring plot devices is the introduction of
a problem and its eventual solution. The problem-solution dynamic has
built-in suspense: once a problem is posed, we want—maybe we even
ache—for it to be solved. In The X-Files, the central
problem, as set forth in the series's “mythology” about a
possible alien invasion preceding possible alien colonization,
becomes, more or less continually, more and more complicated, so the
solution, which is put off again and again, has a much greater and
more intense emotional payoff when it does come—or should have, at
any rate.
According
to VanDerWerff, episode 16 of season nine, “Release,” finally
“wraps up one of the [show's] major [remaining] mysteries” (419).
This mystery is “What happened to Doggett's son when he was
murdered?” (410) Although this episode “answers that question,”
VanDerWerff says, the answer is anything but clear. Perhaps bringing
clarity and closure would make a problem-solution plot much stronger,
as readers have invested much time and emotion in the ongoing,
long-term, increasingly complex problem. After the tease, it's only
fair to deliver.
Techno
Thrills
Technology
is constantly changing and developing. My father's life encompassed
by the Model T and the landing of an astronaut on the moon. My own
includes black-and-white television which featured, on tiny, thick
screens, programming from ABC, CBS, NBC, and a local affiliate, WTTG,
to drones, DARPA's robotic wonders, and self-driving cars (and
there's still much more to come—or, at least, I hope there will
be.)
That's
the point that VanDerWerff makes about storytelling when he writes:
. . . Video software and image manipulation programs are
getting so good that it will soon be incredibly difficult to
ascertain when footage that seems too good (or too bad) to be true
has been faked. We won't always know who's dead and who's alive, and
all it will take for those in power to introduce suspicion around a
certain set of facts is to stand up in front of all of us and shrug
and say, “Nobody knows for sure” (469).
As
always, the possibilities are only as limited as our imaginations.
Backfield
in Motion
A
way of developing plots while characterizing characters is to build a
character's backstory. Of course, too much of a good thing is
generally a bad thing, so writers have to be careful not to include
too much backstory and, when they do build such a history, the
character's past should be delivered piecemeal over a number of
episodes or, if we're talking book series, a number of volumes.
A
case in point is “Kitten,” the sixth episode of The X-Files's
season eleven. This episode is unusual, VanDerWerff thinks, because
it “takes what was already a serviceable character backstory
(specifically that of Water Skinner) and attempts a direct
dramatization of it” (474). The character's “Vietnam background”
was presented in previous episodes (“One Breath,” [season two,
episode eight] and “Avatar” [season three, episode twenty one].
In “Kitten,” viewers learn about Skinner's sacrifice of his own
“career to support Mulder and Scully” based on Skinner's belief
that their “mission to expose the truth of what the country was
doing to some of its most vulnerable citizens was more important than
his personal advancement” (475).
As
long as a character's backstory doesn't start to take over the
current story, as it does, for example, in Arrow and verges
upon doing in Punisher, building a character's background to
show how it has helped to shape him or her, how it has, in part, made
him or her the person he or she is today, is a good way to add to a
narrative's plot.
Monsters
of the Week: The Complete Critical Companion to the X-Files
has much to recommend it, not the least of which is its even-handed
balance of praise and condemnation for the series it evaluates. Both
Handlen and VanDerWerff point out what they believe is right and what
they believe is wrong with the series's episodes. Mostly, in
reviewing their book, while tossing in a few of my own observations,
I've concentrated on what these critics state and imply about the
plotting of the sci fi-horror series. However, depending on one's
purpose, on how one reads the book, Monsters of the Week can
provide a good many more—and different—insights.
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.