Note:
This post assumes that you have seen the movie The
Exorcist
(1973). If you have not, Wikipedia
offers a fairly detailed, accurate summary of the plot.
Results of a 2009 Pew
Research Center survey
indicate that 33 percent of scientists believe in God; another 18 percent “believe
in a universal spirit or higher power.” However, 83 percent of the
American populace as a whole believes in God and 12 percent “believe
in a universal spirit or higher power.” As far as disbelief is
concerned, 41 percent of scientists do “not believe in God or a
higher power” and 4 percent of the general public share their view. (A 2017 poll places the number of Americans who "do not believe in any higher power/spiritual force" at 10 percent.)
Source: fanpop.com
According to some
evolutionary psychologists, faith developed like any other evolved
adaptation, or trait: it promotes human survival and reproduction.
Faith, proponents of this point of view argue, is comforting,
provides community cohesion, and offers a basis for ethics and
“higher moral values.” Others regard faith as a spandrel
or an expatation, that is, a “by-product of adaptations” that is
useful for reinforcing the authority and status of the clergy and for providing
emotional support for the faithful in times of trouble. As is true of
many of the arguments of evolutionary psychology, these claims are
controversial, keeping critics aplenty busy on both sides of the discussion.
Source: pinterest.com
The Exorcist
offers a concrete example of faith in action in Father Karras's
exorcism of the demon (or demons) who allegedly possess Regan
MacNeil.
Source: flickriver.com
The
priest's faith may provide some emotional comfort for him, but, it is
obvious to the movie's audiences, his faith does not extinguish his
feelings of guilt regarding his perceived neglect of his ailing
mother, and faith as such offers little immediate comfort or reassurance to any
of the other characters, with the possible exception of Father
Merrin, who is killed early in the movie.
Although
Karras's faith may hold the “community” of Regan's family
together, his life as a priest, although it may assist some members
of the wider world, seems to offer little benefit to his own life or
to that of the Church he serves.
Source: pinterest.com
Karras's
faith does seem to cause him to judge, condemn, and feel revulsion
toward the demons who allegedly possess Regan, and he frequently rebukes them, denouncing their behavior as impious, blasphemous, and
sacrilegious, without passing judgment on the girl herself: he hates
the sin, not the sinner.
Source: docuniverse.blogspot.com
Throughout
the movie, Karras experiences a crisis of faith. The ordeal that his
mother faced during her illness, his own callous treatment of his
mother (as he sees it); the apparent indifference and cruelty of
human beings for one another; the sins that he encounters daily, both
as a man and a priest; and the evil he witnesses as he seeks to
exorcise the demons that have possessed the child he seeks to deliver
suggest to him that, either he has lost his faith and, indeed, might
never have had a true basis for belief in and trust of God; God has
abandoned him; or, worst of all, God is “dead” or never existed
to begin with, except as a myth. In any case, faith does not appear
to have any true survival value—until Karras makes what Soren
Kierkegaarad calls “the leap of faith.”
Close
to despair, Karras does not despair. Close to renouncing his faith in
God, Karras remains faithful to God. He shows that he is, indeed, the
man of faith whom he has long professed to be. He has been
discouraged. He has had doubts. He has entertained disbelief.
However, to save Regan, he invites her demons into himself and then
leaps out of her bedroom window, falling to his death. In doing so,
he delivers her from the evil spirits that possessed her. But
Karras accomplishes more as well; he remains true to his own
beliefs, to his calling, to himself, to God.
Source: ft.com
According
to the online Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, in Kierkegaard's thought,
“the choice
of faith is not made once and for all. It is essential that faith
be constantly renewed by means of repeated avowals of faith.”
Despite his doubts, Karras has constantly renewed his faith. Despite
his temptation to despair, Karras does not despair. Close to
renouncing his faith in God, Karras remains faithful to God. In each
of these decisions, he maintains his faith and, therefore,
himself.
As
Kierkegaard points out, “in order to maintain itself as a relation
which relates itself to itself, the self must constantly renew its
faith in 'the power which posited it.'” This “repetition” of
his faith sustains Karras, allowing him to deliver Regan. Initial appearances aside, the
priest's faith, as it turns out, has tremendous survival power, both
for Karras himself, who, in remaining true to his faith in God,
remains true to himself, and for Regan, whom he delivers from her
demons.
Source: listal.com
For
those who do believe in God, even if they represent a minority of the
populace as a whole, their faith delivers them (and, indeed, many
others whom they aid). Their faith makes them whole, even if they are
broken; sets them free, even if they are possessed; enables them to
reach—and even sometimes save—others, believers and disbelievers
alike, by their example. Even if their accomplishments were to be
attributed solely to their belief in belief, to their faith in faith,
and to their trust in trust, rather than to an objective, real, personal
God, these amazing and extraordinary accomplishments stand,
testaments to the assertion that the trait of faith has survival
value.
Note: This post assumes that you have seen the movie Backcountry.
If you have not, Wikipedia offers a fairly detailed, accurate summary
of the film's plot.
As prompts for groups in my English 101 classes, after we had
watched Backcountry (2014) and the class had been divided into
groups, I would distribute these instructions:
Which personality traits (use nouns to identify them) are
predicated or dependent upon others? Which are primary and which are
secondary? In other words, can an immature person be responsible? Can
a cowardly person defend someone else if doing so puts him or her in
danger? In developing your thesis, you should consider these
questions, so that your claim is not self-contradictory.
Fill in the three blanks with the TRAITS (use nouns to identify
them) of Alex’s character that you see as related to his errors of
judgment. (Make sure these errors lead to his death and to Jen’s
endangerment.) Some of these errors may directly lead to
consequences; others may indirectly do so. In your paragraphs, you
should distinguish the former from the latter.
THESIS: Alex’s ______________, ______________,
and ______________ lead him to make many errors of judgment that
result in his death and Jen’s endangerment.
Based upon the thesis, write the body paragraph (1, 2, or 3)
assigned to your group. The first sentence should be the paragraph’s
topic sentence. Use simple present tense.
The blanks could be filled in with a variety of traits, but let's
use this thesis for the purposes of this post:
THESIS: Alex’s immaturity, self-interest, and impetuosity
lead him to make many errors of judgment that result in his death and
Jen’s endangerment.
If a trait is defined as an evolved adaptation, we must ask, how
each of Alex's adaptations, or traits, promotes his survival and the
chance that he will generate offspring through reproduction. Since
he, in fact, does not survive and, therefore, cannot reproduce, the
answer is apparent at once that his adaptations do not "work";
they do not enable him to survive. Quite the contrary, they are,
essentially, the death of him—and nearly of Jen. Simple. Lacking
the traits that do promote survival, he dies.
His girlfriend is the final girl, who survives their ordeal.
Therefore, it is her traits, or adaptations, that we should examine.
In many ways, she is a foil, or opposite, to Alex. We could fill
in the thesis's blanks with traits that are the opposite of Alex's
own and produce a good summary of some of the adaptations that enable
her to survive their ordeal:
THESIS: Jen’s maturity, altruism, and caution lead her to
make sound judgments that result in her survival.
Another way to approach our consideration is to identify the
mistakes that each character makes during their visit to a provincial
park in Canada.
Source: allocine.fr
Let's start with Alex, who makes considerably more mistakes and
more serious ones than Jen; as we list his errors, we will also
characterize them as springing from poor judgment; an immature desire
to impress Jen; inconsideration; deceitfulness; negligence;
carelessness; an immature desire to focus Jen's attention on himself;
or recklessness.
He refuses the map of the camp that the ranger offers him:
poor judgment; an immature desire to impress Jen. (Jen and Alex
become lost and have no guidance out of the woods. His behavior
could endanger their lives.)
He leaves Jen's cell phone in the trunk of their vehicle:
poor judgment; an immature desire to focus Jen's attention on
himself; deceitfulness. (Without a phone, Alex and Jen have no way
to call for help. His behavior could endanger their lives.)
He neglects tending to his toe after dropping their canoe on
it: poor judgment; an immature desire to impress Jen; recklessness.
(He could have become incapacitated or died of an infection, so his
neglect endangers himself and, possibly, Jen by making her more
vulnerable.)
He removes his clothes and leaps naked into a lake: poor
judgment; recklessness. (He could injure himself on a rock in the
lake and, without clothes to keep him warm, he could succumb to the
cold, endangering his own life and potentially leaving Jen
unprotected.)
He leaves Jen alone to cut firewood: poor judgment. (By
herself, she is vulnerable to animal attack or the assault of
another camper; thus, he endangers her life.)
He leaves his hatchet in the trunk of a tree: poor judgment.
(He leaves a potential weapon behind, both depriving himself of its
use and potentially arming a human predator; he thus endangers both
Jen's life and his own.)
He does not dismiss a stranger (Brad), whom, in Alex's
absence, Jen invites to join Alex and her for dinner at their
campsite: poor judgment. (The stranger, Brad, who happens upon Jen
could be dangerous: he might have raped or killed Jen. His behavior
could endanger their lives.)
Even after learning that Brad is in the park, Alex again
leaves Jen alone at their campsite, he leaves Jen alone again to
retrieve the hatchet he's left embedded in a tree trunk: poor
judgment. (By herself, she is vulnerable to animal attack or the
assault of another camper; thus, he endangers her life.)
He does not turn back when he sees bear prints: poor
judgment; recklessness. (His inaction could endanger their lives.)
He does not ell Jen that there is a bear in the area: poor
judgment; deceitfulness. (Jen has bear spray and a traffic flare
that they could use against the bear, but she is unaware of its
presence. The bear could kill someone. His behavior endangers their
lives.)
He does not investigate noises that Jen hears during their
first night in their tent: poor judgment. (His inaction could
endanger their lives.)
He sees a sapling's snapped-off branch, but ignores its
significance: poor judgment; recklessness; deceitfulness. (His
inaction could endanger their lives.)
Even after seeing the carcass of a dead deer indicating the
presence of a bear—and of a bear that is both starving (bears,
otherwise, don't eat meat—and predatory)—Alex refuses to leave
the park: poor judgment. (His decision could endanger their lives.)
He continues to hike, deeper into the forest, even after he
realizes he is lost: poor judgment; recklessness. (His action could
endanger their lives.)
He hastens up the trail ahead of Jen, leaving her vulnerable,
as they ascend the mountainside: carelessness, inconsideration. (His
inconsideration could endanger their lives.)
Even after the bear visits their campsite, Alex refuses to
leave the park: poor judgment; recklessness. (His refusal to leave
the park endangers their lives.)
Alex leaves his axe outside the tent: carelessness. (He
leaves a potential weapon behind, depriving himself of its use,
which endangers their lives.)
Source: showbizjunkies.com
Jen also makes several mistakes:
She does not insist that Alex accept a park map from the
ranger or accept one herself: poor judgment. (She and Alex could get
lost. Her behavior could endanger their lives.)
In Alex's absence, Jen invites Brad onto their campsite: poor
judgment. (Since she does not know Brad, Jen could be endangering
her and Alex's lives and could be putting herself in danger of being
raped.)
Jen does not insist that Alex make sure the “acorns” he
says are falling on their tent really are acorns: poor judgment.
(Her behavior could endanger their lives.)
Jen does not insist that Alex take her home after she sees
evidence of the nearby presence of a bear: poor judgment;
recklessness: poor judgment; recklessness. (Her behavior could
endanger their lives.)
Jen returns to their campsite after the bear has killed Alex
so she can retrieve the engagement ring he has shown her: poor
judgment; recklessness. (Her behavior could endanger her life.
lives.)
Source: anthonybehindthescenes.com
It seems that Jen's mistakes stem from her desire to support Alex
and to prevent damage to his ego and self-esteem, from her needs to
be friendly and to feel liked, and from her love of him.
Although she is a successful lawyer, while he plans to start a
landscaping service, she often defers to his judgment and to his
needs and desires, rather than pursuing or seeking to advance her
own.
Rather than insisting that he accept the map of the park that the
ranger offers him, Jen accepts his refusal, probably because she does
not want to embarrass Alex by casting doubts on his knowledge of the
park.
She invites Brad to join Alex and her because she is a friendly
person.
Alex professes to be an expert on hiking and camping, especially
at the park, which he implies he knows well. Jen probably refrains
from insisting that Alex check out the unfamiliar sounds she hears
while she and Alex are in their tent for the same reason that she
does not insist that he take a map from the ranger: she does not want
to embarrass Alex by casting doubts on his knowledge of the park.
It seems that, when it becomes clear they are, without doubt,
lost, Jen does not insist that Alex take her home after she sees
evidence of the nearby presence of a bear because she does she has
feelings for him and may feel sorry for him. Likewise, after Alex's
death, she returns to their campsite, despite the bear's presence, so
that she can retrieve the engagement ring he has shown her, because
she has feelings for Alex and wants a memento of his love for her.
Although Jen, like Alex, makes mistakes in judgment when she is
with Alex, she is not a woodman and the couple's survival is not
primarily her responsibility. In addition, she is not deceitful
toward Alex, as he is to her.
When she is alone, after Alex's death, her decisions are wise,
allowing her to survive the bear and the wilderness. The fact that
she makes no mistakes when she is alone suggests that her romantic
relationship with Alex clouded her judgment; without him, she makes
clear, rational, wise decisions and takes prudent, effective action,
which enables her to survive.
In adapting to his environment, Alex has developed traits which
serve his emotional needs, but he lacks adaptations that pertain to
practical, everyday matters, including traits related to analysis,
evaluation, and survival. He is overconfident. He seeks to impress
others, especially Jen. He wants to be the sole focus of Jen's
attention. He is deceitful, often hiding the truth from Jen regarding
their situation and the danger they face. He is careless at times and
reckless. He is immature. He is irresponsible.
In a different environment, such as Jen's house or the city, such
traits might not fail him, because his survival is protected by
institutions (art and culture, commercial and industrial enterprises,
economic systems, family, friends, government, hospitals, language,
legal systems, mass media, military forces, penal systems, schools,
scientific research laboratories, religion); organizations, such as
charities, emergency responders, and fraternal societies; an
infrastructure (energy, highways, railroads, rivers, warehouses).
Jen, on the other hand, although not without flaws of her own, is
cautious, mature, responsible, and resourceful. She is a thinker; she
analyzes, evaluates, and plans. In the city, society has
individuals' backs. In the wilderness, individuals need to be able to
take care of themselves. Those who can, as Jen does, are likely to
survive; those who cannot, as Alex does not, will probably die.
By putting to opposite characters side by side in an environment
different that their typical surroundings, Backcountry tests the
effectiveness of the respective characters' evolved adaptations. The
unfamiliar surroundings, the remoteness of the park, the rugged
terrain, the stranger Brad, and, of course, the bear all pose threats
or potential threats; each tests the evolved adaptations, or the
traits, and the behaviors of the couple. One perishes; the other
survives. The reason for one's failure and the other's success is
that Jen had evolved adaptations that are effective for survival in
the wilderness, whereas Alex has not. Without the support of society,
civilization, and culture, Alex cannot survive and dies; Jen can and
lives. The park is an environment, an arena, a laboratory, that puts
traits to the test. Jen passes, but Alex receives the Darwin Award.
Source: alenatedinvancouver.blogspot,com
Next post: Evolution, Psychology, and Horror, Part II
According to evolutionary
psychologists, human behavior evolved through adaptations that had
survival, including reproductive, value. Although not without its
critics, who see the school as seriously flawed, evolutionary
psychology may offer some insights of value to readers and writers of
horror fiction.
Leda Cosmides and John Tooby. Source: news.uscb.edu
According to evolutionary
psychologists Leda
Cosmides and John Tooby, the discipline regards the brain as “a
computer designed by natural selection to extract information from
the environment” and this organ generates the behavior of
individuals based on its “cognitive programs,” adaptations that
“produced behavior” that “enabled [our ancestors] to survive
and reproduce.”
Einstein's brain. Source: thespec.com
Therefore, to understand
what makes people tick, these programs must be understood and
explained. As a result of natural selection, the brain consists of
“different special[-]purpose programs” rather than having “a .
. . general architecture.” Finally, the description of the “evolved
computational architecture of our brains 'allows a systematic
understanding of cultural and social phenomena.'”
Psychological Methods. Source: slideshare.net
The method
of evolutionary psychology is not entirely scientific. After
detecting “apparent design in the world” (e. g., in the brain),
they seek to produce a “scenario” that suggests the selective
processes that could account for “the production of the trait that
exhibits [this] apparent design” and then put their hypotheses to
the test of “standard psychological methods.” Thus, their
approach seems part thought experiment, part scientific method and
has been challenged on both counts.
Waist-hip ratio in women. Source: ergo-log.com
For example, men, shown
illustrations of potential female mates exhibiting “varying
waist[-]hip ratios,” preferred those depicting “women with
waist/hip ratios closer to .7,” because hips wider than waists
suggested that the women who possessed them would be likely to be
more “fertile” and, as such, better able to “contribute to the
survival and reproduction of the organism.”
"Would you survive?" Source: thequiz.com
One theme of horror
fiction is the survival of the threat posed by the villain or
monster. Both novels and movies often show their characters' use of a
variety of attempts at, or methods of, survival, most of which prove
futile. Often, in the slasher sub-genre, the sole survivor of the
group's encounter with the antagonist is the so-called final girl.
There's a reason they're called "slashers'? Source: whatculture.com
These films implicitly
invite audiences to compare the methods of survival—i. e., the
behavior—of the characters: who did what to survive, and which one,
ultimately, succeeded. Why did she succeed? Why did each of the other
characters fail? Not only do slasher (and, of course, other types of
horror fiction and drama) thus provide models for analyzing and
evaluating both failed and successful survival adaptations, but the
slasher also offers a list, as it were, of each.
Let's take a look at three
horror movies that focus on the characters' attempts to survive the
threat of an antagonist. The first, Backcountry
(2014),
involves a predatory animal; the second, Final
Girl (2015),
features a band of men who hunt a woman for sport; the third, The
Exorcist (1973),
presents a supernatural threat. The first involves a “woman vs.
nature” plot; the second, a “woman vs. men” plot; the third, a
“man vs. supernatural monster” plot. Each involves a final girl
as the survivor of her respective threat.
When Christianity became
the dominant religion of the Western world in 313, beginning with
Emperor Constantine's proclamation of the Edict of Milan, new
explanations were provided as to the origins and natures of various
monsters for whom their origins and natures had differed during
per-Christian days. This post traces these developments with regard
to a few of the monsters that are staples, as it were, of horror
fiction.
The Dunwich Horror by Tatsuya Morino. Source: pinktentacle.com
For example, the Russian
Orthodox Church regarded vampires
as once been witches or who had rebelled against the faith (Reader's
Digest Association's
“Vampires Galore!” However, an account of vampires was included
in the second edition (1749) of Pope Benedict XIV's De
servorum Dei beatificatione et sanctorum canonizatione
suggested that vampires existed only in the imagination.
Portret van de theoloog Augustin Calmet by Nicholas Pitau. Source: Wikipedia
On the
other hand, French theologian Dom Augustine Calmet was of the opinion
that vampires, in fact, did exist, his research suggesting that “one
can hardly refuse to credit the belief which is held in those
countries, that these revenants come out of their tombs and produce
those effects which are proclaimed of them.”
The
opinion of the Pope and of Calmet seems to represent, in general, the
beliefs of the populace: either vampires were imaginary or they were
revenants (animated corpses returned from the grave).
A German woodcut of werewolf from 1722. Source: Wikipedia
The
Church's stance, as expressed in the fourth-century Capitulatum
Episcopi
was that belief in werewolves
marked one as an “infidel,” since God alone had the power to
transform one species, such as human beings, into another, such as
wolves.
During
the Middle Ages, however, theologians took their cue from Augustine,
who seemed to believe in the possibility of werewolves.
Illustration of werewolves from Werewolves of Ossory by Gervase of Tilbury. Source: Wikipedia
In
Werewolves
of Ossory (c.
1200), Gervase of Tilbury suggests that such human-animal
transformations, including of men and women into wolves, having
actually been witnessed a number of times, should not be lightly
discounted as having occurred.
Source: ebay.com
Other
medieval works contended that God punished sinful men and women by
transforming them into werewolves and assured readers that anyone
that the Roman Catholic Church excommunicated would become werewolves
(Ian Woodward, The
Werewolf Delusion).
Both God and saints had the power to effect the transformations of
humans into werewolves, as St. Patrick was alleged to have done in
regard to the Welsh King Vereticus.
Witches Sabbath by Francisco Goya. Source: reddit.com
According
to Protestant Christianity, the witch,
another monstrous figure, known to both the ancients and the people
of the Middle Ages, gains her power—and most witches are female—by
entering a contract with a demon (M. M. Drymon, Disguised
as the Devil: How Lyme Disease Created Witches and Changed History).
Although Christian explanations of vampires, werewolves,
and witches developed over many years, changing or emphasizing
certain various features over others at times, it is clear that, in
general, such creatures were products of dark magic or of sinful
behavior, such as rebelling against God, blasphemy or heresy,
entering contracts with demons, or practicing pagan faiths.
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
the middle of a pandemic, most of us might not care to read stories
involving plagues and pandemics. However, horror fiction appeals to
masochistic readers as well as to others and, if the truth were to be
told, there is, in most, if not all, of us, a bit of the masochist.
Fear is disturbing. It is stressful. It is unpleasant. Paradoxically,
however, it is also quite pleasurable to many of us. If it were not,
there would be no profit in making horror movies or in writing horror
novels or short stories.
Critics
and psychologists suggest that the reason that we enjoy horror dramas
and narratives is that we know that, despite what happens on the
sound stage or on the page, we ourselves, as spectators or readers,
are safe. What happens to the victims in the story cannot happen to
us. We enjoy the invincibility of the secret voyeur. We watch,
untouched and untouchable. That is our power. We survive the
slaughter because it cannot do to us what it does to the characters
in the movie or the book. (Only, in the case of the coronavirus, we
may not be quite as invincible as we
might imagine!)
So,
for the masochistic supermen and superwomen among us, Chillers and
Thrillers suggests a pair of horrific tales by the father of modern
horror himself, Edgar Allan Poe. One of the two tales caused Robert
Louis Stevenson to opine that “he who could write [this story] had
ceased to be a human being.” Which story occasioned this assessment
of its author, “The
Masque of the Red Death” or “King
Pest”? Chillers and Thrillers will leave the answer to this
question to you
to decide!
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.
Although the evil in Cujo takes the form of a rabid dog, this poster suggests the true evil of the movie based on Stephen King's novel: the adulterous affair that arises from neglect and represents an abandonment of the adulteress's husband and son; it is her unfaithfulness that tears her family apart.
A major theme of horror
stories, in both film and in print, is abandonment. Often, such
desertion is symbolically represented by an abandoned house or by
empty rooms. It is also frequently suggested by images of crumbling stone castles or manor houses or by dilapidated houses or
other symbols of neglect, including yards overrun with weeds, uncut
grass, and overgrown sheds or other structures. In itself, isolation
can also be representative of abandonment: a remote cabin in the woods,
a castle atop a lone promontory, an expanse of empty beach, an
uninhabited island, the middle of a desert, a narrow trail through a
rain forest, an oil rig at sea.
The type of edifice or
landscape can also imply what has been abandoned or what is at risk
of abandonment: a church may suggest that religious faith has been
abandoned; a hospital, the attempt to control or cure a rampant
disease; a manor house, a family and its connection to the community
of which it was once a vital part; a military barracks, war or peace
(depending on the reason for abandonment); a strip mall, a dearth
of customers.
In every case, the common
element is change: something has occurred that has caused the clergy
or the congregants, the medical staff or the patients, the family
members, the troops, or the business owners or the customers to leave their
beloved or customary place of worship, medical center, home,
installation, or shopping center. The “something” is apt to be
the story's villain, whatever form it takes.
Being abandoned is
horrific because it results in the loss of social, psychological,
commercial, medical, and other forms of support vital to the
abandoned individual's or individuals' safety, health, and welfare. Being abandoned forces the
abandoned to fend for themselves, even when they do not have the
expertise to do so. In a highly technologically advanced society, no
one can know all things or do all things. Assistance in many, not a
few, endeavors is both essential and necessary. Most cannot diagnose
and treat health complaints, especially horrific injuries or
potentially fatal diseases; resist or defeat an army; or provide the
products of the marketplace crucial to individual and communal
survival.
We are, each and all, much
more dependent than we might like to admit; we owe our continued
happiness, safety, health, and welfare to others much more than we do
to ourselves. That is the message of horror stories in which a
villainous force or being lays waste to the infrastructure of
religious, psychological, social, medical, commercial, and other
means of support essential to human life. We like to think of
ourselves as independent, as able to fend for ourselves, as
self-sufficient and autonomous individuals.
Horror stories that rely
on the theme of abandonment beg to differ; they take, as their
implicit or explicit task, the teaching of the lessons of our mutual
dependence, of our need for one another, of our need to rely on each
other rather than to deceive ourselves with the erroneous belief that
we are, each and all, self-reliant. The recognition of such a reality
should promote humility and compassion and generosity. In horror
stories, it is characters with these attributes who, generally speaking, survive,
while the arrogant, the indifferent, and the parsimonious do not. In
the midst of the coronavirus pandemic, these are wise, worthwhile
lessons, to be sure.
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.
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