Showing posts with label scene. Show all posts
Showing posts with label scene. Show all posts

Wednesday, November 24, 2021

What Scares Me and, More Importantly, What Scares YOU?

 Copyright 2021 by Gary L. Pullman


The List Challenges website depicts “A List of 100 Common (And Not So Common) Fears. Maybe some of yours are on it. A few of mine certainly are!

 


Among the fears identified on the List Challenges list are the fears of heights, dogs, diseases, dying, spiders, flying, snakes, crowds, elevators, being pregnant, and a lot more.

What scares me?

 


The uncertainty of life: We are here today and gone tomorrow, but we don't know when “tomorrow” may come.

 


Being trapped: Despair, followed closely by madness, seems likely to be the end results of being trapped; when there is no way out, there is no hope; when there is not hope, sanity seems certain.

 

Pain: Each of us has his or her own pain threshold. For some, it is lower than for others but, at some point, we will have had more than enough, more, maybe, than we can handle. When and where the threshold is—well, we wouldn't know that until we'd passed it.

 

Torture: To be tortured implies that one is bound or caged, as no one would suffer torture willingly, and if we are immobilized or confined, we have neither freedom nor control; we are helpless at the hands (literally) of a sadist. Watching another person being tortured might not frighten as much as horrify.


Heights: A height reminds us of the precariousness of our existence, of how quickly, completely, and irrevocably our existence—our minds, hearts, dreams, and intentions—can be wiped out within seconds, should we fall.


Now, what about you?

What sacres you? Make a list. Then, ask yourself what the fear is about. For example, if you fear darkness, why? What does darkness imply, or represent, to you? Blindness? Vulnerability? Loss of control? Helplessness? All of the above?

Once you have your list and you have identified what each specific fear may “mean” to you, ask yourself how you could visually represent the fear and its “meaning” to an audience. What images would you choose? How would you convey them?


Here's how I would visualize my own:

The uncertainty of life: A patient lies in bed, on his back. He turns onto his left side. A patient nutrition representative enters the room, picks up the patient's tray, on which the meal delivered earlier remains untouched. It is a meal that could be served for lunch or dinner. The representative shakes his head, looking with pity upon the sleeping patient, the leaves, removing the tray. The patient rolls onto his right side. The vital signs monitor's alarms sound, the numbers on the multiple displays spinning impossibly fast, as various lights flash. The monitor shows flat lines. In bed, the patient twists, sits rigidly upright, collapses, writhes, frothing at the mouth, his eyes bulging. The vital signs monitor melts, catching fire. A clock shows a second hand sweep past noon or, perhaps, midnight: the lighting of the room makes it impossible to tell which. The patient's body relaxes, goes limp; his eyes stare at nothing.

Being trapped: A mine collapses. Inside, pinned beneath fallen rock, a miner struggles to free himself. After a strenuous struggle, he quits, out of breath and weak. He sees a saw just out of reach. The mine remains unstable. A fall of rock shoves the saw within the miner's reach. Grimacing, he cuts off the leg beneath the rock, ties a tourniquet around his amputated calf, and crawls down the tunnel of the mine. He passes out. Awakening later, he is weaker from blood loss, but he manages to crawl toward a shaft of sunlight, hopeful that he has found a means of escape. As he continues to crawl, another collapse of the mine occurs, burying him and crushing him to death.

Pain: A surgeon tells a missionary who preaches at a remote African mission that his injury has become infected with gangrene and that his leg must be amputated. Fortunately, medical supplies are available, and the surgeon has everything he needs—except an anesthetic. The surgeon tells four men he has recruited as assistants to “hold him down.” To the missionary, the surgeon says, “Star praying, padre.”

Torture: A Chinese soldier is assigned the task of filming the torture of a Chinese man who tried to assassinate a politician. The failed assassin has been condemned to die the death of a thousand cuts. The soldier photographing the horrific torture wants desperately to avert his eyes but cannot. He winces as the first cut to the condemned man's body is made.

Heights: A woman taking a selfie poses at the edge of a 2,000-foot cliff. Unnoticed to her, a rat scampers over nearby rocks. “It's funny,” she says aloud, “how we fear one thing and not another. I mean, I'm terrified of rats, but heights mean nothing to me.” She adjusts her stance, moves her camera in and out, adjusting the range. The rat dashes forth from a crevice. Seeing it, she jumps backward and falls to her death, her body tumbling down the jagged face of the cliff.

Now, ask yourself what to change, if anything. Add details? Delete details? Change an angle? Show blood? Viscera? Switch between everyday incidents and the building horror you are showing? Have two people trapped in different ways? Two people experiencing different kinds of pain? Two people being tortured at the same time but in different ways? Two people climbing a cliff, one of whom falls? Change the character's age, sex, or social class? Change the setting so that, perhaps, torture occurs in the penthouse suite of a luxury hotel or the fall from a height involves a helicopter instead of a cliff? Change the time that the horrific incident takes place? It's not a mine, but one's own mind, in which the character is trapped? Work up several scenes before deciding on which is most horrific. Then, change your description into a full, dramatic scene and use it in your novel, short story, or film script.


Saturday, February 9, 2019

Scenic Posters

Copyright 2019 by Gary L. Pullman

A common formula for many horror stories, whether written on the page or enacted on the soundstage, consists of five acts:

  1. The status quo is portrayed.
  2. A series of bizarre incidents occur.
  3. The protagonist discovers the cause of these incidents.
  4. The protagonist, often aided by friends, uses his or her knowledge of the cause of the incidents to put things right.
  5. A return to the status quo is shown (although the ending may also hint at a possible sequel).
As in describing a scene in order both to represent and to dramatize it, it can be helpful to draw inspiration from a horror movie poster (the book cover, as it were, of a film), this same process can be useful in generating scenes which comprise the bizarre incidents which occur in act two (and, perhaps, later as well). Remember that the scenes so created must be causally related, although their ultimate cause will be withheld until act three.



An inspiration for a scene might be the poster for Annabelle: Creation (2017). (In writing from movie posters, I usually select posters for movies I haven't seen, and I don't read a synopsis of the film. I want to be inspired by the poster's art; I don't want to steal the screenwriters' original treatment.) With this in mind, let's look at the way NOT to do this:


My senses on high alert, I stole glances to either side and over my shoulder, as I crept along the cold, damp corridor, feeling trapped by the ancient basement's gray stone walls, stone floor, and stone ceiling.

I was conscious of the tons of massive rock above me and of the cataclysm which would ensue should all that weight come tumbling down (not that it should), and I imagined the terrors that likely befell the poor lost souls shut away inside the subterranean chambers which opened off the warren of intersecting hallways—or would have opened, had they not been locked.

As I continued along the maze, I heard the grating of rusty hinges, as a great, thick iron door opened of its own accord. Its loud, high-pitched creaking noise made my heart shrink, even as I turned, staring with horror at the sight within the chamber thus revealed.

A girl stood, her arms raised and extended at shoulder level; her body limp; her legs, one of which wore a brace, together. She was pale, and her eyes were closed. Perhaps she was not standing, after all. She seemed to have recently died—after having been crucified. However, no nails had been driven through her wrists or ankles.

A chill of horror iced my spine, as I saw another disturbing anomaly: a doll seemed to float before her, positioned as though it were seated upon the girl's lap, although, of course, her hanging vertically from the wall precluded such a possibility. The doll must be pinned to the girl's dress.

But why would someone go to such trouble? The scene seemed some sort of bizarre tableau, but, if so, to what end? Or did it have a purpose? Perhaps the hole mise-en-scene was nothing more than the whim of a mind gone mad.


Run! For God's sake, flee this damned place!


At my peril, in my foolishness, my curiosity greater than my wisdom, I stayed, gazing at the figure of torment within the chamber to which the open door admitted my horrified gaze.


At the girl's feet, a small table had been overturned. I squinted, focusing my gaze, and drew back, horrified anew: the table, like the chair beside it, the doll, and, indeed, the girl herself floated! Suspended in midair, they were held stationary and aloft by a power both unseen and unknown.


The girl wore patent-leather shoes, which were all but invisible in the darkness of what, I realized now, was a window—or a long, narrow rectangular opening, without glass, within the chamber's wall, behind the female figure, unlit and indistinct. Its shape had added to the illusion that the girl had been crucified, for, in the dim light, it looked like a plank of wood to which her ankles might have been nailed, as her wrists, at first, had seemed to be fixed to the stone wall.


Aghast, I stumbled away from the open doorway, realizing my retreat only when my back encountered the immovable resistance of the corridor's opposite wall. As I continued to stare at the girl afloat against her chamber's wall, her eyes opened, revealing yet another horror: the whites were blood-red, her pupils elliptical and golden, as if ablaze with the fire of hell, an effect strengthened by the appearance, between her soft, pink lips of a split serpent's tongue!


The doll, the countenance of which was of a decidedly malevolent character, opened its mouth, and, in a voice more suitable to a demon than to a toy in the shape of a babe in arms, harshly croaked a plea both pathetic and horrendous: Help us!


Turning, I ran along the stony floor, the doll's croaking supplication seeming to reverberate throughout the underground hallways and subterranean chambers as if the labyrinth were the many mouths and throats of hell's damned souls crying in unison, Help us!


This description is too close to the picture on the poster to be used in a story of one's own, but, in writing it, I conceived an idea for a novel, or part of one, so the effort isn't necessarily lost, even though it didn't achieved its intended goal, which was to develop a scene that is inspired by, rather than merely repeats, a scene painted for a movie poster. It would be a mistake—and a significant, perhaps costly, one—to use the description I wrote of the Annabelle: Creation poster's picture in a story of my own; it is too close to the scene depicted by the poster and could, therefore, represent plagiarized content were it to be used as is in an independent work.


However, all may not be lost, even now, in this exercise.


Returning to my description (and to the poster), I can isolate the elements that are horrific and uncanny and repeat them in a new description that is sufficiently different to avoid copying the Annabelle: Creation artwork. So what are the poster's elements of horror and the uncanny? As I see them:

  • isolation
  • innocence mocked through parody
  • religious faith mocked through parody
  • victimization
  • perversions of the Christian concepts of the crucifixion and the creation
  • confusion created by a maze of underground corridors and chambers
  • supernatural power displayed

With these elements in mind, a rewrite of the original description can perhaps salvage the scene, allowing it to be used in a work of one's own:


My senses on high alert, I stole glances to either side and over my shoulder, as I crept along the cold, damp corridor, feeling trapped by the ancient basement's gray stone walls, stone floor, and stone ceiling.


I was conscious of the tons of massive rock above me and of the cataclysm which would ensue should all that weight come tumbling down (not that it should), and I imagined the terrors that likely befell the poor lost souls shut away inside the subterranean chambers which opened off the warren of intersecting hallways—or would have opened, had they not been locked.


As I continued along the maze, I heard the grating of rusty hinges, as a great, thick iron door opened of its own accord. Its loud, high-pitched creaking noise made my heart shrink, even as I turned, staring with horror at the sight within the chamber thus revealed.


A boy lay upon an elevated stone slab inside a room resembling a tomb cut from a rock. He was naked but for a cloth laid over his groin. His arms were extended straight out, from his shoulders; his body was limp, his legs together. He was pale, and his eyes were closed. He seemed to have recently died—after having been crucified. Wounds from spikes driven through his wrists and ankles were crusted with the blood staining the altar upon which the body lay.


What had I stumbled upon? The result of the crucifixion of a child? What recent madness had happened here, in the bowels of a castle thought long deserted? Were the villains who'd committed this blasphemous murder still in secret residence? Was I being watched by the madmen who'd committed this unspeakable sacrilege?


Run! For God's sake, flee this damned place!


At my peril, in my foolishness, my curiosity greater than my wisdom, I stayed, gazing at the figure of torment within the chamber to which the open door had admitted my horrified gaze, until, aghast in contemplating the sight, I stumbled away from the open doorway, realizing my retreat had been underway only when my back encountered the immovable resistance of the corridor's opposite wall.


Now, as I continued to stare at the unfortunate boy, his eyes opened, revealing yet another horror: the whites were blood-red, his pupils elliptical and golden, as if ablaze with the fire of hell, an effect strengthened by the appearance, between his soft, pink lips, of a split serpent's tongue!


The features of his handsome face distorted, as a malevolent hatred akin to rage animated the corpse, its mouth opening as a voice more suitable to a demon than to a child, harshly croaked a plea both pathetic and horrendous: Help us!


Turning, I ran, finally, in headlong flight, along the stony floor, the demon-child's croaking supplication seeming to reverberate throughout the underground hallways and subterranean chambers, as if the labyrinth were the many mouths and throats of hell's damned souls, crying in unison, Help us! although, in their infernal state, neither deliverance nor succor was possible. All that was left them was this tableau of the damned, by which they not only tormented the living, but also continued their unholy protests against the Almighty whom, even in thethroes of their eternal torment, to curse and vilify.


This second description, inspired by the poster and by the unsuccessful attempt to capture in words, while avoiding copying, which would result, if included, as originally written, in my own, otherwise original work, in plagiarism, now works, for it is different enough to be my own, a work inspired by, rather than merely copied from, the original poster. It is itself original, instead of simply derivative.

Friday, November 29, 2013

The Dramatistic Pentad in Five Acts


copyright 2013 by Gary L. Pullman

Horror fiction, like all other genres of literature, popular and otherwise, is concerned with the following questions”

Literary critic Kenneth Burke's analysis of dramatic structure, known as dramatism, identifies a “pentad” of rhetorical elements that underlies all drama and narrative:

  1. Who?, which is associated with the agent, or the doer of the deed
  2. What?, which links to the act, or deed, and is expressed by an action verb
  3. When? and Where?, which refers to the setting in which the deed is done
  4. How?, which alludes to the agency, or method, by which the deed was done
  5. Why?, which explains the purpose (or the cause or the motive) for which the deed was done
These questions are recursive; they recur, as the writer works his or her way through the development of the narrative, and they may be related to the protagonist, the antagonist, or to any other characters; to various deeds; to different settings; to a variety of methods; and even to more than one purpose—or cause or motive. In fact, it is a good idea to develop a storyline from the points of view of as many relevant characters as possible, which would typically include, as a minimum, both the protagonist and his o her adversary, the antagonist (often, in horror fiction, the monster), bearing in mind that each of the elements of agent, act, setting, agency, and purpose.

Using Gustav Freytag's analysis of classic and Shakespearean drama, which divides a play into five acts, a writer can structure his or her narrative so that each part introduces or develops Burke's rhetorical elements.

Act I, the exposition, provides the background information that the audience (or reader) needs to know in order to understand the story as a whole. Typically, as a minimum, the protagonist, the setting, and the basic conflict of the story are introduced, which equate to Burke's agent, setting, and purpose (the protagonist's purpose, in general, is to resolve the conflict, usually by obtaining an objective).

Act II, the rising action, complicates the conflict by introducing successively more difficult obstacles to the protagonist's achievement of his or her objective. Typically, this is the act in which the antagonist competes against the protagonist, so this act will revisit the rhetorical elements of agent and purpose, from the points of view of both the protagonist and the antagonist, adding act to the mix as both characters vie to obtain the same objective and to prevent the other from obtaining it.

Act III, the climax, or turning point, spins the action into a new direction; if things have been going relatively well for the protagonist up to this point, he or she now suffers a significant setback; if things have, overall, not been going well for the protagonist, he or she will now enjoy significant progress, with opposite results occurring with regard to the antagonist. Act III, while continuing to focus upon agent, agency, and purpose, stresses act, while setting remains a constant throughout the story.

Act IV, the falling action, unravels the conflict. If, at the turning point, the protagonist has suffered a setback, his or her purpose may be energized, as a result, as he or she resolves to redouble his or her efforts to achieve his or her objective. If he or she has made progress, his or her hard-won moment of success may likewise energize him or her, reinforcing the main character's purpose. The same, however, in either case, is likely to be rue of the antagonist as well. Although the conflict unravels during Act IV, the adversarial contest between the protagonist and the antagonist continues, but with one or the other clearly gaining the upper hand and increasing his or her dominance over his or her rival. Throughout this act, agent, act, purpose, and agency interact with one another with setting, as always, the constant variable (although one setting may have given way to another).

Act V constitutes the resolution of a comedy (a story in which the protagonist ends up better off than he or she was at the beginning of the story) or in a catastrophe in a tragedy (a story in which the protagonist ends up worse off than he or she was at the beginning of the story). Either all's well that ends well (comedy), or everything falls apart (tragedy). This act resolves the conflict once and for all (purpose), as the protagonist (agent) wins or loses (purpose), based, to a large extent, upon what he or she has done and how he or she has done it (act and agency). Again, setting is a constant element.

Freytag's analysis, it should be stressed, is based not upon modern drama, and certainly not upon the novel or the short story, and does not take into consideration such modern tendencies as beginning a work in media res, employing flashbacks and prolepses (flash-forwards), and allowing the exposition to be revealed piecemeal, throughout much of the work, rather than restricting it to the first act. Nevertheless, in general, Freytag's ideas, if not rigid formulation of them, remains influential in narratology and dramatism. Therefore, it is useful as a means of illustrating how Burke's pentad can be applied in the plotting of a film or a novel. After the elements are in place, the author can always rearrange them to suit his or her own dramatic or narrative purposes.

Here is an example of the application of Burke vis-a-vis Freytag; the summary is taken, with slight modifications, from Wikipedia's article, “Psycho (1960 film)”:

Act I: Exposition

Marion Crane [agent] and her boyfriend Sam Loomis [agent] meet for a secret romantic rendezvous [act] during lunch hour at a hotel in Phoenix, Arizona [setting]. They [agents] then talk about how they can barely afford to get married [act]. Upon Marion's [agent] return to work [act] at a realtor's office [setting], a client [agent] comes in with $40,000 in cash [act] to purchase a house for his daughter [purpose]. The money is entrusted to Marion [act], who decides to steal it and skip town [act; with the implied purpose of using the stolen money to finance her marriage to Loomis].

Act II: Rising Action

On the road [setting], she [agent] pulls over [act] to sleep [purpose]and a suspicious [purpose] policeman [agent] awakens her [act]. The policeman [agent] lets her go [act], but upon arriving in another town [act; setting], Marion [agent] pulls into a used car dealership [act; setting] and hastily exchanges her car for another one [act]. Driving [act] during a rainy night [setting], Marion [agent] pulls up [act, with the implied purpose of seeking shelter from the storm]to the Bates Motel, a remote lodging [setting] that has recently lost business due to a diversion of the main highway.

The proprietor, youthful but nervous Norman Bates [agent], invites her [act] to a light dinner in the parlor [setting]. Norman [agent] tells her that his mother is mentally ill [act], but he [agent] becomes irate and bristles [act] when Marion [agent] suggests that she should be institutionalized [act]. The conversation [agency] induces [act] Marion [agent] to decide [act] to return to Phoenix [act] and return the stolen money [purpose].

Act III: Climax, or Turning Point

Marion [agent] later takes a shower [act] in her room [setting], during which a shadowy figure [agent] comes in and stabs her [act] to death [purpose]. Norman [agent] bursts into the bathroom [act; setting] and discovers Marion's dead body [act]. He [agent] wraps the body in the shower curtain and cleans up the bathroom [act]. He [agent] puts Marion's body in the trunk of her car and sinks it in a nearby swamp [act; setting].

Act IV: Falling Action

In Phoenix [setting], Marion's sister Lila [agent] and Marion's boyfriend Sam Loomis [agent] are concerned [act] about her disappearance [purpose]. A detective named Arbogast [agent] confirms that Marion is suspected of having stolen $40,000 from her employer [act]. Arbogast [agent] eventually finds the Bates Motel [act; setting], where Norman's [agent] evasiveness and stammering arouse his suspicions [act]. Arbogast [agent] later enters the Bates' residence [act; setting], looking for Norman's mother [purpose]. A figure [agent] emerges [act] from her room [setting] and murders Arbogast [act; purpose].

Fearing that something has happened to Arbogast [act; purpose], Sam [agent] and Lila [agent] go to the town of Fairvale and talk with the local sheriff [act]. He [agent] is puzzled by the detective's claim that he was planning to talk to Norman's mother [act], stating that Mrs. Bates died years ago, along with her lover, in a murder-suicide [act].

Norman [agent], seen from above, carries his mother down to the cellar [act] of their house [setting] as she [agent] verbally protests the arrangement [act].
Sam [agent] and Lila [agent] rent a room [act] at the Bates Motel [search] and search the cabin [act] that Marion [agent] stayed [act] in [setting]. Lila [agent] finds a scrap of paper with "$40,000" written on it [act], while Sam [agent] notes that the bathtub has no shower curtain [act]. Sam [agent] distracts Norman [act] while Lila [agent] sneaks [act] into the house [setting], looking for Mrs. Bates [act, with the implied purpose of locating her]. Norman [agent] subdues Sam and chases Lila [act]. Seeing Norman approaching [act], Lila [agent] hides [act, with the implied purpose of evading Norman] in the cellar [setting] and discovers Mrs. Bates' body [act], sitting in a rocking chair [setting]. The chair [agent] rotates [act] to reveal a desiccated corpse, the preserved body of Mrs. Bates [purpose]. A figure [agent] enters [act] the basement [setting], wearing a dress and wig while wielding a large knife [act], revealing Norman to be the murderer all along [purpose]. Sam [agent] enters and saves Lila [act].

Act V: Catastrophe

After Norman's arrest [act], a psychiatrist [agent] who interviewed Norman [act] reveals that Norman [agent] had murdered his mother and her lover years ago [act], and he [agent] later developed a split personality [act] to erase the crime from his memory [purpose]. At times, he [agent] is able to function [act] as Norman [agency], but other times the mother personality [agent] completely dominates him [act].

Norman [agent] is now locked into his mother's identity permanently [act]. Mrs. Bates [agent], in a voice-over [agency], talks about how harmless she is [act], and how it was really Norman [agent], not she [agent], who committed the murders [act].

The final scene [agent] shows Marion's car being recovered [act] from the swamp [setting].

Although this approach has some difficulties—the ambiguity, for instance, inherent in how one summarizes the story, selecting, arranging, and emphasizing its incidents; of labeling the incidents according to Burke's pentad {for example, as when determining when to count an element as significant and when not to do so (for instance, should a shift of scene be counted as a new setting or as merely a continuation of an already-identified setting in which a different aspect of this setting is featured). (My solution has been to allow the summary to determine these matters as much as possible. However, if this approach is to be taken, it ought to use the shooting script, not a secondary source's understanding of the plot, as the basis for summarizing the movie's action). This approach, nevertheless, a potentially fruitful approach to analyzing the structure of a work, whether the work in question is one's own monster or that of another. Such an analysis, combining Burke's five-element dramatistic pentad with Freytag's analysis of five-act dramatic structure, suggests the extent of the use of each of Burke's elements, their interrelation to one another, and the way in which non-human techniques (that is, cinematographic agencies) can take the role, as it were, of agents. It is clear that, regarded as a mimetic medium, fiction simplifies the true complexity of human behavior by occasionally representing natural events or omniscient points of view as causal in order to express purpose which would not, otherwise, be communicated, as when the chair, acting as an agent, acts in order to accomplish a purpose that is really the screenwriter's, not that of the imaginary world (that is, the setting) in which the drama unfolds: he chair [agent] rotates [act] to reveal a desiccated corpse, the preserved body of Mrs. Bates [purpose]. Likewise, it is easy to see that purpose, as the cause or motive of the character's behavior, is typically suggested, rather than overtly stated, and often pertains to not only one or two, but to a whole series, of a character's acts. However, purpose is implied in each and every act of the drama and is, therefore, like the other of Burke's rhetorical elements, a unifying principle.

Removing the specific contents of each of the rhetorical elements, while retaining their grouping according to Freytag's acts, discloses the appearance of these rhetorical elements, their arrangement, and their relative importance—or, at least, the degree to which each element is emphasized within and among the various acts of the drama; each sentence of the synopsis is included, with the periods representing the respective ends of each.

Act I: Exposition

Agent / agent / act / setting. Agent / agent / act. Agent / act / setting / agent / act / purpose. Act / act / purpose.

Act II: Rising Action

Setting / agent / act / purpose/ purpose / agent / act. Agent / act / act / setting / agent/ act / setting / act. Act / setting / agent / act / purpose / setting.
Agent / act / setting. Agent / act / agent / act / agent/ act. Agency / act / agent / act / purpose.

Act III: Climax, or Turning Point

Agent / act / setting / agent / act / purpose. Agent / act / setting / act. Agent / act. Agent / act / setting.

Act IV: Falling Action

Setting / agent / agent / act / purpose. Agent / act. Agent / act / setting / agent / act. Agent / act / setting / purpose. Agent / act / setting / act / purpose.
Act / purpose/ agent / agent / act. Agent /act / act.
Agent / act / setting / agent / act.
Agent / agent / act / setting / act / agent / act / setting. Agent / act / agent / act. Agent / act / agent / act / setting / act / purpose. Agent / act. Act / agent / act / purpose / setting / act / setting. Agent / act / purpose. Agent / act / setting / act / purpose. Agent / act.

Act V: Catastrophe

Act / agent / act / agent / act / agent / act / purpose. Agent / act / agent / act.
Agent / act. Agent / agency / act / agent / agent / act.
Agent / act / setting.

Simply by tallying each of the times that an element is used, it is possible to determine the relative emphasis of each, both by dramatic act and in total:

Act I: Exposition

Agent / agent / act / setting. Agent / agent / act. Agent / act / setting / agent / act / purpose. Act / act / purpose.

Agent = 6
Act = 6
Setting = 2
Purpose = 2

Act II: Rising Action

Setting / agent / act / purpose/ purpose / agent / act. Agent / act / act / setting / agent/ act / setting / act. Act / setting / agent / act / purpose / setting.
Agent / act / setting. Agent / act / agent / act / agent/ act. Agency / act / agent / act / purpose.

Act = 14
Agent = 11
Setting = 6
Purpose = 4
Agency = 1

Act III: Climax, or Turning Point

Agent / act / setting / agent / act / purpose. Agent / act / setting / act. Agent / act. Agent / act / setting.

Act = 6
Agent = 5
Setting = 3
Purpose = 1

Act IV: Falling Action

Setting / agent / agent / act / purpose. Agent / act. Agent / act / setting / agent / act. Agent / act / setting / purpose. Agent / act / setting / act / purpose.
Act / purpose/ agent / agent / act. Agent /act / act.
Agent / act / setting / agent / act.

Agent / agent / act / setting / act / agent / act / setting. Agent / act / agent / act. Agent / act / agent / act / setting / act / purpose. Agent / act. Act / agent / act / purpose / setting / act / setting. Agent / act / purpose. Agent / act / setting / act / purpose. Agent / act.

Act = 29
Agent = 24
Setting = 11
Purpose = 8

Act V: Catastrophe

Act / agent / act / agent / act / agent / act / purpose. Agent / act / agent / act.
Agent / act. Agent / agency / act / agent / agent / act.
Agent / act / setting.

Act = 10
Agent = 10
Purpose = 1
Setting = 1
Agency = 1

This statistical analysis shows that, in Act I, agent and act dominate to the same degree; that, in Act II, act dominates; that in Act III, act dominates; that, in Act IV, act dominates; and, that in Act V, act dominates. Overall, as a whole, act dominates over all of the other of Burke's rhetorical elements; therefore, it is evident that, rhetorically, Psycho is an action movie, the tone of which is horror.

After converting the incidents of the story's plot, as indicated by the plot's synopsis, into discrete rhetorical elements, in accordance with Burke's pentad, it is an easy matter to transpose the results into the questions that are associated with these elements, even while retaining Freytag's structure, if desirable:

Act I: Exposition

Who? / Who? / What? / When? Where?. Who? / Who? / What? / Who? / What? / setting / Who? / What? / Why?. What? / What? / Why?.

Act II: Rising Action

When? and Where? / Who? / What? / purpose/ purpose / Who? / What?. Who? / What? / What? / When? and Where? / Who?/ What? / When? and Where? / What?. What? / When? and Where? / Who? / What? / purpose / When? and Where?.

Who? / What? / When? and Where?. Who? / What? / Who? / What? / Who?/ What?. Agency / What? / Who? / What? / purpose.

Act III: Climax, or Turning Point

Who? / What? / When? and Where? / Who? / What? / purpose. Who? / What? / When? and Where? / What?. Who? / What?. Who? / What? / When? and Where?.

Act IV: Falling Action

When? and Where? / Who? / Who? / What? / purpose. Who? / What?. Who? / What? / When? and Where? / Who? / What?. Who? / What? / When? and Where? / purpose. Who? / What? / When? and Where? / What? / purpose.
What? / purpose/ Who? / Who? / What?. Who? /What? / What?.

Who? / What? / When? and Where? / Who? / What?.

Who? / Who? / What? / When? and Where? / What? / Who? / What? / When? and Where?. Who? / What? / Who? / What?. Who? / What? / Who? / What? / When? and Where? / What? / purpose. Who? / What?. What? / Who? / What? / purpose / When? and Where? / What? / When? and Where?. Who? / What? / purpose. Who? / What? / When? and Where? / What? / purpose. Who? / What?.

Act V: Catastrophe

What? / Who? / What? / Who? / What? / Who? / What? / purpose. Who? / What? / Who? / What?.

Who? / What?. Who? / agency / What? / Who? / Who? / What?.
Who? / What? / When? and Where?.

Paranormal vs. Supernatural: What’s the Diff?

Copyright 2009 by Gary L. Pullman

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’ Dictionary contends 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.

My Cup of Blood

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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