One way to energize a
genre of fiction is to introduce into it a hierarchy, or some other
type of analytical or descriptive scheme, that is commonly used in a
different type of narrative literature.
As Don
Lincoln, author of Alien Universe:
Extraterrestrial Life in Our Minds and in the Cosmos,
observes, science fiction employs the
scale “popularized” in J. Allen Hynek's “1972 book The
UFO Experience,”
which identifies three types, or “kinds,” of “close encounters”
with extraterrestrial spacecraft or beings:
1st
Kind:
UFO sighting
2nd
Kind:
UFO sighting supported by "physical evidence"
3rd
Kind:
Encounter with alien beings
These original “kinds” of “close encounters”
have been extended, says Lincoln, by four other types, although these
additional levels “are “not universally accepted”:
4th Kind: Abduction with
"retained memory"
5th Kind:
"Regular conversations"
6th Kind:
"An encounter" resulting in a human's "death or
injury"
7th Kind:
Hybrid progeny resulting from human-monstrous mating
Although
hybrid horror-science fiction narratives or dramas sometimes include
extraterrestrial beings (e. g., Stephen King's Dreamcatcherand such films as Alien,
The Thing from Another World,
and Invaders from Mars),
space aliens are primarily a staple of sci fi fiction. Monsters, on
the other hand, are more often antagonists in horror fiction.
Hynek's
scale, and its extension, provide a means of re-imagining monsters:
1st
Kind:
Monster sighting
2nd
Kind:
Monster sighting supported by "physical evidence"
3rd
Kind:
Encounter with monster(s)
4th
Kind:
Monster's abduction recalled (or recovered through the discovery of a
lost film or video
5th
Kind:
Periodic communications with the monster, vocally or otherwise (e.
g., through mental telepathy)
6th
Kind:
"An encounter” with the monster which results in a human's
“death or injury”
7th
Kind:
Human/monster mating resulting in a hybrid progeny
Many of these types
of “close encounters” with monsters have already been depicted in
horror novels, short stories, or movies. There have been many
sightings of monsters, as in Frank Peretti's 2006 novel Monster;
encounters with monsters (as in Mary Shelley's 1818 novel
Frankenstein),
periodic communications with the monster (as in Anne Rice's 1976
novel Interview with a Vampire),
encounters with monsters that end in human's deaths (so many there's
no need to cite an example), and even matings between women and
monsters that result in births of hybrid human-monster children (as
in Ira Levine's 1967 novel Rosemary's Baby).
However, an
imaginative use of this extended scale of “close encounters” with
monsters, rather than with aliens—which, it could be argued,
represent simply another type of monster) can still introduce
innovations into the horror genre. For example, the scale could be
used to structure a novel or, for that matter a heptalogy, or series
of seven works, each of which is inspired by one of the seven types
of “close encounters” with monsters listed in the “monster
scale” adapted from Hynek's hierarchy.
Chillers
and Thrillers has devoted quite a bit of space to several
articles on Tzvetan Todorov's insightful analysis of the literary
fantastic. At this point, despite the oversimplification that
results, we can say, for Todorov, the fantastic usually resolves
itself into the explained and the unexplained. The former he calls
“uncanny”; the latter, “marvelous.” Only when there is no
resolution, one way or another, does the fantastic remain fantastic.
We
also noted that, to write such a story, an author must allow either
of two understandings of the action: either reason or science
can explain the phenomena, bizarre though they may, as natural events
or the strange phenomena are beyond explanation and, as such,
may actually be of an otherworldly or supernatural origin. The
tension between these two alternatives creates and maintains
suspense. It is only when the story shows that the action is natural
(explicable by reason or science) or supernatural (inexplicable by
reason or science) that the story itself is no longer fantastic, but
either uncanny or marvelous, respectively.
It
helps, therefore, to know how scientists explain seemingly fantastic
phenomena, such as (for example) ghosts, vampires, werewolves, and
zombies.
First,
“Vampires:
Fact, Fiction, and Folklore” explains why human vampirism is
unlikely: imbibing blood on a regular basis would probably result in
the imbiber's development “of
haemochromatosis (iron overdose),” which is apt to lead to such
serious health problems as damage to the nervous system and the
liver. Drinking blood for a living is not advised, to say the least!
Another
interesting refutation of human vampirism is mathematical
in nature: If, at the end of a month, a vampire transforms a victim
into a second vampire, and they both then transform two more people
into vampires at the end of the next month, and so on, in two and a
half years, everybody would be a vampire, and there would be no
humans left to supply the blood the bloodsuckers need to survive.
(Math can be pretty scary stuff!)
Although
actual human vampires do not exist (or, at least, there is no proof
that human corpses can be possessed by demons and go about their day
“undead,” without eventually rotting, subsisting only on the
blood of their living brethern—“Happy Meals with legs,” as
Spike, a vampire on Buffy
the Vampire Slayer,
calls his human hosts)—it is true that some people claim
to be vampires; they may even truly believe
that they are vampires.
They
aren't. Here's why.
Porphyria
may explain the belief, by some, in human vampirism. This condition
causes sensitivity to light due to “irregularities in the
production of heme, a chemical in the blood,” which produces
“toxins” that erode “the lips and gums,” creating a
“corpse-like, fanged appearance.”
Another
explanation for the belief in human vampirism is found in some of the
effects of tuberculosis.
This disease causes pale skin, an aversion to sunlight, and the
coughing up of blood due to lung damage. The highly contagious
disease easily spreads from one person to another, a fact which might
explain the belief that vampirism can be “transmitted” from
vampire to victim through a bite.
Catalepsy,
which causes victims to become rigid and immobile, was sometimes
mistaken, in times past, for death, as it is in Edgar Allan Poe's
short stories “The Premature Burial” and “The Fall of the House
of Usher.”
There's
also Renfield's
syndrome, or clinical vampirism, an obsession with drinking
blood. People who suffer from this psychological malady believe that
drinking blood is beneficial to their health. The condition is marked
by stages. First, a prepubescent child is sexually excited by blood
or by consuming blood. Next, at puberty, the child begins to indulge
in sexual fantasies concerning the consumption of blood and starts to
devour his or her own blood; practicing autovampirism. Finally, the
child preys upon animals or, perhaps, other human beings.
Sounds
about as reasonable as anything in Freud, right?
And
it is, which is to say, Renfield's Syndrome is 100-percent fake.
Clinical psychologist Richard Noll invented Renfield's Syndrome as a
parody
of the psychobabble characteristic of the psychiatric and
psychological professions' Diagnostic and Statistical Manual.
In
doing so, Noll seems to have inspired his colleague, Katherine
Ramsland, who
is a professor of forensic psychology at DeSales University in
Pennsylvania, to invent her own “diagnosis,” “vampire
personality disorder (VPD)” for her book The
Science of Vampires.
And now we know how psychology
is actually practiced, behind the scenes.
For
more background reading (i. e., “research”) regarding social
vampirism, check out “The
people who drink blood.”
As
is the case with ghosts, scientific explanations of vampirism suggest
both fictional settings and characters.
Let's
start with characters. Phlebotomists might be advisable, as might
therapists, psychologists, or psychiatrists. (A writer might even
toss in a mathematician or two.) There's certainly a place for a
general practitioner and a few specialists, such as a hematologist, a
neurologist, a pulmonologist, and maybe a dermatologist. There could
even be a journalist or an author writing a series of articles or a
book on vampirism. The police might be involved as well.
Obvious
settings, for scenes if not entire stories, are laboratories; offices
of therapists, psychologists, or psychiatrists; medical doctors'
offices; mental institutions; and, possibly, jails or prisons.
Of
course, thinking outside the box is often one of the things
that distinguishes a writer like Poe from other authors of horror
fiction. For him, a man aboard a ship is one of his victims of
catalepsy, a berth on the ship the victim's actual resting place, and the grave in which
he believes he's been buried alive an effect of his nightmares.
Writers should be aware of their colleagues' treatments of themes and
tropes, but they should also conceive of new treatments,
perspectives, and approaches.
In
our next post, we'll take a peek at what science says about
werewolves.
Chillers
and Thrillers has devoted space to several articles on Tzvetan
Todorov's insightful analysis of the literary fantastic. At this
point, despite the oversimplification that results, we can say, for
Todorov, the fantastic usually resolves itself into the explained and
the unexplained. The former he calls “uncanny”; the latter,
“marvelous.” Only when there is no resolution, one way or
another, does the fantastic remain fantastic.
Here
are a few examples:
Uncanny
stories: “The Damned Thing” by Ambrose Bierce; “The Red Room”
by H. G. Wells; The Taking by
Dean Koontz; Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
by Robert Louis Stevenson; The Island of Dr. Moreau
by H. G. Wells
Marvelous
stories: “The Monkey's Paw” by W. W. Jacobs; “1408” by
Stephen King; The Exorcist by
William Peter Blatty; “The Masque of the Red Death” by Edgar
Allan Poe; The Picture of Dorian Gray
by Oscar Wilde; “Dracula's Guest” by Bram Stoker.
Fantastic
stories: The Turn of the Screw by
Henry James, “The Signal-man” by Charles Dickens, The
Possession of Emily Rose (Scott
Derrickson, director)
To
write such a story, an author must allow either of two understandings
of the action: reason or science can explain the phenomena, bizarre
though they may, as natural events or the strange phenomena are
beyond explanation and, as such, may actually be of an otherworldly
or supernatural origin. The tension between these two alternatives
creates and maintains suspense. It is only when the story shows that
the action is natural (explicable by reason or science) or
supernatural (inexplicable by reason or science) that the story
itself is no longer fantastic, but either uncanny or marvelous,
respectively.
It
helps, therefore, to know how scientists explain seemingly fantastic
phenomena, such as (for example) ghosts, vampires, werewolves, and
zombies.
Scientists
offer six possible explanations
for ghosts: low-frequency sound, mold, carbon monoxide,
suggestion, drafts, and the enjoyment of fear.
Although
people have trouble hearing low-frequency sound, it registers on some
level, causing them to feel “uneasy”; some interpret this
emotional queasiness as resulting from the presence of unseen ghosts.
Breathing
mold is unhealthy for many reasons, not the least of which is that it
can cause neurological symptoms like delirium [and] dementia” as
well as “irrational fears”—just like ghosts!
Similarly,
breathing carbon monoxide can cause not only hallucinations, chest
pressure, “an unexplained feeling of dread.” Oh, yes: it can also
kill.
Some
folks are susceptible to suggestions by others, including suggestions
that ordinary events have ghostly explanations.
The
exchange of cold for warm hair that's caused by drafts resulting from
the opening of doors or windows can create “cold spots” in a
room, which, for some reason (or no reason) some people attribute to
the presence of ghosts.
Some
people like being scared. Like Fox Mulder of The X-Files,
they may want, therefore, to believe. Unlike Mulder, they may give in
to their desire and believe in ghosts simply because they want to
believe in ghosts.
Knowing
possible scientific explanations for ghosts allows writers to have a
skeptical character explain them to another who's a rue believer.
Whether the ghost is thus explained (uncanny) or proves inexplicable
(marvelous) is up to the writer, of course. In rare cases, the ghost
may even remain fantastic, defying categorization as either a natural
or an unnatural phenomenon.
Knowing
scientific explanations for ghosts can also help a writer to
establish the story's setting. If the ghost is due to low-frequency
sound effects, there has to be a device that emits such sounds; if
mold or carbon monoxide is the culprit, there has to be a source for
mold or carbon dioxide; a drafty place, such as a castle, perhaps,
has to be part of the setting if there are to be drafts.
A
knowledge of scientific explanations for ghosts can also help a
writer to establish the story's characters. If it's “the power of
suggestion” that causes a haunting, a character must be susceptible
to such suggestion; he or she probably doesn't know much about
science, is apt to be gullible, and is likely to be a follower,
rather than a leader.
What
kind of character wants to be scared badly enough to believe without
any foundation but his or her own delight in fright? I picture a
character who lives an uneventful life or who wants more glamour and
attention than he or she usually receives. Often, if a person (or a
fictional character) is involved in bizarre, seemingly inexplicable
events, he or she will become either famous or notorious. Either way,
such a character will not want for attention or excitement.
In
our next post, we'll take a peek at what science says about vampires.
Eden
(2019) is a short horror film, indeed, lasting approximately six-and-a-half
minutes. Three somewhat immature “homies” encounter a femme fatale
who looks somewhat like a modern-day vampire. She is extraordinarily
strong and quick, and she can open her mouth tremendously wide. Like
any other self-respecting femme fatale,
she lures male victims with her beauty.
The plot is simple and
straightforward:
D.
J., Elliott, and Jason, who appear to be slightly drunk, clown with
each other as they make their way through dark city streets to Elliot's car. On the way, D. J. (Benjamin Abiola) drops his keys.
In
the back seat, D. J. realizes that he doesn't have his keys.
Retracing
his steps, he finds them on the sidewalk and pockets them.
In
the car, Jason (Bobby Coston) shows Elliott (Charles Brakes III) a photograph on his smartphone: a young
woman whose buttocks they admire. Jason tells Elliott that the woman
has a sister.
Seeing
a young woman (Tayla Drake) at a distance, he offers her a ride. He runs to her,
and she slits his throat with a sweep of her nails.
Clutching
his throat, he staggers away from her and falls to his knees.
In
the car, Elliott tells Jason that he's going to “check on D. J.”
On
the sidewalk, Elliott sees a trail of blood. He turns and runs back
to his car, calling to Jason.
Returning
his call, Jason gets out of the car, leaving the door open. He looks
frightened as he repeatedly calls Elliott's name.
The
car door slams shut behind him. He whirls and takes a couple steps
backward.
Turning,
he sees the young woman who killed J. D. Her top is covered in J.
D.'s blood.
She
looks up, smiling. Her mouth, dripping blood, opens impossibly wide.
Elliott's
fate remains unknown.
Of course, besides
Elliott's fate, the film leaves many other questions unanswered. Who
is the predatory woman? What, exactly, is she? Why does she stalk
men? Why does she kill them? Why does she feed upon human blood?
There is plenty of room
for both plot and character development, but this exercise in
filmmaking, in itself, doesn't offer much depth.
The only attempt to
involve the action in a theme that transcends the story's action per
se is a quotation, apparently invented, which is attributed to an
apparently fictitious pontiff, Pope Seymore IV: “Lust of the
beauteous garden bait souls of the damned, and only then will they
feel the wrath of Eden.”
To begin with, the meaning
of the quotation is unclear. “Lust of” suggests that it is the
“garden” that lusts and that, perhaps (the rest of the quotation
is unintelligible), the garden, to satisfy its lust, “baits souls
of the damned.” This reading makes the “garden” the villain and
the young men the victims.
How does the garden
identify the “souls of the damned?” Or do the “souls” become
“damned” simply by virtue of their being baited? In other words,
does the garden's baiting of the souls damn them?
Alternatively, does the garden's “bait” work solely on souls that
are already damned?
In
any case, the quotation makes clear that the damned souls experience
Eden's “wrath” only after they have been baited by the garden.
Of
course, the filmmakers may have intended the quotation to begin with
the prepositional phrase “lust for,” which situates the lust not
in the garden itself, but in those who lust for
the garden.
However, even such an
attempt as this to infuse the production with depth is awkward. It
characterizes beautiful young women as objects; they are flowers in a
“beauteous garden,” planted, as it were, to “bait souls of the
damned.”
Although, in this reading
of the quotation, it is the damned souls' own lust that damns
them, the flowers themselves are not entirely innocent; they are the
“bait” that excites the men's lust and tempts them to sin, just
as the Biblical Eve, in the garden of Eden, tempts Adam to sin. The
“flowers,” one of which, metaphorically speaking, Eden appears to
be, use their beauty to ensnare men, attracting their lust. In this
sense, the “flowers” are no more passive than a Venus fly trap;
the women are predators. Therefore, their “wrath” is hard to
understand, let alone to justify.
In the Eden short,
there is no serpent in the “beauteous garden” to entice the woman
who entices J. D. and Jason, unless she is herself both serpent and
seductress, a lamia like Lilith, Adam's first wife, according to
Jewish folklore.
Perhaps,
the filmmakers suggest, there is no need for a serpent as such.
Instead, the sexist attitude of the young men makes them vulnerable
to the charms of beautiful young women. To some degree, the young
men's sexism is informed by the values and the norms of the larger
society that nurtured them. The young men's notions of what is proper
conduct with regard to women and sex is influenced by the media and
by the conventions, customs, traditions, and practices of the
patriarchal society in which they live.
Young
men are taught, directly and indirectly, that it is acceptable to
view women as objects, as “flowers” ripe for the plucking, as
commodities that can be bought for the mere offer of a ride, the very
offer that J. D. makes to Eden. These attitudes and values and the
mores that inculcate them may be the snake in the garden which, in
defining roles for young men, also define the complementary roles of
young women.
However,
Eden is not a typical young woman. She is the predator, rather than
the young men's prey. She has turned the tables on her would-be
conquerors, making them her
victims. The beauty that would normally endanger her becomes a lure
by which she snares her male victims. She, a potential victim,
becomes the young men's victimizer. If she, rather than the young
men, is the predator, it is hard to see how her “wrath” is
justified.
Either
possibility for reading the quotation, “lust of” or “lust for,”
remains problematic. Indeed, if anyone seems worthy of blame, it is
the party who entices, not the party who is enticed or, at the very
least, both parties are equally to be blamed. Part of the problem
derives from the ambiguity of the quotation that is supposed to
indicate the theme of the movie, which, of course, is anything but a
small error in a work of art.
If
anything, the theme of the film seems to be simply that mere
attraction to the beauty of the opposite sex can kill a youth.
Neither J. D., who offers Eden a ride (possibly for ulterior
reasons), nor Elliott, who never encounters Eden during his search
for J. D., nor Jason, who simply approaches Eden, does anything to
threaten her or in any way acts aggressively toward her.
Nevertheless, she kills both J. D. and Jason, and the audience never
learns Elliott's fate.
By
themselves, the young men are in no danger. They are friends, not
foes. They clown with one another, simulating fisticuffs, but they
never hurt one another or came close to doing so. Their fighting is a
mere pretense, consisting of friendly mock attacks and simulated
counterattacks. Separated from one another, they are endangered by
the sole member of the opposite sex they encounter on the dark
streets.
Eden,
the sole female character, is deadly. To be seduced by the charms of
the opposite sex is dangerous; in fact, it can be fatal. It is better
that men resist feminine beauty in favor of the company of their
same-sex friends. Romance involving the opposite sex is dangerous;
same-sex friendship is not. Beautiful young women break the bonds
between men, disrupting homosocial relationships. Brothers are
trustworthy; women are not. These seem to be the ultimate,
prepubescent themes, or lessons, of Eden.
Do you sleep with a cross
or a crucifix around your neck?
Does your house (and your
breath) smell like garlic?
Do you keep a bottle of
holy water on hand?
Are you careful to be
home by dark every day?
Could an unsuspecting
guest stumble upon a few wooden stakes and a mallet stashed in your
dresser?
If so, you need not fear
bloodsucking dead people any longer!
A scientist has come to
the rescue with a mathematical proof against the possibility of the
existence of vampires!
University
of Central Florida physics professor Costas
Efthimiou starts with the human population on January 1, 1600,
which was 536,870,911. On this day, the first vampire appears and
bites one person each month. On the first day of February, there are
two bloodsucking freaks. On March 1, 1600, there are four vampires.
In 2.5 years, there are no more humans to feed on, because everyone
on the planet has been turned into a vampire! There's no food left
for the bloodsuckers, so they die of starvation. (On the downside,
there are no more people, either.)
Not even doubling the
human birthrate (if such a gambit were possible) could save the human
species, Dr. Efthimiou says: “In the long run, humans cannot
survive under these conditions, even if our population were doubling
each month. And doubling is clearly way beyond the human capacity of
reproduction.”
So, there you have it,
thanks to Professor Efthimiou: there's no need to fear the existence
of vampires. If there were, both vampires and humans would have
disappeared in mid-1603. Since we humans, at least, are still here,
there obviously are no such things as vampires.
For some folks, ghosts
are scary phenomena, too, but there's no need to worry about these
spectral beings, either, another scientist says.
Dr. Brian
Cox, a physicist, has proved there aren't any ghosts, either. If
they did exist, they'd be entities of pure energy, since, by
definition, they're incorporeal. According to the second law of
thermodynamics, energy is always “lost to heat”; therefore,
ghosts, as beings of pure energy, would soon drift apart and cease
to exist.
The Online
Etymology Dictionary is not
only interesting in itself, but it is also a reminder of the beliefs,
attitudes, and, yes, fears (among other influences) that inspire words
associated with language and, in the case of the topic for this post,
horror.
“Troll,”
for example, originally alluded to a “supernatural being in
Scandinavian mythology and folklore and derived from the Old Norse
troll,
referring to a “giant being not of the human race, evil spirit,
monster.” Its first recorded use, the Online
Etymology Dictionary
states, was in a court document concerning a case associated with
witchcraft and sorcery. Allegedly, “a certain [witch named]
Catherine” witnessed trolls rise from a churchyard in Hildiswick.”
First conceived as giants, they were later believed to be “dwarfs
and imps supposed to live in caves or under the ground.” Moreover,
these formerly fierce beings became “obliging and neighbourly;
freely lending and borrowing, and elsewise keeping up a friendly
intercourse with mankind,” their thieving ways notwithstanding.
The
dictionary's entry concerning the werewolf
indicates that belief in these creatures, as people “'with the
power to turn into a wolf' . . . . was widespread in the Middle
Ages.” Apparently, it was also widely believed in Persia, where
present-day Iran's ancestors named the October Varkazana,
or the month of the “Wolf-Men.”
Teratology,
once the study of monsters, is now the study of physical
abnormalities, such as those resulting from birth defects and
“reproductive and developmentally-mediated disorders.” Its
previous subject matter provides some interesting and, indeed,
surprising insights into the origin of the concept of the monster as
a horrific figure. Originally, a monster
was an omen, sent by God to warn humanity (or a nation) of his
displeasure; if the people didn't repent of their wickedness, God
would follow his warning with punishment. Thus, for example, a pair
of conjoined twins or a hermaphrodite would be taken as an admonitory
message to be ignored at a people's own peril. As the Online
Etymology Dictionary entry
for this term reads, in part, “monster” derives from “Latin
monstrum,”
referring to a 'divine omen (especially one indicating misfortune),
portent, sign; abnormal shape; monster, monstrosity,' [and means a]
figuratively 'repulsive character, object of dread, awful deed,
[or] abomination.'” Writers and readers of contemporary horror fiction
might do well to keep this history of the word's meaning in mind the
next time they take up a copy of Frankenstein
or The Island of Dr. Moreau.
Couldn't the scientists' monsters have been warnings sent by God,
through the labors of Frankenstein and Dr. Moreau?
The
lamia first
seems to have been envisioned as a mermaid-vampire hybrid, but was
later envisioned as a half-woman, half-serpent vampiric creature.
Interestingly, the transformation of the lamia from mermaid to
serpent-woman might have been suggested by the word lamia's
association with “swallowing,” just as her erotic charm might
have been suggested by the word's original link to lechery and her
sorcery to the term's original connection to sorcery: “female
demon, late 14c., from Latin lamia
[meaning] 'witch, sorceress, vampire,' from Greek lamia
[meaning] 'female vampire, man-eating monster,' literally 'swallower,
lecher,' from laimos 'throat, gullet.'” The snake-like form of the
lamia might have been based upon the idea that she was something of a
personified gullet, since a snake has such a form.
Alluring,
the lamia enthralled men with her charms (and, perhaps, with a bit of
witchery, but, when her beauty and magic were no longer strong enough
an attraction, she would kill and devour him, as the following
passage suggests:
Also kynde erreþ in som beestes wondirliche j-schape,
as it fareþ in a beest þat hatte lamia, þat haþ an heed as a
mayde & body as a grym fissche[;] whan þat best lamya may fynde
ony man, first a flatereþ wiþ hym with a wommannes face and makeþ
hym ligge by here while he may dure, & whanne he may noferþere
suffice to here lecherye þanne he rendeþ hym and sleþ and eteþ
hym. [Bartholomew Glanville, c. 1360, "De proprietatibus rerum,"
translated by John of Trevisa]
Translation:
An error among some kinds of animals sometimes results in a
wondrous shape, such as that of the lamia, which has a woman's head and
the body of a horrible fish. When a lamia finds a man, it flatters
him with its beauty and makes him linger beside her until her charms
no longer enthrall him, whereupon she slays and eats him.
[Bartholomew Glanville, c. 1360, the
Property of Things,
translated by John of Trevisa]
Many
other words associated with horror fiction also have interesting
origins and histories, some of which could suggest new takes on old
topics or altogether new approaches to such fiction.
I'm browsing horror movie
posters again. This time, I'm checking out erotic horror movie
posters. There are strong parallels between erotica and horror, after
all, so movie posters that advertise a cross between the two are apt
to be doubly erotic or horrific or both. That, at least, is my
hypothesis.
But I'm also looking for
originality, so if there are more than a couple erotic movie posters
concerning the same theme—vampires, werewolves, or witches, say—I
eliminate those based on this theme. Thus, the poster for Vampire
Lesbos, which features a
beautiful, topless brunette vampire drinking what appears to be a
wineglass of blood, as her largely unseen lover embraces her from
behind, ends up, as it were, on the cutting-room floor; so does An
Erotic Werewolf in London, whose
fanged female rips away her own blouse as she begins to undergo her
transformation from woman into wolf.
One
of the posters that remain is that for the movie Cadaver.
The poster shows a nude female body being sliced, or mutilated, by a
scalpel in the gloved hand of someone (presumably, a medical
examiner). The surgical knife, instead of making the “Y” incision
characteristic of autopsies, cuts through the front of the woman's
right breast and down the same side of her abdomen.
Blood,
rising from the wound, suggests she isn't dead, after all, because,
of course, cadavers don't bleed. She's a victim, it seems, rather
than a dead body.
Her
ordeal begs the question, Why is she being treated in this manner? Is
she being tortured? Did the medical examiner (if he is a medical
examiner) mistake a condition or conditions which may mimic
death—catatonia, perhaps, coupled with paralysis—for her apparent
absence of life? The text, which frequently unlocks the implications
of the images on movie posters is, this time, of no help: “The
anatomy of evil, the pathology of curse.” The film itself provides
an explanation for the bleeding body that potential moviegoers aren't
apt to guess.
The
movie poster for Hostel: Part II
(2007) seems to have been inspired by Washington Irving's short
story, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” Instead of a headless
horseman, though, the poster features the body of an apparently
decapitated nude woman, shown from neck to knees, holding what seems
to be her own head, the eyes of which are turned up, showing white,
and the tongue of which lolls between its parted lips.
Hostel: Part II
is nothing like the legend of the headless horseman, in either its
American version (Irving's version) or any of its medieval variants.
However, the apparent allusion to Irving's story (or, perhaps, more
generally, to the legend of the headless horseman per se)
may yet be intentional, a red herring, as it were, to imply a
reference that doesn't exist and a context irrelevant to the movie's
actual storyline. By suggesting parallels where there are none, the
advertisers of the film may have intentionally misled potential
viewers, the better to intrigue them while, at the same time,
preventing them from guessing the movie's plot.
The
Maniac (1980) movie
poster shows what, at first glance, seems to be a naked young woman
wearing a veil. She is beautiful of face and attractive in “all the
right places,” as the euphemistic phrase states.
However,
as one begins to look closer, it's clear that what seem to be the
straps of a transparent bra and the lines of sheer panties are
actually seams, and the blue-eyed blonde's staring, vacant gaze
suggests there's nothing human behind her stare. She is, in fact, a
mannequin—a mannequin that bleeds, for blood appears at her
hairline and streams down her brow and the side of her face. (I must
admit, I saw these details only after taking in other of the
mannequin's features.) The smooth contours of her body, like her
erect posture and her empty, glazed look make it clear she's a
mannequin, which makes her bleeding all the eerier.
The
movie's plot clears up the mystery of the bleeding mannequin, and the
explanation actually makes sense, in its own twisted way: the
“maniac” implied by the movie's title is a particular type of
madman,
a man with a fetish for agalmatophilia, like Pygmalion.
By
searching for erotic movie posters that don't depend on cliched
themes, such as Vampirism, lycanthropy, and witchcraft, one is apt to
find more unusual and creative possibilities for accounting for a
story's erotic character or, at the very least, as in Cadaver,
an innovative use of a rite theme.
But
there's another use to which such approaches can be put in a horror
novel (or film). A prologue or the opening scene of the story proper,
can describe such a situation as a movie poster such as the one's
we've considered, without presenting the explanation for its bizarre
nature (or with an implied explanation which turns out, for a
believable reason, to be false), thereby, like a movie poster or a
movie trailer, hooking readers with the mystery of the horror and
making them want to read on, even if it makes them buy the book. By
the same token, such an approach might hook an editor, making him or
her decide to commit to the purchase of the author's rights to his or
her story.
Copyright 2019 by Gary L. Pullman, author of Good with a Gun
One way to energize a
genre of fiction is to introduce into it a hierarchy, or some other
type of analytical or descriptive scheme, that is commonly used in a
different type of narrative literature.
As Don
Lincoln, author of Alien Universe: Extraterrestrial Life in
Our Minds and in the Cosmos,
observes, science fiction employs the scale “popularized”
in J. Allen Hynek's “1972 book The UFO Experience,”
which identifies three types, or “kinds,” of “close encounters”
with extraterrestrial spacecraft or beings:
1st Kind
2nd Kind
3rd Kind
UFO sighting
UFO sighting supported by “physical
evidence”
Encounter with alien beings
These
original “kinds” of “close encounters” have been extended,
says Lincoln, by four other types, although these additional levels
“are “not universally accepted”:
4th Kind
5th Kind
6th Kind
7th Kind
“Abduction with retained memory”
“Regular conversations”
“An encounter” resulting in a
human's “death or injury”
“Human/extraterrestrial mating that
produces an offspring, often called a 'star child'”
Although
hybrid horror-science fiction narratives or dramas sometimes include
extraterrestrial beings (e. g., Stephen King's Dreamcatcher
and such films as Alien,
The Thing from Another World,
and Invaders from Mars),
space aliens are primarily a staple of sci fi fiction. Monsters, on
the other hand, are more often antagonists in horror fiction. Hynek's
scale, and its extension, provide a means of re-imagining monsters:
1st Kind
2nd Kind
3rd Kind
Monster sighting
Monster sighting supported by
“physical evidence”
Encounter with monster(s)
4th Kind
5th Kind
6th Kind
7th Kind
Monster's abduction recalled (or
recovered through the discovery of a lost film or video)
Periodic communications with the
monster, vocally or otherwise (e. g., through mental telepathy)
“An encounter” with the monster
which results in a human's “death or injury”
Human/monster mating resulting in a
hybrid progeny
Many
of these types of “close encounters” with monsters have already
been depicted in horror novels, short stories, or movies. There have
been many sightings of monsters, as in Frank Peretti's 2006 novel
Monster; encounters
with monsters (as in Mary Shelley's 1818 novel Frankenstein),
periodic communications with the monster (as in Anne Rice's 1976
novel Interview with a Vampire),
encounters with monsters that end in human's deaths (so many there's
no need to cite an example), and even matings between women and
monsters that result in births of hybrid human-monster children (as
in Ira Levine's 1967 novel Rosemary's Baby).
However,
an imaginative use of this extended scale of “close encounters”
with monsters, rather than with aliens—which, it could be argued,
represented simply another type of monster) can still introduce
innovations into the horror genre. For example, the scale could be
used to structure a novel or, for that matter a heptalogy, or series
of seven works, each of which is inspired by one of the seven types
of “close encounters” with monsters listed in the “monster
scale” adapted from Hynek's hierarchy.
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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