Monsters and the Monster Makers Who Make Them

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

Transformation is the changing of a person, place, or thing from one state into another. (In this post, we're limiting our consideration of transformation and its effects to concrete entities, although, of course, abstractions, such as ideas, moral principles, emotions, attitudes, values, and beliefs can and are often also transformed.) Such transformations, as might be expected, often, in turn, produce sometimes dramatic effects.

Some transformations, such as that of a caterpillar into a butterfly or a fetus into an infant) are natural. Others are induced. In times past, magic was the means by which transformations were evoked; today, science is likely to be the means of effecting such changes.

 For example, according to Ovid's account of the myth concerning Hermaphroditus, the god Hermes, in answer to the prayer of the nymph Salmacis, transformed the fifteen-year-old youth Hermaphroditus and his admirer, Salmacis herself, into a single person who possessed the adolescent's male sex and the nymph's female sex.

Today, such a “metamorphosis” would, of course, result from hormone therapy and surgery, and its cause wouldn't be a nymph's desire to be united forever with the object of her love (or passion), but gender dysphoria (at least as the cause of the condition is presently understood).

In some instances, sexual transformations are central to horror films. In such movies, a transvestite or a transgender person is frequently the villain, and he or she (usually she) is not typically portrayed with compassion or sensitivity. Psycho, Sleepaway Camp, and Insidious: Chapter 2 are some of the better-known horror movies that feature transvestite or transgender “monsters.”

But transformations need not be sexual. They can involve genetic mutation (a male scientist becomes a fly in The Fly), age and physical appearance (the succubus in The Shining changes from a beautiful young woman into an old crone), animality (men and women transform into werewolves in The Howling), insectoid (Debbie changes into a cockroach in A Nightmare on Elm Street 4), multiple personalities (Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde), and many other types of change.

Ovid himself suggests various types of transformations in his Metamorphoses. Such changes include changes of inanimate objects into human beings; men and women into divinities or other supernatural beings; a youth into a hermaphrodite; a woman into a man; men and women into animals, birds, stones, flowers, and a cloud; and a supernatural being into a plant.

 

Some of the metamorphoses of which Ovid writes were likely intended as rewards: Galatea's transformation from a statue into a woman; a fisherman's transformation into a sea god; Chiron's transformation into a celestial constellation. Other metamorphoses, however, were probably meant to be punishments of hubris or some other offense, as were those in which human beings were turned into stone. In some cases, as that of Syrinx, the metamorphosis was for protection. Regardless of the reason for such extreme changes, however, it seems such transformations would not be entirely devoid of horror.

In horror fiction, such changes are always extreme and, well, horrifying. They are horrifying for several reasons. They are

• beyond control, making those who are transformed helpless;
• usually for the worse—something more valuable—or, at least, more valued—is lost than that which is gained: humanity, youth and beauty, oneself;
• either irreversible or recurrent (that which is lost, in other words, is irretrievably lost or can be regained only for a time and is constantly under threat);
• sudden, often without warning, and do not, therefore, allow their victims time to reflect upon their fate or to “adjust” to a change that will have monumental and lasting effects on them throughout their lives as well as those who love—or even simply know—them;
• likely to alter the victim's self-image, self-confidence, and self-esteem;
• apt to endanger the victim, subjecting him or her to scorn, ostracism, incarceration, physical or sexual assault, or even murder.

Imagine that you are an adolescent boy who is suddenly neither a boy nor a girl and, paradoxically, both; that you are a beautiful young woman transformed into an old crone; that you are a man become a fly, a wolf, or a cockroach; or that you now have two personalities. Imagine that this astonishing change occurred instantly, only a moment ago, without warning or anticipation. You are yourself, but you are also, most assuredly, not yourself. You are a freak, a monster, who will be treated as such by others, feared and shunned, hunted and stalked.

That is the true nature of the monster who becomes monstrous through metamorphosis, whether the change is effected through magic or technology. A successful horror story that derives its horror from the existential transformation of a character succeeds when it shows that the true horror of this situation is not in the change itself but in the effects of the metamorphosis—and then portrays those effects so well that the audience or the reader, vicariously experiencing them, feels the “monster's” pain, suffers with the monster, and, in effect, becomes the monster, helpless, overwhelmed, the worse for wear, irretrievably altered, suffering losses of confidence and self-esteem; scorned, ostracized, incarcerated, physically or sexually assaulted, or even murdered.

The monster is redeemed, if redeemed at all, by the knowledge that those who make monsters are more monstrous than the monsters they make.

NOTE: The author does not mean to imply that transgender individuals are "monsters." He is alluding to Hermaphroditus, as this mythical figure's metamorphosis is described in Ovid's poem, and to the concepts of the ancients regarding conditions that are now explained and understood scientifically. Transgender individuals are certainly not monsters or in any sense monstrous.

Inspiring Ideas and Insights from the Matriarchy

Copyright 2010 by Gary L. Pullman

In her addictive 1988 book The Woman's Dictionary of Symbols and Sacred Objects, Barbara G. Walker offers many insights and much information of an inspiring nature. Writers can mine her work for ideas for many stories, whether of the horror genre or another. All it takes is an application of one's own imagination.

Here are some of her inspiring gems.

Any . . . symbol may have hundreds of interpretations, according to the differing beliefs of people who have interpreted it (ix).

How might a mortuary be interpreted by various groups with—shall we say unusual beliefs? For zombies, a mortuary might be seen as an eatery; vampires might convert it into a comfortable bedroom suite; a necrophiliac might also see a mortuary as a bedroom but would be apt to put it to a different use than vampires awaiting the deepening of twilight into night.

People revere external objects that strike their fancy for either esthetic [sic] or associative reasons. Whatever is perceived as somehow special in one's experience can become an object of worship . . . trees . . . stones . . . mountains . . . rivers . . . as well as every kind of personal or collective fetish (x).

Since beauty is in the eye of the beholder, aesthetic vision may differ from one person to another. What makes a place beautiful? The blood-splatter pattern on the wall before which a gunshot victim died? The human flesh that was burned into the stone of a dungeon wall when a prisoner was burned alive? The full-length mirror in which a man or woman was compelled to watch as he or she was flayed alive? What other “associations” might render this place or that sacred? Did Vlad the Impaler find the sharpened treetops stripped of branches upon which he fixed his enemies holy objects? Was the bathtub in which Catherine of Bathory bathed in murdered maidens' blood a revered spot in her castle? Was the burial ground beneath John Wayne Gacy's suburban home as special to him as a churchyard full of dead congregants' bones is to their surviving loved ones?

The simpler the symbol, the more meanings it can accumulate . . . through generations (x). Walker recounts how the swastika, once a symbol of “peace and creativity,” became seen, following its association with the Nazis, a hated thing symbolic of “totalitarianism and cruelty” (ix).

For a naive, loving, young bride pure of heart, her wedding ring might represent love and faithfulness and the sacred union of man and wife in wedded bliss. A few years later, if the groom is not whom she believed, but is unfaithful, cruel, and abusive, the same ring may come to represent hatred and betrayal and her bondage to a man she never knew. To her children, after they have learned of their dear, dead mother's years of torment at her husband's hands, the ring may signify the ordeal of horror, misery, and despair she suffered for their sake.

Ultimately, symbolism boils down to human needs and desires [related to such universal concerns as] health, wealth, fertility, power, control of the environment, or maintenance of the food supply (xi).

Again, Walker gives horror story writers much food for thought in her catalog of “human needs and desires,” especially if they were to be warped by corruption, evil, or decadence. Were an evil man to need a liver donor, to what ends might he be willing to go to obtain a reluctant benefactor? For someone who puts profit before people, what limits, if any, would there be? For a mountebank, an infertile man or woman might present a windfall of opportunity. To gain or hold onto power, men and women have done hideous deeds, indeed. An effort to control the environment could easily backfire, causing deaths by the thousands. What would an otherwise kind and compassionate character do to ensure that he or she and his or her family does not go without food?

Symbols are whatever one cares to make of them (xi).

Problems could arise if one group is willing to eradicate a group whose people stand in the way of what possible followers' devotion to a symbol the first group defines far differently than their intended victims do.

Walker's concepts and perceptions could seed plenty of more story ideas. Perhaps we will revisit her fascinating book's observations again in a future post.

Hungry Again: A Review of Sult, a Short Horror Film

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

Sult (2018), a Norwegian short erotic horror film runs about seven minutes and thirty-six minutes (not counting the credits that roll as the end of the action). In English, the movie's title is Hunger. A brunette hairstylist, Vera (Sarah-Stephanie Skjoldevik) has an appetite for an aloof blonde, Suzanne (Marianne Lindbeck), but Vera's love, if not her passion, is unrequited. However, Suzanne does seem attracted to brunettes: the woman with whom she cheats on Vera is also a dark-haired beauty.

The film starts in the present. It's Friday, and Vera joins Suzanne in a booth in a bar. Suzanne wears the necklace that Vera gives her (in a flashback scene not yet shown). Suzanne does not look overjoyed to see Vera; in fact, Suzanne appears barely able to tolerate the brunette. Vera drinks a glass of wine on the rim of which is a split cherry. Then, Vera strokes Suzanne's cheek, throat, and chin, as Suzanne appears to put up with Vera's attentions, rather than to enjoy them. However, when Vera kisses Suzanne, the women exchange a series of additional kisses, during which Suzanne, becoming aroused, slips the tip of her tongue into Vera's mouth. Reaching behind her own back, Vera removes a pair of scissors from her waistband. Biting Suzanne's tongue, Vera snips the tip of it off with her scissors, and Suzanne falls back, against the seat in the booth, a bloody mess, in pain, disbelief, and horror.

During a flashback, Vera is at home. It's Tuesday, and she prepares for her date with Suzanne. Later, they play billiards, and Suzanne wins. Afterward, Vera gives Suzanne a necklace—the same one the blonde wears in the bar in the film's opening scene. However, Vera seems indifferent about the gift—she even rolls her eyes as Vera fastens it about her neck—and, indeed, Suzanne seems to care nothing for Vera's love for her. The next day, Vera visits Suzanne's modest apartment, where the brunette sees Suzanne kissing and caressing another woman, who is also a brunette. On Thursday, while styling a client's hair, Vera cuts her finger, which seems to suggest the revenge she takes upon Suzanne.

Back in the present, watching Suzanne bleed and shudder, Vera, now shows the same indifference toward Suzanne's pain and horror as Suzanne had earlier shown concerning Vera's gift. After retrieving the necklace she'd given Suzanne, Vera takes the tip of Suzanne's tongue from Suzanne's bloody hand, inserts the severed piece of the appendage into her own mouth, chews, and swallows, before abandoning Suzanne, who continues to bleed and shudder in the booth.

Sult is a revenge film, but there is a bit more to the interpersonal dynamics between Vera and Suzanne than simply courtship. When she meets Suzanne in the bar, Vera wears a black leather outfit that suggests a penchant on her part for BDSM. In a stereotype dating from pulp fiction lesbian erotica, Vera's hair color and dress characterize her as a dominant, or top, while Suzanne's contrasting blonde locks identify her as a submissive, or bottom. Throughout the film Vera displays her dominance over Suzanne. She makes Suzanne wait for her to arrive at the bar. Vera always initiates the action between them. Vera gazes upon Suzanne as though the blonde is a prized possession, rather than a person. Vera bestows a gift upon Suzanne, which identifies the blonde as the recipient of Vera's generosity.

Suzanne maintains a relationship with Vera, but it is a superficial one. She tolerates Vera, but she does not love her. She waits for her. She endures Vera's kisses and caresses, but she never initiates the intimacy between them, and she does not appear to treasure the gift of the necklace. She accepts it the same was that she tolerates Vera, with aloofness, with coolness, with indifference. She even expresses her disdain by rolling her eyes as Vera fastens the clasp of the necklace about her lover's neck. There is the suggestion, in Vera's large, luxurious apartment, in her clothing, in her gift, and in her bearing, of a woman who has money, but she is a controlled, as well as a controlling, mistress: she wears tight, restrictive clothing—the leather outfit and the corset into which she laces herself quite tightly as she prepares for her date with Suzanne.

It is because of Vera's money, rather than for Vera herself, perhaps, that Suzanne unenthusiastically tolerates Vera and her romantic inclinations. It is clear, though, that Suzanne does not love Vera, despite the occasional passion that Vera's lovemaking ignites in Suzanne.

Certainly, Vera is not Suzanne's only paramour. Suzanne embraces, kisses, and caresses the woman in her own apartment, and, although Vera later watches Suzanne grope and be groped by another woman—a brunette, like Vera herself—and pleasures herself, it is clear that Vera does not like sharing Suzanne with someone else.

Suzanne's intimate interaction with the other woman also suggests that Suzanne is not exclusively submissive, for, in these interactions, Suzanne not only takes the lead, but she treats her lover in a manner similar to the one in which Vera treats Suzanne herself: Suzanne, in these interactions, is the dominant person. With Vera, she reverses this role, albeit reluctantly. Suzanne, like Vera, appears to be a naturally dominant person. If such is the case, she may well resent submitting to Vera, which could explain Suzanne's reluctance and indifference to her playing the role of the submissive participant in her relationship with Vera.

It is when Vera accidentally cuts herself while styling another woman's hair—and a blonde woman, like Suzanne, at that—that Vera conceives her plan to cut off the tip of Suzanne's tongue. She will punish Suzanne's infidelity. She will hurt Suzanne, as Vera has just hurt herself. Indeed, the same pair of scissors with which she accidentally cut her own finger become the instrument with which she severs Suzanne's tongue.

The tongue is an instrument of taste. It is an instrument of communication, helping to form words. The lips resemble the labia, and, in lesbian lovemaking, the lips are often a primary instrument in providing pleasure for one's lover—in Suzanne's case, Vera. However, Suzanne has betrayed Vera with her lips and her tongue, kissing other women, women with whom Suzanne takes the lead, acting as the initiator, conducting herself in an aggressive, dominant manner.

By cutting off the tip of Suzanne's tongue, Vera mutilates her, degrading Suzanne's beauty while eliminating or severely reducing Suzanne's ability to provide erotic pleasure to other lovers. In a sense, by this act, Vera claims Suzanne as her own. However, she does so only to abandon her, to leave her moaning in horror and pain, shuddering and bloody. Henceforth, if she survives, Suzanne will be less beautiful and less able to attract and please other women.

The “hunger” that Vera feels for Suzanne is sexual, but it is also psychological. Vera wants Suzanne both physically and emotionally. Vera wants to dominate Suzanne, body and soul, When Suzanne refuses to give Vera what she wants most—her autonomy, her freedom, her will, her very existence—Vera takes it. Courtship becomes assault, physical, sexual, and emotional.

 

In certain societies, consuming part of a vanquished enemy's body—usually, the heart—indicates that the consumer has ingested the foe's courage, literally taking it into himself, so that the enemy's attribute becomes an attribute of the vanquishing hero himself. By eating the tip of Suzanne's tongue, Vera symbolically takes into herself Suzanne's own beauty and passion; Suzanne's characteristics become Vera's own. It is the final act of dominance, of control, of possession.

The question is, Does the cannibalistic act satisfy Vera's hunger? Can such a hunger ever be satisfied? Will Vera, at some time in the future, become hungry again?

"Shadowed": An Amusing Vignette

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

 

Shadowed (2020), directed by David F. Sandberg, star his wife, Lotta Losten, and five shadow people. The plot is simple:

A woman (we'll call her Lotta) reads in bed. Her light goes out. She sits up quickly, on the edge of the bed. She hears a noise. Worried, she activates a small flashlight that she takes from the drawer of her bedside table. The beam illuminates a single, flat dish on the beside table. But two shadows show on the wall behind the table: the shadow of the dish and the shadow of a jar. As the shadow of the jar indicates, she picks up the invisible jar and then drops it back onto the table. She hears another noise. A shadowy woman sits in the chair near the foot of Lotta's bed. Lotta tosses a blanket on the bed over the shadow woman in the chair. The blanket falls onto the chair, assuming the shape of the chair's contours, suggesting the shadow woman has vacated her seat. Her bedroom door opens of its own accord, showing the hallway outside her bedroom. Lotta stands in the darkness of her bedroom. She approaches the bedroom's doorway. She enters the hallway. She follows the hallway to another part of the house, pausing near the foot of the stairs leading to the house's second story. A shadow of a man stands hunched over in front of a closed door. The shadow man twists, before turning quickly toward Lotta, and snarls, The shadow man continues to transform into a more clearly human shape. The shadow man rushes toward Lotta. She runs back down the hallway to her bedroom. Closed, her bedroom door is presumably locked. Trapped, Lotta turns when she hears a sound behind her. Five shadow figures—three women and two men, one of the which holds a shadow hatchet. Lotta mutters an unintelligible word or two—maybe “David” or “keep back.”

Some people believe that shadow people are spirits; others believe that they are beings from other dimensions. Some suggest that shadow people are evil; others think that shadow people are either friendly or neutral toward human beings. Scientists suggest that such figures may be hallucinations caused by sleep paralysis, and methamphetamine addicts have reported seeing shadow people as a result of sleep deprivation.

Sandberg's 1:48-second film doesn't provide many clues by which to decipher its message, if there is one. The view of the leaves of a tree through the small window in Lotta's bedroom indicates that it is nighttime. The bed is still made, and she is fully dressed, except for her shoes, and she is, we later learn, downstairs, possibly in the guestroom, which is sparsely furnished with a bed, a bedside table, a simple lamp, a fireplace, and a vaguely seen larger piece of furniture visible for a moment in the sweep of her flashlight beam as she turns toward the shadow woman in the chair. The only decorative items seem to the the dish on the bedside table. Such a sparsely furnished and relatively small room is obviously not the master bedroom. She wears no wedding ring, so, apparently, she is unmarried.

The bedroom door appears to open by itself. Later, it appears to have closed and possibly locked itself. We do not see any shadow people when these occurrences occur, and no other characters are present to provide us with a point of view other than Lotta's own. Therefore, it is possible that the shadow figures are nothing more than the products of her hallucinations, perhaps brought on by sleep deprivation: although it is night, she has neither undressed (except to remove her shoes) nor donned pajamas or a nightgown. She does not appear to be in her own bedroom, but in the guestroom. Instead of sleeping or trying to sleep, she reads.

At first, there is only one shadow person—a woman. Then, there is a shadow man. The first shadow person, the woman, does not behave in a threatening manner, but the shadow man rushes Lotta. Finally, there are five shadow people, three women and two men, one of the latter of whom holds a hatchet. The hatchet and the menacing manner of the five shadow people, as well as Lotta's fear of them and her attempt to flee from them and to return to the sanctuary of the guestroom suggest that they are hostile toward her and intend to harm her, although it is impossible to determine how they can do so, since they lack material substance. Their only means of attack seems to be to frighten Lotta to the extent that she injures herself by fleeing from them: she could run into a wall, into furniture, or trip and fall, as the narrator in H. G. Wells's short story “The Red Room” does.

 

Or are the shadow people immaterial?

They would seem to be, but the jar that Lotta picks up and then drops on the bedside table seems real enough and material enough. Although it appears to be invisible, its shadow rises on the wall as she lifts the object and “falls” on the wall when she returns the object to its original position on the tabletop. It is real enough and tangible enough to cast to block the light of the flashlight, real and tangible enough to cast a shadow. If the shadow jar is real, if it is tangible, the shadow people could be real and tangible as well. We do not see them exert force, but that does not mean that they are incapable of doing so, and Lotta certainly believes they are capable of harming her.

We must conclude that if the shadow people exist, they are definitely invisible and they could be tangible. However, we have no proof and no reason to believe that the shadow people are anything more than products of Lotta's hallucinations. They do not disturb anything. They do not move anything. They leave no trace of their presence, as far as we know—no footprints or fingerprints. They do not speak. True, the shadow man that Lotta sees as she stands at the foot of the stairs seems to undergo a transformation of sorts, as he twists and twitches and lifts his seemingly outsize head becomes more clearly human. But these apparent changes could be merely the effects of Lotta's imagination or results of hallucinations.

As we have seen in previous posts, Tzvetan Todorov categorizes fantastic literature, of which horror fiction is a type, into three varieties: the fantastic, the uncanny, and the marvelous. A story, he says, is uncanny if its incidents can be explained through scientific knowledge or through reason. It it remains inexplicable in such terms, it is marvelous. Only a story that cannot be resolved as being either uncanny (explicable) or marvelous (explicable) remains fantastic. For example, Wells's “The Red Room” is uncanny; Stephen King's short story “1408” is marvelous; and Henry James's novella The Turn of the Screw is fantastic. Since science can explain the phenomena that trouble Lotta as effects of sleep paralysis or sleep deprivation (or, for that matter, a wild imagination), Sandberg's short must be reckoned an exercise in the uncanny.

Although Shadowed doesn't have a plot and is not, therefore, an example of flash fiction, it does achieve one of the tasks that Edgar Allan Poe sees as critical in horror fiction. It creates a single emotional effect (“The Philosophy of Composition”). Of course, Poe believes that a story must accomplish more than the creation of a single, unified effect. It must have a plot, for example, as all of his own tales certainly have. To produce an effect, of fear or disgust or horror or terror or any other emotion suitable to horror fiction, all the elements of the tale must work together to lead to and maximize the effect with which the story ends, and these other elements include, among them, a plot.

A couple of the criticisms that Mark Twain directed at James Fenimore Cooper's Leatherstocking Tales can be said of Shadowed: “A a tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere, and “the personages in a tale, both dead and alive, shall exhibit a sufficient excuse for being there” (“Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offenses”). Shadowed is a handsome, well-executed vignette, but it is not a short story, even of the length of a flash fiction narrative. It may entertain for a minute or two, but it cannot truly satisfy anyone who takes his or her horror—or his or her drama—seriously.