Freeland and the Appeal of Graphic Horror

I was reading Freeland's chapter on graphic horror and I found a few curious details that sparked my interest. Earlier in the course, I was discussing the nature of slasher villains and the idea that foes like Jason Voorhees tend to inspire audience support (especially from fans) rather than detractors. Fans typically praise Jason and follow him on his adventures through the numerous sequels and remakes. What drives that interest? Why can people identify with a monster?

Freeland makes some great remarks about the appeal of graphic horror films. Most notably, she links it towards three main characteristics, each a development of the idea that graphic scenes of gore/violence function like "numbers" (heightened sequences of spectacle and emotion that appear to interrupt the plot and produce pure visual experiences of stunning power and capacity - a perverse sublime if you will): (1) they can further the plot and narrative, (2) produce emotional/cognitive effects, and (3) provide general aesthetic pleasures that have to do with audience knowledge and appreciation of the genre.

Function 3 is what interests me the most. This type of aesthetic pleasure is what the typical horror cinephile gets attracted to once they've become enveloped by the genre. For example, I'm a diehard fan of John Carpenter's remake of The Thing. One of the main reasons I prefer this film is its sheer ingenious mechanical effects - I know what type of blood, sweat and labor went into the making of them (and the fact that Rob Bottin, the lead makeup FX guy, had a breakdown after the film says something of how much effort he put into it). The gory visual spectacles are gross, obviously, but they aren't just artifacts of violence for violence' sake. Which leads into the second idea, that graphic horror is sometimes appreciated due to intertextuality and a meta-level aesthetic appreciation of specialized knowledge and interest. Freeland writes (especially concerning horror sequels), "Sequels have a special appeal to the fans of a genre. They often prompt a switch from involvement in a film's plot to a metalevel sort of aesthetic appreciation based on special knowledge and interests. Graphic horror sequels enable fans to study and comment upon cinematic techniques: plot variations, allusions, style, effects, wizardry, parody, and 'in jokes'" (p. 262).

This is the pure artistic appreciation of what the filmmakers can create, as for example in The Thing. Concerning the types of monsters in these films, Freeland writes, "Despite their individual differences, monsters like Pinhead, Freddy, Leatherface, and Jason function alike in one key way - they take graphic visual spectacle to new extremes. They figure in films whose numbers are given over to what I called function 3, display for its own sake. Their presence is inked to frightening displays of forces of destruction that can simultaneously be disgusting yet enjoyable" (p. 268).

So, there we have it, perhaps. Spectators can be attracted to these slasher monsters because of the cinematic creativity that they embody, the spectacular nature of their deeds, and the specific knowledge that comes with knowing them. Specific knowledge here of course representing that a fan of Jason will know and recognize the many different ways that he and his methods have been portrayed throughout the series (intertextual references begin to come into the fray in later sequels which reference Frankenstein and the idea of resurrection through lightening).

Furthermore, Freeland argues that the very extreme nature of the violence depicted in these films renders them more comedic and cartoony than anything. The violence becomes sublimated and stripped of its negative aspects. Unlike the realism of other films, graphic horror focuses on the spectacle entirely and becomes so utterly unrealistic that it borders on camp. Of which I would agree. 

I had specified that I thought horror slashers were popular among fans because they tend to develop a cult like status through subsequent films. All of these observations, be it the cinematic creativity, cartoonish violence, or references to other works (and in-jokes or more esoteric knowledge) can be developed in that framework. 

So, back to the paradox of horror and Mr. Carroll. Why horror? Why do we enjoy it? If graphic horror offers any insight, then certainly we like it for its spectacular visual display and creativity. Of course, not all horror functions in this manner. The advancement of plot and eliciting of emotions and cognitive interests (functions 1 and 2 of numbers) also play much larger roles in a work such as Stoker's Dracula, in which the violence or moodiness is clearly meant to support the narrative and upset the reader (the blood transfusions are still unsettling to me for some reason). 

Thus, it would seem that part of Freeland's account is once again in line with Carroll's in that horror ties into narrative expectations. Carroll believed that horror was the price we paid for a disclosure of the plot and the nature of the monster. Similarly, Freeland is arguing that graphic horror can be a vehicle for plot and narrative, enhancing it or just taking it to the extreme in a visual excess.

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What about non-cinephile horror viewers? Perhaps they won't enjoy graphic horror as much as fans would. I'm not entirely sure what to make of a "fresh" viewer - someone who isn't acquainted with the background and/or localized knowledge of a specific monster or movie series. Perhaps they can enjoy graphic horror through its advancement of the plot and the interplay with cognitive emotions. 

Personally, I know that as a fan of horror cinema, many of the works I went into fresh were those that helped me develop my sensibilities and acquire a taste for these types of films. It's difficult to pin down this evolution and development because we're dealing with a heavily phenomenological process which is much too complicated to boil down into a few telling criteria. The more I think about it, the more I think Deleuze was right: cinema and life are one and the same.

I, Chitti

Robots, love triangles, dancing, and art-horror oh my! Greetings, fellow sojourners of the Spectral Symposium. Today I come out of writing retirement to offer you a brief and hopefully compelling glimpse into the wonderful world of South Indian Cinema by showcasing my personal favorite film of all time: the 2010 film Enthiran (translates to Robot in English). This unbelievable tour-de-force masterpiece of cinematic excellence combines the best elements of Pinocchio, Terminator, the Matrix, and Frankenstein into a 3 hour sci-fi techno thriller horror musical extravaganza that will leave you exhausted, invigorated, and amazed. Known internationally as the “Avatar” of Kollywood (not to be confused with Bollywood), this film is just about the most perfect thing ever committed to film, but don’t let my enthusiasm get in the way of the post…

In southern India the summers are long, hot, and dirty; poverty is extreme, and every year millions of people flock to cinemas with hopes of escaping everyday life for awhile. This dreary backdrop helps encourage movie makers to go ‘full out’ with providing a dazzling visual experience at the cinema, as well as raising the bar for suspension of disbelief with on-screen action.

The star of Enthiran is the incomparable Superstar Rajinikanth. Known by his hundreds of millions of fans simply as Superstar, this Chuck Norris-of-India commands a pseudo-religious cult fan following. In fact, producers are often forced to cast multiple roles for him in each of his films since they cannot kill a Rajinikanth-played character in a film for fear of rioting movie-goers destroying the theater (yes that is an actual thing). His performances are known for their unrivaled swagger, cool masculinity, and skilled dance moves, despite his age (born 1950), and Enthiran might be his magnum opus.

Summary

The film opens with Dr. Vasee (played by Rajinikanth) finishing his decades-long project of building a perfect android robot made in his image and likeness, for usage in the Indian Army. After a rousing opening dance number, Vasee’s robot downloads the sum of human knowledge and goes out for his first human interaction, an awkward and necessary part of his training. While at a family dinner, Vasee’s mother affectionately names the new robot “Chitti” (also played by Rajinikanth). Chitti and Vasee both prepare for the upcoming international robotic conference while Vasee’s gorgeous, frustrated, but faithful girlfriend Sana (played by former Miss World Aishwarya Rai) waits patiently for some quality alone time with the Subaltern Superman (tension builds!)

Chitti debuts to raucous praise and amazed onlookers at the conference, where our nemesis and Vasee’s old mentor Dr. Bohra fumes with jealously over his inability to make a better android. (hint, he makes robots for evil, whereas Chitti is made for good). With his superhuman knowledge and abilities, Chitti quickly endears himself to Sana and aids her with everything from cleaning to cheating on her med-school exams, while saving her from muggers and noisy neighbors in the process. Sana slowly begins to rely more heavily on Chitti than Vasee (tension!) but Chitti can’t feel emotion so Vasee has nothing to worry about.... After failing a key test before the Artificial Intelligence Research and Development Institute (headed by Dr. Bohra), Dr. Vasee, frustrated with Chitti’s failure, adjusts his “neural scheme” to feel emotion, seeking to accelerate Chitti’s evolution and chances of passing the final test. After slowly showing a romantic interest in Sana (uh oh, here we go...), Chitti is scolded by Vasee. Chitti, in protest, intentionally fails his army examination and is subsequently destroyed in a fit of rage and disappointment by Vasee and left in a heap of parts at the junkyard, where a waiting Dr. Bohra hatches an evil plot...

Bohra revives Chitti and inserts a red microchip containing his “destruction mode”, intent on weaponizing Chitti and manufacturing an army of robots to satisfy his evil German weapons dealer 'clients' who have been angrily awaiting a final product. Needless to say this plan totally backfires on poor Dr. Bohra. “Chitti 2.0” swiftly murders him and sets forth on his plan to rule the world and capture Sana for himself. What follows is some of the craziest action I have ever witnessed in a film(that claim is saying something considering my intense viewership of Steven Seagal and Jean Claude Van Damme) as Chitti and Vasee clash over the fate of Sana and the world. See the clip below for yourself...

Chitti 2.0, as he is known, is purely malevolant, thanks to Dr. Bohra's red chip, and rampages all across Chennai and Southern India. His goal is to capture Sana and have an unholy hybrid child together, as he bends the universe to his will in a creepy and unstoppable plan. To accomplish this, Chitti 2.0 clones himself into a vast army of interconnected Chittis that rapidly overwhelm local police and military. Left helpless, the authorities turn to Dr. Vasee in a desperate attempt to save Sana and civilization. An epic showdown between Creator and Creation! Good stuff... Dr. Vasee hatches an ingenious plot to neutralize Chitti and return him to his likable non-murderous state, and in the end all is well in the kingdom, but not before the authorities order Chitti to be permanently decommissioned. In a touching denouement, Chitti, as he is disassembling himself, reminds us that everybody has a red chip of envy, lies, and deceit in their heart, but that love will survive.

Analysis: Do Robots Dream of Electric Dance-offs?

      There is a surprisingly large amount of thematic and philosophical material to chew on in Enthiran. What makes a robot a robot? What makes something human? Can robots love? Do you need emotion and free will to be moral? Chitti is caught between Vasee and Bohra's dreams but nobody cared to ask him about his.
      The central philosophical theme of Enthiran is one of the most basic philosophical questions: what makes something “human”? This is not new to fiction or even film. We have seen in it played out many different times. Indeed, one of the very first films, Frankenstein, occupied itself with this question. Enthiran focuses on one aspect of humanity: emotion. For quite a long time now,science- fiction has been suggesting that emotion is at the heart of what it means to be human. For some classic examples, Kirk and McCoy endlessly inform Spock that logic isn't everything and in order to be truly human, one must accept and embrace emotion. In Blade Runner, the Voight Kampf test is designed to determine whether or not a test subject is a human or a replicant (an artificial human). 
      If the subject does not display empathy, then the subject must not be human. Enthiran seems to go down this path, but does it? After the tragedy at the burning apartment where Chitti saves a naked bathing girl, who subsequently kills herself from shame, it is determined that Chitti needs to have some sort of emotion chip added so that he will understand cultural morays among other things. In short, he needs to become more human in order to understand human ways.  When the new program is added, it of course throws Chitti into a confusion ultimately leading to a permanent rift between himself and his creator. On the surface, it appears to be a classic example of logic vs emotion—logic is controlled and calm while emotion is confusing passionate and destructive and human. Vasee in an emotional rage quite literally destroys Chitti. But this doesn't truly suggest humanity does it?
      Provocatively, in the epilogue when a student asks “why was the robot dismantled?” Chitti replies “because I started to think”. This line reveals that the film is operating on a slightly deeper level than a simple emotion vs. logic motif. It is creative thinking, not mere emotion, nor basic logical processing that makes something become more human. This is an important distinction. Emotion itself cannot be what distinguishes the human from the non-human. Dogs have basic emotions, as do cats and probably even squirrels. But these creatures do not show evidence of creative thinking. But simple logical processing cannot be what makes something human either given that computers can do this (of course with the guidance of human programming).  The film seems to suggest that it is some combination of emotion and logical processing that defines humanity. Some philosophers, such as the Stoics, believe that human emotion is a fundamental part of reasoning (here thought of as something distinct from simple logical processing). Perhaps, then, what is essential to humanity is logical thinking informed by emotion. This is all debatable, of course. Maybe human beings are just walking computers with a vestigial emotional system cobbled together by evolutionary forces to keep us from falling off tall cliffs and getting eaten by tigers.

      Fans of sci-fi and horror will find many familiar elements in Enthiran, ranging from the classic creation rebelling against creator archetype (though more parts Pinnocchio than Frankenstein), science over-reaching and generating an uncontrollable situation, an unstoppable robot apocalypse (think of Carroll's monster-by-massification), and a fair share of visually horrifying images (for example, Chitti's face melts off during his initial destruction).

Conclusion: Music and Magic

     Indian films are as much about the music as they are about the movie, and Enthiran follows suit admirably. The music video interludes (about 4 or 5 in total) are visually gorgeous, and very skillfully choreographed. The tunes themselves (by A.R. Rahman) are hummable ear worms (hopefully the only Indian worm you catch) that will have you YouTubing them over and over for a week.


     Like a good chicken tikka masala, Enthiran is impossible to describe in few words. Is this film over the top? Yes, but it’s not a mindless Michael Bay-vian orgasm of robot warfare. This movie has a soul. It tells a story with characters you care about, and just happens to have some of the most outrageous action sequences ever conceived peppered in for good measure. Is the film three hours long? Yes, but the storytelling is well paced and cleanly laid out, with refreshing musical interludes when the on-screen action loses some momentum. Is this film a scary movie? No, but it certainly echoes of the horror genre, especially when Chitti 2.0 (our monster) goes on his horrific rampage and outlines his unnatural plans for Sana and the globe with a truly creepy confidence. There is something about Enthiran that is refreshingly honest and charming. It isn't stained by the cynicism and “realism” that plagues many of today's Hollywood blockbusters. If you need a reminder of why movies can be called magical, you should watch Enthiran. If you go into this film with an open mind and willingness to suspend disbelief, I guarantee that you will fall in love and have the biggest smile on your face as the credits roll, as you quickly fumble for your cell phone so you can tell all of your friends. I hope this brief glimpse is enough to whet your appetite for this Majority World Masterpiece and convince you to find it and watch it. If anybody is interested in watching it in the original Tamil (not the lesser quality Hindi dub)I am more than willing to share my copy.



 Happy watching,








 Here are some more images from the lovely film

Qualms With Freeland

For this week, I thought I'd take a slightly different approach. Freeland discusses Repulsion and Silence of the Lambs, noting how each film represents evil as an entity in the world. Each reaches a different conclusion as to how we engage the existence of evil. To briefly summarize, evil in Repulsion is both seen in male sexuality and as a free floating, external force which drives the protagonist to her psychosis. The film concerns how Carol cannot make a genuine response to the evil in her inability to act. She cannot escape the gaze and objectification of both the other diegetic characters and the gaze of the viewer - the audience. In line with her feminist reading, Freeland argues that Repulsion suggests that when women fight back, there will be no psychological satisfaction or judicial support, which is why the film ends in despair.

Silence is the more complex, and perhaps, more interesting film to my mind. Freeland argues that it presents two tales: an internal one, in which Buffalo Bill is evil simply because he transgresses traditional gender roles. The external one involves Lecter's relationship to Clarice and how they develop their individuality and their alliance. Lecter's evil stretches back to traditional monsters like Dracula in his ability to mesmerize and his fascination with blood. Lecter's evil becomes appealing because he functions as a mentor for Clarice, he resists categorization by normal science (Freeland discusses the attempts by the psychiatrist and Clarices' survey) and he's just an interesting monster. Lecter becomes an individual and creative artist who constructs his own particular moral code of self creation (like Nietzschean values). Thus, on the one hand, we have the inner story of the film that deals with the re-affirmation of patriarchal values (because Clarice must enter the world of the FBI through Lecter's help and become the heroine who saves the damsel in distress and defeats the bad guy), and the outer story that deals with individuality, transgression of social values, and creative resistance.

"Repulsion puts us in the head of the murderer and shows that this is an unbearable place to be, that she ended up there because of an unbearable world. The Silence of the Lambs holds us back from the head of its primary killer, but it slyly implies that this would be an interesting place to be and that he got there through creative resistance against a mediocre and boring world" (p. 211).

I think that Freeland has done an excellent job reading these films. However, I think her treatment is more of a dialogue with the idea of individuality and the triumph of the will of persons. Her take on evil is less convincing to me and seems to posit more of a fascination with wanting to see someone triumph in the face of adversity. I've listed a few problems I have. My suggestion here will make more sense in light of the idea of evil and its presence in the world and how these characters interact with it.

Problems With Her Take On Repulsion

(1) Page 192 discusses the sexual repression hypothesis for Carol's attitude. Though Freeland is quick to reject it, it seems very fitting for much of the film. Later, she seems to affirm some of it. On p. 195, "Repulsion strongly hints that Carol's psychosis and sexual repression stem from a history of child sexual abuse. Some disturbing sequences of the film convey Carol's nightmare memories of sexual assault." Now, Freeland believes that the POV identification with Carol and the evil as depicted as stemming from male sexuality render her a sympathetic figure. But this does not rule out sexual repression.

(2) Freeland argues that the audience is driven to empathize with Carol and consider her as someone who cannot make a genuine response to the generalized evil in the world. I find many problems here. On the one hand, Freeland suggests that male sex is the locus of evil, then moves on in p. 198 to suggest that it is free floating and external, perhaps located in the surroundings of the film, the other people, and even the gaze of the viewer. My question is, how has evil moved from male sex to this free floating entity? 

(3) "Instead, Repulsion presents a sort of anti-narrative about the inability to act, a continual waiting, passivity, and suffering that is something out of Samuel Beckett rather than Sophocles" (p. 198.). That sums up part of her intuitions. This is why I think her treatise is more about personal willpower than evil. Evil doesn't need to be a prerequisite for the inability to act, nor does it need to be present for suffering, passivity or waiting. The evilness of male sexuality may be present in the film, that it doesn't entail the free floating, almost cosmic evil she is discussing. Freeland seems more concerned with the loss of personal will in a fragmented and disjointed world. She mentions how Carol's acts are more like reactions rather than authentic deeds. I see this as the anxiety over a loss of will, of which her account of evil is not necessary. 

Problems With Her Take on Silence

*The significant problem here is the last one, which relates to the idea of personal will and individuality.

(1) "The audience is prepared to accept all this because of who Jodie Foster is and what she brings to her cinematic role here" (p. 204). Freeland believes Clarices' transgressive attitude is informed by Foster's sensibilities off screen. Perhaps it enhances it but does one need to be intimate with Foster's background in order to enjoy the film?

(2) "But The Silence of the Lambs leaves both characters alive at the end, able to pursue their own creation of self. 'Good' does not combat 'evil' here because they are in effect mirror images of one another, not polar opposites" (p. 209). This is part of Freeland's idea that both Clarice and Lecter practice an individual approach to life and their deeds. Lecter favors individual self creation and defeating the system, of which Clarice must partly do by consulting a maniacal character such as himself. Freeland underscores much of Lecter's evilness (and its appeal) in his creative artistry and his ability to beat the system and resist categorization while fostering intrigue and mystery, kind of like Dracula. 

There are a few relevant points here. On the one hand, these characters aren't mirror images of one another. I think they simply share common methods and outlooks, as Freeland describes. Yet they are radically different - that's what she misses. On the other, Lecter's creative artistry and personal individuality tie into a bigger concept. They affirm the whole idea of the triumph of personal will that I brought up initially, but they also tie into the idea of evil as being ambivalent. In the film, I would argue that it isn't good or evil that's being involved, but simply evil combating other evils. This renders the notion of evil as nebulous - we don't know what evil is concretely. Is Lecter evil? He's helping out Clarice. What about Buffalo Bill? The dude seems irrevocably evil, yet he's doing his own thing and trying to follow his own personal code. What is good? What is evil? I see it less black and white than I think Freeland does.

Why Freeland's Take Amounts More Towards Will Rather Than Evil

Freeland's discussion need not involve concepts of evil. I think she does a great job fleshing out the appeal of it and how it works in these films, but I'm less convinced in her treatment of evil as a floating force in Repulsion. Evil in Silence seems more like an amoral take, rather than a specific type of evil. And in each case, the will of the protagonists is tested. Carol cannot react genuinely, and Clarice is threatened by the patriarchal world of the FBI that she is desperately trying to inhabit. She consults Lecter - the creative, individual genius - to learn how to cultivate her will and promulgate her own value system, much like Lecter's own moral code that distinguishes his killing from that of Buffalo Bill's. So, to my mind, Freeland's analysis tells us more about the anxieties of the loss of personal will, and how it completely fails in Repulsion but triumphs in Silence. That's why the two central characters (Clarice and Lecter) are left intact at the end.

Thus, I think that Freeland's analysis concerns traditional patriarchal values and all that jazz - but simultaneously, I don't think her treatment of evil gels very well because it concerns more of an anxiety about the individual and the exertion of our will. Now, those things can be threatened by evil, but I would like to see a better metaphysical description of exactly where evil comes from and what its nature is like. Freeland vacillates between male sexual evil and external, worldly evil in Repulsion, which leaves me a little confused. In Silence, she provides an excellent depiction of Lecter's evil as being informed by monsters like Dracula, with a touch of style and artistic flourish that speaks of a transvaluation of values. But these films assume evil that exists in the world from the present - or, that's at least how I read Freeland and her account. I'm interested in exactly what makes evil truly evil, and how these characters incarnate it in their actions and deeds. Her suggestion that we enjoy Lecter's evil because it's about "beating the system" and his interesting character seems more about that exertion of will against the facticity of the universe (to borror Sartre).

The Uncanny

My reading of Freeland this week prompted me to look back at Freud's essay on the uncanny. There's a lot going on there, and he seems to be turning the notion of the uncanny as pronounced by Jentsch completely on its head. He investigates the word and its origins, noting that it trends towards an ambivalence, descending from something initially familiar to something unfamiliar and perhaps concealed (and dangerous). His reading of Hoffman's Sandman story is interesting, though in typical Freud fashion he finds a particular neurosis to blame for the kid's problems. Though I must say he does argue fairly well for it. He connects the fear of the Sandman to the fear of losing one's eyes, and subsequently, to the castration complex. Again, not surprising given Freud's love of this stuff. He tries to trace the uncanny back to childhood complexes, involving a bit of the doubling and loss of the self. I thought the most interesting stuff concerned the recurrence of situations that he discusses. It seems like much of his work concerns the idea of deja vu. Of course, he reduces this to a repetition/compulsion within our minds, so that we become lost in this uncanny recurrence of events. I think he places emphasis here too on the idea of fate and coincidence. It would seem as if Freud is driving towards the fact that we fear a loss of control in our lives. I loved his dive into the distinction between literary and real (experienced) uncanniness. His argument that the uncanny is much easier to produce and understand through fiction is understandable, and it does seem as if the true uncanny doesn't happen quite as much in real life. His essential argument, that the uncanny is produced by the revival of repressed infantile complexes or the confirmation of primitive animistic beliefs, is interesting because he tries to cover himself by not reducing everything to a neurosis or a complex. Or, more basically, the experienced uncanny might trend towards more of the complexes, while fictional uncanny concerns more of the primitive beliefs (and omnipotence of thoughts he discusses).

There's a lot to unpack in Freud, but I wanted to get some of that out there because I think Freeland wrongly dismisses his view. She claims that he is too reductive - that everything reduces to a psychological abnormality. And I agree, it kind of does, because it either involves a repressed complex or an old belief that we've cast out which comes back into the fray. Yet, he still makes a distinction between fictional and real uncanny horror, and Freeland seems to miss it completely. She opts for what she calls a "fear of dark metaphysics." I think Freud's account could fit that, given his distinction on primitive beliefs. Beliefs about the world are going to be tied into the nature of metaphysical beliefs, and perhaps we might fear a dark metaphysics or a cosmic horror because it represents a threat to established norms of thinking and perception. Either way, the human, psychological element is going to come back. I'm not saying she's wrong for disregarding Freud, but she might have left out some of the more important parts of his work.

Although, given that Freeland is working more with notions of the sublime (or an anti sublime which threatens the self), I can understand her criticisms of Freud. It's interesting to note that some of her observations about the Shining tend to coincide with some of Freud's distinctions. She mentions the doubling of reality through mirrors, and similarly, Freud discusses the doubling of the self (when Jack enters the hotel bathroom in the scene with Grady, there is a definitive possibility of the doubling of his self).

I like Freeland's idea that the Shining is a type of cosmic horror that threatens our sense of self and, rather than reinforcing it like the sublime, threatens to break it down and disintegrate it. Her insights into why we enjoy uncanny horror seem to tie into Carroll. She mentions how we might like the aesthetic presentation because it challenges us to think and reflect about the horrors presented, feeling dread and repulsion to better respond. It would seem that Carroll's idea of internalizing the narrative of horror stories would fit well here. In both cases, we're internalizing the horror presented.

A couple of nitpicks: She goes a bit too far with the critique of patriarchy - it's not essential to her investigation. Also, she argues that Jack's fatherliness is threatened and that he fails the father-figure role. I've always thought that the cook in the film took that role and ran with it.

Freeland and Cronenburg

Freeland's discussion of Cronenburg was definitely interesting and it got me perplexed about one issue in particular that she discusses. Throughout her analysis of his work, she eschews one of the main themes of his films as theatricality - the theatricalization of the horror image. She contends that this contrasts horror with the elements of the everyday that are presented, first by noting how Cronenburg's work is set in familiar, "normal" places and how horror disrupts the flow of the "everyday."

"His characters are usually middle-class professionals. All of his horrific characters, men and women alike, work at jobs in realistic urban settings that often require the performance of identity in ritualized situations that do, after all, compose our normal everyday working life" (p.90).

"The contrast between the often extreme bodily transformations in Cronenburg's film plots and the cool realism of his style is what I call his theatricalization of horror - his treatment of horror as a form of shocking and yet pleasurable cinematic spectacle" (pp.90-91).

She goes on to discuss how Cronenburg sets this theatricality along the backdrop of processes which call attention to the medium of film itself and the idea of watching the horror. "His movies highlight the very nature of witnessing horror as a spectacular theatrical event, and often, as in Scanners, they include scenes of audiences watching a demonstration or film that somehow goes wrong or is dusturbing" (p. 99).

Note how close Freeland is to Carroll in some of her interpretations. She mentions how Cronenburg's work is a variation of the classic Frankenstein myth and the mad scientist (his films are overreachers). Her analysis of The Fly as a meditation on embodiment and the elements of classic tragedy is very relevant to Carroll's Aristotelian-inspired investigation, for it seems that horror and tragedy focus on similar elements and devices.

Now, Carroll believed that the price of horror was what we had to get past in order to enjoy the disclosure of the narrative. It seems to me that Freeland is drawing a closer distinction to that price specifically, focusing on Cronenburg and his theatricality. Her idea of horror in his films as being shown watched is perhaps the most exciting claim in this chapter because it naturally raises further questions. I've found myself asking why, if this is the case, does Cronenburg do this? What's so special about the theatricality of his images of horror and the fact that people in his films witness horror either through their own eyes or through mediated devices such as cameras and televisions?

I think she provides a partial answer to this: "Horror filmmaking requires a delicate balance between the presentation of beauty and an utter disruption of the serenity of the image. In movies like Cronenburg's, this can contribute to the exquisite enjoyment of extremely painful and disturbing material" (p. 120). So, in contrast to Carroll, I think she's at least drawing more towards spectator involvement with a specific film. Rather than just focusing on narrative, she she's the contrast and the flow between the familiar and the horrific as part of the enjoyment of it. This I can partially agree with, but I'm still not satisfied with it. I'm still curious of what to make of people who go for the price of horror itself - for them, the rest of the "beauty" is probably going to be filler until the next horrific image is displayed.

This theatricality of horror is very perplexing. On the one hand, it can tie into Freeland's distinction of the "artist" in horror skillfully rendering objects of disgust and dread in enjoyable ways. But there must be more to it. I do agree with her that Cronenburg's films (and many others I think) pose a serious interplay between the reality of normal, familiar life and the emergence of horror. I think her distinction of the horror shown as being watched by others is perhaps the key here, and maybe so for some of Carroll's developments. My theory is this: if we as an audience see other people watching something horrific, that adds both to our empathy with and fear of whatever is being portrayed. It's one thing to depict a monster on the screen; that might be scary, but if you take characters and contextualize their reactions and involvement with the horror, it becomes twice as potent both in a sense of fear and empathy for the characters (provided it's done in an appropriate tone). This would lend some weight to Carroll's idea that the characters in a horror film perform a normative function of showing the audience an appropriate reaction. If the people in Scanners are horrified, we might just as likely be. And naturally, setting horror amidst realistic settings allows us to feel like it could happen right here.

Of course, Freeland is drawing more distinctions toward horror as being watched through an apparatus in many of Cronenburg's films. I'm more willing to generalize and say that the very act of watching and witnessing itself, as undertaken by the characters, helps to make a deeper connection to the audience.

Deeper down though, I think the nature of horror as a simple spectacle is possibly the ultimate attraction to it. Horror escapes any type of normalcy; in fact, horror is perhaps the one genre that emphasizes how easy the narrative norm can be broken. No matter what view of it you take (it's gross, disgusting, repulsive, reprehensible, awesome, whatever), it's inherently interesting because it represents some type of attack on normalcy. You might say the same for action, suspense and other tropes in film.

Horror and Ideology

Horror and its relationship with society and culture has always been a fascinating thread for me. I've enjoyed reading Carroll's account of it, specifically his arguments against the notion that horror is always either (a) a vehicle for political repression, or (b) an emancipatory medium that calls the motives of the status quo into question. I think that he rightly points out that horror can be used for either end, and if we can't give a definitive, thoroughly general scheme for how all horror objects seek to achieve either end, then the notion that horror is ideologically politically repressive or progressive (all the time) is untenable.

His attack on the structural model of horror (that horror narratives move from normal---abnormal---back to normal, back to affirmation of cultural and societal norms) is also compelling because he notes that many horror fictions do not end with the monster being subdued or normality being restored. Carpenter's version of the Thing is an excellent example because we don't clearly know which character, if either, is safe in the end (much of Carpenter's work is particularly bleak in its outlook....in They Live, he openly attacks capitalist culture and the world of commodities, clearly not establishing the status quo). Carroll is right to point out that it's more about seeing how objects of horror can apply these themes to either stigmatize or valorize certain norms. Once again, horror can be repressive or progressive.

I also like that he links horror to postmodernism. I agree with his intuitions here, especially with regards to the idea that both look to the past with nostalgia, both portray the person in tenuous terms, and they tend to address social uncertainty and unease.

I think that, finally, someone has given me partial insight into the remake craze as of recent. Carroll says, "It proceeds by recombining acknowledged elements of the past in a way that suggests that the root of creativity is to be found in looking backwards. The horror fiction of the present, though not lacking in energy, also refers back to earlier times, to classic monsters and myths, as in a gesture of nostalgia" (p. 211). This might serve to partially explain why we're so fascinated with remaking everything. I might add that our present cycle is lacking in energy, so it's turning toward the past to reignite a palette for horror.

Freeland's Take on Vampires

I thought Freeland's discussion of vampires was pretty interesting. She sets out with some basic premises: (1) Vampire films involve erotic transgression, (2) they make us rethink our conceptions of good and evil, and (3) they provide aesthetic or cinematic pleasure in virtue of their invoking classic vampire tropes and myths and either building upon, deconstructing or adapting them (a nice case in point is John Carpenter's Vampires - the ghouls in this film hate sunlight and wooden stakes will send em' off, but there's no way garlic or crosses will deter them). There's a certain familiarity to the genre in which the audience feels comfortable with all the stakes, crosses, absence of reflections, coffins and so on, but modifications are sometimes allowed and even welcomed provided they stay within acceptable parameters.

She traces these themes through the three film versions of Dracula quite nicely. In particular, I like her account of Browning's Dracula as making Lugosi an ambivalent figure who is neither male nor female but possesses qualities of both. His ambivalence is contrasted with the rise of western patriarchy and the attempt of the men to thwart the count's plans. In the end, Freeland seems to think this type of vampire is evil but in a less interesting way: his evil is merely one dimensional - he's the threat to the established moral order of decency that must be wiped out.

I've never seen Badham's version of Dracula but I think Freeland's account seems accurate. The evil of Dracula, as she argues, is downplayed due to his striking visuals and the fact that Lucy chooses to be with him. He seeks her for the human qualities she possesses, entailing a value of human existence. This is more of the romantic Dracula rather than a flat out evil that must be extinguished.

Freeland seems to have much more respect for the Coppola version than myself. I've seen the film a few times but it never really struck me as very engaging. Of course, I agree with her that it does remain the most faithful to the erotic transgressions of Stoker's novel, and it does seem to call into attention the nature of artifice and spectacle (on p. 141, Freeland goes into detail about the scene in the movie theater, stating that the audience is engaged in a method of recognition as much as Mina is.....we recognize the Dracula character, albeit portrayed a bit differently). Dracula in this film also asks us to join him and calls into question our notions of good and evil. Instead of Western patriarchy coming out on top, the idea of love trumps everything according to Freeland's account.

I also like how Freeland links the on screen presence of vampires to their real life actors; this is part of the fascination with vampires for her because they are portrayed by well known and famous actors. The immortality of the vampire is partly linked to their imprint within film (it would be a "file" today, in accordance with the digital era). Her key conclusion is that the vampire asks us to join a spectacle of seduction, whereby the audience desires vampires for their otherworldly and spectacular qualities that live on in images. The vampire desires us not for our blood but for what is inherently human: our flesh and blood. "Vampires are, after all, cold and dead. They are weak and pale creatures without us; they need our admiration and passion more than we in the end really need them. They are images, we are flesh and blood" (p. 157).

Freeland also develops an argument that vampires are powerful symbols of evil, mostly because they call into question the nature of good and evil in many of these works. Having thought about it, I think the vampire cannot be a poor symbol of evil as Alford would have it (I am not familiar with his work but in so far as Freeland's account of him is correct). Vampires just seem inherently evil to me, perhaps because of their formal qualities, but more so because they are, to borrow Carroll's terminology, always threatening and impure. They threaten us immediately because they consume our blood for life, and they're impure because they violate the categories of the living and the dead. The vampire is both alive and dead - undead. They also consume human flesh, which most of us normally hold to be a violation of the category of acceptable things to eat for a human diet.

I suppose what I want to know is why have vampires developed into such aesthetically pleasing models and archetypes? In other words, why are the fashionable, spectacular and romantically appealing vampires so prevalent today? You don't see many feral vampires; their violence is always contrasted with their allure and their gracefulness (the vampires in Interview, Badham's Dracula). John Carpenter's version of the vampire happens to be my favorite, but it's a largely forgotten sub-species of the vampire, and I suppose that's because Stoker's novel set the paradigm for suave vampires, and this model was subsequently lifted into many film and novel versions (just look at Twilight, the absolute zenith of vampire accessibility). Freeland admits that Dracula has been made more attractive and sympathetic in most of the film adaptations (modern novels also take it a step further as well). I'm just interested in why the vampire must be romanticized in this fashion, or why this has developed in contrast to more primitive vampires. I think the answer is partially because we have other monsters to draw upon for all our feral viciousness we wish to get out on screen (think werewolves, zombies). The vampire is something special in modern media - a strange amalgam of qualities both appealing and disgusting.

A final point worth mentioning. Freeland acknowledges that, within the vampire film, the narrative focuses on intellectual fact gathering. The male investigators have to deal with the burden of proof of the monster, thus echoing some of Carroll's distinctions about narrative and aesthetic pleasure. Though, I think Freeland wants to develop more of a feminist critique here. "Narrative closure is achieved by some device of incorporation within the patriarchal order. Thus, narrative puts an end to the spectacle (our vision of the monster and of the woman/victim)" (p.158).

More on Dracula as I finish the novel..........

Carroll - Plotting Horror

There's a LOT of material in chapter 3 of Carroll's text. At times, I thought that his taxonomy of horror narratives was fairly respectable and well-thought. At others, I felt that he was stretching some of his criteria to make most horror films fit the bill. Either way, his work is impressive because he breaks down most narratives into forms of Complex Discovery or Overreaching, each of which tie into our relationships with the unknown (whether it be knowledge that is forbidden or our lack of knowledge in certain events). Carroll thinks that themes of discovery, knowledge, the burden of proof and the hypotheses to the best explanation play into our cognitive pleasure in these films. As I see it, he's arguing that audiences take pleasure in how the characters reconcile the nature of the unknown or the fantastic through the processes of reason and logic. Interesting.

All told, I only had a few complaints here and there. I don't think we can form an exhaustive taxonomy of horror films, to which Carroll admits to. He also argues that the audience internalizes the events of a narrative, taking into account the reasonable alternatives that can be expected in erotetic format. This is fine, but I would argue that an audience only does this in so far as it cares about what is happening on screen. If a film is boring, no one is going to internalize the events in the narrative as easily as Carroll thinks. Again, it's a small grievance though.

I liked his treatment of the fantastic and the subsequent analysis of Cat People. There is a bit of a bone I have to pick though. Carroll argues that the supernatural explanation in the film becomes solidified once we see Irena attack the psychiatrist. "The audience does get a brief glimpse of the panther after Irena has killed the psychiatrist; and by the end of the film, the case for the supernatural interpretation is secure" (p. 153). Now, I'm not certain whether Carroll is arguing that the supernatural explanation is obviously and unquestionably the right inference, or just that the supernatural case is at least objectively plausible. I believe he's simply arguing that the case for the supernatural can be made as strongly as that of the natural, but at first glance, I seemed to interpret him as saying that the supernatural was unquestionably the best explanation. If this is what he intends, then clearly he's wrong. One of the hallmarks of the film is how Irena keeps returning the zoo and the panther in the cage. The psychiatrist notes at one point that many imbalanced people wish to do evil or cause a type of harm. Irena could've been letting the panther out of the cage for the entirety of the film without us or the characters knowing. Again though, I think Carroll recognizes this, perhaps I'm just tripped up on his wording.

His analysis of narrative and suspense is interesting because the formulas apply to many films. Aliens is definitely a case of onset, confirmation and confrontation in large part because the creatures were already discovered in Ridley Scott's original. I was thinking that the classic Tremors is a clear cut case of onset, discovery, confirmation and confrontation. We see the initial results of the graboid (the giant worms) attacks in the beginning; subsequently they're discovered by the two protagonists, Val and Earl. Later, they have to prove to the townsfolk that these are real creatures, which of course culminates in the confrontation in the desert where they kill the last of them with grenades and a well positioned cliff side.

I just watched The Fly recently and again, this could be an example of the overreacher plot. Jeff Goldblum's character isolates forbidden knowledge in the form of teleportation, conducts an experiment (which goes really awry), and then has the confrontation with Gina Davis at the end.

In thinking about these films and Carroll's formula, I think I'd like to analyze a few films using his methods to see how they play out. In effect, I'll treat Carroll's distinctions like Sinnerbrink's in regard to how films accomplish philosophy: investigate a horror film, apply the criteria, and see what happens. So, I'll be considering the monsters, the narrative, audience interaction and other key elements. I'm also interested in resolving the paradox of horror myself: why are we so attracted to horror films? As a lifelong fan of horror, I've often asked myself that question multiple times. I've had family ask me why I watch these strange things, and every time I try to explain it, I come up empty handed.

I'm going off on a huge tangent here, but I've always thought that some horror films and their monsters take on a superhero type status. My favorite is Jason from Friday the 13th. With a billion sequels under its belt, the franchise clearly stepped out of the element of pure horror to pure cheese: by Friday part 6 and 7, most fans (including myself) were rooting for Jason. The epitome of this attitude is the 2003 release of Freddy Vs. Jason in which each titular monster battled it out for domination. These guys become less like horror icons and more like superman - we wait to see what situation Jason is going to get himself into next. And he ALWAYS comes back, just like superman always triumphs. There's a weird play of reliability and fascination going on here, like these slasher villains will always deliver (and seeing how campy Freddy became in the late 80's and 90's, it's no surprise that fans begin to treat these characters less like monsters and more like heroes...perhaps anti heroes). So, perhaps part of the paradox is that fans get caught in this wave of "superhero fetishism." Yep, that's what I'd call it. 

Carroll - Chapter 2, Relating to Fictions

What is particularly interesting in the second chapter of Carroll's book is his take on the "paradox of fiction." Indeed, it's something that has troubled me long in my thinking about fiction and how we enjoy it. How is it that I can relate to something emotionally that I know is fake?

I think Carroll's knockdown of illusion and pretend theory is pretty strong. Illusion is just ridiculous - if it were the case, then I would definitely try to flee from the horrifying monsters I believed I was encountering. Pretend theory is just too demanding - and we can't control the art-horror response, I absolutely agree with Carroll here.

His idea of thought theory is very clean and worked out; the separation of belief from emotion is particularly strong. I think this is kind of common sense. There are plenty of thoughts that can cause an emotional response, many of which I could attest to personally. I remember a math test in college that I was about to receive my score on. I had no belief content whatsoever for it - I didn't know whether it was true or false that I had performed well. Yet I can remember sweating and fearing for the result. Carroll's example of the thought experiment where we are told stories without any truth component is key here because it demonstrates that we can be affected by something even though it's fictional. As he says, upon learning of the stories, we might inquire whether they were true or false, yet still admit being emotionally affected by them. Fabrication does not entail a dissipation of emotion, but perhaps a switch - in the case of learning that we've been lied to, from genuine emotional to anger.

Carroll's stuff on linguistics is also interesting. Horrific monsters (or objects) come to represent a certain sense, rather than an explicit referent with truth content. The name Dracula conjures up all the propositions, details, descriptions and attributes that Stoker intended. And we can entertain these thoughts because, according to Carroll's notion of character identification, we share similar culture and appraisal of the monster. That seems to be pretty powerful. In his eyes, character identification involves an assimilation of the totality of the situation in which the characters are present. As I see it, it's a matter of the audience being omniscient while the protagonist is clearly embedded within the context of the story. Emotions, as Carroll argues, won't parallel because we're dealing with two different methods of viewing. It seems that he's asserting that what will overlap and display symmetry is our evaluation of the monster in question. When a promiscuous camp counselor is beset by Jason Voorhees, it's not that I share that character's emotion. Rather, I identify with the appraisal of Jason; he's a threatening dude with a machete that's quite capable of killing someone. The character realizes this as well but responds to the object in question, while Carroll seems to think that my response would involve sympathy towards the character and a general understanding of the situation overall. He sneaks a sort of altruism in there in that we can concerned with other characters, but naturally so to deflate any objections where true fear must consist in a concern for our own wellbeing. I think he's right to do this because we can clearly be concerned for characters who have no impact on our own egoistic intentions.

Carroll's methods work across film, literature and other mediums. I think he's crafted a fairly powerful cognitive-affective theory. But is he right to disregard belief? Aaaron Smutts argues that our beliefs play a large role in our emotions towards horror. Basically, it's harder to prove that things don't exist than to say that they do. We have no way of proving that vampires exist - but that's precisely what makes the belief hard to disregard. Smutts thinks these beliefs get trapped and etched into us from childhood, and it's the job of the skeptical characters in horror films to enact a "belief-revival process" that obliterates the audience's doubt towards the monster. Perhaps belief does play a role here, but I think that we can give Carroll the benefit of the doubt because he's merely asserting that belief is not always tied together to emotion. It could be, but it need not be, especially in the case of horror.

I'm thinking that an interesting first paper would be a sort of "inventory" of an art-horrific monster using Carroll's terms and methods........more coming on this....

Carrol's Account of Horror and the Enlightenment

Reading through the first chapter of Carrol's book, I was particularly intrigued by his idea that the Enlightenment provided a conception of nature that the horror genre could thrive in and rebel against. His account of the mechanistic view of the universe echoes with that of some feminist scholars, especially Carolyn Merchant and her view of the "death of nature." Essentially, the enlightenment was in a time in which nature was seen as subordinate to mankind's powers of reason. Through science, we could understand the workings of nature much like we could analyze the parts of a clock. Thus, a rational, logical worldview is promulgated. Horror would definitely have been much more threatening in an atmosphere like this. The average Joe who buys into the ideas made popular by enlightenment thinkers would confront the objects of art horror in extreme and tense ways. Carrol is definitely on to something here, I think. The violation of nature by horror is made possible by its ontology and cosmological contents. This seems to make sense with Carroll's earlier suggestion that horrific monsters are horrible in virtue of their violating the ontologies of the filmed worlds they inhabit. So, a troll in the Lord of the Rings isn't seen as art-horrific because it's a part of the world naturally. That seems to be the crucial distinction.

Of course, I have to ask, is it possible for something to be more terrifying in virtue of its being a natural part of the world? For example, take Annie Wilkes in the novel (and film) Misery. She's a normal human who just happens to be crazy. She doesn't violate any norms of ontology or nature. She doesn't seem to contradict any cultural categories, nor is she a product of fusion, fission, massification or magnification. She's just a regular person who happens to be very threatening. One may argue that her qualities are stretched to the point of the supernatural to make her more like a monster. I would tend to argue that her natural qualities are what make her terrifying. That is, because she is a part of the world that we know and are comfortable with, (and because she represents a violation that is all too possible in that world, a violation that takes place on real terms in real spatio-temporal limits) we find her horrifying. Lots of horror aficionados talk about this type of horror - the darkness inside of us. John Carpenter believed that horror could be digested into two types: it was either "out there" in the world or inside of us. Perhaps that horror can be a part of us is more terrifying than something that violates nature ontologically or categorically.

Despite this, I find Carroll's criteria for the identification of art horror objects fairly interesting.