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.
Monday, June 30, 2014
Monday, June 16, 2014
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.
"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.
Monday, June 09, 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 03, 2014
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..........
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..........
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