The Thing From Another World and the Onset/Confrontation Plot

Greetings all! Its only been about..... one... two... oh forget it. I am back! This week's analysis is of The Thing From Another World, an RKO Radio Pictures production from 1951, starring everybody's favorite marhshall and battle of Anzio veteran James Arness.

Howard Hawks’ 1951 Sci-fi/horror classic The Thing (From Another World), starring James Arness (of Gunsmoke fame) in the titular role stands as a potent blend of science fiction and horror. The Thing is a science fiction film by virtue of its exploration into the potentialities of extraterrestrial life, space ships, and new technology, and The Thing also fits Noel Carroll’s criteria for being a horror film. It has a monster, the Thing, which is both fearsome (it is seven feet tall and strong as an ox) and it is disgusting, being a humanoid, bloodsucking vegetable organism. The creature is disgusting because it is an unnatural, impossible, interstitial hybrid of man and vegetable. As Carroll notes, “the creature in Howard Hawks’ classic The Thing is an intelligent, two-legged, bloodsucking carrot. Now that’s interstitial” (Carroll 32).
The theme and atmosphere of The Thing is also characteristic of the horror genre. Our characters are completely isolated, outside the reach of humanity, and plagued by an unknown threat, which could be lurking behind every corner. The Thing does fit into one of Carroll’s characteristic narrative structures, namely the “Onset/Confrontation” plot. The Thing also provides a classic example of Cold War Horror.
Carroll identifies the horror genre as having two general narrative families, the Discovery plots and the Overreacher plots (mad scientist plots). The Discovery plots consist of four main movements: the onset, the discovery, the confirmation (present in ‘complex discovery’ plots), and the confrontation. These basic movements can be divided to form different types of stories, but no horror film involving the discovery of a monster can be without all of them. The Thing represents the onset/confrontation plot structure, which for Carroll “seems to be a function of the fact that there is really no distance between onset and discovery…there is no question about the existence and the nature of the present danger to all concerned…some characters might not think that the monster should be destroyed and may impede efforts to kill it. But there is no question that it is a monster that is at large” (Carroll 111). The plot of The Thing fits this structure very well.
The film begins with the Air Force being called to the North Pole at the request of Dr. Carrington, an eccentric researcher, to investigate the crash of a UFO in the ice. After failing to preserve the craft, the crew is able to salvage the frozen body of the pilot and take it back to the base. At the base, Carrington and the commanding officer Capt. Hendry disagree on what is to be done with the body; Carrington wanting to thaw it for observation and Hendry wanting to keep it frozen and await higher commands. A massive snow storm cuts them off from the outside, complicating what the orders of operation are from the Air Force. One of the guards of the body, disturbed by the visage of The Thing, covers the block of ice with an electric blanket (unbeknownst to him) and thaws the creature, which subsequently escapes. The Thing is then attacked by sled dogs, which manage to sever its arm. The crew examines the severed arm, and concludes that it is some form of plant life which is nourished by ingesting blood. Carrington then engages in secret experiments involving ‘seedlings’ of the Thing, which he has cultivated in a green house using human plasma.
In the base green house, Carrington finds the blood-drained body of a sled dog, confirming his thesis that the Thing lives on blood. Two men who guard the greenhouse are killed by the Thing and drained of blood that night. A survivor of the attack notifies the rest of the crew that the Thing is on the loose, and out for blood. During this crucial part of the film, the tension between scientists and the military reaches a high point. Capt. Hendry learns of Carrington’s illicit experiments, but before he can confront him, the Thing strikes again, but this time the crew is able to temporarily trap it in the green house, buying them valuable time to formulate a plan, but it escapes. Failing to destroy it using kerosene, the crew devises a plan to electrocute it to death. Carrington attempts to foil the crew in this plan and save the Thing by shutting the power down and attempting to reason with the creature, but Carrington is violently tossed aside by the Thing instead. With Carrington out of the picture, the crew is able to lure the Thing into a trap and electrocute it to death, thus ending to threat to humanity (for now). The film ends by imploring the audience to “Keep watching the skies!”


This type of story is typical in the onset/confrontation plot which often involves an atmosphere of intense isolation, suspense, and a feeling of decisive conflict (ex: Alien). Another hallmark of the Thing is that the monster could be anywhere at any given time, thereby generating an intense suspense and dread (ala Evil Dead). The film seamlessly flows from onset (finding the monster, who is undeniably a monster, and who undeniably kills crew members and drains them of blood) to confrontation (the crew immediately devises a way to destroy the monster). The primary contribution of The Thing to the horror genre is its near flawless execution of the onset/confrontation plot in a sci-fi setting. The Thing is almost equal parts science fiction and horror, which is a difficult combination to have for a film without it sacrificing its effectiveness in either genre. It is able to successfully create an environment of genuine fear and suspense, provide a disgusting monster, and at the same time explore salient social issues (what would Lovecraft think?...). The fusion of science with horror is a unique element in The Thing. In the Cold War, science and scientific advancements were the sources of endless new horrors, such as the Atom Bomb, Intercontinental Missiles, Eugenics, etc. Science Horror movies, like The Thing, were armed with new horrors to art-horrify audiences with. The use of science fiction also lends more effectiveness to the exploration of social issues at the time. Fears of “the outsider” (the Thing), the dehumanizing effects of science, the threat of seemingly unstoppable forces (Communist Russia) and tensions within society about the proper relation of science to the military all were effectively explored in The Thing by virtue of its strong science fiction element.
As such, The Thing is a prime example of a Cold War Era monster movie, which usually explored themes of societal tension, Red Scares, and the larger theme of Science versus Military. Dr. Carrington represents the unscrupulous advancement of science, at the expense of mankind, as evidenced by his autonomous view of science: “In Science there are no enemies, only phenomena”. Capt. Hendry represents the courageous forces of the armed forces, which will defend mankind from any threat, foreign or domestic. In the end, it is very important that the sensible scientists ally themselves with the military to defeat the unstoppable monster (representing Communism). This synergistic alliance between the military and reasoned scientists was a prevalent thread in the social fabric of the early nineteen fifties. In the end, the monster is defeated, unscrupulous science is subordinated, and we are all safe, but the final message of film begs us all to be vigilant (presumably for Communists) and “watch the skies”.
The Thing is a timeless piece of horror sci-fi, and is also a seminal film for 50’s Cold war monster movies.

Robert Spoor

Witches! Witches! Witches!

As the central antagonist in Night of the Demon was a man who practiced the black arts, I began thinking about the role of witches in the horror genre. Witches have inspired fear in humanity for centuries and centuries. I find witches one of the most fascinating figures in the supernatural mythology in that the belief in them that humanity has held has lead to the condemnations and executions of many real people in history. What is it about witches that terrifies us so much?

They are generally seen as normal people with extraordinary abilities. The mythology is a little lenient in how they come about these abilities, as there are variety of ways that are portrayed in literature, mythology and film. In the television show Charmed the three women that act as benevolent witches and save the world on a weekly basis came from a long line of witches and were merely born with their supernatural abilities. In Night of the Demon, it seems that Karswell derived his powers from ancient texts and magic runes. In other works, such as the recent film The Sorcerers Apprentice the witches get their power from special objects that hold that power, such as a ring or talisman. More realistic witches, such as the individuals that have been condemned throughout history were believed to derive their power from devil worship.

The first question I want to pose is can you consider a witch a monster at all? In the works that I mentioned in the previous paragraoh the only one that truly would, in my opinion, be considered a work of horror would be Night of the Demon. In this work, the real monster isn't Karswell, it is the demon. As we know, according to Carroll's philosophy a monster musst be abnormal in the world it is in, as well as invoke a feeling of disgust within us. The demon invokes the fear and disgust in us in Night of the Demon, not Karswell so by Carroll's definition, because he is not disgusting, Karswell is not a “monster”. Is Karswell even a supernatural being? This could probably be argued both ways. Does he exist in our world, in my opinion yes. He is not innately powerful or supernatural, merely pulling his power from a book. Is he disgusting? Not so much, although the demon he conjures is.

Why is it that witches are present in so many different works of horror? In my opinion, witches are so frightening and so compelling because they are ordinary people. They loo no different, do not change in a disgusting way and could be anyone. They are so compelling in that everyone wants to have extraordinary power and be able to do things others cant do. This is so frightening because if there are individuals that have this power, how do you compete with them? So in conclusion, although they are fearsome and fascinating, witches cannot rreally be considered monsters.

Disecting the Beasts.

I can't help but laugh when the monsters come on screen in the movies we have watched in class. I mean, really 1950s? That's the best you can do? Night of the Demon's horror was ruined by its tacky, cheap monster. I didn't find it nearly as frightening as say, a demon monkey. Or giant squid. Or an army of ants. That being said, I felt the same way about Cat People. I had no sense of fear because the monster was a panther, and we didn't even get to see Irena turn into the cat!

That brings me to my point. Horror movies suck all the fear out of horror stories. Casting the Runes? Scary. It leads the reader into thinking about the demon. The reader can stop and put themselves into that situation. This is much harder to do during the film. You are seeing everything. Nothing is left to the imagination. And the monster they chose to portray was tacky and tame. I know what you are all going to say. "It was the 50s! They didn't have great technology!" I know, I know. But Tourneur didn't want to show the demon. That was an option. Unfortunately his wishes were not fulfilled and the audience is left with a non-scary demon. It ruined the fear that Casting the Runes instilled in me.

Modern Technologies Impact on Horror Films

In the movie Night of the Demon, the demon itself was not scary, which much ruined the movie for me. Due to the technology of the time in which the movie was created, I’m sure this was just the best they could do. It looks very fake though. The demon also looks bulky and clumsy in a sense and if I ran into this demon I would think it was a bad Halloween costume. Honestly, when I first saw it, it reminded me of a dragon off of the children’s TV show “Dragon Tales” that was a little upset. Also I believe you could see the zipper on the demon at one point.

Today, however, technology has advanced and film makers are able to create a more terrifying monster. The following pictures are from the “Exorcist”, “Halloween”, “Nightmare on Elm Street”, “The Devil’s Backbone”, and the “Fourth Kind”. In these images, however, I do see the monsters as horrifying. I certainly would not want to run into any of these creatures at any point in time. They are more believable because they look real. In conclusion, being realistic and believable are an important aspect to horror films in that if the monster is not, the horror aspect is gone, even if it possesses all other characteristics of a horror film. If i have never had access to better technology, however, the image of the devil in "Night of the Demon" may have scared me. Modern technology, however, has therefore ruined previously scary films for today's generation.

A Blog of That Dark Story...

Cursed by a vengeful witch. Chased by a cloud of smoke...or was it the demon? Is that a train you hear, or was it the cry of a merciless supernatural creature? Are those shrieking violins sending shivers up your spine too??

Night of the Demon definitely had it's moments of fright. But is it truly a horror movie according to Carroll? Is the demon a monster?

To a certain degree, the demon is a monster according to Carroll's definition, but it doesn't completely fit. Carroll defines a monster as something that cannot exist according to science, is some biologically impossible combination, and it must be both disgusting and threatening. A demon's existence cannot be proven or disproved. Therefore, is it truly a monster? Another conflicting problem is the fact that the demon isn't necessarily a combination of two impossible things. It is merely a demon. It could be argued that it is a combination of something natural (a creature as the audience clearly sees) and something supernatural (it is only seen by it's victims in the movie). With it's dripping fangs, beady eyes, and huge clawed hands, there is no contesting the fact that it is both disgusting and threatening. So whether or not this creature of utter despair is a true Carroll monster or not will be left up to the viewer.

I do agree however, even if the demon isn't a "monster", that the film did provoke the emotion of fear and adrenaline. When the actual visage of the demon is seen, it is disgusting (and a bit phony). Here is Carroll's art-horror expressed. However it isn't the actual visual demon that is the source of the fear and disgust that is felt by the audience; it is the idea of the demon being real that is the source of any fear. This idea of a threat matches Lovecraft's theory of cosmic fear rather than art-horror. In my opinion, The Night of the Demon invokes more cosmic fear than art-horror.

The plot is a complex discovery plot, but it is not the usual one. The monster is never truly confronted in the tale. In my opinion, the physical demon plays a rather small role. Again, it is the idea of the demon that is truly frightening. One overarching question is whether or not the demon was real. Could it simply be a figment of the imagination drawn out by the power of suggestion? Another irking question was whether or not the curse had anything to do with the runes. Could the demon simply be an imagined monster the result of opening the door to the belief of something evil?

This brings up a possible moral and social theme. Avoid witches! Anyone who believes in evil things is cursed, and bad things happen to dark people! The prosecution of witches has been around since medieval days. The comatose man who is hypnotized is an example of why the arts of the ancient evil witches should be avoided. See what happened to him??

As for me, the most suspenseful scene in this movie was when the main character was breaking into Koswell's house in the dead of night. A hand comes out of the corner of the screen...the cat watches from glowing eyes, the wind whistles through the trees... It is all very ominous, and as the scene progresses, the odds of the good Holdon escaping alive grow slimmer and slimmer. At first, Koswell is expected to be out of town, thus, Holdon is safe. But as soon as that hand suddenly appears on the banister, the moral outcome becomes quite unlikely.

Throughout the entire movie, I noticed how much Tourneur uses the art of sound to create an emotional response in the audience. The music is eerie and dynamic, growing louder as the danger becomes greater, getting softer as suspense grows. Again, the scene when Holdon is breaking into the house is horrifying because as soon as he is in, there is silence. This cease in music leaves the audience unconsciously on the edge of their seats. When Holdon knocks over the chairs, that silence is broken, causing the audience to feel that jolt of fright. It is artful, clever, and rather cruel in my opinion. Music and sound is an excellent way to play into the subconscious of the viewer. Was it the demon's whistling approach you heard on the tracks, or was it the incoming train?

You'll never know.

Night of the Demon vs. Casting the Runes

While our next blog will be dedicated solely to discussing Night of the Demon, I felt the need to comment on what, exactly, makes this film different from Montague R. James' Casting the Runes. In my opinion, Casting the Runes fits much more securely into the true horror genre--but why, you might ask? Essentially, the plots are the same. Both feature a magical man named Karswell whose purpose is to kill a man who threatens him. Each central character--Karswell's victims--undergoes a state of paranoia brought about by mysterious pieces of parchment containing ancient runes. This paranoia is strengthened by evidence of other deaths at Karswell's hands and by a belief in the presence of malicious demons that will ultimately become deadly. It is precisely these demons, however, that separate Night of the Demon from Casting the Runes.

In Night of the Demon, one of the first shots we see is the monster--a hideous and enormous demon that flails its arms wildly and, by today's standards, is far more comical than horrifying. However, whether horrifying or not, the choice to show the demon from the onset is a highly controversial one. In fact, Jacques Tourneur, the director of the film, publicly expressed his contempt for the demon on more than one occasion. But why? Before reading up on Tourneur's beliefs, I would have assumed that the best way to inspire art-horror in an audience would be to scare them from the onset. And what better way to accomplish this by showing the monster? After comparing both the film to the story, however, it is easy to see why prolonging the appearance of the monster--or removing its appearance altogether--would be a highly effective way of accomplishing the goals of a horror film.

In Casting the Runes, there are virtually no descriptions of a monster of any kind. The fact that the demon is not described from the onset lets readers remain in a state of suspense throughout the duration of the plot. After each development, no matter how blatantly supernatural, I was still left wondering whether or not there really was a supernatural element to the story. It is precisely this confusion that left me with an unshakably eerie feeling throughout the duration of the plot and, in my opinion, this feeling is from what a true sense of art-horror was derived. Displaying the demon from the onset of Night of the Demon forced me to believe in the presence of monsters; it left me with no doubt that there was a supernatural element at play. I must admit that this mindset was relatively boring and, essentially, not scary at all.

I fully agree with Tourneur's belief that displaying the demon at the beginning of the film was a huge mistake. Perhaps what is most terrifying to me is a sense of the unknown; that feeling that you must continue to explain things scientifically in your mind until there is simply no more room to doubt that a supernatural element is at work. Whatever the reason, I think Night of the Demon should only have revealed its monster toward the end of the film, and that these glimpses should have been short-lived and mysterious as they were in Casting the Runes.

Noël Carroll and Alvin Schwartz: A Case Study

The "art-horrific" subject of this class has inspired me to get out one of my favorite books of all time, or rather one of my favorite series of books, namely, the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark series written by an expert in American folklore, Alvin Schwartz. This series consists of three books containing collections of particularly short stories from folklore which have the tendency to be scarier than other, less horrific, folklore. All three of the books in this series have been designated for "readers nine and up" which may say something about me, but the fact remains that most of the stories in Schwartz's three collections have drawn from me what I understand from reading Carroll's work to be the emotion of "art-horror" much more effectively than really anything I have ever read and most things I have ever watched. Now that we have finished Carroll's book on the philosophy of horror, curiosity has driven me to subject Schwartz's stories to Carroll's analysis of art-horror as a sort of case study.

One thing which comes to mind immediately is the fact that not all of Schwartz's stories contain monsters but do, in my opinion, still cause the emotion of art-horror. Many such stories stem from urban legends, like the story of the baby sitter receiving calls from a killer inside the house at which she is babysitting, and some are based on actual accounts, like the man who had a frightening encounter with a knife salesman as he walked to his car after work. These stories do not contain "monsters", and, as Schwartz stats in the introduction to his second collection, they don't have to because "scary stories of this kind [without monsters] have a serious purpose. They may warn young people of the dangers that await them when they set out in the world on their own." However, there are a great many monsters which fit Carroll's analysis of monster quite well, my favorite being the living scarecrow who skins his victims.

Another aspect of Schwartz's collections is the absolutely unsettling illustrations which accompany most stories, all drawn by Stephen Gammell. In this respect, nearly every drawing fits Carroll's standards of monsters. However, neither of the points I have made so far have addressed narrative or suspense. Here again I am impressed with how well Carroll's standards are met. I do not intend to give an analysis of every story, but suffice to say that a great many of the stories include one of Carroll's narrative techniques as well as a nice bit of suspense. For example, in the story of the monstrous scarecrow Harold mentioned above, elements of "onset, discovery, confrontation" as well as the "overreacher" plot are present, in modified forms. Two ranchers create a scarecrow out of boredom and name him after a mean farmer. (This could be con trued as onset although it is a stretch.) After the two men abuse the scarecrow when they get frustrated, they notice he starts to move and then he walks around and makes menacing faces (Discovery). The men decide to leave, knowing that they have created a monster (overreacher), but one of them is forced to go back for supplies they left behind. Here, we find both the "confrontation" and suspense elements. The suspense is clear: two possible outcomes are present, with the negative one (death by Harold) more likely than the positive one (triumph over the scarecrow and successful acquisition of supplies). The confrontation is actually unseen, but the outcome is made evident as the man who did not return for supplies watches from afar as Harold stretches the skin of the other, more unfortunate rancher on the roof of the farmhouse to dry.

In the past, I have expressed dissatisfaction with Carroll's analysis, but my case study has, at least for me, helped give Carroll's philosophy of horror more legitimacy. A great amount of the scary stories which have kept me up at night since I first checked them out of my grade school's library in the fourth grade are examples of Carroll's art-horror. Although not all of the stories pass Carroll's analysis, I am delighted that so many (including some of my favorites) do. Thus, although the stories Carroll has provided as examples have yet to scare me, or rather art-horrify me, some stories which fit well into his philosophy of horror do.

Carrol's Verdict: "a long-winded exercise in common sense"?

In the last 10-20 pages of his work, Carroll summarizes his solutions to the paradox of horror (which is introduced on the bottom of the cover, below a painting that holds a debatable place in the subject genre of the book). However, he admits that his solutions seem intuitive, even after his exhaustive examination and categorization of all aspects of the genre (the monsters, the emotions, the plots, etc.). At this point, Carroll's reader is faced with two possible opinions:



1) The book was a worthwhile read.

2) The book was WAY too long to arrive at such simple conclusions, and I could get everything I needed from a one-page summary.



I'm going to argue for option 1.



Carroll's careful consideration of all parts of the horror genre gives credibility to his argument. First, he gives a definition, then describes the plots, and third describes the flaws in competing explanations for horror's appeal. He tightly defines the genre, with his definition leaving out some notable works. This precise definition gives his solution more oomph, because the appeal of works of pure suspense and art-dread (not included in the horror genre) is much different than the appeal of something aberrant and disgusting. Carroll's discussion of the plots allows the reader to distinguish between his general and universal theory (with the general applying solely in disclosure narratives). In the end, both the monsters and the plot play an important role in Carroll's solution.

While each of these may play a part, we are not universally drawn to horror by religious tendency, cosmic awe, repressed childhood emotions, or ideological concerns. Carroll points out the flaws in each of these philosophies to give more strength to his own argument. We are drawn to horror because we are fascinated, and fascinating things command our attention. We're fascinated because we're disgusted, and we're fascinated because we need to know what will happen next to these normal characters that we can relate to. Carroll's answer really does just make sense; isn't pretty hard to imagine that the reason that we pay millions (or billions) to directors, theaters, publishing houses, and haunted houses is a result of repressed childhood castration fear? Carroll correctly judges that we're fascinated by what terrifies us, and, in my opinion, the best answer really can be the one that seems the most intuitive.

The Punchline Before The Storyline

Carrol breaks the paradox of horror into universal and general divisions. Universally, viewers of horror enjoy such a genre due to the fascination of monsters, in a cognitive sense. In general, viewers enjoy the narrative, a drama of proof, and the disgust induced by the monster is the price one has to pay for such enjoyment.

So this begs the question: If a narrative is the essential piece that audiences enjoy, can a work of horror without the written/verbal story be considered as such?

I think yes. The human mind is an extraordinary piece of machinery, always ptting things together unconsciously. Have you ever people-watched? The best part of doing such is creating the narrative of the story of another person's life and how they got to X place with Y person. All horror aside, when I hear a phrase of a conversation, see a pleasant panting, or another glimpse of life, my imaginaiton is already at work as to what the story is behind it. That glimpse is all you need.

Certainly some people lack in creativity compared to others, but this does not mean that their minds to not do a similar thing. I believe that it is difficult to look at something and draw no meaning whatsoever. Even if it is a modern piece of art which simply looks like the person spilled some paint on a canvas, there could still be a story for that.

So what is so different about this (seeming) truth for the possibilty of narrative in all works of horror. Sometimes it can be direct, such as in a movie, play, or literature; other times it is inferred or has to be imagined, such as in painting and photography. This does not lessen the horror though. A painting of a man eating a child is still horrific, even if one does not know it is Saturn devoring his children.

The inverse narative is both possible and very lively within the horror genre. It still draws an appeal due to the nature of itself. We shall not write off such forms because the narrative is not direct and forthcoming. Maybe this makes them scarier.

Can places have scars?

It’s a common enough theme. A horrible event takes place: a particularly bloody battle, a man rapes and murders a girl, a mother murders her children, etc, etc, etc. And suddenly, wherever the event took place becomes haunted. I’m fascinated by this idea. Why are we tempted to believe this? That places become scarred by the evil that takes place there. Surely, the place had nothing to do with it. How can we blame the house for the sins of the family? But we do.
Humans have a short life span in the realm of things. We stick around, usually staying around the same place, for seventy-some years. Some people might live in the same town all of those seventy-some years. And they know that others, many, many others, have lived there before them. And that, presumably, many, many others will live there after them. The place where we live transcends time in a way that we are unable to do. So we’re obsessed with finding the history of the place. Towns take pride in the famous people who lived there in years passed, and towns remember the most gruesome events that happened there, keeping them alive through ghost stories and haunted houses. People like all ghost stories and all stories of haunted houses, even if they’re about places far away from where they’re living. But there’s a special allure of local horror stories. We want to be able to tell stories about the place on Buffalo Ridge, for example, so our audience knows exactly where it is. The history of the places we live haunts us. Imagine you’re all ready to buy your first house with your spouse and a kid and the next one on the way, and you find out about the last family to live in the house you’re excited about. You find out that the son killed the rest of the family. Do you still want to buy the house? It’s the beginning of every haunted house movie. They always buy the house and the audience is always internally screaming at them not to do it. They, and we, tell themselves that it’s illogical to care about what happened in the past in a particular place and yet we can’t help it. We feel that the place must be scarred somehow.
Or, I believe, we want the place to be scarred. We want to know that gruesome acts of evil cannot happen without some result. If that can happen then the world is not balanced. We want to believe that the places will be scarred by evil just as much as we are. We refuse to believe that evil can just happen, unnoticed, with the world continuing, unaffected. Plus, we want to blame the evil things that people do on some larger force. We want to blame the place for driving them to do it. (Like The Shining). And so the place, as a victim of earlier evil, becomes scarred and so later lashes out as the villain. The scariest thing is that we don’t even know what kind of horrible scars a place has acquired through its long, long life. We are afraid of the mystery of place’s ancient histories.

Saw is too a horror movie by Carroll's definition!

At the end of class today (I guess technically yesterday now since its 2 am, I'm an insomniac) it was brought up that the Saw series isn't a horror movie by Carroll's definition because it is "a cut them up gore movie" or something along those lines. I am a huge fan of the Saw movies and instantly wanted to defend their place in the horror genre but class ended. So I figured like most people today that get offend by something in real life I'd take my complaints and opinions to the internet ( though I may bring it up in class next time as well).

So here goes...

Carroll's reason for why we enjoy horror is the narration and the the disgust we feel from the monster is the price we pay for this joy. This fits the Saw series perfectly. The best part of EVERY Saw movie is the last 10-15 minutes. That is when Jig Saw's (the monster of the Saw movies) full plans are revealed. For those who haven't seen the films Jog Saw is an older man that was diagnosed with terminal cancer and after a bout with death in a car wreck realizes how important life is, how great a second chance is, and most importantly that not valuing your life is a crime worthy of being punished by death. So Jig Saw take people with various moral issues (drug dealers, corrupt people in power, thieves, drunk drivers that killed people, junkies and other "scum of the earth type people") and puts them in a ironic situation where they comfort their fears and issues or die.

This is where the amount of gore turns off a decent amount of people. But its not the gore that make me love the Saw movies, you can find that in about any horror movie nowadays. Its the last 10-15 minutes when threw a series of flash backs and forwards Jig Saw's full plan is revealed. These aren't your run of the mill mouse trap plans either. These are plans that are highly intricate, detailed, and always surprising. It's the film equivalent of narration. So by Carroll's own definition in the Saw movies the gore of the victims being killed is the disgust that we have to put up for the enjoyment we get from the revealed end plan of Jig Saw (Carroll's narration).

So ibso facto the Saw movies are too horror movies!

"Feed me Seymour! Feed me!"

This afternoon, as I typed yet another paper and prayed to my iPod to provide me with some inspiration, I was rewarded with this:



Originally drawn to the film because of my slight obsession with Steve Martin, I absolutely fell in love with Little Shop of Horrors (1986) after viewing it for the first time a couple of years ago. Fundamentally, the story centers on a young man named Seymour who is in love with a young woman named Audrey that works with at Mushnik’s Skid Row Florist. Trapped in an abusive relationship, Audrey does not dare show her true feelings for Seymour because she fears her boyfriend Orin’s wrath. Meanwhile, Seymour discovers a giant plant resembling a Venus Flytrap following a suspicious eclipse and names it Audrey II after the woman with whom he is in love. Quite by accident, Seymour discovers that Audrey II does not need water to grow but blood. Hence, comedic chaos and musical number ensue! Eventually, Seymour will bring the abusive Orin to Audrey II as a substitute for plant food followed by his boss, Mr. Mushnik. Seymour believes that he is achieving everything he wanted and more. Little does Seymour know, Audrey II is an alien who has more nefarious plans in which he and other aliens like him take over the world. The film ends with Audrey II eating Seymour and beginning his quest for world domination.

Pretty epic, no?

Ruminating on the film today, I was surprised to find that the film contains many of Carroll’s characteristics of horror – a fitting fact considering the title! The most obvious aspect of the film that coincides with Carroll’s idea of “art horror” is the character of Audrey II. One of my favorite monsters, Audrey II is not only scientifically impossible but also threatening and disgusting. Biologically, he is an inanimate plant that craves blood. Psychologically, he is an animate alien that plans the destruction of the human race. He is powerful, manipulating, and has a large mouth full of sharp, white teeth. He inspires disgust and revolt in the viewer, which is then tempered and emphasized by comedy. In essence, Audrey II is the embodiment of what Carroll would call an “art horror” monster while his story is a humorous, satirical (albeit pensive) examination of the human condition. For me, the beauty of horror films lie in their ability to communicate universal truths and social injustices by displaying the reality of human failure and misunderstanding. After all, if Lovecraft and Carroll are correct in assuming that most of our horror/terror comes from a fear of the unknown, isn’t humanity’s failure to understand the epitome of the unknown?

Thoughts About Cat People

Cat people didn't scare me that much. The acting wasn't that good, the writing could have used another edit or two, and the acting was pretty stiff. The really bad special effect at the end didn't help either. 

When I watched it,  I kept thinking about how cliched the story and filmmaking style was. Mysterious old legend, were animal, bus jumping out of nowhere for a fake scare--I've seen all of those a million times before. And I don't even watch that many horror movies. 

Then I realized that you can't really blame Val Lewton for that. If Cat People is any indication, he pretty much invented the horror genre we know and love (or hate, as the case may be) today. If it feels cliched sometimes, it is because Lewton invented of a lot of what have become cliches from overuse.

I also noticed some stuff that reminded me of citizen Kane. They way the shots were framed (Welles was big on establishing shots of doors, windows, etc.), the sounds of things not shown on the screen, the way light and darkness were used together. (If you've ever seen A Touch of Evil, the scene where Orson Welles is strangling the guy reminded me of the scene where the heroine is walking to the bus). This kind of makes sense, because a lot of the same people worked on the two movies, but the juxtaposition between the greatest movie of all time and a movie about werecats was interesting. 

Also, can I be the only one who thinks Cat People is due for a remake? If you kept the camera work and sound editing, tightened up the script a little bit, and hired some slightly better actors, it could be a really good movie. Keep the shadow fight scene, except hire a decent cinematographer so that it looks more spooky and scary.

Purr-fect Horror?

The movie we watched in class so far was The Cat People. It was about Irena, a woman from Serbia who moved to New York City. She quickly falls in love with a man she met at the zoo while littering. After they get married, however, there is some tension when she refuses to do anything with her husband. She believes she will turn into a panther and kill people if she is emotional aroused. Her husband, Oliver, gets her to see a psychiatrist thinking she just has childhood issues. After her husband ends up leaving her for his co-worker (Alice) Irena gets jealous and starts stalking them. She ends up killing her psychiatrist but got stabbed in the chest from his knife.

This is a story of fantastic marvelous. There is a strong suggestion of supernatural activity. There was some doubt whether or not the story was supernatural or just hinted at it. The movie never actually shows Irena turning into a panther and killing the psychiatrist or tearing up Alice’s robe. She let loose a jaguar from the zoo so it’s possible it was just the jaguar for the longest time. There is some pretty compelling evidence though when she’s with the psychiatrist; they look to be alone as he puts the moves on her. After he kisses her though, it is the psychiatrist who fights off a giant cat, in shadows on the wall. It is still plausible there is nothing supernatural going on, it could have been Irena or it could’ve been her best buddy the jaguar who attacked him. The evidence I rely on to make this call is that when he was fighting the cat he stabbed it with his knife; who then has his knife sticking from her chest at the end of the movie? To me this signifies that Irena is in fact a creature of supernatural being and she isn’t just full of childhood issues; she’s full of evil. I thought that Cat People was a very effective piece of art-horror, because it did not rely simply in sight gags or guys in rubber suits. It was a psychological horror, but also physical because I wouldn’t want to be left alone with Irena. Carroll's theory works well with Cat People. The scariest part for me was when Irena followed Alice to the bus stop and it when the bus pulled up it sounded like a panther screaming or the bus stopping. I didn’t know if Alice was about to get mauled and the footsteps following her was creepy. I thought that when the panther attacking the psychiatrist was horrifying because the shadow fight was intense and I didn’t who was going to make it out alive.

Equinox, a Journey into Bad Acting

I finally got around to watching this, so it's time for the analysis!

Freud's Unheimlich
There is not much to speak of. Only two rather weak examples could be argued. First, most people don't expect a large castle to show up in some Californian mountains, but the castle itself is hardly anti-mountains. Second, most people don't expect maniacal old men to live in caves, yet they may expect something creepy to inhabit a cavern, hence the old man does not make it un-cave like.

Lovecraft's Cosmic Horror
In spades. The whole premise of the movie is that a supernatural realm not countenanced by modern science exists alongside our own, and that forces of good have long fought against the forces of evil summoned from this realm, which include the ridiculous gorilla thing on the cover. These forces converge on a book of demonology being carried around by the main characters, which rather reminded me of The Necronomicon of the Mad Arab Abdul Azhalred. The main villain of the story is some kind of demon disguising himself as a park ranger named Asmodeus, which kind of blows the whole purpose of the disguise if it weren't for the fact that the main characters are hopelessly genre blind. The stop motion models used for the monsters present a double-edged sword. On one hand, their uniform speed of motion, odd texturing, and real-but-obviously-fake look conveys a good sense of otherworldliness and doesnotbelonghereness. On the other hand, their rather over the top ludicrousness acts as a good source of nightmare retardant for anyone that may have been genuinely scared by them.

Art-horror
The aim of the movie is clearly to evoke a sense of art-horror from its monsters, which, as I mentioned above, partly succeeds and partly fails due to the puppets used. The monsters are fearsome and physically threatening, and are both physically and morally impure, being demonic chimeras of great size. There is a bit of suspense element that pays off fairly well (I don't want to spoil anything), and the plot could arguably be considered fantastic-marvelous, though it does not really try to convince us that the protagonist hallucinated the entire thing. The plot structure is onset-discover-confrontation, with confirmation largely ignored, as the only other character is the villainous park ranger; there are a few half-hearted attempts to convince him that something is going on, but none that give any kind of narrative pleasure to the audience.

Overall, Equinox is worth watching if you enjoy really bad horror movies; or if your name is Robert; or if you want to hear the line "This wouldn't be a bad place to start a nudist colony" uttered in a non-comedic, non-documentary screenplay. Anyone looking for a genuine scare will be disappointed, except perhaps by the twist ending. For optimum viewing pleasure, watch with your most snarky friends.

The Horror of Horror Films

Whenever a new scary movie comes out, why do people go? Since I work at a movie theatre, I see it time and time again, every scary movie, no matter how horrifying, disturbing, bloody, violent or stupid the previews look, people show up. Why? Why do people choose to go and be scared? The answer is adrenalin. I believe people come to see these movies to be scared and get the rush of epinephrine that makes them feel alive per say. There heart rate increases, muscles tense, eyes widen and the body is prepared to “fight or flight.” It gives people a thrill and makes them fell on edge.

This makes scary movies seem like a fun time. But the majority of the people who come to these scary movies on a Friday and Saturday night cause a purely horrifying evening for anyone working. Of all the weekends I’ve worked in the past two years, nothing is as bad as when a scary movie comes out. Not sure what it is about scary movies that bring the most awful people from Kentucky and Ohio down to the levee, but it happens. The obnoxious teenagers and young adults that show up are always out of control. I have kicked many people out and witnessed multiple people arrested and tasered for throwing hissy fits over not being able to see the movie. People have thrown things, fought the cops, and screamed curse words at the top of their lungs. I’ve been called countless names and have been told that people will be waiting at my car after work to “get me.” This is all before the movie even starts, but you’d think the movie should be enough to entertain them, it never is. The scary movie film crowd is always one sure to cause disturbances and be loud. There have even been fights break out during the movie. Therefore, from my perspective, any movie deemed horror, scary or a psychological thriller is in every way shape and form a complete horror.

Horror and Religion: A Real "Paradox of the Heart"

I have to admit, I was pretty surprised to read Carroll's examination of the analogy between the experience of art-horror and religious experience. Since we have spent much of our class time so far talking about the revulsion and disgust brought on by Dracula, the ants, Norman Bates, and Will Farrell, it seemed like a pretty big jump to start comparing these characters to God. This discussion did follow Carroll's overview of Lovecraft's "cosmic awe" theory, which does contain elements that would be comparable to personal human experiences with God, e.g., the natural inclination toward the existence of unfamiliar power. However, Carroll explicitly characterizes the emotion of cosmic fear with "moral revulsion" (162). If moral revulsion is part of the horror genre, how can we compare it to religious experience?

For me, it's just too much of a stretch to go from fear and disgust, to wonder and awe, to religious experience when trying to describe horror's attractive power. It's clear that people are attracted to the unsavory - just look at the headlines at the Kroger magazine stand proclaiming the good news that 1) Noah's Ark has been found on Jupiter and 2) it's housing bin Laden's love child. People definitely crave the weird, uncanny, and horrifying, but I really don't think that it's a substitute for religious experience.

For that, let's look at the NFL. Nothing horrifying there.

The Surreal

I was flipping through a book on Salvadore Dali last night at work and began to wonder if some -pehaps not all- surreal art qualifies as art horror. There are some pieces that are certainly unsettling, pieces that challenge the preconceptions that we have ablout the world. And some works are even comical, but then didn't we say that perhaps comdey and horror may have the same roots? Just a thought...

Monkeys: A Most Horrifying Animal

After reading Le Fanu's Green Tea, I was struck by a thought that was quite unrelated to the overall point of the story, but nagged me throughout the duration of the plot. Why, of all things, did the Reverend Mr. Jennings' demon appear as a monkey? Certainly when I think of a demon, a monkey is hardly the first thing that comes to mind. There was no traditional red devil with horns and pitchfork in hand and no ghost with bloodstained clothing but, rather, a primate. Upon further consideration, I realized that Le Fanu is not unique in his portrayal of a monkey as a creature of horror. In fact, some of the most common "monsters" of our time have been none other than monkeys. Consider, for example, the following classic tales.

The first and most obvious example is undoubtedly King Kong. While it perhaps falls more into the adventure genre than into horror, the 1933 film and subsequent 2005 remake feature an enormous gorilla-like creature that was captured on a remote island and brought to New York City. In fact, one of the most iconic film images of all time is the one in which Kong has climbed to the top of the Empire State building with a kidnapped young woman in his hand. While Kong dies in the end and never really purposefully sets on on a path of mass destruction, a giant monkey that is capable of pulling of such a feat is certainly terrifying in and off itself.

The next example, and perhaps my favorite, is Edgar Allan Poe's "The Murders in the Rue Morgue." While I have not read the short story, I have seen the 1932 version of the film and feel that this work definitely falls into the horror genre. The plot is centered upon the brutal murders of two women in Paris. Throughout the story, a detective attempts to solve the murders but is confused by the fact that nonhuman hairs have been left at the scene of the crime. To make a long story short, we discover at the end that an orangutan has committed the murders; despite that fact that they appeared very much to have been done by human hand.

Finally, I considered a classic work that is not a work of horror at all: none other than the Wizard of Oz. While the "bad guy" is undoubtedly the Wicked Witch of the West, her minions are, to many, the most terrifying aspect of the movie. The infamous flying monkeys that appear throughout the plot have terrified young audiences for generations. While the monkeys are not portrayed as free-thinkers themselves, they carry out the witch's orders and, in a particularly creepy scene, stomp on the Scarecrow and carry Dorothy and Todo away.

Monkeys are not viscous like the shark, they are not predators like the tiger, and they are not mysterious like the squid. Monkeys, however, appear more often in horror than any of the 3. But why? The issue is, of course, a matter of opinion, but I can draw only one conclusion. The monkey is our close relative; it is the only animal that has been proven to be remotely capable of rivaling our intelligence level. Perhaps what we most fear is not being eaten alive or being dragged into the mysterious depths of the ocean. Perhaps what we truly fear most is intelligence--of losing the upper hand in the only realm in which we think we have control.

Monster House....no, wait! It's Harry Potter!

Originally this was going to be an analysis of Monster House, but the library didn't have it. I got out a low budget horror film with a ludicrous cover, Equinox, instead. But then my parents decided it was family Harry Potter night; so now you're getting my 2 am analysis of Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince. Ahem.

Lovecraftian Cosmic Horror
Harry Potter does not evoke any sense of cosmic horror, that is, of some primordial fear of the unknown that modern materialism has tried to squash out. True, the magic does not exist in reality, but it functions in ways familiar to us through faerie tales and folklore, and takes our modern sciences for granted, even if it bends their rules. There is not sheer "other" quality about the magic or the magical beings. Another strike against Harry Potter is that its characters do not remain passive while extraordinary events unfold around them. The human characters are the instigators of the plot, and react to the stories events with more than screams of "Ia, Cthulhu ftaghn!" and mad ramblings. It is safe to conclude that Harry Potter should not be classified as cosmic horror.

Freud's Uncanny
Seeing as how it takes place in an alternate society parallel to our own, Harry Potter seems like it should be a good target for Freud's idea of unheimlich. Sadly for Freud, this is not the case, though I'm sure he will have a field day with the prolific use of wands, staves, and broomsticks. While the institutions of the wizarding world are similar to ours, they do not reverse or corrupt any important aspect of those institutions as we understand them; rather they dress them up in robes and pointy hats. A wizard house is still a home as we understand it, even if the dishes wash themselves. Thus Harry Potter does not contain elements of the uncanny.

Carroll's Art-horror
Harry Potter does contain some elements of art-horror, though I believe it would be incorrect to classify the work itself as one of art-horror, for the incitement of art-horror is not the chief aim of the story. Even within the fantastic world of wizards, where the rules of modern science can be bent, certain creatures can still produce interstitial and other types of impurity. Inferi(zombies) are still terrifying to wizards. They are capable of existing, yes; but they still combine the ideas of life and death, and as such are interstitial beings, which are considered impossibly by the muggle audience, if not the characters. Similarly, werewolves, while regarded as possible, still combine man and animal in ways they should not be combined. The wizard world is close enough to our world that impossible monsters still retain their powers of fear and disgust in both worlds, thus evoking the emotion of art-horror.

I'll try to get my review/analysis of Equinox up by Sunday night.

1 is the loneliest number... and the scariest

After watching Cat People and doing some person reflection watching other horror movies, I came to this golden rule of horror so to speak: everything is more scary when you are alone. The pool scene in cat people was scary because she was alone in a dark room. Think about it to yourself for a second, being home alone on a dark storming night terrifying especially when the lights begin to flicker. Have another person with you makes the situation dramatically more comfortable. Even having a pet dog or cat can make the situation less unnerving. People are social beings by nature and being alone goes against that nature.

The second reason why being alone way more scary is because in horror movies as soon as you wonder out by yourself, your basically as good as dead. It is just like in the wild, the predator cuts off a weak dumb target from the herd and attacks. If your alone in a scary situation you feel like a weak dumb target, cause your ARE the weak dumb target. Movies build this fear into us, if your alone in a scary your the prime target, unless there is a minority, dumb jock, pretty cheerleader, or a ginger in the nearby, in that case there is a horror movie status quo. Still being alone drastically increases the scarometer whether there is a genuine threat or not. If you read my previous blog you'll remember my fear of raptors in my parent's basement. That fear only occurred when I was alone. Loneliness is the source of many irrational fears and is an easy set up for a horror scene.

What Makes a Good Horror Film?

One thing that I noticed right away about Cat People was that I liked the visualization of watching a scary movie in black and white. Watching a movie in black and white gives the audience some license of their own to add their own imaginative touches to it. For example, the black and white movie made the use of shadows much more dramatic. Already the picture is not crystal clear, and when the use of shadows is used it adds a real sense of eeriness as to what that shadow is. Now with HGTV, we’d see that the shadow was clearly defined to be Irena or a panther. Also at the end when Irena is lying on the ground in front of the panther cage, the audience can’t tell if she is in human or panther form. This ambiguity may have been done on purpose by Tourneur and Lewton, but the black and white picture really helps to add to the ambiguity. It was impossible to distinguish her body shape in the black and white.

In the documentary we watched on Val Lewton, the people being interviewed talked of how Universal and Paramount were coming out with movies with monsters like King Kong and Frankenstein. Then Val Lewton started coming out with movies that worked with shadows and auditory aspects, because he didn’t have enough money to have monsters in his film. I think that what Val Lewton did in his movies is a refreshing idea compared to the horror movies that we watch today. Horror movies have become a contest of who can “out gross” who, and the horror is not that bone chilling horror anymore but instead visual overload. For example, do we really need to see a man saw off his leg in Saw or people being slaughtered by a doll names Chucky in Child’s Play? It’s better to leave it up to the viewer to imagine the horrible things that are being done. This leaves a feeling of the unknown, and the unknown itself is something that is to be feared. I enjoyed both the movie Cat People and the documentary about Val Lewton because they gave me different perspectives as to what makes a good horror film.

Inversion and Upheaval

It seems that a common theme that is emphasized throughout all of the various philosophies we've encountered thus far is the idea that what is scary is what plays upon our conceptions of what is right, normal and natural. Our mode of operation, when it comes to the biological and socio/psychological stance, is to categorize the world we live in and to assign labels with which we associate a certain set of values, emotions and preconceptions. it's a survival mechanism and a key component of our ability to make and maintain relationships. Via this approach to the world, we are able to say whether things are good or bad, safe or unsafe, familiar or unfamiliar -or can we? And it's this last question "or can we?" that authors of horror exploit.
Carrol presents us with the criteria, he claims, are necessary for a monster. A true monster -on that evokes within us fear and terror- is one that elicits disgust, that we believe to be impure, and that is impossible as far as we know. But that's just it. As far as we know. The disruption to the natural order that Carrol claims makes a monster disgusting is simply the violation of our preconceptions of what the world should be like. Who's to say a person can't be covered in slimy purple fur and have six arms? Well, we do, because as far as we know, what we define as a "person" has to meet a certain set of criteria that, up until the point of encountering a monster, all humans we have met do have. A monster is only "impure" because we associate a certain set of things with what is good, and anything outside of our understanding of what is normal and good must somehow be bad. Finally, we are scared of something that is likely not to exist because the very fact that it seems to is a violation of all that we know of the world. In short, we know what the world's supposed to be like, and the monster forces us to question our perception of our reality.
The same can be found within Freud's "uncanny." Playing upon the associations and categorizations that we make in our world, Freud simply shakes the floor beneath us that we thought was so solid. Take, for instance, a mother. Every person who's ever encountered a mother has created a certain set of beliefs about what a mother should be like. We've a a certain set of emotions and thoughts and images with which we associate a mother figure. These are fixed and, in large part, go unchallenged in our everyday lives. And then, we encounter the uncanny. We encounter a mother that we know to be a mother, but whose every action and very existence challenges anything and everything you thought you knew about mothers. All of the associations you once made with "mother" are not applicable and now something that you once thought you were so sure of is upended and you are confronted with a perversion of that which you had once been able to define.
Lovecraft goes even deeper into this interpretation by claiming that there's a sense of something greater, of something cosmic and awe-inspiring that each individual has an intuitive sense of, but which we don't encounter in our everyday lives. And so we proceed to live the way that we do, categorizing and labeling and assigning value to things and ideas accordingly. And then we happen upon something horrifying which evidences that which we knew to be true all along. It's unsettling in the fact that it violates the plane upon which we accustom ourselves to operating, but we are drawn to this idea that the forces behind the terrible events witnessed are bigger, are part of some vast unknown of the universe and that put us in our rightful place as very small beings. And so we fear it, but seek it out, for we like being reminded that it's true and that there is something larger and more powerful than we.
It all comes down to worldview and how one regards one's place in the world. Once you think you've got it all figured out, you're utterly terrified when you are made tangibly aware that you are, indeed, sorely mistaken.

Shadows of an Evil Past...and Cats...

An ancient past filled with darkness, evil and strange midnight revelries...a strange town filled with strange people...the feeling of always being watched like a mouse in a corner...

And I wonder where all my strange dreams are coming from??

Ancient Sorceries was definitely the most disturbing story I've read so far this semester. The first shiver that danced up and down my spine was when Vezin first heard the strange music, and they only got worse as the story developed. What I cannot figure out is why this story frightened me more than The Sea Raiders for example or The Most Dangerous Game. My theory is the format in which Blackwood wrote it in. He has a certain...vague yet descriptive manner of spinning a tale. He creates this dream-like feel to the narration. The story sucks you in and before you realize it, you are under the same spell Vezin found himself cursed by. You find yourself there on the wall at midnight, the sounds of the frenzy all around you. The screams, the dancing, the urge to join in the frenzy...it was all so vivid.

For me, this story really displayed the importance of vocabulary and good storytelling. If you think about it, Blackwood didn't really have a monster, nor a truly horrifying story. None of the cat people, if they even existed, were threatening Vezin. The true horror lays in the idea that these people truly transformed into cats and if Vezin was somehow one of them in a past life.

I'm firmly convinced that when armed with a socially taboo idea (like being a Satanic cat-person in a former life), a good vocabulary, and good storytelling abilities, anyone can write a truly horrifying story.

Why Horror? - A Simpler Explanation

One of the main goals of Carroll's The Philosophy of Horror is to set forth a general and all encompassing theory of why art-horror as a genre is attractive and popular. He hopes to reach an understanding as to why people are so interested in something which is repulsive. He dubs this the "Paradox of horror" or the "Paradox of the Heart", whereby people are entertained by that which ordinarily is considered horrific, terrifying, morbid, etc. On page 167, he writes that some claim that horror is entertaining because it gives a sense of thrill and excitement without the risk associated with the dangerous pursuit of thrills in real life. He proceeds to state that this view can be applied to most other genres of fiction and, thus, does not work as an encompassing answer to why people find art-horror so enthralling.


However, I believe that Carroll hits upon a very simple and completely legitimate explanation for art-horror's popularity here. People have always sought escape from reality through various forms of media. In the age of the Roman Empire, they attended massive gladiatorial fights. These were gruesome events which were certainly repulsive, but they drew massive crowds because people could watch others engage in thrilling, risky activity without risking harm on themselves. Such examples can be found in great numbers throughout history, including the popularity of hangings and other public executions and stunts performed by daredevils like Evel Knievel (truly, it is natural for people to live vicariously through others). The same can be said for literature and film. Audiences enjoy the rush of watching Indiana Jones run from a massive boulder, but they would definitely not enjoy doing the same thing themselves.


In my opinion, the reason people like horror is closely related to all of this. Simply, people like to feel the adrenaline rush involved with being in scary situations and facing monsters without having the risk of personal harm associated with that feeling. Furthermore, this theory, although related to the reason people like adventure, action, romance, etc., is unique to horror. Viewers watch movies and read books of other genres to experience the thrill of adventure, the excitement of action, and the warmth of romance, etc. without facing the risks of actually embarking on an adventure, being an action hero, or falling in love, etc.. Similarly but uniquely, audiences flock to horror movies and buy horror novels to experience the fear of monsters without the danger.


Perhaps at the completion of Carroll's book, I will have found a more satisfactory explanation, but thus far nothing has beaten this simple rationalization of why people love horror (more specifically "art-horror").