I'm going to be honest - I'm not a huge horror buff. I've always found it difficult to get a foothold into it. There's so many sub genres and so many films of varying quality. This of course is making our themed Halloween week difficult for me. Unlike our resident Jonathan Charles Hatfull, I can't present an informed dissection of the giallo genre, nor can I give a reappraisal of under appreciated gems - I'm barely acquainted with the popular stuff! What I can do however, is write a very personal and very subjective column about the things I've seen done on screen that's terrified me. I'm not going to restrict this discussion to traditional horror films either, but simply anything that's made my skin crawl.
Personally, quite a lot of the horror films I've seen haven't scared me. Sure they may have made me jump and even flinch at times, but when the credits roll, all has been forgotten - they're just movies after all. Unfortunately, it takes a bit more for me to feel uncomfortable. I like horror to disturb me, to shock me, to make me hesitate when turning off the light at night. Seeing a group of pretty, American "high school" kids get torn up at a summer camp just doesn't cut it. For me, the most successful horror introduces the notion that a dark and ancient evil is radiating through its story. This isn't to say I only rate horror when a demon appears, no, I believe it should be far less concrete then that. Implied evil as a concept works best, the more ambiguous the better. Just the sense that our protagonists are encountering something far bigger than themselves, something completely incomprehensible, that is what scares me the most. This is something that is utilised wonderfully in the works of David Lynch, Takashi Miike's Gozu (2003), Paul W.S. Anderson's Event Horizon (1997) and John Carpenter's Cigarette Burns (2005).
One aspect of a movie that can aid this is an extraordinary performance by the actor representing the inconceivable. Consider, for example, the under seen French film Sheitan (2006). Although the film itself is rather jumbled and underdeveloped, Vincent Cassel's turn as the manically grinning Joseph gives what would be a fairly standard and generic film a true sense of rural Gothic. Many people (Bill Hicks included) make jokes about talentless people selling their souls to the Antichrist - so much so that the image itself has lost most of its power. The creepiness surrounding the near unrecognisable Cassel really hammers home how horrifying a concept this truly is. In a different vein, Michael Haneke's Funny Games (1997) is an already disturbing essay on violence and its representation in the media and would have been an intelligent and successful film with a less able cast. Thankfully, Arno Frisch was on hand to make the film that much more bleak. Playing the self-aware Paul, he oozes what can only be described as a sociopathic darkness that permeates through the screen, constantly playing along or toying with the audience. Few things are as shocking as the moment he winks at us, the audience, and it dawns on us that we are part of his vicious, cruel and callous games.
Similarly though, a character doesn't have to be played out as an embodiment of evil to be terrifying. In Fritz Lang's extraordinarily forward thinking M (1931), Peter Lorre's turn as the vile and disgusting Hans Beckert is a tour de force, but what really stands out is how human the character is played. During the first half of the film, he is a cocky, confident killer, almost teasing and daring the police (and everyday people) into action, however, the fear evident on Lorre's face during the finale completely changes our perception of the monster. Wh
ere was once a distortion is now simply a broken and pathetic man who preys upon the weak. This theme is also developed in Twin Peaks and its accompanying film Fire Walk With Me (1992). The legend of the Black Lodge acts as our ancient evil, but Ray Wise's performance as its vessel, Leland Palmer is unforgettable. Equal parts psychotic and sympathetic, Wise presents Leland as a man bouncing off the the walls, but who is helpless to stop himself. Even when the man does surface in the monster, he is still confusing to interpret. His teary confession to his daughter ('I thought you always knew it was me.') is uttered, not as Killer Bob, but as Leland himself, making it possibly one of the creepiest moments in the entire saga.
Of course, horror needs more than atmosphere and deep concepts, otherwise the genre would be reduced to epic meditations and debates on the nature of evil. It needs those spine chilling moments that can force us to shudder at the sheer thought of what is being presented to us on screen. A lot of popular films use gore to achieve this, but I don't feel that is enough. The violence needs to be further soaked in a greater meaning. Consider the difference between the series of Friday the 13th films and Funny Games. Despite the previous having a larger body count and far more gallons of blood onscreen, it is Funny Games that truly disturbs.
These moments however don't have to be gory. In fact, I find that they resound better when they are not. My favourite spine chilling moments are usually at the moment of realisation of such films - when it is finally clear that all is not well. David Lynch is a master of such moments. I find it impossible to watch Inland Empire (2006) without shuddering at the scenes that feature this aspect. When Laura Dern finds herself backstage, disturbing a script reading that she took part in a few days previous, I felt that, as Lynchian head fuck moments go, this was quite tame. However, the climax of that scene, with the discovery of the Man in the Green Suit, always gets me. It's not edited in a "jumpy" manner, nor does it sound unsettling when written on paper, but that short sense of seeing something that is not meant to be there disturbs me. I no longer feel like my head is truly comprehending what I'm seeing, that there's something occurring on screen that I could not understand in a million years. I guess in the end, what scares me is the ability of directors to deliberately do that to me. They must feel so powerful when they get it right.
Personally, quite a lot of the horror films I've seen haven't scared me. Sure they may have made me jump and even flinch at times, but when the credits roll, all has been forgotten - they're just movies after all. Unfortunately, it takes a bit more for me to feel uncomfortable. I like horror to disturb me, to shock me, to make me hesitate when turning off the light at night. Seeing a group of pretty, American "high school" kids get torn up at a summer camp just doesn't cut it. For me, the most successful horror introduces the notion that a dark and ancient evil is radiating through its story. This isn't to say I only rate horror when a demon appears, no, I believe it should be far less concrete then that. Implied evil as a concept works best, the more ambiguous the better. Just the sense that our protagonists are encountering something far bigger than themselves, something completely incomprehensible, that is what scares me the most. This is something that is utilised wonderfully in the works of David Lynch, Takashi Miike's Gozu (2003), Paul W.S. Anderson's Event Horizon (1997) and John Carpenter's Cigarette Burns (2005).
One aspect of a movie that can aid this is an extraordinary performance by the actor representing the inconceivable. Consider, for example, the under seen French film Sheitan (2006). Although the film itself is rather jumbled and underdeveloped, Vincent Cassel's turn as the manically grinning Joseph gives what would be a fairly standard and generic film a true sense of rural Gothic. Many people (Bill Hicks included) make jokes about talentless people selling their souls to the Antichrist - so much so that the image itself has lost most of its power. The creepiness surrounding the near unrecognisable Cassel really hammers home how horrifying a concept this truly is. In a different vein, Michael Haneke's Funny Games (1997) is an already disturbing essay on violence and its representation in the media and would have been an intelligent and successful film with a less able cast. Thankfully, Arno Frisch was on hand to make the film that much more bleak. Playing the self-aware Paul, he oozes what can only be described as a sociopathic darkness that permeates through the screen, constantly playing along or toying with the audience. Few things are as shocking as the moment he winks at us, the audience, and it dawns on us that we are part of his vicious, cruel and callous games.Similarly though, a character doesn't have to be played out as an embodiment of evil to be terrifying. In Fritz Lang's extraordinarily forward thinking M (1931), Peter Lorre's turn as the vile and disgusting Hans Beckert is a tour de force, but what really stands out is how human the character is played. During the first half of the film, he is a cocky, confident killer, almost teasing and daring the police (and everyday people) into action, however, the fear evident on Lorre's face during the finale completely changes our perception of the monster. Wh
ere was once a distortion is now simply a broken and pathetic man who preys upon the weak. This theme is also developed in Twin Peaks and its accompanying film Fire Walk With Me (1992). The legend of the Black Lodge acts as our ancient evil, but Ray Wise's performance as its vessel, Leland Palmer is unforgettable. Equal parts psychotic and sympathetic, Wise presents Leland as a man bouncing off the the walls, but who is helpless to stop himself. Even when the man does surface in the monster, he is still confusing to interpret. His teary confession to his daughter ('I thought you always knew it was me.') is uttered, not as Killer Bob, but as Leland himself, making it possibly one of the creepiest moments in the entire saga.Of course, horror needs more than atmosphere and deep concepts, otherwise the genre would be reduced to epic meditations and debates on the nature of evil. It needs those spine chilling moments that can force us to shudder at the sheer thought of what is being presented to us on screen. A lot of popular films use gore to achieve this, but I don't feel that is enough. The violence needs to be further soaked in a greater meaning. Consider the difference between the series of Friday the 13th films and Funny Games. Despite the previous having a larger body count and far more gallons of blood onscreen, it is Funny Games that truly disturbs.
These moments however don't have to be gory. In fact, I find that they resound better when they are not. My favourite spine chilling moments are usually at the moment of realisation of such films - when it is finally clear that all is not well. David Lynch is a master of such moments. I find it impossible to watch Inland Empire (2006) without shuddering at the scenes that feature this aspect. When Laura Dern finds herself backstage, disturbing a script reading that she took part in a few days previous, I felt that, as Lynchian head fuck moments go, this was quite tame. However, the climax of that scene, with the discovery of the Man in the Green Suit, always gets me. It's not edited in a "jumpy" manner, nor does it sound unsettling when written on paper, but that short sense of seeing something that is not meant to be there disturbs me. I no longer feel like my head is truly comprehending what I'm seeing, that there's something occurring on screen that I could not understand in a million years. I guess in the end, what scares me is the ability of directors to deliberately do that to me. They must feel so powerful when they get it right.
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