Can We Please Lose the Overhead Drone Shot?

It's become a cliché. The overhead drone shot of a car driving along a highway or through a forest. Despite some minor variations, I've seen these shots way too often. They're pointless apart from looking pretty, because they're rarely aesthetically motivated. As an establishing shot, they have become banal and, well, cliché.

 

 

As a cliché, the drone shot of the driving car rivals the fruit cart. As described in Roger Ebert's The Little Book of Hollywood Clichés, whenever a film has a chase scene, and you cut to a fruit cart, you just know a speeding vehicle will collide with that cart.

Why are filmmakers so in love with overhead drone shots? I have a theory.

Camera drones are a relatively recent consumer technology. Prior to them, overhead shots required expensive cranes or helicopters, operated by highly paid (often unionized) workers. Thus, overhead shots were both rare and impressive. In the 1980s, SCTV even had a running gag about TV personality Johnny LaRue (John Candy) incessantly badgering the station owner for a crane with which to wow his audience. Crane shots were big league.

And so when drones became available to ordinary folk, filmmakers jumped at the chance to showcase their new toy. They used and overused drones, much like filmmakers of the late 1960s/early 1970s overused their newly affordable zoom lenses.

Because they used to be expensive, filmmakers think that an overhead shot will make their films look slick and professional and expensive.

In Horror Film Aesthetics, I observed that in They (2002), the camera looks directly down upon (rather than from an angle at) city buildings. Aesthetically, seeing building roofs and city streets passing below us creates (1) an emotionally unsettling geometric pattern, because an ordinary city suddenly looked "alien" to us, and (2) creates a sense of some evil looming overhead.

 

 

But in 2002, such shots were fresh, rare, and therefore emotionally jarring. But as with Japanese ghosts crawling along the floor with their faces obscured, the emotional impact of overhead drone shots have lost their punch as audiences become jaded through repeated exposure.

I also love the moving overhead shot of bridges to New Jersey in Lost Souls. In the context of the story, with the brooding clouds and sun breaking over the skyline (I wonder how much color correction was done in post?), the cinematography creates a sense of impending Apocalypse.

And again, because of its expense, that kind of shot was rarely seen. (Lost Souls was released in 2000, but shot in 1997, so I'm assuming the shot was created with a helicopter.)

At this point, overhead drone shots are so commonplace, they no longer impress. Audience know that drone shots aren't expensive. Plus, so many crappy low-budget films open with overhead drone shots, I groan when I see them, expecting the worst. Another poor filmmaker who hopes to hide his poor story and actors with technical wizardry.

One "cool shot" cannot compensate for a poor story, mediocre acting, and sloppy production values in the overall film. Actually, it can have the opposite effect. If the film is mostly bad, then one great element (a beautiful shot, a classic song, a single fine actor) can create a contrast, highlighting how awful is the rest of the film.

When computer video editing software became widespread some 20 years ago. I'd watch low-budget, independent horror films with amazing opening credits that raised my hopes and expectations. And then followed a really bad film, like something a group of amateurs had shot with a camcorder.

Amazing opening credits only makes a bad film look worse. The same can be said of drone shots.

Drone shots, like all technical aspects in a film, should be aesthetically motivated. Which means they should support the film's story, characters, or themes.

And sometimes the old ways are best. An establishing shot doesn't have to be from the sky. Unless there's some point to an overhead shot, a ground level shot will do just a nicely. Focus on telling a good story with a talented cast; not on wowing us with your new toy.

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For more information on framing and cinematography in horror films, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

Do Young Fans Ignore Old Horror Films?

Horror filmdom has suffered a rash of remakes these past few decades. It's one of the more disheartening trends in modern horror.

What was the point of the Omen remake? It mimicked the original, scene for scene, but without Jerry Goldsmith's creepily demonic music soundtrack. Nearly identical, minus some of the better parts.

The Haunting remake was no better despite offering a new story. The remake removed all the ghostly atmosphere and subtle characterizations of the original, replacing them with embarrassingly silly and inappropriate CGI effects. I suppose Hollywood thought that “modern” means CGI.

Dozens of other examples come to mind. But the big question: What's the point of all these remakes?

John Carpenter offers a theory. In the Special Features documentary on The Fog remake's DVD (another inferior remake), Carpenter says:

“I've heard several reasons why horror films are being remade. One, I think, probably is the simplest explanation, is a lot of kids have heard of these movies, but they've never really seen them. Maybe they've heard their older brothers or their parents talk about them. So it's in their consciousness, but they've never paid attention.

“But in general there's a cultural mindset right now that says anything over fifteen years old is kind of dead and old-fashioned. And so in order to make it viable again, we need to take it out, and kind of give it a fresh coat of paint, and try to revise the corpse.”

So Hollywood thinks that young horror fans have heard of these old films and are interested in seeing them, but refuse to do so because the films are over 15 years old.

Huh?

Does anyone say, “Wow, that film sounds great. I'd like to see it. But it's old, and so I can't.”

Not only illogical, but contrary to the evidence.

Horror is the most enduring of genres. The 1930s Dracula and Frankenstein films remain widely known and admired nearly a century later. Even lesser known horror films from that period (e.g., The Black Cat, The Raven, Maniac, The Devil Bat) win new fans each year. Despite some exceptions (e.g., Gone with the Wind, Stagecoach) the same cannot be said for dramas or westerns from the 1930s.

Horror is evergreen. Hardcore horror fans love horror films from every decade. There's no need to remake the older films (even if Hollywood does, on rare occasion, do it well, as in 1978's Invasion of the Body Snatchers).

So why does Hollywood produce so many remakes? Three theories come to mind.

1. Famous older films are seen as a pre-sold commodity, hence, a “sure thing.”

2. Hollywood has run out of new ideas.

3. Young horror fans refuse to watch any horror films made before the 2000s.

Of those three theories, I doubt there's much truth to #3. Young casual film goers might shun older horror films -- but not young hardcore horror film fans.

Ironically, the hardcore horror film fan is the core target market for these horror remakes. Why? Because only they would know about, or care about, all the horror films that have been remade over the past 15 years.

The Toolbox Murders Thirteen Ghosts, The House on Haunted Hill -- all remade (even when they only kept the title). Not the sort of films known to casual film goers, but films that continue to attract hardcore horror fans of every age.

I believe that hardcore horror film fans of every age, being connoisseurs, appreciate horror films of every era. No need for all the bad remakes. Try to come up with something original (e.g., It Follows).

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To learn about the four attractions of horror films, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

 

Beneath: A Cave Horror and Its Brief Glimpses in the Dark

Beneath: A Cave Horror (2018) accomplishes much with little. Its story is unoriginal and its cast is unpolished, yet the film has a creepy atmosphere and genuine scares.

The story consists of five young tour guides who work for a local cave attraction. The cave is infamous as the site where a cult conducted a human sacrifice to conjure a demon -- the Midnight Man -- back in 1966. And so, on Halloween night of "The Present Day" (as the screen credits inform us), the tour guides conceive the bright idea of holding a party in the cave along with a ceremony to conjure the Midnight Man.

No, they don't intend a human sacrifice. Just a little blood drawn from each guide's finger. Perhaps a human sacrifice is unnecessary because the Midnight Man presumably already lives in the cave, but, as the internet informs them, he slumbers after every ten years if he's not called. So this is a lesser ceremony meant to wake him. (Okay, the rationales are kinda murky.)

Beneath runs at about 78 minutes (not including end credits), and our heroes enter the cave a half hour into the film. So most of this low budget affair is set in the cave.

The cave provides a dark, creepy, claustrophobic atmosphere. Some areas are well lit, but I suppose a tourist attraction would have a light setup. At some point, the guides wander off the designated tour path, and it gets darker.

Like many low-budget horror films, Beneath demonstrates that nature does not discriminate against the poor. A cave (or forest, or desert, or beach) looks equally impressive whatever the budget.

But I especially admire Beneath's handling of the demonic Midnight Man. I'm not a big fan of Full Moon's rubber suit demons. By contrast, the Midnight Man is just a man in a black suit wearing a gray alien mask (well, a beige alien). The face is original and unexpected (not your usual demon) and thus startling at first glance.

Filmmaker J.J. Perez doesn't spend much screen time showing us his demon. Only brief glimpses in the dark, usually in wide or medium shots. This is wise because lingering on the face, especially in close-up, would lessen the tension. The face would more obviously appear as a silly mask.

If you have an obvious mask, or crude make-up, best limit its appearance to brief glimpses. Plus there's the theory that if an audience doesn't clearly see something, their imaginations will fill in the unseen details with the worst assumptions.

This technique of showing only brief glimpses of the horrific can also be seen in Tower of Evil (British, 1972) the "Mannikins of Horror" (sic) episode of Monsters (1989), and The Crane Wife (2024).

Perez uses another old trick to good effect, one that combines lighting and editing:

Sarah (Meghan Forbes) is alone in the cave when her flashlight runs out of power. So she uses her camera's flash as a light, repeatedly taking photos, seeing what's up ahead with each flash. For the first two flashes, she sees nothing. The next four flashes shows the Midnight Man approaching. Sarah grows ever more panicked. (Why doesn't she run?) But the next two flashes shows no demon.

Is Sarah safe?

Horror fans know that, though the demon appears to have left, the next time Sarah flashes her camera, the demon will be right in front of her. And sure enough, that's what happens.

 

It's an old trick, but it works. It's one of the most effective scares in Beneath.

Beneath: A Cave Horror, has a low score on IMDB. Yes, the film is rough in spots. The cast's delivery of the unoriginal dialog is stilted at times. Even so, Perez displays talent. I enjoy Beneath for what it is: well made trash horror with much entertainment value.

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For more information on lighting or editing in horror films, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

 

David J. Skal, R.I.P.

 

Several horror icons whom I admire have died these past several months. I just now learned that David J. Skal (1952 - 2024) died after being hit by a drunk driver in Los Angeles.

I first encountered Skal through his book, The Monster Show. A self-described "cultural history of horror," his book is informative, filled with original insights, and well written; a breezy, entertaining read, mercifully free of academic jargon. The prose is literate yet accessible to lay readers, the way film criticism should be always.

I later read his Death Makes a Holiday: A Cultural History of Halloween, as part of my research for a class I taught at The Learning Annex about Halloween haunted houses. It was great preparation for my lecture.

I only met Skal once, in the fall of 2001, at Burbank's Dark Delicacies horror bookstore. Several writers were there for a book-signing, including me and Skal. I had brought The Monster Show for him to sign, which he did. I still prize that book with his inscription.

To my surprise, he bought a copy of my book, Halloween Candy and asked me to sign it. I took it as his way of encouraging a fellow writer and fan who was hardly in his league.

Overall, Skal was a fine historian, a skilled writer, and a gracious man.

 

 

Stagefright Uses Editing to Disorient and Unnerve

The editing in Michael Soavi's Stagefright (1987) effectively disorients the audience, thus unnerving them and making them more susceptible to shocks and fear.

 

A mad slasher (wearing an owl mask) is stalking six people trapped in a theater. Alicia (Barbara Cupisti) runs into the shower room, where she finds Laurel (Mary Sellers) lying in the left stall, bloodied but still alive. Alicia hears the slasher approaching from the hallway.

 

 

Cut to the slasher in the hallway.

 

Cut to Alicia, having heard the slasher, closing back the curtain on Laurel in the left stall, then hiding in right stall.

Cut to Alicia in the right stall, pulling the curtain closed.

 

Cut to the slasher entering the shower room. Two curtained stalls before him. Laurel on left (behind the bloodied curtain). Alicia on the right.

 

 

Cut to Alicia in the stall.

 

Cut to the slasher's POV (point of view), coming toward the two shower stalls.

 

 

Cut to the slasher's silhouette across the curtain. He is drawing near.

 

 

Cut to Alicia's worried expression. Her eye line is directed at the curtain. Her acting and the eye line match implies that the silhouette is her POV. That the slasher is approaching her stall.

 

Cut to Alicia backing against the wall. Her staging reinforces the notion that the silhouette is against her curtain.

 

 

Cut to slasher drawing nearer to the curtain. Close enough that his owl mask is visible. Then in the same shot, he yanks aside the curtain.

 

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Cut to a close up on Alicia. Her eye line is directed toward the slasher in the previous shot. She appears to be looking at him.

 

 

Cut to the slasher drawing nearer. The mask's eye line directed at Alicia in the previous shot.

 

 

Cut to Alicia's POV of the slasher looming over Laurel. In the same shot, he raises Laurel, who looks toward Alicia in the right stall.

 

 

Cut to Alicia looking back at Laural, eye line match to Laurel.

Thus Stagefright's editing has fooled us. The POV shots, eye line matches, acting, staging, and editing suggested that the slasher was approaching Alicia's stall. But it was Laurel's. He still doesn't know that Alicia is there. She is still safe.

For more examples of how editing can disorient an audience, see my posts on Vacancy and Galaxy of Terror.

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For more information on editing in horror films, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

Inconsistent Dialog in Death's Door (2015)

As I've discussed in recent posts, bad writers often have characters spout clichés and catchphrases that are inconsistent with their previous statements or behavior, because it's an easy way to fill up pages with dialog. Even good writers fall into this trap, because clichés and catchphrases come naturally to people. But good writers should delete these in subsequent rewrites. 

In Death's Door (2015), a group of young people trespass into a deceased magician's house for a night of partying. Naturally, the house traps them inside. Ghostly manifestations and grisly deaths ensue. The survivors search for clues as to what's happening, and how they might escape.

 

 

While some young folk search through boxes, perusing old scrapbooks of newspaper clippings, Suzanne (Danielle Lilley) says, "Maybe we shouldn't be doing this. This is all private stuff."

Huh? 

Suzanne trespassed into this house along with everyone else. The film had no scenes showing any hesitation on her part. Indeed, when we first meet Suzanne, it is she who is pressuring her more timid friend into coming along.

Thus it's out of character for Suzanne to now feel scruples about invading anyone's privacy. Nor do any previous scenes provide motivation for her to have "matured" morally. Indeed, the recent hauntings and killings in the house provide additional motivation in the opposite direction -- for Suzanne to search the boxes for clues to escape the house.

So why did Kennedy Goldsby write this line of dialog? Filler. Thoughtless filler. Goldsby has several of his nondescript characters in the bedroom, and he likely felt a need to give them each something to say. So he had Suzanne say, "Maybe we shouldn't be doing this. This is all private stuff." 

After all, it's what some people would say if they saw someone looking through someone else's private belongings.

Except that Suzanne is no longer just anyone. She has an inner life -- personality, emotions, habits, morals, motivations -- as established by the previous scenes. But Goldsby has forgotten his previous scenes. He seems to have focused solely on whatever scene he's currently writing. And he failed to notice Suzanne's inconsistency in subsequent rewrites.

Death's Door is a treasury of bad dialog: fillers, clichés, catchphrases, and inconsistencies. The characters are nondescript and interchangeable, lacking unique voices. Much of their dialog can be randomly redistributed among them, without changing the story. They shout and argue for no purpose other than to fill up time and try to create "suspense." But as their arguments lack proper motivation, their constant bickering is annoying rather than suspenseful or revealing.

Death's Door does have good make-up effects. It's an enjoyable film if you're in the right frame of mind; if you just want to see a random group of young people killed in gory fashion, and can do without a clever story or engaging characters.

For more examples of poorly motivated characters and inconsistent dialog, see my posts on The Dark, Lake Fear 3, Dark Floors, In Search of Lovecraft, Prometheus, and The Haunting of Marsten Manor.

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For more information on writing in horror films, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.

Setting Up Twists in Twists of Terror

Low-budget horror films often spring arbitrary surprises on viewers. The slashers' identities in House of Death (1982, aka Death Screams) and Girls Nite Out (1982), are arbitrary surprises because there was no dramatic setup; no clues pointed in their direction. Some viewers might have guessed, but only due to their familiarity with genre conventions (i.e., He was too obviously innocent, or, She couldn't be the killer so naturally she probably is).

Mysteries must play fair with readers and viewers by providing clues before revealing the killer. That's the purpose of the genre: to present a solvable puzzle. But horror's primary purpose is to scare, and a dearth of clues can make an unknown killer more frightening. If you can't guess his identity, he can be anyone.

Yet all storytelling requires some logic, even if only a kind of surreal "dream logic." (Dario Argento and David Lynch are masters of dream logic.) So while horror is more flexible on logic than some other genres, there is a breaking point. Too many arbitrary surprises, and audiences will roll their eyes, and have difficulty in suspending their disbelief. On the other hand, the more entertaining a film, the more forgiving audiences are about any flaws, including plots holes, stupid characters, and arbitrary twists.

The Canadian TV movie Twists of Terror (1997) is aptly titled. Each tale in this horror anthology has a "surprise twist." While the twists are unoriginal and sometimes excessive in number, they are mostly well set up, and the film is entertaining enough so we can forgive the strains in logic.

 

 

In "The People You Meet," a young couple, Joe (Carl Marotte) and Amy (Jennifer Rubin), celebrate their honeymoon over dinner. They express love for each other, though there are intimations that all was not always well. Later, they suffer a car accident at night. Rednecks kidnap them, tying up Joe in a shed. He urges Amy to escape, which she does.

After she darts out of the shed, Joe berates the rednecks. Surprise! 

Turns out Joe hired the rednecks to stage the accident, and rape and kill Amy so he could collect on the insurance. Joe hates Amy. The rednecks leave the shed to hunt down, rape, and kill Amy.

They return with Amy, unharmed, who then mocks Joe. Surprise! 

Turns out Amy knew that Joe hated her, as she hates him -- and she was having an affair with the very same redneck Joe hired, so she knew about Joe's plans. The redneck now kills Joe.

This is a bit much. Screenwriter John Shirley did drop some clues about problems in the marriage over dinner, so we can believe Joe plotting against Amy. But Amy's affair with the redneck feels arbitrary (a second twist for its own sake) and ridiculous. Still, because "The People You Meet" is entertaining and energetic, we can overlook the silly double twist.

 

 

In "The Clinic," Mr. Rosetti (Nick Mancuso) is bitten by a dog at night. He stumbles upon a hospital and enters for emergency care. But the doctor, the nurse, the ambiance are strange and creepy. In the end Rosetti discovers that he's in an insane asylum -- and the lunatics have taken over. Surprise! 

Again, not unexpected. Both the ambiance (similar to that in X-Ray, aka Hospital Massacre, 1981), and genre conventions, promise a dark surprise. Nor is the specific surprise all the surprising. We've seen this same "twist ending" in Asylum (1972) and Don't Look in the Basement (1973).

But the surprise was logically set up by the atmosphere created by creepily soothing doctor, the hyper-sexualized nurse, the deserted hallways and hints of gore. And the story was entertaining.

 

In "Stolen Moments," Cindy (Francoise Robertson) is a sexually and emotionally repressed woman seeking romance. She has difficulty connecting with men. She instead lavishes her affections on her many pets. Then she meets Barry (Andrew Jackson), a yuppie in a singles bar, and agrees to meet him at an empty house later that night. Is Cindy in danger?

She meet Barry. They have passionate sex. Cindy thinks it's love. Then Barry brings out his male buddy. Barry wants them to gang bang Cindy. Surprise! 

Turns out Barry is a creep. But then he speaks tenderly to Cindy. Maybe he's not so sleazy? Cindy agrees to a threesome to please Barry. But afterward, Barry is cold to Cindy, saying it's time to go home. Surprise! 

Barry really is sleaze. As Barry is getting dressed, he hears a scream. He finds his friend's freshly killed corpse. Cindy looks terrified. Barry thinks there might be a prower. Then Cindy knocks Barry out with a hammer. Surprise! 

Turns out Cindy is the killer. Has she snapped because they used her? But when she goes home, she has an entire bulletin board with tokens from her past victims. Surprise! 

Turns out Cindy is a serial killer. As a newspaper headline confirms the next day.

None of this is surprising to those familiar with genre conventions, so these surprises are not arbitrary. Both Cindy and Barry emitted warning signals. Cindy was repressed, neurotic, with too many pets. A classic 1990s, neo-noir femme fatale in the body of a prude. And Barry was too smooth talking, sensitive, and handsome. A stereotypical blond yuppie sleazeball pretending to be Mr. Perfect. From the start, I knew it was 50/50 that Cindy was the villain.

Once again, an entertaining story. 

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For more information on writing in horror films, see Horror Film Aesthetics: Creating the Visual Language of Fear. This blog represents a continuing discussion of my views on horror, picking up from where the book left off.