Parody vs. Mash-Up -- Contrasting Waxwork II: Lost in Time with The X-File's "The Post-Modern Prometheus"

The parody is a relatively easy subgenre to create, because all the main story elements -- the characters (their attitudes, mannerisms, physical appearances), the dramatic situations, the cinematographic and audio styles -- are given to the parodist. Filmmakers and writers who tackle other genres must strive to create original characters and storylines -- an effort that does not burden parodists.

Waxwork II: Lost in Time (1991) demonstrates how easily a lazy filmmaker can create serviceable entertainment when parodying past films. By contrast, "The Post-Modern Prometheus" episode of TV's The X-Files shows how a filmmaker can build upon parodied elements to create something new and worthwhile.

Waxwork II is a sort-of anthology film that parodies previous horror films. Its two lead characters, Mark and Sarah, enter a time warp that sends them through various scenarios, each evoking a horror film.

At one point Mark finds himself with a group of ghost hunters, about to explore a haunted house. Horror fans will immediately recognize the tale as parodying The Haunting (1963). Waxwork II borrows the characters (as in the original, two men and two women), some of their names (both films contain an Eleanor), their attitudes (in both films, an assertive lesbian hits on a timid Eleanor; the lead investigator is a stuffy scientist), the black and white cinematography, and many situations (the laughing girl behind the door).

Waxwork II offers a few original bits, but with rare exception (John's exposed ribs), the film's original elements are unfunny. All the real humor derives from mimicking The Haunting.

Thus, the parodied elements act as a crutch for an otherwise unfunny comedy.

Examine how slavishly the parody mimics the original, in both content and style (and these are only a few of many examples):

This slavish mimicry is true throughout Waxwork II. In another vignette, Sarah finds herself on an alien spacecraft. Very quickly, horror fans will recognize this as a parody of Alien (1979). The astronauts' uniforms resemble those in Alien. Sarah's hair mimics Ripley's hair. The astronauts are cynical and slovenly. And they're being pursued by an alien that bursts from people's chests.

In both of the above vignettes, the audience's pleasure derives not from original characters or situations created by the filmmaker, but from the audience's sense of recognition at identifying which film this or that scene is lifted from.

Of course, many comedies, not just parodies, derive laughs from a sense of recognition. But whereas other comedy subgenres must strive to create original characters and situations from which to draw that sense of recognition, parodies can all too easily get lazy and rely solely on a mimicry-based sense of recognition.

All this is not to say that a slavish parody can't be entertaining -- just that it's a relatively easy and lazy form of filmmaking.

By contrast, consider "The Post-Modern Prometheus" episode of TV's The X-Files. This TV episode simultaneously parodies multiple targets (not just one source film per vignette), then blends all these targets together, while also adding strong, original elements (e.g., series leads Mulder and Scully), to create something new that can stand on its own merits.

In "The Post-Modern Prometheus," Mulder and Scully are presented in 1930s black and white, in a story that borrows characters, situations, and themes from Frankenstein, The Elephant Man,The Mask, and Edward Scissorhands (particularly the episode's music -- check the YouTube excerpt below), and then juggles and mixes these disparate elements into an original, compelling, and cohesive story.



By cohesive, I mean that the story is not just a disparate sequence of random parodied targets, but that all the elements -- Mulder and Scully's characters and attitudes, the original story elements, the parodied targets -- hold together (every element aesthetically and dramatically supporting the other elements) and create a unified story, one that is both unexpectedly funny and surprisingly poignant, while remaining true to Mulder and Scully's personalities.

That is to say, "The Post-Modern Prometheus" works as an The X-Files episode. It does not feel as if Mulder and Scully are slumming in an unrelated "very special episode" because the writers couldn't think of an The X-Files episode that week.

By contrast, Waxwork II feels unfocused and overlong. The main (original) characters are not interesting in themselves. They exist for no purpose other than to meander about as props in the increasingly dull and obvious parody vignettes. Tellingly, the film's most original vignette (the medieval story) is also its most tedious.

Unlike Waxwork II, "The Post-Modern Prometheus" is not only a parody -- it's a mash-up. The former over-relies on borrowed elements as a crutch. The latter borrows smaller bits from many sources, adds large doses of originality, then mixes it into something wholly new.

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For more commentary about the relationship between horror and comedy, 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.

The Ghost and Us: Showing, Not Telling

Emily Carmichael's horror comedy short film, The Ghost and Us, provides an excellent working example of the old screenwriting rule, Show, Don't Tell.

In the film, Laura (Maria Dizzia), is newly married to a man she loves. Ben (Geordie Broadwater) loves her back. The problem is that Ben's ex-wife, Sena (Moira Dennis), won't let go. She keeps dropping by unannounced. Laura even finds Sena in the newlyweds' bedroom, whispering sweet nothings into Ben's ear.

Laura can't even get a restraining order against Sena, because ... Sena is dead. The woman isn't just a stalker, she is a spiritual stalker.

(Yes, The Ghost and Us evokes Blithe Spirit.)

Despite its short length (11 minutes), The Ghost and Us provides story arcs for all three of its characters (wife, husband, dead wife). All three characters change in some small way by film's end.

Especially admirable is the film's mid-point scene. As Syd Field teaches, the mid-point is where one should normally place a film's key turning point/incident -- an incident that affects the main characters' story arcs. The Ghost and Us not only achieves this, but it does so by showing, not telling.

Prior to this mid-point scene, Laura and Sena have battled and bickered over Ben's affections. The mid-point scene begins after Laura and Sena have engaged in a temporary truce. Together, they share a snack in the kitchen. Girl stuff of the sort that bonds women.

 

 

Then it becomes apparent that Sena cannot eat. She's a ghost.

Laura's attempt to help Sena eat, and the latter's realization that she's no longer of this world, both strengthens their bond, and conveys a poignancy that lifts The Ghost and Us above a mere spook tale. Adding to the scene's strength is that:

1. It's conveyed visually. Rather than having the two women say nice things about each other, Carmichael shows Sena's inability to eat, and Laura's futile attempt to help her rival.

2. It's not overdone or overlong. The incident occurs. It's over. The women return to battle. (Albeit with a greater understanding of their situation, and of each other, hence, their emotional story arcs are advanced.) By not belaboring this scene, The Ghost and Us avoids the trap of cheap sentimentality.

Actually, The Ghost and Us is admirable for just having a story and characters. All too many horror films these days are just an unmotivated succession of scenes which contain nothing but gore effects.

Emily Carmichael is an NYU film school graduate whose work has screened at the Sundance Film Festival. She may be contacted at Kid Can Drive.

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For more commentary about 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.

Horror Films Are Too Loud

At a horror film festival last year, a filmmaker made an offhand remark about "the loud scary sound" in his film. He assumed I knew what he meant by "the loud scary sound."

Alas, I did. Horror films are full of "the loud scary sound," or what I term, an Audio Shock.

An Audio Shock is a 1. brief increase in volume that startles an audience. Audio Shocks serve a legitimate purpose. They unnerve viewers, making them emotionally receptive to tension and fear.

But shocks are not to be confused with fear. Shocks are easy. Loud noises and gory visuals shock viewers. Audience jump, and then it's over.

Fear is a longer-term emotion, lasting for (hopefully) much of the film's duration. Fear is creepy and tense and lingers throughout the viewing experience. Story, characters, and atmosphere build tension and fear over the course of a film.

Shocks unnerve viewers (tilling their emotional soil), so that the seeds of fear may grow.

Unfortunately, lazy or inept horror filmmakers offer Audio Shocks and visual gore -- but then fall back on hackneyed stories and cardboard characters. Their films till the soil, but plant no seeds. They mistakenly believe that Loud = Scary.

Not!

Cheap and easy shocks may be enough to satisfy newbie fans, but after a few years, jaded viewers want more than just being jolted. They want story and characters, atmosphere and originality -- even a Sense of Wonder.

Apart from Audio Shocks (a brief "loud scary sound"), some films blast extended eardrum-rupturing noise at audiences, in the mistaken belief that Loud = Exciting. Some horror films feature an attack or chase scene that lasts for minutes, with eardrum-rupturing noise (usually music or sound effects) extending over all that time.

While horror films are most likely to use (brief) Audio Shocks, the action film is the genre primarily guilty of popularizing the extended loud noise aesthetic, with gunfire and explosions contributing to much of the eardrum assault.

But alas, horror has been borrowing action film aesthetics, its loud scenes growing ever longer. This is why I've taken to bringing ear plugs to horror film screenings.

It's not my imagination. Ioan Allen of Dolby Laboratories blames this loudness trend on insecure directors. As he put is: "Somebody said that the loudness is inversely proportional to the number of days left before the preview." ("Beyond the Ear-Death Experience: Tech Experts Blame Helmers for Current Loudness Syndrome," by Neil S. Yonover. Daily Variety, August 21, 1997, p. 13.)

Yes, insecure directors, of horror or action films, will up the volume in the mistaken belief that it will make their films more frightening or exciting.

When I was running another horror film festival a few years ago, a director entered the control booth, instructing me to make sure that the volume was especially loud at a certain "crucial moment." He even took the liberty of adjusting the sound controls, showing me where he wished me to set it. (Of course, I lowered the volume back to comfortable levels right after he exited the control booth.)

These insecure directors just don't get it. Loud does not equal scary (or exciting). Rather, it's the contrast in noise levels that creates an audio shock.

In Aliens, a rescue crew is exploring a deserted lab. Sound levels are low. Carter (Paul Reiser) stares at a jar -- when an alien in the jar TAPS against it.

This mere TAP functions as an effective Audio Shock. It's enough to make audiences jump. Not because the TAP is especially loud, but because of 1. the contrast in sound levels between the room's silence and the TAP against the jar, and 2. the unexpectedness of the TAP.

Audio Shocks are not created by loud noises, but by a sudden (unexpected) increase in volume.

To recap:

1. Audio Shocks (a brief and unexpected increase in volume) unnerve audiences, so as to make them emotionally more receptive to fear (which in turn is created by story, characters, and atmosphere).

2. Audio Shocks need not be painfully loud.

3. Horror filmmakers should not rely on Audio Shocks and visual gore alone. A strong horror film needs an intriguing story and engaging characters.

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For more commentary about audio shocks, 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 cinema has been struck with a rash of remakes these past 15 or so years. It's one of the more creatively destructive trends in horror today.

What was the point of that Omen remake? The first Omen was already excellent, in a decade known for excellent Satanic horror (e.g., The Exorcist, Race with the Devil, The Devil's Rain, The Brotherhood of Satan, and my personal favorite, The Sentinel). The new Omen mimicked the old, scene for scene, minus Jerry Goldsmith's creepily demonic soundtrack. Hollywood took the old version, removed some great elements, and add nothing worthwhile.

So, what was the point?

Not that Hollywood should be encouraged to change old horror films. Sometimes the remake is an improvement. Toolbox Murders is superior (more imaginative, creepy, and atmospheric) to the original, sordid The Toolbox Murders. But more often, remakes are changed for the worse. The new Haunting lost all the ghostly atmosphere and subtle characterizations of the original Haunting, replacing them with embarrassingly silly and inappropriate CGI effects.

I suppose Hollywood thinks that "modern" horror requires CGI effects.

But the Big Question: Why? Why so many horror film remakes?

Certainly, Hollywood must think there's money in remakes. Maybe the studios regard the old films as pre-sold commodities. The title is already known. Fan base already in place.

But why does Hollywood imagine that fans of the old version want to see it remade? Or that fans prefer remakes over new films?

John Carpenter has a theory about horror film remakes. In the Special Features documentary on The Fog remake's DVD (another remake that's inferior to the original Fog), 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."


In other words, Hollywood thinks that young horror fans have heard of these old horror films, and are interested in seeing them. But they refuse to do so, because these 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 today. Even lesser known horror films from that period (e.g., The Black Cat, The Raven, Maniac, The Devil Bat) win new fans every year. Apart from a few famous exceptions (e.g., Gone with the Wind, Stagecoach) the same cannot be said for most dramas or westerns from the 1930s.

Horror is an evergreen genre. Hardcore horror fans love horror films of 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 1990s.


Of those theories, I doubt there's any truth to #3. Young casual filmgoers may shun older horror films -- but not young hardcore horror fans.

And hardcore horror fans are the target market for horror remakes. Why? Because only they would know or care about the horror films that have been remade over the past 15 years.

Don't Look in the Basement, Thirteen Ghosts, The House on Haunted Hill -- all remade. Not the sort of films known to casual filmgoers, but films that continue to attract hardcore horror fans of every age. No remakes required.

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For more commentary about 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.

Dark Floors: Poorly Motivated Characters Weaken the Horror

Method acting teachers instruct their students to always ask: What's my character's motivation? The actor should know who is this character? What is his history? What does he want? What just happened that got him to this place or situation?

Then the kicker: What is his next, most logical action based on his past history, wants and desires, and most recent experiences?

Writers should likewise keep those issues in mind when creating and propelling characters from scene to scene. There should be a reason -- motivation -- for a character to do something.

Poorly motivated characters are a horror film cliché. The most cited example is stupid teenagers who wander aimlessly about dark forests and empty houses, long after all their friends have mysteriously disappeared. Why would anyone do that?

Poorly motivated characters arise when writers focus solely on the events in a story, such that they treat the characters as mere props.

The writer wants Joe to kill Mary in the locker room. So the writer makes Mary go into the locker room, even if she has no logical reason to go there -- even if she has strong reasons to avoid the locker room.

Because characters engage an audience, strong characters heighten the horror. Conversely, poorly motivated characters weaken the horror.

Yes, it may be fun to watch stupid characters die. But longtime horror fans become jaded to shocks and violence, so the fun wears down. For a horror film to unnerve viewers, it helps if we care about the characters. And that's harder to do if they're one-dimensional clichés who behave unrealistically.

Comedies are an exception, a genre for which audiences make allowances for unrealistic behavior and outlandish coincidences, provided the film is funny.

But Dark Floors is a humorless horror film, credited to seven writers, none of whom bothered to focus on the characters' motivations.

In Dark Floors, Ben is a loving father, who has taken his sick daughter, Sarah, to a hospital for tests.

Poor writers will often rely on cheap devices to seek sympathy for their characters -- look, a sick child! Poor thing! And her dad's all weepy because he loves her! Heartstrings!

But a mere setup is not enough to create an engaging character. If Ben and Sarah are poorly motivated, the emotional impact of Ben's loving, teary-eyed gaze will diminish. As is the case in Dark Floors.

Ben and Sarah enter a hospital elevator with a disparate bunch: a tough Security Guard, a Homeless Man, Emily (a nurse), and a Selfish Asshole.

His name is Jon, but his character is no more than the Selfish Asshole. The typical cowardly, arrogant, obnoxious type that crops up in many horror films. You know he'll die before the film's end.



The elevator doors open onto an empty hospital floor. The characters exit, then wander about aimlessly (did all of them even intend to get off on this floor?). A ghost chases and scares them. They huddle in a room, wondering what just happened?

Contemptuous of the others, Jon decides to leave on his own. Why? He suggests that maybe it's all an illusion, perhaps from a gas leak. After he leaves, a demon attacks him in the elevator.

Ben and the Security Guard rescue Jon. Yet afterward, Jon shows no gratitude or humility. His character is poorly motivated. A normal person (even a selfish asshole), would at least give the pretense of gratitude.

Soon after his rescue, Jon watches the Security Guard try to break through a basement wall, so they can escape the empty, haunted hospital. Jon mocks the Security Guard's vain efforts, sneering, "C'mon, Rambo. Do something useful. Find us a real way out."

Why would Jon say that? Merely because the writer wanted Jon to be obnoxious -- though that's not how Jon should behave, considering his recent near death, and that the Security Guard helped save Jon's life.

The Security Guard is irritated by Jon. (His irritation is well motivated.) But then he snarls, "You want it out?" -- essentially threatening to beat up Jon.

More poor motivation. The Security Guard has now gone overboard.

Yet it's typical of poorly motivated characters of any genre. Writers will inject pointless bickering, arguments, and fights into their scripts, in a lame attempt to "heighten the tension." Pointless, because there is no good reason for the characters to argue -- no proper motivation -- other than that the writer wanted the characters to argue, and so he made them argue.

How often have you seen films in which a disparate group of people trapped in a "tense situation" get on each others' nerves for no good reason?

Talented writers can create tense drama without mindlessly argumentative characters. Consider Mulder and Scully in The X-Files. Their cool, procedural, methodical investigations, and the secrets they uncovered, were tense and dramatic enough without injecting pointless arguments. Even the villains (e.g., Cancer Man) were usually deathly cool.

Engaging characters in interesting stories needn't argue to create drama.

This also meant that when arguments did erupt on The X-Files, their emotional impact was greater. An event's rarity increases its impact.

Here's Dark Floors worst (of many) examples of poorly motivated characters. The Security Guard and Homeless Man are dead. Jon suggests to Ben that the ghosts (or demons?) want Sarah. If they sacrifice Sarah to the monsters, they'll be safe.

Poor motivation: Even if Jon were right, no rational person would advise a loving father to sacrifice his sick daughter to monsters. Yet Jon actually expects Ben to agree!

Ben is outraged. (Good motivation.) But then Ben realizes that Sarah needs her medicine. So Ben decides that he and Emily will search the hospital for Sarah's medicine -- and Ben decides to leave Sarah alone with Jon!

Huh?

And listen to Ben's contradictory dialogue. Before he leaves, Ben says to Jon, "Watch her." Then he adds, "You even lay a finger on her, you won't live to regret it."

Huh?

Ben leaves Sarah in the care of a man who wants to kill her? Ben even -- contradictorily -- asks Jon to protect Sarah, while feeling the need to threaten Jon into not harming Sarah?

It's not like Ben doesn't have options. He can take Sarah with him (he's pushed her wheelchair throughout the film). Or he can insist that Jon go with him, while he leaves Emily with Sarah. Or he can ask Emily to find the medicine on her own, or with Jon, while Ben stays behind with his daughter.

But Dark Floors's seven writers failed to ask What's Ben's motivation?

What does Ben want? (To find medicine for Sarah.) What recently happened to Ben? (Jon threatened to sacrifice Sarah to the monsters.) What is Ben's most logical next move? (To find medicine for Sarah in a way that doesn't leave her at the mercy of Jon.)

Instead, the writers focused solely on the events -- the cool, scary horror scenes they wanted to show. They wanted Jon alone with Sarah, so Jon could give Sarah to the monsters. So the writers simply made Ben and Emily leave Sarah alone with Jon, contrary to those characters' logical motivations -- treating the characters as props rather than as thinking, feeling persons.

In summary:

1. Strong characters engage an audience, and heighten the horror. This is because shocks and gore are more unnerving when they happen to characters we care about.

2. One dimensional setups (the loving dad) are not enough to create a strong character. The character must be well motivated throughout the story.

3. Poor motivation arises because writers focus solely on a script's events (what happens), rather then on pondering every character's motivation for every action they take (or avoid taking), throughout the entire script.

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For more about how horror films effectively unnerve -- or fail to unnerve -- audiences, 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.

Killer Scream Queens -- A Horror Icon That's a Pinup Girl Rather Than a Threat

Genres are often confused with their icons. A genre is a set of story conventions. Icons are dramatic elements -- character archetypes, objects, settings, historical periods, etc. -- that recur throughout a particular genre, so that they become associated with that genre.

The vampire is a horror icon, though other genres also use vampires. Love at First Bite and The Munsters have vampires, but are comedies. The spaceship is a science fiction icon -- but Alien is a horror film.

Icons are a form of shorthand symbolism. Being symbols, it's easy for an icon to disengage from their "parental genre" and take on lives of their own. To convey meanings, and have a purpose, apart from their parental genre's goals.

The horror genre's goal is to inspire fear, usually through an Unnatural Threat (less often via a Naturalistic Psycho Gorefest). However, rather than frighten, some horror icons disengage from the horror genre and instead comfort, or sexually excite, or offer a sense of empowerment to the viewer.

Consider the blood-soaked Killer Scream Queen (as opposed to Scream Queens that are victims). Although this horror icon has perhaps been a threat in some films, today she is primarily a pinup girl. Audiences are not meant to fear her, but to identify/sympathize with her, and enjoy her massacres of (often male) victims.

Examples of Killer Scream Queen pinup girls include Chainsaw Chelly (right) from Dove Matrix:

Also consider this work of art, The Girl, The Chainsaw, from Million Gossip:

The Killer Scream Queen pinup girl has even become a whimsical Halloween costume. Ladies can purchase this Chainsaw Babe outfit from Sexy Costumes:

The Killer Scream Queen is a horror icon that's found a life outside of the genre. No longer threatening or scary, she is used primarily to...

1. Offer "strong" role models to women.

Some critics have accused 1980s slasher films of misogyny. Not entirely fair -- in the 1980s, slashers and victims came in both sexes. But female victims were more often, and more fully, exposed in all their nudity, so the accusation has a kernel of truth.

But the Killer Scream Queen is unabashedly reverse-sexist. She conveys an attitude of: "Now it's our turn to have fun with a chainsaw!"

Chainsaws (as opposed to knives or machetes -- which are smaller and lacking in power) are the Killer Scream Queen's weapon of choice. A Freudian (of which, I am not one) might suggest that these women are arming and empowering themselves with an especially big phallus.

There's an implication that, because these killers are women, it's liberated and progressive to enjoy their violence. One is not supposed to feel threatened by them, so much as to side with them. That's also true to some extent of ugly male killers (who have their fans), but even more so of attractive female killers.

At the 2010 Viscera Film Festival, co-founder Heidi Martinuzzi said that "Feminism is simply equality." Not all feminists agree with that definition -- or even agree about what "equality" might look like. Rosanne Barr has expressed disdain for Angelina Jolie's depiction of "strong women," because all Jolie has proven (according to Barr) is that women can kill in large numbers too. Barr describes Jolie's films "violent" and "psychopathic."

Are female killing machines (such as Lara Croft -- and the Killer Scream Queen) "strong and equal" to men -- or have they merely surrendered their femininity for masculinity? By emulating male killers, have they proven the equality of women, or the superiority of patriarchal values?

2. Serve as the object of men's sexual fantasies.

Men are expected to regard the Killer Scream Queen as sexy, and a conscious effort is made to depict her as sexy. The Killer Scream Queen is invariably young and shapely. She might be buxom, but never overweight.

Although she is a horror icon, her rigid conformity to dominant beauty norms weakens the Killer Scream Queen's claim of also being a feminist icon.

Why are men attracted to murderous women? Perhaps for the same reason that women are attracted to murderous men. They imagine the killer will make an exception in their case, recognizing the force of "true love." The Killer Scream Queen will massacre the jocks who've bullied the nerd -- and then she will fall in love with the nerd.

Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers offers an example of the Killer Scream Queen as sex object (in a film, as opposed to her many pinup images):



3. A blood-drenched, chainsaw-wielding nymph has Shock Value.

The Killer Scream Queen offers an "in your face" assault upon "respectable society" that is always appealing to teenagers and marginalized subcultures. People who feel weak, ignored, or devalued sometimes feel empowered by identifying with horror icons. These icons are not perceived as threats, but as friends, compatriots, or avengers of bullies. Like some other horror icons, the Killer Scream Queen is popular because parents disapprove.

Consider this Twisted Sister video. Dee Snider, in typically freakish Heavy Metal icon makeup, appears on a poster. The father's disapproval upon seeing this poster elicits a smile from the son. (The father snarls, "Wipe that smile off your face.") Presumably, the son wouldn't enjoy Twisted Sister's music as much if the father were a fan.



Horror icons are losing their shock value. This is because...

A. Horror is big business. One can't offend Corporate America by buying its product.

B. Halloween has become an adult holiday. It used to be only for children, but Boomers largely refused to give it up upon attaining adulthood. Today parents are more likely, than in the 1950s, to share their children's interest in horror.

C. Anything will lose its shock value over time.

In Horror Film Aesthetics, I enumerate Four Appeals of horror: 1. Catharsis, 2. Metaphysical Transcendence, 3. Sympathy for the Other, and 4. Ideological Palette

The Killer Scream Queen's appeal is primarily a case of Sympathy for the Other. Her fans see her as an attractive symbol of empowerment. They don't so much fear her, as wish they were her, or were dating her. She is a horror icon with little horror bite -- a figure of comical fun and sexual excitement.

Horror requires threatening threats, and vulnerable victims, otherwise there's little to fear. The more we have Sympathy for the Other -- the more we empathize with the killer as opposed to the victim -- the weaker the horror.

To lesser degrees, the Killer Scream Queen sometimes functions in an Ideological Palette (as a symbol for some political message or other), or Catharsis (when she is threatening sympathetic characters -- which is not too often).

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For more about the appeals of horror 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.

The Burrowers -- Western and Horror Morph Rather Than Mix

The “horror western” is a subgenre of the horror genre, not the Western. The horror western uses Western icons (e.g., Grim Prairie Tales), but its story conventions and atmosphere are horror. It is marketed toward -- and attracts -- horror fans, not Western fans.

Horror westerns normally mix these two genres from the start. We see the Western icons (the period locale, cowboys, Indians. etc.), but the story is soon, and clearly, horror.

The Burrowers is set in the Dakota Territories, 1879. But rather than blend the Western and horror genres, The Burrowers's strength is that it begins largely as an authentic Western. Only after the audience is emotionally adjusted to a Western does The Burrowers become a horror film.

The Burrowers opens on a romantic conversation, set on an idyllic Western ranch, a golden sunset in the background. Coffey with Maryanne, as they discuss how he will ask her father for her hand in marriage.

Minutes later, the first violent outbreak is typical of Westerns -- we hear gunfire outside the cabin. The family escapes to a cellar. They hear strange noises -- our first hint of an unnatural threat, as required by horror -- but we don't see any unnatural threats.

The family is killed. Maryanne is apparently kidnapped by Indians. (Audiences know it wasn't Indians -- but are lulled into believing that Maryanne may still be alive.)

For the next 44-45 minutes, The Burrowers is mostly a straight Western. Romantic photography, charging horses, beautiful prairie vistas -- supported by appropriate Western period music.

Psychologically, emotionally, dramatically, the characters are typically Western. The strong and silent Clay (very much a The Searchers, John Wayne type). The gentlemanly gunslinger Mr. Parcher. Coffey, the romantic Irish immigrant, riding to rescue Maryanne. Callaghan, the “noble Negro” (what Spike Lee calls the "magical Negro") -- compassionate, honorable, enduring racism without ever losing his dignity.

There is also an arrogant U.S. Cavalry officer, callous and cruel to both blacks and Indians. When he threatens to whip Coffey for “feeding my Indian,” the strong and silent Clay stares him down, ready for a gunfight, though outnumbered by the officers' troops.

Naturally, the officer backs down from the heroic Clay.

Throughout these first 44-45 minutes, there are intimations of horror -- the strange scars on a dead girl's neck; strange holes in the ground; something in the bushes that kills four troops. But overwhelmingly, The Burrowers's mise-en-scène, music, story, characters, and themes (loyalty toward loved ones and comrades; dignity in the face of adversity) are those of a Western.

The film emotionally conditions the audience for Western. Even if they know intellectually that they're watching a horror film, they feel like they're watching a Western. This conditions their expectations for a Western outcome. They anticipate (even if only subconsciously) that Coffey will rescue Maryanne. Most of the heroes will survive -- and if any should die, they will die noble, honorable, courageous deaths.

Yet as the film progresses, The Burrowers morphs from a Western into a horror film.

Midway into the film, Clay is killed. It's not an honorable death, but shocking and brutal. He dies not like John Wayne, giving a noble speech while heroically fading away, but is unceremoniously butchered like one of Leatherface's victims.

Clay's death is emotionally jarring. I regard this as the event that pushes the audience's mindset out of the Western genre, and into horror.

Things worsen. The monsters (vampiric “burrowers” living underground) reveal themselves. The unnatural threat becomes clear and visible.

The burrowers' bite poisons Parcher. As he fades over the course of the next day and night, he grows paranoid and cowardly. He shoots at his former comrades, lest they desert him.

In the end, he dies a coward's death. (His emotionally selfish state of mind is not unlike the cowardly jock in Jeepers Creepers 2 who wanted to abandon the weak ones, only to be killed himself.)

Callaghan likewise dies a senseless, ignoble death, the result of cowardice and incompetence. A victim of friendly fire, and an incompetent army surgeon (who perhaps callously amputated Callahan's leg, not much caring about a mere Negro's health). Callaghan, the “noble Negro,” dies like a piece of meat -- discarded like an anonymous victim in a slasher film.

Some friendly Indians die senseless deaths too, mistaken by the army as hostiles and executed. Much like Ben was mistaken for a zombie in Night of the Living Dead, and thus killed by a sheriff's posse. In horror films, innocents often die at the hands of incompetent authority figures.

Coffey fails to rescue Maryanne, or anyone else. He fails to bring proof of what he's learned about the burrowers. The army, by killing the friendly Indians, kills any hope of learning how to stop the burrowers. As in many horror films, the protagonists stymie, but do not destroy, the threat. Myers will return to kill again.



By starting as a straight Western (rather than a “horror western”), and only morphing into horror after the audience has been emotionally conditioned for a Western, The Burrowers solves a common horror film problem:
Horror requires an unnatural threat -- a sudden realization that (to quote from Frank Lupo's Werewolf pilot script) "The world is not as our minds believe."

The problem is that audiences get jaded after seeing so many horror films with the same unnatural threat -- be it a vampires, zombies, or uberpsychos. Familiarity breeds a sense of normalcy. Seeing them so often, we come to feel that they're commonplace, hence, natural.

As a result, horror filmmakers are challenged to find new ways to "creep out" audiences with a novel unnatural threat, some new threat that will overturn viewers' sense of reality.

Because most horror filmmakers can't rise to the challenge, they instead rely on gore and shocks (e.g., Devil's Grove).

The Burrowers solves this problem by starting as an authentic Western. Only after the audience is emotionally invested in a Western, with preconceived expectations of the characters' heroic deeds and successful fates, does the film emotionally jar them by segueing into a horror film -- when the characters are suddenly revealed to be cowardly and/or vulnerable.

Their deeds and deaths are typical for a horror film, but shocking to an audience that had forgotten they were watching a horror film.

Imagine High Noon if, during the last third, Gary Cooper suddenly turns cowardly, Grace Kelly is senselessly butchered like a piece of meat, and half the town massacres the other half in mindless mayhem.

The Burrowers demonstrates the emotional punch that comes of establishing one genre in the audience's mind, then defying their emotional expectations by morphing midway into another genre. A non-horror sensibility is established, into which any unnatural threat feels that much more unnatural.

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For more about horror's overlap with other genres 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.