Sometimes a horror filmmaker faces the problem of making a “static threat” appear frightening. For instance, a cheap monster prop that doesn't move. Not all filmmakers can afford expensive electronic puppets or CGI effects. In such cases, a moving shot (aka a moving frame) can help enliven the static prop.
However, Martino makes his alligator appear more lively by panning his camera along the alligator. Sometimes, the alligator prop is pushed in one direction while Martino's camera pans in the opposite direction. Or the prop is pushed toward the camera, which pans to the side. This interplay of movement enlivens the prop.
It's still obviously a prop, but the moving camera helps audiences suspend their disbelief. And because The Great Alligator is a highly entertaining film, many viewers will want to suspend their disbelief, and thus are already halfway there, provided that Martino helps them along. As he does with his moving camera.
In addition to his moving camera, the silliness of Martino's alligator prop is further mitigated by tight framing (only parts of the alligator appear in the frames -- his foot, his snout, his tail, etc.), and brief shots (because these these quick cuts are of short duration, audiences lack the time to mentally digest and contemplate the lameness of the prop onscreen).
Here's a fine alligator attack scene from The Great Alligator (the poor sound is my ineptitude). Observe the 1. moving frame, 2. tight frame, and 3. brief shots, and consider how they help the alligator prop appear more lively and less silly.
Now compare to this earlier scene from The Great Alligator. Here Martino uses some tight frames, but lets in a wide frame, allowing us to see the alligator prop in full. Not very impressive, is it?
Despite its shortcomings, The Great Alligator is a highly enjoyable Jaws ripoff. I've seen it many times and recommend it.
P.J. Woodside, director of The Creepy Doll, was likewise faced with the problem of a static threat -- that of a doll. The doll never moves or talks. (Once, near the end, it changes expression.) The Creepy Doll is a subtler, more psychological horror film that many contemporary horror films.
How to promote a horror film to audiences, when its threat is so static? How to present this threat in a trailer?
Woodside's solution was to move her camera around and about the doll, sometimes just bobbing a bit, as demonstrated below:
It works. Woodside's moving camera helps enliven the doll, implying that a dark mind lurks beneath its plastic, painted surface.
Interpreting a film for symbols and themes is a somewhat subjective process. I liken the interpretive process to an asymptotic curve.
In Mike Flanagan's Absentia, the Christianity is subtle but explicit. Buddhism also makes an appearance. Why are these religions in the film? Do they serves a function?
Absentia is about two sisters, Trish and Kelly, who live near a portal to another dimension. A dimension inhabited by Lovecraftian demons. The sisters are unaware of this. Or that it was a demon that abducted Trish's husband seven years ago.
Trish is a Buddhist. Kelly is a Christian. Trish meditates with incense and a gong. Kelly prays before a crucifix on her bedroom wall. The sisters occasionally discuss their respective religions. Thus, Absentia's religious elements are explicit.
But not much is made of these elements. The sisters' discussions are brief and without conflict. Thus, while the religious elements are explicit, they are also subtle.
How do these religious elements serve the film?
Spoilers ahead...
Eventually, the demon abducts Trish. Kelly offers herself up to the demon in exchange for Trish. At the last minute, Kelly changes her mind and flees. To no avail. The demon takes Kelly -- and keeps Trish.
Actress Katie Parker (who plays Kelly) suggested at a recent screening that Kelly's Christianity and Trish's Buddhism were intended to emphasize the monster's power -- that no religion could protect you.
Yes, I can see that interpretation. But I also see how Absentia's religious elements function in other ways:
1. Kelly's explicit Christianity adds subtext to the story. It fleshes out her character.
2. Her Christianity provides motivation for her character when she offers to sacrifice herself for Trish. That Kelly changes her mind and flees demonstrates that she's still human and flawed (i.e., only Christ is perfect.).
Apart from her Christianity, two other factors motivate Kelly's intended self-sacrifice: 1. Her love for Trish, and 2. Her hurt and guilt over Trish having called her a prodigal sister. Kelly is hurt by this comment and wants to prove Trish wrong. And Kelly feels latent guilt; a part of her worries that there's truth to Trish's accusation.
As for Trish's Buddhism, I think it's there to offset Kelly's Christianity, for two reasons.
1. Some viewers may think the film too preachy if Christianity is the only religion portrayed in an explicitly positive manner.
2. Some viewers regard Christians as bigots. This preconception is proven wrong by Kelly accepting her Buddhist sister. Thus, Kelly's reaction to Trish's religion further fleshes out Kelly's character (i.e., she is a humble and tolerant Christian).
Trish's Buddhism acts as foil for Kelly's Christianity (i.e., Trish's Buddhism functions more to flesh out Kelly than Trish).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
