Cure for the Unknown: Why I Watch Scary Films

            We’re well into that time of year again which Bradbury christened “the October Country”, which means of course things get a little spooky.

Everyone’s got their go-to literary and cinematic go-to chills; my own preference is overwhelmingly for the quant, archaic, and nostalgic. Think Edgar Allen Poe, and the films of Hammer studios. Generally, I prefer to tickle the fear centres rather than jab them with a spear. 

But every once in a while, I gaze just a little deeper into the well, reach just a little farther into the pit, until. . .woe! That’s enough! I stumble as far as I wish to go, then retreat back to Disney cartoons. And I always wonder what it was that drew me to that place,   and what it was I actually got out of the not-always-pleasant experience. Or, to get to the point:

  Why Do We Watch Horror Films?

             I hadn’t intended to be so overreaching, but I can’t help asking such things while watching a film like Sinister, a Scott Derrickson extravaganza from 2012. Every year I test my limits; this year, I met them with Sinister. By which I mean, it is about as horrific as a film can be before certain lines or decency are crossed, which I maintain are still vital. The question is, why bother pushing the limits at all? That’s what we’re discussing here.

            Sinister  was not received universally well. It got only about 63% fresh on the Tomatometer. Peter Howell of The Toronto Star called it “more stupid than scary”. He has a point: Sinister has no shortage of idiocies which multiply and compound each other when you have time to reflect on them (especially in the daylight). It faithfully carries the curse of a plot largely dependent on the stupidity of its characters: why won’t the Ethan Hawk character (Oswald Ellison) turn all this evidence over to police? Why won’t he tell his wife, or the sheriff, or the Professor, or someone what’s going on? Why won’t he turn on the friggin’ lights?

Director Scott Derrikson

           

           It also carries one of my least favourite tropes, a certain star-struck overestimation of the competence of serial killers: a near omniscient ability to track victims and elude police, and a preference for ridiculously elaborate and utterly impractical methods of murder. (Just how heavy is that branch?)

            Howell, however, is only half right; for all this, Sinister is a deeply frightening film. I’m with Roger Ebert on this one, who called it “undeniably scary”.

Rober Cargill: screenwriter

            Truly scary films are incredibly rare. If fear is a survival mechanism, how can a mere movie inspire it? Sinister manages it, not via the silly jump scares of the Paranormal Activities, or Insideous, (though there are no shortage of these), but by establishing dread of what may come next. We are aware early on that we are going to confront something very dark and very evil, and have a sinking feeling that our protagonist will be utterly unequipped to fight this evil. True, the supernatural element (I give nothing away by revealing this) means it might not have made a difference, but a character with a stronger moral core could hardly have done worse. . .

            The device of the “found footage” is essential here: what contains more potential horrors than a mysterious can of film discovered in the attic of a murder site? A film, a tape, a cd or USB drive are almost Schrödinger boxes of endless possibility. This being a murder site, and this being a horror film, none of the possibilities are good. Already the anticipation is ominous. Found footage also forces us to adapt two points of view. One is with Oswalt, sitting with him in the dark, knowing he is going to see something dreadful. The other, is with the killer: we are forced into the head of an unspeakably malignant entity and made unwitting accomplice to its sins – voyeur, invader, murderer, betrayer. It’s not a nice place to be.

 

What is on the film? Infinite unknowns. . .

            The footage itself sets up innocent, idyllic scenes for the express purpose of violating them, then shows us just enough to confirm our worst suspicions, yet still lets our imaginations do the dirty work. It also implies there is more to come. The sense of ominous anticipation that creates is a feeling I would equate with fear.     

            I didn’t really like the ending; I found it over indulgent and over obvious, where a more Hitchockian minimalist approach would have made the same implications. But it also leaves no doubt as to what we must have suspected from the beginning. I’m not sure I enjoyed Sinister, but have to admire its craftsmanship. Credit where it’s due, Sinister created fear.

             

            But why bother?

 

Feeding the dark side

            Stephen King once suggested that scary stories and horror films are our way of satiating our repressed dark sides. The analogy he used was tossing the occasional raw meet to the caged alligators of our subconscious. Keep them fed, and they won’t try to escape. I suppose there is a kind of tempting logic to it, but the explanation doesn’t satisfy me. Possibly we really are just serial killers at heart, who can keep the violence at bay by tossing it the occasional bone, but that strikes me as an easy answer. It’s not good enough.

            Let’s get back to the found footage. Find an unlabelled film/tape/cd/USB. The possibilities? Endless.  Now, narrow it down a little bit: the footage will be something disturbing, something awful, something bad. How many dreadful scenarios will run through your head before reality settles on one?

            Let’s narrow it down even further still: the footage is just a movie. It has been found on a store shelf. The cover and jacket design give an idea of what is contained therein. Let’s switch pronouns as well (because from this point on I can only speak for myself – I am now holding this DVD in my hand, knowing I will probably not enjoy what it contains. Why do I still put it on?

            I don’t think it is about feeding the dark side. I think it’s something even more primal than that. The one drive we have that’s even stronger than fear, that brought us out of the cave and out to the stars:

            Curiosity.    

"Curiosity is the lifeblood of imagination

             Guellemo Del Toro once called curiosity “the lifeblood of imagination”. Curiosity, I think, is not just a desire to know. It is our way of defeating the unknown. What did Lovecraft say was the oldest and deepest kind of fear? Think about it: a creak in the dark or a bump in the night can be terrifying if you don’t know what’s behind it. A dripping tap or a jittery squirrel can cause terror if they are hidden. We fear the night because of all the unknown threats it contains. Fear is a survival mechanism: we are hardwired to recognize threats, and even potential threats. A rumbling in the bush may or may not be a predator, but we lose nothing from erring on the side of caution and running. We are designed by nature to be on our guard at all times.

            Curiosity is our weapon against fear. An explanation for a phenomena removes its threat. Even a real threat can be less menacing if we know what it is. An identified threat is one we can actually deal with. An unknown threat allows for no solutions and represents a million possible deaths.

The oldest and deepest kind of fear

            My stupid DVD is not a real, or even potential threat. But the same instincts are at work. Its lurid promises of a ghastly experience trigger in the imagination a thousand possibilities far in excess of what it can actually provide. To throw on the movie and find it’s tacky or amateurish or silly, or maybe surprisingly good but still Just a Movie, dispels all those nightmares. And if it inspires new ones? It won’t: the nightmare’s over once the credits roll. It’s over. It’s been purged from my system. I’m awake again, and feeling better having gotten rid of all that mucky stuff.

            Fear is very much caused by the unknown, and curiosity is the cure for the unknown. That, I think, is the key.    

On Steviverous insect life. . .

If ever a cure were worse than the disease, the prescribed solution to a  bed bug infestation would surely be it. I'm tempted to just let the buggers have the place if they want it that badly. I'm not joking: I swear, waking up to find swarms of tiny parasites feasting on my flesh and blood traumatized me less than clearing out my apartment in time for the exterminator.

An altogether misleading introduction to the phenomenon

I can deal with a bug bite. I'll live, I've got rubbing alcohol. Hauling out ten crates full of crap at two in the morning on a week night? That'll kill me. Doing again in two weeks  - or living out of a suitcase for two weeks - stresses me way more than possibly finding a pinhead sized critter on my pillow. Not to mention, the thought of sleeping on a bed full of creepy crawlies freaks me less than sleeping on one filled with noxious chemicals.

Seriously, nothing the bugs did were as bad as what I had to do  to get rid of them.

And it's not even over yet! The guy's got to come back in two weeks to get the eggs. Hurrah!


Hamilton Health Services say reports of bed bug infestations in Hamilton have gone up 600% in recent years, for no particular reason. They're everywhere, they're relentless, they're indestructible - or may as well be. They strike at night and disappear with the morning light.  They lurk just out of sight. They bite your flesh and drink your blood, and leave a distinctive mark. Sound familiar?

Actually, the zombie hordes would be a better analogy. The endless wave of sharp toothed drones coming, coming, coming for you. . .

 Poetry aside, what it's like to live through a bed bug infestation? I'm glad you asked! (and aren't you glad you did?)

It is not called an "infestation" for nothing. They infest the most private, intimate part of your living space, where you tend to be at your most vulnerable.  It's an invasion, a violation. A pollution, a desecration.

Bed bugs are carnivorous. They survive on blood. Your blood. I am not at all squeamish around bugs, really I'm not. But waking up to find yourself being eaten is really not nice.

It's gross. You feel nasty. Like someone just spat in your face or peed in your shoe. You want to scrape a layer of skin off, or maybe bathe in bleach. And the thing is, you don't just feel dirty - you feel defeated. You try to keep a clean house, you seemingly spend every waking hour washing dishes, doing laundry or scrubbing surfaces. Maybe it wasn't a palace of polished marble from a Listerine commercial, but for God's sake it was a hygienic little hole. And the little buggers still got in. The Husky Pest Control service take pains to assure victims:  “A bedbug infestation does not mean you keep n untidy home or that you live in unfit conditions” which is nice of them to say, but it doesn't feel any better.

 The stigma doesn't help. Real or imagined, there's disdain on every face, leery you may carry a contaminating egg in your pant cuff or collar, and who's to say you aren't? To the leper colony with you!

Then there's the unsolicited advice. You ought to do this, you really ought to do that. You have to do B, you mustn't do D. Such tidbits are almost never helpful, and larger just offer more complications to stress over. The fact is, you're doing the best you can in an unwinnable situation, and really wish they'd just shut the fuck up.

So what of the process itself? First off, your sleep is ruined. You are quite awake at that point.  You'll probably want to destroy your sheets. Not that it's required or even recommended, but will you really still want them after that? Stick your clothes into the freezer. Apparently the buggers don't like the cold. Clear out your ice cream and stick in everything your want to wear the next day. At times like these winter can be an unexpected blessing, as you can stick everything into a garbage bag and leave it on your balcony over night - but it was an uncommonly warm September for me, so that little bonus was unavailable.

But even with these precautions, you will need to call the pros. And you will need to clear everything out for them. This is not something you can do yourself - ever wonder how many nooks and crannies are in a one-bedroom apartment? Try counting them. Including the electrical outlets. You can't get them all yourself. But even if you could, if you and the equipment and the time and the patience and the knowledge, you'd still have to clear everything out. You need a practically empty apartment. Not your furniture - that's what needs to get sprayed - but your clothes, your books, your embroidery, your papers, your toys, your laptop - your stuff. Anything that makes the place feel lived in.   

Preparing for a bug spray is like getting evicted. You've got three days to throw everything into a box and git! 

Where’s it all go? You can’t just pile it up in the middle of the room, so where do all those boxes go? The balcony? The bathtub? The trunk of the car? Yes, yes and yes. Of course, your only real solution is to have family or friends with a largely empty garage. Otherwise you are quite SOL.

Packing up your entire worldly existence in a hurry, certain things are bound to happen. You are guaranteed to knock a large box of screws, thumbtacks, paperclips, or something equally small and inconvenient onto the floor. You are guaranteed to need something at the bottom of your very first box. You will definitely forget where you put something incredibly important, and will be unable to relocate something you need immediately.

You will finish late at night. You will make many trips up and down the elevator.

You will wonder if it’s all worth it.  I mean, clearing out your entire existence for a couple of ruined sheets? I’m willing to bet most will have their doubts.

Taking down the curtains was the worst part. Not just because they’re a pain in the arse to take down, but because I live across the street from another large apartment complex, and without my curtains, everybody can see everything, from the balcony to the kitchen. “Hello world, step inside, here’s my life, on full public display!” Even the most spotlight hogging actor needs to occasionally hide behind the curtain. When they come down, your privacy completely dissolves; your sense of this little hole in the wall as your private sanctuary, retreat, refuge, nest, lair, your place – is blown wide open. It is no longer possible to shut out the world, or shield yourself from it. All you’ve got is an empty room with a great big window. 

And the really fun part? You can’t put anything back once the spraying’s done: you gotta wait for them to come back and do it all again! At some unspecified future date.

I believe the company’s name is GODOT. . .