"I have crossed an ocean of skittles to find you."

"I have crossed an ocean of skittles to find you."

-Count Dracula

The Shapes of Things to Come: John Carpenter's The Thing

It’s deceptively simple in set up.  A group of scientists doing research in the Antarctic find a preserved specimen.  It’s been buried in the ice for a hundred-thousand years.  It’s not dead though—it’s just sleeping.  Much like the creature they face, John Carpenter’s The Thing, is difficult to categorize; it keeps changing shape.  Part science-fiction, part horror story, body horror, gothic horror, adventure, suspense—Carpenter even mentioned in one of the commentaries for the anniversary edition that he was initially drawn to this film because it reminded him of an Agatha Christie mystery (essentially, Ten Little Indians with an alien).  These genre shifts shouldn’t come as a large surprise though; even a poorly constructed movie can usually manage to engage you on more than one platform.  What I think is impressive though is how deftly this film weaves between these different styles, how seamlessly each of these modes of story-telling are touched upon and are successful, and that they are all anchored by the same themes.  Whether you attempt to read this story as science-fiction, horror or even a mystery, the membrane that holds all these ideas in place is the feeling of uncertainty. 

It asserts that if a group of people were placed in this sort of peril—their lives and the future of all living things on this planet—rather than work together, pool resources and codify a plan, they would by and large turn unrepentantly on each other.  That there’s a savagery, a baseness that still clings to us from our primordial past is far from new in storytelling; how honest and believable it plays itself out in this story is what is so unnerving.  That we would sacrifice others, possible allies, for our short-term survival (even at the potential expense of our long-term survival) is cold, hard and sincere. 

It is in this way, like many other great horror stories, that an essential truth is revealed.  Even accounting for the fantastical elements (in this case, The Thing) you can’t escape this revelation: We are the monster.  We fight it, The Thing, but sadly we also fight ourselves.  What follows is a grave these characters, each in turn, helps digs.

The men are fundamentally incapable of handling the situation for the simple fact that this creature, this thing, and its abilities and reasoning are—in every sense of the word—alien to them.  One point is clear, however, The Thing wants what all living things want: to keep on existing.  The Thing is determined to live and considers all of the humans a threat.

A visual study of the otherness of this creature.  How could the human researchers anticipate a cute, cuddly husky changing into this monstrosity?  

The Thing appears to be part of a race advanced enough to master interstellar travel, but beyond that it is uncertain.  Is it part of a race bent on conquering all worlds—nomads taking the resources they need from wherever they are found?  Maybe The Thing doesn’t even recognize humans as a sentient life-form.  Creatures capable of only one shape (solids as Odo likes to refer to them) maybe don’t register to The Thing, the same way we don’t feel guilty when we crush a few ants underfoot.  Maybe The Thing’s race are peaceful explorers interested in uniting all of the civilized cultures of the universe into a harmonious coalition of learning and innovation and this particular one is just a huge dick that went rogue.  Hell, maybe The Thing isn’t even the owner of that spaceship!  Maybe it was taken aboard as a lab sample and the original crew met the same fate as the Swedes—or Norwegians—whatever the hell they were.  That would explain the crash landing.  The point is that guessing anything beyond the events of the film is vacuous speculation. 

That is the tip of the knife that this film uses.  The underlying theme is not FEAR in bold letters or remoteness or transformation.  It’s uncertainty.  It’s not the broad strokes of a Voorhee’s machete here, but the subtle knife that is used against us.  The characters know so little, and the things they take for granted also come to be challenged (I mean for God’s sake even the blood wants to kill you).  This is important to mention, because it is the corner-stone that the film builds its tone and pace upon.  Fear by itself leads to more reactionary responses and storytelling.  Why are we afraid?  Because something is trying to kill us.  What should we do?  We should kill it first.  Transformation is also an important theme to keep in mind as we watch the film, but it is still a secondary one.  Transformation as an idea gives us expectation.  What are we going to become?  Better; worse?  What will be retained and what will be sloughed off for the incredible?  Interesting questions, true, and the thought of this co-opted evolution (Symbiosis? Parasitism?) adds layers to the science-fiction element.

Yes, these are all valid concerns for this movie, but the primary thrust is uncertainty.  That’s the gateway to the dread, paranoia, anxiety that permeates this film.  Many before me have said that this is a cynical movie.  I’m not quite sure it’s that simple to label.  But The Thing is bleak and certainly bitter, bitter.

I feel there is an element of the gothic at work here too.  Typically, in gothic fiction the heroes find themselves in a remote, isolated setting.  A faraway castle, a lonely inn, a haunted house at the edge of town.  There is an extreme sense of isolation in these types of stories.  What becomes manifest in these tales, more so than in other genres, is that there is no external salvation.  If this were you and The Creature with No Name was inexorably creeping their way toward you, the power to triumph lies entirely with your sense of agency.  Much like the Antarctic crew, characters caught in these stories realize there is no one coming to rescue them.  Yes, characters in these stories have no choice but to save themselves.

I think there is an interesting connection here to this movie and the Frankenstein story.  Dr. Frankenstein pursues The Creature toward the North Pole and hopes that even if he is unsuccessful in destroying it, the ice will hold his creation captive forever.  The Thing, on the other hand, has been trapped in the ice and wishes to fly to more habitable climes.  It seems that nature is the great equalizer in these stories—that despite the power of Frankenstein’s Creature or of The Thing, nature can be just as unforgiving to them as to us.  This is just another way for these sorts of stories to highlight what I’ve already pointed out.  You can’t escape the remote castle, the haunted house, the endless winter of the poles.  Neither can they.  The only solution is to confront the monster. 

This is a very quick and easy way to explain why these stories are so enjoyable.  There is an undeniable sense of catharsis.  Face your fear and do your damnedest to best it.

One of the more terrifying aspects of The Thing, tying back into the major theme, is the personal uncertainty.  It’s never more evident than during the blood test scene.  As each person is proven to be a bona fide human being, the others show relief (obviously), but what’s there and more understated is the relief the character being tested shows.  What does that say about the transformative process?  What does that say about how well we really know ourselves? 

On one hand, dealing with the paranoia of not knowing if the person next to you is going to shape-shift and rip your face off is a burden—granted—but that’s to be expected in this sort of situation.  What no one I’m sure anticipated is the dread it must be to not be able to tell if you are the monster.   Losing one’s humanity, whatever the source: a werewolf attack, zombie bite, biological infection, possession, etc., is worse than dying and scares me more than pretty much anything else.  I’d rather fight the monster and die—gruesomely—than have the essence of what I am stolen from me.  And with The Thing you have the added fear that you may have already been taken over and all it’s going to take is some instinctual, knee-jerk reflex to set you off.

Paranoia is an interesting theme to play with when done successfully.  What launches this particular creature to utterly frightening levels is that this film so clearly rings out this chord.  It’s insidious, truly so, because it takes us over from within.  The Thing’s most effective weapon is the seed of distrust and fear that it plants in the group.  Even when not physically changing the dwindling number of humans, the attacks resonate long after the fact, shattering the ties these men once had.  This multi-layered takeover allows a series of misplaced and ill-directed violence to take place as disastrous as The Thing’s aggressions.  This means that in an immediate sense there is death to the individual (as the self is completely obliterated by The Thing), but also death to the community (as the communal ties are severed one by one either through force [takeover by The Thing] or through a character’s own choice [like locking the still human Blaire out in the shed]).  Guns, flamethrowers, axes, exile and even dynamite are all used to threaten and coerce members.  Even if it isn’t physically changing these men, The Thing still has the influence to invoke other changes as well. 

The collapsing of this group beings at this moment.

Look at the doctor, Blaire.  He is determined, stoic, unwavering—he is by all means a “practical” man.  He is probably the most reasonable man at the camp.  In the scenes where he performs autopsies on The Thing specimens, he is measured and methodical.  He tries to understand it; to make it make sense in the scientific language that he speaks.  They are very slow, plodding scenes and I think it perfectly conveys how practical the doctor is when he performs research. 

Compare that with its counterpoint, his next scene in the comm room.   It’s utter madness.

"You think that thing wanted to be an animal?  No dogs make it a thousand miles through the cold!  No, you don't understand!  That thing wanted to be us!"  Blaire yells this out as he destroys the equipment.  That’s the turning point in this movie.  The doctor’s breakdown when he sabotages the communication room is the most horrifying transformation in the film.  His computer has just given him the calculations—100% extinction if The Thing ever leaves the ice.  This quiet, determined man sees how big the stakes really are and reacts.  He may not be taken over at this point, but he certainly is changed.  There is mania and an utter sense of desperation in his voice that never fails to set me on edge.  From this point on these men are doomed.  It’s not a giant dog creature with tendrils that bloom full of teeth, but simply one man who chooses to make a stand.  That’s how this film signals that the end for this group is coming.

The closing scene is one of the most powerful.  MacReady has arguably succeeding in killing The Thing, but in the process has sealed his own fate.  As he surveys the rubble that was once U.S Outpost 31, it must dawn on him as it does us that he is not walking away from this.  The term is a Pyrrhic Victory.  He has (if you’re being optimistic) succeeded in destroying an evil that would have over-run the world, but at the expense of everyone’s ruin.  Childs shows up unexpectedly.  They split what’s left of a bottle of whiskey and watch as what remains of their world burns.  But despite this destruction, The Thing is still shaping up to have a pretty stellar ending.  What’s not to love?  Heroes saved the world.  Evil has been slewed.  The conquerors are enjoying the most manly of spirits.  Get ‘er done, fuck yeah, guys.

But the ending is missing a beat.  What is unacknowledged, and what ultimately makes people uncomfortable with this film’s ending, is this—We are not told anything definitively.  We are left with ambiguity as to whether or not MacReady or Childs is a Thing.  Their very muted celebration also leaves ambiguity as to whether or not The Thing was actually destroyed.  It’s a subtle effect, but the tone of the scene causes these concerns to spill out.  It’s possible that both men are still human, just as it’s possible that the monster is gone.  It’s just that audience members dislike not knowing for certain one way or the other.

Carpenter essentially pulls the same trick in Prince of Darkness, however, in that film we’re waiting for the cheap scare, Jason-jumping-out-of-the-lake, Freddy-pulling-the-mom-through-the-window sort of last moment before the credits roll.¹  We all roll our eyes, but the reality is those moments are a form of release.  In Prince of Darkness the guy looks hesitantly at the mirror, reaching out to touch the surface, knowing that it is really a thin membrane separating our world from another place filled with unspeakable darkness.  We expect the glass to shatter as he is pulled into the void, our breath caught, leaning in our seats, straining ourselves with the suspense—and it doesn’t happen.  It too is missing that expected beat.  That cheap scare at the end is a comfort because we can laugh about the absurdity of it.  And more importantly because we know where the evil is and how it will try to come for us.  The not knowing, that is what is worst.  Where might it come from and how? 

Denying us that gotcha moment in Prince of Darkness and the Missions-Accomplished-let’s-have-a-Miller-and-put-on some-AC/DC pat on the back that could have easily been the ending moment of The Thing both serve the same purpose even though they enact the effect from opposite directions.  I think this is where the critique comes that this film is a pessimistic work. 

Like real life we do not reach a turning point and then the credits roll.  Nothing ever truly ends.  The situation appears resolved, but can return.  Only time can prove the true measure of success.  Seen by some as extremely cynical, I think it’s an amazingly honest ending—which is what makes it so striking.

It is a moment of extreme disquiet as you leave the theater.  We don’t know if the horror is really over.  But then again, how can we truly ever?





¹              For a little more context: The Thing is part one of John Carpenter’s Apocalypse Trilogy, the others being Prince of Darkness and In the Mouth of Madness.  They are all excellent movies and I highly recommend you go out and watch them as soon as you’re done reading this if you haven’t seen them already.  All three of these films deal with an end of the world situation.  Not all of them end happily.

Aside from dealing with a game-over situation, these stories also have a Lovecraft influence.  The Thing has a somewhat similar feeling to Lovecraft’s “At the Mountains of Madness”.  Both feature a team of scientists exploring phenomena in the Antarctic, both feature ancient aliens that have been asleep in the ice and both feature monsters that somewhat resemble a blooming flower that really wants to eat you.  Both stories also deal with preternatural events with a grim sincerity.

Prince of Darkness deals with, well, The Prince of Darkness.  He’s a Cthulhu type demon who has been slumbering fretfully in an inbetween dimension, awaiting the time that he can enter our world and wreak unimaginable suffering on all of us.  In the movie, when the circumstances have been met The Prince of Darkness attempts to cross the void by using a mirror.  It’s an amazingly evocative sequence and will surely leave you uncomfortable brushing your teeth in your bathroom later that night.

In the Mouth of Madness features a writer whose work drives those who have had prolonged exposure to his novels insane (dangerous tomes is another frequent Lovecraft hallmark) and once again features monsters waiting at the fringe of existence trying to break their way into our world.  This movie more than the others has many sly references to Lovecraft’s works.  Several scenes in this movie make my skin-crawl.

Seriously, go out and rent them all.  Make a night of it.  Invite your friends!

Miscellany:

 

I love The Thing so much/am such a nerd that I painted this and have it hanging in my living room.

Why is MacReady the de facto leader?  I mean just look at that beard!

Happy Valentine's Day Everyone!

To celebrate, I've made a compilation of horribly inappropriate Valentine's Day cards!  I hope you enjoy and continue to spread the terror love.

Candyman

Friday the 13th

Halloween

Hellraiser

A Nightmare on Elm Street

The Warriors: Greece Meets West

                Walter Hill has said, "Every film I've done has been a Western.”  He doesn’t mean this, obviously, in a literal sense, but it’s an interesting way of reading his body of work.  After all, what are the key thematic components of the western genre?  1. The protagonist(s), whether hero or anti-hero, have a strict code.  2. A good western treats the landscape as an actual environment and not a mere backdrop.  The small, bustling community, the arid desert, snowy plains or dangerous forests—these places force reactions from the characters.  They help inform us of the story we are about to experience because they show us that these are characters of means.  It constantly has to be fought back, tamed—the location cannot be ignored.  3. Westerns are about taking a stand.  It can be personal or more global, righteous or evil, but every Western, bottom-line, has someone willing to fight and die for what they believe.  You have that in Streets of Fire, you have that in Last Man Standing, Hickey and Boggs, not so much in 48 Hours (although Eddie Murphy does put on a cowboy hat and go to a western bar, so maybe that counts for something) and you sure as hell have that in The Warriors.

                Now, with The Warriors not only must you must keep the Western framework in the forefront, but you also have to carry another thought in the back of your mind: That of ancient Greece.  I’m serious.  Depending on the version you are watching Walter Hill may come and spell it out for you during the prologue, but there is a specific historical event that inspired how he shaped the direction of the story.  It is The Anabasis, the Greek story of The Ten Thousand and their arduous journey back to their homeland. 

                To make a long story short, The Ten Thousand fought a somewhat successful battle deep in enemy territory which would have been an outright victory had their leader not been one of the small few killed during the siege.  Now they had a conquered kingdom and no leader to take it over.  They were left with no other option now but to fight their way back, make allegiances or use trickery to pass through the other controlled kingdoms to make their way—wait for it…waaaait for it—to the sea.  Sounds familiar?

               

********

                American history has always been fascinated with outlaws and villains, almost as much as gallants and lawmen.  Look at the string of films dedicated to Dillinger, Bonnie and Clyde, Capone, etc.  It stands to reason that the Western, as a decidedly American genre, should work equally well when the protagonists are heroes or anti-heroes.  Let us not forget: As much as The Warriors might have ingratiated themselves to us through the course of the story, they are still criminals.  But they are criminals with a system of honor.

                In the story The Rogues certainly act villainous and provide the initial incident, turning The Warriors into fugitives, but they aren’t necessarily the villains.  The role of primary antagonists is reserved for The Gramercy Riffs.  They are organized (to extent that you can begin using the word militant), disciplined and last, but not least, statesmen.  It was after all their group who organized the summit meeting and it is they who are pushing for peace between the scattered gangs.  And when the meeting falls apart it is The Riffs who put the bounty on The Warriors’ heads.  Keeping in mind the theme of ancient Greece, The Gramercy Riffs are a true city-state and are steps away from uniting the smaller rabble into an empire.

The Riffs getting tuned up.

                What’s interesting in all of this is how this all feeds back into the Western format.  The Warriors and The Gramercy Riffs are not traditional enemies—there is no vendetta to clear nor is the conflict of the night economically or territorially motivated.  The Riffs are after all THE gang and I’m sure they are a template that the much, much smaller Warriors outfit has looked to.  The Warriors’ sense of duty and honor seem very parallel to The Gramercy Riffs.  No, the reason for the evening’s violence is based on a misunderstanding—The Warriors allegedly broke the ceasefire and killed a prominent member of their group—and clearly the Riffs’ code of honor cannot suffer such a grievance without retribution.

                Naturally, having a code and being willing to die making a stand are deeply connected.  One cannot exist without the other.  They are compulsory elements of the genre and the reason why I have listed them as two separate components comes down to the following:  In the Western the antagonists have as strict a code as well.  The villains are always willing to kill to meet their ends, but only the heroes are willing to die for theirs.

               Their whole situation could be ended by turning themselves in, surrendering to the next gang they meet or taking off their colors.  But if any of them were to suggest that, they wouldn't be wearing that Warriors vest in the first place.  To them it's better to face death a Warrior than to live life as anything less.

********

                The encroaching police force, mercenary gangs, inclement weather and diverting subway trains offer the second component in the Western equation.  The setting is not a static, placid backdrop.  Cataloguing these events and the group’s responses to them would result in nothing more than a plot recap.  I think it’s something to keep in mind though while you watch the film.  The key difference in this—between backdrop and an active landscape—is how it forces character development.  In a more traditional story, interactions between the protagonist(s) and other characters force them into action and to change, but in the western that connection is removed.  The characters and gangs The Warriors meet are incidental and tied to that specific location.  They don’t exist beyond one mere scene.  Westerns are solitary, stoic, bleak.  With these exchanges, nothing is revealed about the people they meet, instead it focuses solely on our heroes.  These scenes are less a dialogue and more a reaction.
                Coming back to the theme of classical Greece, there are three locations/events in particular that I feel offer a modern reading of the Odyssey and Greek myth.  The beautiful undercover vice officer who leads—ahem—Ajax to his doom bears great resemblance to a siren.  The hilariously named Lizzies and their ensnarement of The Warriors (possibly the closest to succeeding in the film) parallel Odysseus’ crews disastrous stay on Circe’s island.  And the shutdown of the subway train when they were on a direct route home can be seen as the storm that drives Odysseus’ ship back to where it started when they were already within eyesight of Ithaca.

In clockwise fashion: 1. The Siren 2. Waylaid by the bag of winds 3. The chorus 4.  Circe's Island

            

               The simple fact that these allusions are built into this not-too-distant-future gang beat ‘em up movie shows what a subtle and well versed writer Walter Hill is.  This movie is so unassuming, so basic in its appearance that I’m sure these references go unnoticed by a majority of viewers.

********

                I want to end this, befittingly enough, with the end of the story.  Not the last few minutes before the credits roll, but the real, emotional ending. Because after this point it’s simply a matter of closing the ledger.  This is the most important moment in the movie; it’s beautiful, poignant, but most of all, fragile.  What remains of the group has finally made it to the train; the last leg of their quest is ending.  They are bloodied and exhausted.  Simply put, they stand out.  But we have to remember, they are “outcasts” and always will be.  No matter what, they will always stand out.  Whether their vests are torn from fighting or not, The Warriors live on the fringe, outside the normal scope of society.  And it’s here, when they should be feeling victorious, that they run into the disco kids.

                This group, unlike The Warriors, hasn’t spent the night fighting for their lives and never will.  They have nice clothes and nice smiles.  And when this group notices The Warriors it’s never been clearer that they don’t have these things and maybe never will. 

                It’s so painfully simple that if you’re not paying attention you might miss it.  Mercy reaches up, embarrassedly, to fix her hair and Swan stops her. 

               She doesn’t have to apologize. 

                In that one moment, Swan tells us that none of us need to be ashamed of who we are. 

                To me, this is the climax of the film.  The showdown on the beach with Luther certainly feels necessary and rectifies the false accusations from earlier.  We are allowed that satisfaction.  But it seems to me that we reach those final scenes solely from the momentum of preceding events.  There is a distinct feeling of…inevitableness about how it plays out.  Housekeeping.

                This whole time we’ve been searching for the exact thing that The Warriors are making their stand for and I say it’s a fight for their very existence.  Not a fight for their lives but a fight to exist.  They can’t fit into a conformed societal role, but they have to be somewhere.  That’s what this was all for; they are carving out their own place.  They are the social misfits that can never really connect to the mainstream.  This midway is their home and they will stand and fall together.  These notions of loyalty and valor and duty they were carrying around are no longer play-acting, but now real after being tempered by the events of the night.   

               The odyssey really ended back there on that train.  It was a subtle, elegant moment, but it spoke volumes.  The way of The Warriors is not for me or most others, but there is a certain nobility to it all.  To be able to stand up tall and declare that this is me and I refuse to compromise ever again.  That—right there—is something we all should be fighting for. 

               

                                “Thálatta! Thálatta!”

Miscellany:

It might just be the confluence of emotions, but I'm always struck by how simply fitting and epic the closing credits song is.  It always leaves me feeling like we've all really accomplished something here.  God I want to go to the beach and have a showdown rightfuckingnow!!!

Halloween: The Shape of the Unheimlich

Whenever asked to name my favorite horror film I always arrive at one of two movies, both by the legendary John Carpenter: Halloween and The Thing (I’ll write about The Thing soon enough).  I find both to be strong contenders content wise and excellent examples of the qualities I am arguing for.  To wit, that a good film, regardless of its genre or labels, should not only deliver on the expectations of its audience, but also subvert those desires and produce something unasked for, but equally satisfying.

            Halloween is so beloved not because it’s another slasher with a body count, but instead because it is a thriller that delves into the uncanny.  Haddonfield isn’t just a town in Illinois; it’s also your hometown.  Laurie Strodes lives on your block.  Almost two-thirds of the story is dedicated to a day-in-the-life portrait of these young women, making the switch in the final portion all the more stark. 

            Not all of them are necessarily likable, but you have by this point spent enough time with them to know them as more than the card-board cutouts you might find in the lesser titles of the genre.  They feel like people that will be missed by someone and that makes their passing more real. Michael Myers is the caprice that fate sometimes deals out and these young women cannot escape him.  Carpenter has stated that all of his early films dealt with the notion of fate and how intractable and immutable it is.  Michael Myers is presented as an unstoppable force.  His motives are his own and nothing can deter him.  The terror and dread that you feel in watching this movie directly stems from the fact that Michael Myers’ motivations and thinking are unknowable and un-understandable.        

Not only is he incomprehensible internally, being unable to visually decipher him is also built into the film.  Just consider the approach taken to filming Myers.  He is almost always obscured and his actions take place almost exclusively in shadow: Peeking around a hedge, hemmed in by car windows, between a series of fluttering sheets and always surrounded by darkness.  Or, examine it more meta-textually—in the credits for this and all films, he isn’t listed as Michael Myers, he is The Shape.   

In each instance, it is clear that he is present, but impossible to determine his complete shape.

* * * *

            There are two ways that you can read this text and both versions are totally dependent on which edit you’re viewing.  Firstly, you can read it as part of a series, whereupon it is revealed that Myer’s is homing in on his long lost sister in order to fulfill some sort of familial bloodlust—the reasoning for which becomes increasingly more muddled and strained as the installments move on.  Or, secondly, as a stand-alone movie (as it indeed was during its initial release), John Carpenter’s singular take on the burgeoning slasher genre and not part one of an eight-part (or seven if you’re splitting hairs) franchise.  In this latter scenario Laurie is a beautiful, charming young-lady who has the misfortune of drawing the attention of one deranged individual.

I have seen both cuts of this film and feel that the original, theatrical edit is the superior.  The reason for this should be clear to any fan of the original: Halloween is an exercise in restraint.  The other cut, and sequels, give too much information, overstate the motives.

I completely see the reasoning behind the additional footage.  From a technical standpoint, when it was re-cut to be aired for television some of the more graphic moments had to be dropped, which necessitated filming new material to fill that space.  By this point the sequel had already been created and established the new continuity that the rest of the franchise would build on.

            But, the additional scenes in the extended cut fundamentally change the reading of the story.  The clearest instance of this is the bloodied word scrawled on his wall back at the asylum: SISTER.  With that one added detail, we can all breathe a collective sigh.  The movie becomes safer to watch.  It always had to be Laurie; this is her birthright.  Even had it been us who walked in front of the Myer’s house first that Halloween morning, he still would have chosen her.  We no longer have to worry tonight when we turn the lights off. 

Loomis senses the evil in Myers, knows of the preternatural patience, but Myers in this reading is still a man.  Not the avatar for the Spirit of Samhain or virtually immortal as he becomes in later installments.  He is human; he drives a car (There’s even that very upsetting sequence where he slowly follows Tommy as he heads home from school—it’s shot over the shoulder and feels so much like Kidnapper POV that I’m glad they only use it once.).  He eats, even if the only thing he could get was a stray dog. 

            To me that version is scarier.  I don’t anticipate running into too many druidic demi-gods in my lifetime, but the other reading—that sort of evil lives in many hearts—the other reading is the stuff headlines are made of.

            Of course to refer to him as a man gives the mistaken impression that he has conformed to what society would expect of that term.  He may be adult sized, but in many ways he stopped growing up the night he murdered his sister.  It’s evidenced by the Halloween style pranks he plays during the movie—stealing his sister’s headstone so that he can use it to scare Laurie, dressing up as a ghost before killing Linda or the macabre, but darkly funny, ways he hides the bodies for Laurie to find (they’re literally popping out at her).  But I think the most unsettling thing he does in this vein occurs right after he kills Linda’s boyfriend.  Myers pins the teenage boy to the wall like an entomologist and then stares at him as his life slips away.  He tilts his head from one side slowly to the other, almost as if he is confused by what is happening, like he didn’t know if he played that hard with his new toy it would break.

* * * *

To examine something, to shine a light upon it, the item in question must cast a shadow.  I feel this is the true value of the horror film.  It allows us to discard the saccharine sentimentalities and the plaintive dialogue of mainstream films and terrify us.  By exposing our fears, it points out the things we hold most dear.  By acting as a silhouette the darkness inherent in the horror film is capable of giving us the clearest outline of our souls.

            Halloween is terrifying not because some guy in a washed-out William Shatner mask is stalking about with a 15 inch blade, but because he is there at all.  Michael Myers is in our yards, in our garages, our bedrooms.  His blank face is waiting to be filled in by someone—perhaps that person you passed on the way to the car, the person in line beside you in the supermarket—and his motives, like his face, are never clear but still fatal.  He is the Boogey Man.  He can be anywhere for the simple fact that he can be anyone.  Laurie Strodes dropped a key off for her father and it aroused the attention of the wrong person.  Halloween reminds us that no matter how our work day might have gone, the errands we ran, the chores we performed, throughout the small and large of daily life there is always, always, underneath it all an ache that never stops buzzing: I want to feel safe.  Bringing that to light underscores just how quickly a situation can go from being labeled “secure” to being “dangerous”.

            Let’s take one of the film’s final moments as an example.  This scene fills me with dread like no other part: Laurie has narrowly escaped the first encounter with The Shape.  She smashes her way out of the neighbor’s house and limps her way back to the street.  The entire time she is screaming at the top of her lungs for help.  No one answers.  One house goes so far as to turn the lights on and peek through the window, but nothing else.  She is left to fend for herself as The Shape pursues.  This is a familiar street and she knows the people that live here.  None of that matters now that he is here.

What bothers me most about this scene is how starkly alone Laurie is revealed to be.  She might as well be on the moon—her neighbors simply refuse to help.  And what is truly horrifying is how this scene was inspired by a real event.  In 1964, Kitty Genovese was murdered in front of her apartment and anywhere from a dozen to 40 neighbors heard the attacks and her cries for help, but no one came to help her.  It makes my blood turn cold when I think about it.    

            Beyond the realm of fiction, the events in this movie have some anchor to the real world.  Freddy is a spirit, Jason a ghoul, Pinhead a demon (or angel to some), but Myers is a flesh and blood maniac. 

            And while you can argue that most of the killers in slasher movies were also flesh and blood maniacs, you have the extra removal from real life by the locale.  Halloween isn’t set at the first Valentine’s Dance in ten years in a remote mining town, or on Prom Night, or at a summer camp, or on a speeding party train—situations that you might find yourself in, but certainly far from ordinary backdrops.  Halloween, as I’ve said before, happens in our yards and our own homes.

And if there is one place in your day to day life that you should feel safe, it is your home.  That is the heart of the uncanny in this film—that the most familiar setting in your life should be un­-made, that your home should become an un-home.  How would you ever be able to sit down in your living room and watch a movie comfortably again knowing that he was there?  How would you be able to sleep in your bed?  It wouldn’t matter how many houses Laurie moved into from that point on, that thin veil, that illusion, that is our only security has already been cut.  When you get down to it our home is no more a fortress than any other place, but to challenge that, to make the center of our lives the springboard for such a threat is a subtle and truly insidious thing to do. 

            

Consider this final subversion: As a child the closet was always the place to be feared because it was from there that the monsters tried to escape.  It was dangerous because it was dark and unknown.  During Laurie’s final confrontation with The Shape, she hides in the closet.  Here the monster wants to break in.  And she is in the most danger in this scene when she is exposed by the light.  If the closet can be seen as a spiritual Pandora’s Box—everything evil we can imagine is contained within—what does it mean that The Shape wants to break in?  Or the role-reversal of light and shadow? 

It’s as if this creature wants to destroy Laurie (and by proxy us) on both levels, physically and mentally.  By leaving no corner secure, The Shape ensures that after this night we all understand that no one is ever truly safe.

Coming eventually...