The Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies 18 (Autumn 2020)

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

18 (2020)

Contents

EDITORIAL p. 5

Statement re: Issue #12 (2013) p. 6

ARTICLES

‘Do you all want to die? We must throw them out!’: Class Warfare, Capitalism, and

Necropolitics in Seoul Station and Train to Busan

Jessica Ruth Austin p. 7

Maternal Femininity, Masquerade, and the Sacrificial Body in Charlotte Dacre’s Zofloya,

or The Moor

Reema Barlaskar p. 30

The Thing in the Ice: The Weird in John Carpenter’s The Thing

Michael Brown p. 47

Harry Clarke, the Master of the Macabre

Marguerite Helmers p. 77

Gods of the Real: Lovecraftian Horror and Dialectical Materialism

Sebastian Schuller p. 100

Virgins and Vampires: The Expansion of Gothic Subversion in Jean Rollin’s Female

Transgressors

Virginie Sélavy p. 121

BOOK REVIEWS: LITERARY AND CULTURAL CRITICISM

B-Movie Gothic, ed. by Justin D. Edwards and Johan Höglund

Anthony Ballas p. 146

Werewolves, Wolves, and the Gothic, ed. by Robert McKay and John Miller

Rebecca Bruce p. 151

Jordan Peele’s Get Out: Political Horror, ed. by Dawn Keetley

Miranda Corcoran p. 155

Rikke Schubart, Mastering Fear: Women, Emotions, and Contemporary Horror

Miranda Corcoran p. 161

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Posthuman Gothic, ed. by Anya Heise-von der Lippe

Matthew Fogarty p. 165

Jessica Balanzategui, The Uncanny Child in Transnational Cinema: Ghosts of Futurity at the

Turn of the Twenty-First Century

Jessica Gildersleeve p. 168

Neo-Victorian Villains: Adaptations and Transformations in Popular Culture, ed. by

Benjamin Poore

Madelon Hoedt p. 172

William Hughes, Key Concepts in the Gothic

Kathleen Hudson p. 176

Murray Leeder, Horror Film: A Critical Introduction

Kathleen Hudson p. 179

Dracula: An International Perspective, ed. by Marius-Mircea Crişan

Giorgia Hunt p. 183

Darryl Jones, Sleeping with the Lights On: The Unsettling Story of Horror

Laura R. Kremmel p. 186

Kyna B. Morgan, Woke Horror: Sociopolitics, Genre, and Blackness in Get Out

Agnieszka Soltysik Monnet p. 189

The Cambridge Companion to Dracula, ed. by Roger Luckhurst

Christina Morin p. 192

Yael Shapira, Inventing the Gothic Corpse: The Thrill of Human Remains in the Eighteenth-

Century Novel

Christina Morin p. 196

Rebecca Duncan, South African Gothic: Anxiety and Creative Dissent in the Post-Apartheid

Imagination and Beyond

Antonio Sanna p. 199

James Machin, Weird Fiction in Britain 1880-1939

John Sears p. 202

Bryan Hall, An Ethical Guidebook to the Zombie Apocalypse: How to Keep Your Brain

Without Losing Your Heart

Tait C. Szabo p. 205

Howard David Ingham, We Don’t Go Back: A Watcher’s Guide to Folk Horror

Richard Gough Thomas p. 208

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BOOK REVIEWS: FICTION

The Great God Pan and Other Horror Stories, ed. by A. Worth

Erin Corderoy p. 211

William Orem, Miss Lucy; and Dacre Stoker and J. D. Barker, Dracul

Ruth Doherty p. 215

Doorway to Dilemma: Bewildering Tales of Dark Fantasy, ed. by Mike Ashley

Murray Leeder p. 218

The Pit and the Pendulum and Other Tales, ed. by David Van Leer

Elizabeth Mannion p. 220

BOOKS RECEIVED p. 223

TELEVISION AND PODCAST REVIEWS

Dark, Seasons 1-3

Taghreed Alotaibi p. 225

Forest 404

Elizabeth Parker p. 228

The Purge

Thomas Sweet p. 231

Siempre Bruja/Always a Witch, Seasons 1 and 2

Rebecca Wynne-Walsh p. 236

The Order, Seasons 1 and 2

Rebecca Wynne-Walsh p. 241

FILM REVIEWS

Horror Noire: A History of Black Horror

Sarah Cullen p. 245

Overlord

Kevin M. Flanagan p. 249

Halloween

Gerard Gibson p. 252

Gerard Gibson p. 256

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Suspiria

Nicole Hamilton p. 261

Midsommar

Dawn Keetley p. 266

Pet Sematary

Rebecca Wynne-Walsh p. 272

EVENT REVIEWS

Folk Horror in the Twenty-First Century

Máiréad Casey p. 276

Theorizing Zombiism

Miranda Corcoran p. 287

HAuNTcon

Madelon Hoedt p. 296

INTERVIEW

With Aislinn Clarke

Máiréad Casey p. 300

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS p. 308

Editor: Dara Downey

ISSN 2009-0374

Published Dublin, 2020

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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EDITORIAL NOTE

Welcome to Issue #18 of The Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies. This issue marks the

anniversary of the journal, which was established in October 2006 by Elizabeth McCarthy

and Bernice Murphy, with the support of what was then the M.Phil. in Popular Literature in the

School of English in Trinity College Dublin. The IJGHS has seen a number of changes since

then in terms of the editorial team, the online platform we use to bring you our open-access

content, and the frequency of publication.

The current issue marks one such change, albeit a temporary one. Due to a range of

personal circumstances, we did not publish an issue in 2019, and Issue #18 is therefore even

longer than usual, with six articles, covering a range of topics from eighteenth-century gothic to

contemporary theories of speculative realism, and over a hundred and fifty pages of reviews,

covering academic books, fiction, TV and podcasts, film, and events, capped off with an

interview with Northern-Irish filmmaker Aislinn Clarke.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank our many contributors for their hard work

and patience over the past eighteen months, which have been unusually unpredictable, both for

us personally and on a global scale. As a small, independent, self-funded journal, run mainly by

precariously employed scholars and those who have left academia, we are very much at the

mercy of forces larger than ourselves, a situation that any good gothic hero or heroine should

recognise all too easily. We have also, however, been incredibly lucky in terms of receiving

support (whether editorial, technical, and moral) from a wonderful and very generous network. I

am particularly grateful for the help of Niall Gillespie, Valeria Cavalli, Indira Priyadarshini

Gopalan Nair, and Jennifer Daly over the past few months, as well as the excellent work done

by our reviews editors, Sarah Cullen, Ruth Doherty, Elizabeth Parker, and Leanne Waters.

We will be releasing details of our new Call for Papers shortly, via our website

(https://irishgothicjournal.net/), and our social-media pages on Facebook, Twitter, and

Instagram. Please email us (irishjournalgothichorror@gmail.com) if you have any queries, and

we’re always happy to receive submissions of articles and reviews on a rolling basis

throughout the year. And in the meanwhile, we hope that you enjoy Issue #18, just in time for

Halloween.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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Statement re: Issue#12 (2013)

On 5 October 2020, the editors were made aware that the article ‘Ghosted Dramaturgy: Mapping

the Haunted Space in Punchdrunk’s Sleep No More’ from issue 12 (2013), by Dr. Deidre

O’Leary (Manhattan College), took liberally, and in an uncredited fashion, from Dr. Alice

Dailey’s published article ‘Last Night I Dreamt I Went to Sleep No More: Intertextuality and

Indeterminacy at Punchdrunk’s McKittrick Hotel’ (in Borrowers and Lenders: A Journal of

Shakespeare and Appropriation (Winter 2012)). Dr. O’Leary’s article has been retracted due to

plagiarism.

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‘Do you all want to die? We must throw them out!’: Class Warfare,

Capitalism, and Necropolitics in Seoul Station and Train to Busan

Jessica Ruth Austin

The undead, and the notion of life beyond death, have long been important components of gothic

literature, and, arguably, this is increasingly the case in modern popular culture. Carol Margaret

Davison has noted that ‘many gothic works meditated on death and death practices as a signpost

of civilisation’.

This essay explores the ways in which ‘undead practices’ function as a signpost

of social inequality in a society, with zombie narratives as a useful tool for theorising death and

death practices. In particular, the link between zombies and necropolitics (where it is decided

which people in society live and which will die) is made explicit in the South-Korean films Seoul

Station and Train to Busan.

As I argue here, in these films, zombies are culturally representative

for a South-Korean audience that is viewing them, and moreover, are connected to South-Korean

death practices. I argue that these films highlight important necropolitical practices in South-

Korean society today, with South-Korean audiences experiencing these zombie narratives

differently to models outlined in previously published work on Western consumption of zombie

narratives.

As Achille Mbembe has proposed, necropolitics could be described as ‘the ultimate

expression of sovereignty’ when it comes to ‘the power and the capacity to dictate who may live

and who must die’, a formulation that, as this essay argues, can usefully be applied to the zombie

horror genre, and specifically to Seoul Station and Train to Busan.

This essay covers the way

that these films represent necropolitical practices in South Korea in terms of work and labour,

and of political hierarchies that have emerged in South-Korean society because of this. This

essay utilises the concept of cinesexuality and work on zombies by Patricia MacCormack, who

argues that films can evoke specific, distinct responses from domestic audiences, due to the

presence of symbolism specific to the films’ cultures of origin, evoking a deeper pleasurable

Carol Margaret Davison, ‘Trafficking in Death and (Un)dead Bodies: Necro-Politics and Poetics in the Works of

Ann Radcliffe’, The Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies, 14 (2015), 37-48 (p. 39).

Seoul Station, dir. by Yeon Sang-ho (Studio Dadashow, 2016); and Train to Busan, dir. by Yeon Sang-ho (Next

Entertainment World, 2016).

Achille Mbembe, ‘Necropolitics’, trans. by L. Meintjes, Public Culture, 15.1 (2003), 11-40 (p. 11).

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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experience than for those watching without these cultural referents. I argue here that this

framework means that South-Korean domestic zombies symbolise a particular necropolitical

inequality when it comes to class and labour that is specific to South Koreans, in opposition to

Western offerings, which often symbolise over-consumerism.

The story of Seoul Station (a prequel to the events of Train to Busan) centres on a young

ex-prostitute and runaway named Hye-sun. She has run away from her former brothel but has

ended up with little money and a boyfriend who wishes to pimp her out again. Hye-sun

represents a class of women who started to arrive in Seoul from the 1970s onwards, called

‘mujakjŏng sanggyŏng sonyŏ’, which can be translated as ‘a girl who came to the capital without

any plans’.

In her attempts to escape from the zombies she encounters, she is often hindered by

authority figures such as police and soldiers, and the only help she receives is from the homeless

community. She dies at the end of the narrative, with few people mourning her loss, only

disappointed that they can no longer use her body for labour, making hers a necropolitical death.

Her story reflects specific South-Korean anxieties over their newly developed class structure.

Train to Busan similarly reflects on current South-Korean anxieties over class. The protagonist

Seok-woo is a workaholic who is taking his young daughter Su-an on the train from

Gwangmyeong Station to Busan. It soon becomes apparent that zombies are on the train and at

the stations where the train subsequently tries to stop. The film’s narrative shows how class and

necropolitics dictate decisions made by characters on the train as to who is ‘worthy’ of living and

who should die. This is epitomised in a scene where the rich, bourgeois, CEO character Yon-suk

moves healthy survivors out of ‘his’ train carriage. He convinces the other first-class passengers

to throw out the survivors from down the train, exclaiming ‘[d]o you all want to die? We must

throw them out!’ This scene is at the epicentre of South-Korean anxieties about class, and

frustrations around how rich elites have in the past disregarded human life for profit.

These films can be understood through the lens of Peter Dendle’s 2007 essay ‘The

Zombie as Barometer of Cultural Anxiety’, which argues that zombies should not be read as

simply a paranormal entity, as they are often used to highlight important contemporary social

issues. For example, Dendle asserts that the 1932 film White Zombie, directed by Victor

Halperin, locates the zombie as highlighting the ‘alienation of the worker from spiritual

Jin-Kyung Lee, Service Economies: Militarism, Sex Work, and Migrant Labor (Minneapolis: University of

Minnesota Press, 2010), p. 86.

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connection with labour and from the ability to reap reward from the product of labour’.

Dendle

suggests that later zombie movies, such as those by George A. Romero, portray society as

nihilistic, and a ‘sign of an over-leisurely society, unchecked power and its desires for

consumption’.

Critical responses to the zombie film tend to focus on this later interpretation of

the zombie as a symbol of consumption, leaving a gap in literature for different interpretations of

the zombie, which this essay aims to fill, arguing that the zombie in South-Korean narratives has

a necropolitical focus as opposed to one relating to consumption; a consumption allegory is a

Western zombie narrative trait rather than one that can be applied to global cinema. South Korea

has had domestically successful zombie anthologies, and films such as The Neighbor Zombie,

Goeshi, and Doomsday Book differ from Dendle’s model by focusing on family and societal

hierarchies as opposed to consumption habits. The two films analysed here follow this tradition

in South-Korean cinema zombie narratives.

Train to Busan was the first South-Korean zombie movie to be hugely successful on the

international market, making $85 million, compared to films such as The Neighbor Zombie,

which barely made $17,000 on the international market.

It is therefore important, following

MacCormack’s model, to examine the cultural specifics of these films, as they are now reaching

a wider audience. Although early scholarly work on the zombie noted the contribution of stories

of voodoo zombies from Haiti and other diverse cultural narratives, recent scholarly analysis of

the zombie has tended to have an Anglo-centric basis.

For Train to Busan and Seoul Station in

particular, an eagerly awaited sequel, Peninsular, is expected in late 2020 and is expected to also

Peter Dendle, ‘The Zombie as Barometer of Cultural Anxiety’, in Monsters and the Monstrous: Myths and

Metaphors of Enduring Evil, ed. by Niall Scott (New York: Rodopi, 2007), pp. 45-57 (p. 46).

Dendle, ‘The Zombie as Barometer’, p. 54.

The Neighbor Zombie, dir. by Hong Young-guen and Jang Yun-jeong (Indiestory, 2010); Goeshi, dir. by Kang

Boem-gu, (Hanrim Films, 1981); and Doomsday Book, dir. by Kim Jee-woon and Yim Pil-sung (Zio Entertainment,

2012).

Box Office Mojo, ‘Train to Busan’, n. d.

<https://www.boxofficemojo.com/movies/?page=intl&id=traintobusan.htm> [accessed 1 October 2019]; and IMDB,

‘The Neighbor Zombie’ n. d. <https://pro.imdb.com/title/tt1603461?rf=cons_tt_atf&ref_=cons_tt_atf> [accessed 2

October 2019].

Dendle, ‘The Zombie as Barometer’, p. 46. See also Christian Moraru, ‘Zombie Pedagogy: Rigor Mortis and the

US Body Politic’, Studies in Popular Culture (2012), 34, 105-27 (pp. 106-07); Kyle William Bishop, ‘Vacationing

in Zombieland: The Classical Functions of the Modern Zombie Comedy’, Journal of the Fantastic in the Arts

(2011), 22.1, 24-38; Justin Ponder, ‘Dawn of the Different: The Mulatto Zombie in Zack Synder’s Dawn of the

Dead’, Journal of Popular Culture (2012), 45.3, 551-71; Helen K. Ho, ‘The Model Minority in the Zombie

Apocalypse: Asian-American Manhood on AMC’s The Walking Dead’, Journal of Popular Culture (2016), 49.1,

57-76, (p. 59); and Tim Lazendorfer, Books of the Dead: Reading the Zombie in Contemporary Literature (USA:

University Press of Mississippi, 2018), p. 10.

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do well on the international market, making these films ripe for academic analysis distinct from

this Anglo-centric base. Although I focus on analysing these films through a different cultural

lens, previous work by Helen Ho on The Walking Dead does offer a starting point for an analysis

of the films examined in this essay. She states that

Zombie narratives […] offer a unique lens through which to investigate our current social

structures and relations: wholly nested within existing structural frameworks of

race/gender/class, viewers are given the opportunity to watch survivors on screen who

test, challenge, or dismantle those frameworks as they establish a new social order.

While Ho uses this lens to then investigate American social structures, this essay uses this idea to

look at social structures/relations from a South-Korean point of view. Although South-Korean

zombie movies have many commonalities with their American-produced counterparts (including

lots of gore and special effects), the social issues that are found within these films connect

specifically with the class divides and necropolitics that South Korea is currently facing. This

essay therefore utilises American-based readings of zombie films, which suggest that zombie

films hold allegorical symbolism for class relations and consumption habits to Americans, and

applies them with an awareness of the specificity of the South-Korean setting. South-Korean

spectators will experience their zombie movies through their own cultural lens, and, as I argue in

this essay, their zombie narratives rarely, if at all, symbolise over-consumption, but instead focus

on necropolitical issues that are present in South-Korean society.

As a means of moving beyond such American-focused readings, Patricia MacCormack’s

theory of ‘cinesexuality’ provides a useful theoretical framework through which to discuss these

films. She argues that horror films (especially zombie films) can break established societal

‘rules’ (such as heterosexuality and the nuclear family being preferred dominant modes of

society) due to the discomfort and effects of pain that a spectator experiences while watching

zombies tear apart everyone – not just those with a poor social standing. As MacCormack

asserts,

They are not wolves or women (because they are no longer striated and signified within a

human taxonomy) but they are human to the extent that they belong to the same form-

structure, albeit increasingly tentative depending on their state of dishevelment. If their

Ho, ‘The Model Minority’, p. 60.

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bodies are our bodies, and we desire them while they are impossible non-cinematically,

disgusting in their resemblance, then it is our bodies which must resemble theirs.

MacCormack argues that cinema is one of the most prolific modes of modern communication

and that ‘it is able to mask ideology behind claiming to be fictional’.

Consequently, for the

viewer, cinema is able to ‘affirm possible realities’.

MacCormack notes that in Western

filmmaking, for instance, the ways in which woman are taught ‘how to be an attractive desirable

woman’ in society is reflected in actresses chosen for mainstream films, helping solidify this

‘reality’.

This essay argues that the films analysed here integrate necropolitical ideology so as to

‘affirm’ a reality that South Koreans live every day, in that many of these narratives highlight

contemporary social inequality, and the use of zombies as a ‘death practice’ tries to expose this

inequality. I also argue that this is why zombie films from South Korea are different allegorically

to those in Western cinema, in that cinesexuality acknowledges that a spectator’s experiences

will affect their interpretation of the film:

If viewing self includes a modality of memory (including individual and social history)

assembled as an immanent remembered present with screen, then the particularities of

that memory, including its oppressions, subjugations and powers, are co-present with the

event. One’s self is mapped according to the importance placed on these memories and

the modal configurations they make with the present self.

In this sense, cinesexuality highlights how a spectator’s experiences of power dynamics and

cultural memories are mapped onto the film they are watching. A reading incorporating

MacCormack’s idea of cinesexuality thus stresses the extent to which South-Korean spectators to

have a culturally and socially important connection to the film, in much the same way that

Americans may experience their own culturally embedded anxieties when experiencing

American-produced zombie media texts. This assertion emerges from one of MacCormack’s

most important points in Cinesexuality – that spectatorship is ‘less about the object of analysis,

Patricia MacCormack, Cinesexuality (London and New York: Routledge, 2008), p. 112.

MacCormack, Cinesexuality, p. 3.

Ibid.

MacCormack, ‘A Cinema of Desire: Cinesexuality and Guattari’s Asignifying Cinema’, Women: A Cultural

Review (2005), 16.3, 340-55 (p. 342).

MacCormack, Cinesexuality, p. 35.

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apprehension or perception and more about the means by which that object is experienced’.

More usefully for my purposes here, MacCormack goes on to explain that zombie-gore

cinesexuality in particular involves ‘desire for that which is immediately recognizable as us and

not us, so the way we can conceive body as form is opened up as a series of “asignified

planes”’.

What this suggests is that zombie bodies allow spectators to impose their own

interpretations onto these bodies and this can also offer the chance to examine how spectatorship

can become an act of activism or ethics.

Tim Huntley argues that a cinesexuality framework means that ‘the viewer must become

other’, and that this is imperative when it comes to the ethical viewing of cinema.

Huntley

contends that ‘cinesexuality promotes a case for difficult thought and painful thinking that shares

a relation both metaphorical and metonymical with difficult watching; painful viewing’.

Not

only does cinesexuality then work as a productive framework for analysing zombie narratives,

due to the actual physical repulsion experienced by viewers when watching zombies cannibalise

humans on screen, but also because zombie narratives often represent ‘painful’ social issues such

as inequalities of race, class, and gender.

As I argue here, this model of cinesexual

spectatorship is a useful tool for analysing the experience of South Koreans watching Seoul

Station and Train to Busan. Moreover, doing so helps draw attention to the ways in which these

films critique many of the necropolitical issues, such as labour, in South Korea today, a

characteristic that, I argue, was a contributing factor to their popularity.

Labour and Work

There has been a distinct and rapid shift when it comes to labour and work in South Korea, with

the service industry becoming a relatively new one compared to Western countries. This has led

to historical tension between different ‘necropolitical classes’ of people in South Korea, which

has become an important part of recent cinema narrative. In Seoul Station, necropolitics in South

Korea is most evident in the way that the homeless are treated throughout the storyline. In the

real-world Seoul Station, homelessness has been a fact of life since 1998, when the Square

MacCormack, Cinesexuality, p. 14.

MacCormack, Cinesexuality, p. 113.

Tim Huntley, ‘Abstraction is Ethical: The Ecstatic and Erotic in Patricia MacCormack’s Cinesexuality’, The Irish

Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies 8 (2010), 17-29 (p. 17).

Huntley, ‘Abstraction is Ethical’, p. 18.

Moraru, ‘Zombie Pedagogy’, pp. 106-07.

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became infamous as a space ‘where enormous numbers of homeless people resided’.

The

South-Korean government made it illegal to sleep in public places to try and rectify this ‘issue’,

but these policies were unpopular and often viewed as attempts at social ‘cleansing’. In South

Korea, a common derogatory term to describe the homeless is ‘Purangin – who wander because

they cannot adjust to a work-place and family life’.

For those who use this term, the homeless

of Seoul Station are those who do not want to live up to societal standards. Critics argued that

these policies were ‘actually designed to protect “regular” citizens who might be offended or

harmed in some way by the presence of homeless people’.

The idea that the ‘homeless Other’

could ‘offend’ others just by existing is an example of how Mbembe describes the processes

through which government authorities decide who deserves to live and who dies; as he asserts,

‘the perception of the existence of the Other as an attempt on my life, as a mortal threat or

absolute danger whose biophysical elimination would strengthen my potential to life and

security’.

For Mbembe, in both early and late modernity, this imagined threat means that the

‘Other’ is created by those in power for reasons not based in fact.

In a powerful set of scenes in Seoul Station, the first infected person, and then fully

turned zombie, is a homeless man who resides at the Square. In the first fifteen minutes of the

film, we watch the old homeless man become sick and die, despite the best efforts of his

homeless friend to receive help from a pharmacist and the police, all of whom turn him away due

to seeing the homeless duo as pests and troublemakers. Here, then, the homeless Other is no

longer an imagined threat but a real one. Shaka McGlotten proposes that ‘zombies are […] a

radicalized underclass, a group of revolutionaries united by their shared oppression and arrayed

against the capitalist powers that be and those seduced by them’.

In cinesexual terms, then, the

use of a Purangin as the first zombie to appear can be interpreted as symbolic for the South-

Korean spectator. As MacCormack puts it,

Jesook Song, ‘The Seoul Train Station Square and Homeless Shelters: Thoughts on Geographical History

Regarding Welfare Citizenship’, in Sittings: Critical Approaches to Korean Geography, ed. by Timothy R.

Tangherlini and Sally Yea (Hawaii: University of Hawaii Press, 2008), pp. 159-72 (p. 160).

Song, ‘The Seoul Train’, p. 166, italics in original.

Song, ‘The Seoul Train’, p. 163.

Mbembe, ‘Necropolitics’, p.18.

Ibid.

Shaka McGlotten, ‘Zombie Porn: Necropolitics, Sex, and Queer Socialities’, Porn Studies 1.4 (2014), 360-77 (p.

366).

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The definitions of the meanings and desires of those bodies that watch may

simultaneously be multiplied and investment in any position as opposed to the fictive

disappears. It is no longer a question of which are fictive and which realistic, but which

are more resonant with established dominant fictions.

The dominant fiction from the South-Korean government – that the homeless of Seoul Station

constitute a necropolitical threat – is brought alive through both films, which, for South-Korean

spectators, may evoke the culturally specific social taboo of becoming a Purangin themselves.

This is also why it is so powerful that the Purangin are also among the few characters to try and

help Hye-sun survive in Seoul Station.

Stephen Shaviro notes that violations of social taboo in horror are significant ‘not so

much on account of what they represent or depict on the screen as of how they go about doing

it’.

This is important when we consider historical representations of the zombie in Eastern

cinema, as South-Korean zombie films tend to share more similarities with Western zombie

movies than other Eastern cinematic offerings. In Japan for instance, Rudy Barrett has noted,

many popular films use the zombie as a form of comedy-relief, because the monster is seen as a

Western phenomenon, since the overwhelming majority of Japanese people are cremated rather

than buried.

Therefore, ‘the iconic imagery of zombies rising from the grave is not only

culturally disconnected from the mainstream, it’s also completely impossible to depict

realistically in Japan’.

Moreover, Chinese cinema has had little influence on South-Korean

zombie films, because, until very recently, the Communist Party censored depictions of zombies

(and other supernatural monsters) for ‘promoting cults or superstition’, and only recently allowed

international zombie offerings to be shown in their cinemas.

As well as this, the zombies

(jiāngshī) that are referred to in Chinese folklore would be considered more akin to vampires in

their appearance, due to having long claws and a hatred of sunlight. Although there are steadily

increasing numbers of zombie films from Hong Kong, mainland China still heavily censors any

domestic filmmakers, which has put a constraint on any domestic offerings.

MacCormack, Cinesexuality, p. 115.

Stephen Shaviro, The Cinematic Body (Minneapolis/London: University of Minnesota Press, 1993), p. 114.

Ruby Barrett. ‘Why Japan Laughs At Zombies: Bbbbbraaaainnnnzz Braaaainzzz!! HEY! Why Aren’t You

Running?!’, Tofugu, 24 June 2014 <https://www.tofugu.com/japan/japanese-zombies/> [accessed 1 January 2019].

Ibid.

Charles Clover and Sherry Fei Ju, ‘China Unleashes Zombie Films to Boost the Box Office’, The Financial

Times, 16 June 2017 <https://www.ft.com/content/3878eed6-3ebc-11e7-9d56-25f963e998b2> [accessed 1 January

2019].

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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This may be why Train to Busan and Seoul Station display a focus on necropolitical

labour of the kind that is found in Western zombie narratives like Land of the Dead, Dead

Rising: Watchtower, and The Dead Don’t Die.

However, Seoul Station and Train to Busan

differ from these US offerings in their representation, as they focus on labour issues specific to

South-Korean history. In her work on South-Korean service economies, Jin-Kyung Lee defines

necropolitical labour as ‘[e]xtraction of labor from those “condemned” to death, whereby the

“fostering” of life, already premised on an individual’s death or disposability of her or his life, is

limited to serving the labor needs of the state or empire and capital’.

In South Korea, the

migration of the rural proletariat into major cities in the latter half of the twentieth century

increased this necropolitical labour (as mentioned above), creating an urban middle class, which

had not previously existed in great numbers. In South Korea, the creation of a particularly

wealthy middle class is therefore a far more recent occurrence than in Western countries; indeed,

Myungji Yang argues that this class was created artificially, stating that ‘the formation of an

urban middle class was a political-ideological project of the authoritarian state to reconstruct the

nation and strengthen the regime’s political legitimacy’.

Therefore, surplus female labour in

particular led to a new ‘“social-sexual” category of working-class women, that is, as prostitutes

on the margins of rapidly industrializing South-Korean society’.

Not only did this create a new

labour category for women but, as Lee also noted, this newly formed middle class experienced

‘greater inter- and intragenerational mobility’ than ever before.

However, Shin Arita has found evidence to suggest that this has since stagnated; ‘in

Korea a person’s social consciousness is determined to a large degree by his native region and

this cuts across social classes’.

This may be because South Korea has a different class structure

than Western countries, due to South-Korean society’s emphasis on collectivism over

Land of the Dead, dir. by George A. Romero (Universal Pictures, 2005); Dead Rising: Watchtower, dir. by Zach

Lipovsky (Crackle, 2015); and The Dead Don’t Die, dir. by Jim Jarmusch (Focus Features, 2019).

Lee, Service Economies, p. 82.

Myungji Yang, ‘The Making of the Urban Middle Class in South Korea (1961-1979): Nation-Building,

Discipline, and the Birth of the Ideal National Subjects’, Sociological Enquiry, 82.3 (2012), 424-45 (p. 424).

Lee, Service Economies, p. 86.

Ibid.

Shin Arita, ‘The Growth of the Korean Middle Class and its Social Consciousness’, The Developing Economies, 2

(2003), 201-20 (p. 207).

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

18 (2020)

individualism.

Neil Englehart has argued that this a defining characteristic of Asian cultures,

‘characterized by a set of values that includes obedience to authority, intense allegiance to

groups, and a submergence of individual identity in collective identity’.

And this is still

culturally significant today; for example, a comparative study found that homeless teens in the

United States display individualistic behaviours, while South-Korean teens display collective

group behaviours.

There is even a growing sentiment that the more recent South-Korean move

away from collectivism is not even individualistic, but rather a move towards egotism, in that,

instead of promoting self-reliance and independence, moral behaviour becomes self-interest.

However, this move towards egotism is not seen as a moral behaviour for most South Koreans,

and these frustrations appear in Train to Busan and Seoul Station; the narrative portrays wealthy

characters as egotists who only look out for themselves, and this characterisation is seen in other

recent popular South-Korean movies such as Flu and Deranged.

Lead character Seok-woo is presented in Train to Busan as a middle-class workaholic

who is uncaring when it comes to business decisions that have repercussions for others. In

conversation with his secretary Kim, he is depicted as callous and comparable in attitude to

wealthy CEO Yon-suk who is, as discussed below, depicted in an unambiguously negative light:

Kim: What should we do?

Seok-woo: Sell all related funds.

Kim: Everything?

Seok-woo: Yeah.

Kim: They’ll be serious repercussions. Market stability and individual traders will …

Seok-woo: Kim?

Kim: Sir?

Seok-woo: Do you work for the lemmings?

Kim: [character pauses]

Seok-woo: Sell everything right away.

Sanna, J. Thompson, Kim Jihye, Holly McManus, Patrick Flynn, and Hyangcho Kim, ‘Peer Relationships: A

Comparison of Homeless Youth in the USA and South Korea’, International Social Work, 50.6 (2007), 783-95 (p.

785).

Neil A. Englehart, ‘Rights and Culture in the Asian Values Argument: The Rise and Fall of Confucian Ethics in

Singapore’, Human Rights Quarterly, 22.2 (2000), 548-68 (p. 550).

Thompson and others, ‘Peer Relationships’, p. 783.

Park Sang-seek, ‘Transformation of Korean Culture from Collectivism to Egotism’, Korea Herald, 5 November

2018 <http://www.koreaherald.com/view.php?ud=20181104000265> [accessed 13 September 2019]; Flu, dir. by

Kim Sung-su (CJ Entertainment, 2013); and Deranged, dir. by Park Jung-woo (CJ E&M, 2012).

Train to Busan, 00:04:58-00:05:21.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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For many South-Korean viewers, while his characterisation becomes more sympathetic as the

film’s narrative develops, it is likely that Seok-woo would not be seen as an inherently relatable

or likeable character to begin with, as he is represented as a ruthless individualist, sacrificing

traders (the collective) for personal gain. Some scholars are critical of using social class

‘warfare’ as a narrative strategy, asserting that the zombie narrative can actually reinforce these

supposed norms, rather than challenging these power differentials. But this initial portrayal of

Seok-woo is intrinsically important to the South-Korean viewer, in that he represents the new

Korean class system, which is criticised as egotistical; however, he ends up redeeming himself

later by working back for the ‘collective’ good. This may give a South-Korean viewer a moment

of subversive cinesexual pleasure, due to him resisting a total move into egotism. The overall

shift towards individualism by the new middle class is not always seen negatively, but when it

moves into the realm of egotism, South-Korean audiences and film narratives prefer to revert

back to more traditional collective norms. This is important, in that South-Korean audiences gain

a cinesexual pleasure by watching this egotism punished or ‘corrected’, whereas it is monetarily

rewarded in real life, something that is at odds with their values. This also suggests that South-

Korean cinema does not end up reinforcing norms.

For Lina Rahm and Jörgen Skăgeby, the idea of ‘prepping’ for the zombie apocalypse

and the idealisation of ‘how the strongest survive’ has reinforced certain negative ideals; they

state that ‘the zombie metaphor corresponds well to the normative model of the “best prepared

body”, and reinforces the development of skills and mindsets that are fundamentally sexist,

ageist, and ableist’.

However, in cinesexual terms, zombies do not always reinforce stereotypes

but are capable of dismantling them too; for MacCormack, ‘the term “zombie” guarantees that

any dismantling cannot lead to death and must lead to something else post-death. Viewing

zombies does not lead to fear of death but its own “something else.”’

Using a cinesexual

argument, the zombie in these films can be read, not as signifying literal death but as allegorical

for the death of collectivism. This is because many of the zombie-related deaths are caused by a

character making an individualistic (or egotistical) choice rather than one that is good for the

collective.

Lina Rahm and Jörgen Skăgeby, ‘Preparing for Monsters: Governance by Popular Culture’, Irish Journal of

Gothic and Horror Studies, 15 (2015), 76-94 (p. 83).

MacCormack, Cinesexuality, p. 99.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

18 (2020)

Furthermore, when thinking in terms of capitalism (which is associated with the rise of

individualism), spectators end up realising that Seok-woo embodies the category of cultural

zombie – that is, ‘characters who have lost self-identity or the capacity for volition’ – without

being a literal member of the undead.

This is because the focus given to corporate culture

rather than the health or wellbeing of the collective is an important issue that South Korea is

facing; zombies function to scrutinise allegorically this state of affairs throughout the two films.

Shaviro argues that the zombie is ‘a nearly perfect allegory for the inner logic of capitalism’.

Seoul Station and Train to Busan represent this ‘logic’ as developing at the expense of the

collective, producing a South-Korean zombie narrative that is distinct from Western zombie

texts, which focus on consumption.

To elaborate, Mbembe has argued that necropolitics and

necropower account for ‘new and unique forms of social existence in which vast populations are

subjected to conditions of life conferring upon them the status of living dead’.

Seok-woo

therefore becomes, for the South-Korean spectator aware of such issues, an imaginative

representation of necropolitical labour. The characterisation and eventual demise of Hye-sun in

Seoul Station also performs this function.

Jin-Kyung Lee proposes that prostitution can also be considered as necropolitical labour,

in that it is ‘sexual violence via commercialisation’.

In Seoul Station, in death, Hye-sun is still

only considered as valuable via the necropolitical labour that she brought her pimp (Suk-gyu) in

life. When Hye-sun dies, Suk-gyu initially seems sad at the prospect of her death, but quickly his

thoughts turn to the money he has now lost:

Suk-gyu: Wake up! Hey! Hye-sun? Dammit, don’t die, baby! Hye-sun, please don’t, I’m

sorry! Hye-sun! It’s all my fault! Please don’t die! Pay me back first, you bitch!

Her death is necropolitical; for Lee, ‘work itself’ can be seen ‘as necessarily incurring injury and

harm to the body and mind – work as trauma, violence, and mutilation that indeed lies in

continuum with death’.

Hye-sun’s entire worth has been tied into the labour that her body can

Sang-seek, ‘Transformation of Korean Culture ‘, n. p.; and Kevin Alexander Boon, ‘Ontological Anxiety Made

Flesh: The Zombie in Literature, Film and Culture’, in Monsters and the Monstrous, pp. 33-43 (p. 40).

Shaviro, The Cinematic Body, p. 98.

Mbembe, ‘Necropolitics’, p. 40.

Lee, Service Economies, pp. 80-82.

Seoul Station, 01:28:20-01:28:47.

Lee, Service Economies, p. 83.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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produce. However, viewers may feel some cinesexual pleasure when it is revealed that Hye-sun

has become a zombie and proceeds to eat Suk-gyu before the movie promptly ends. McGlotten

argues that zombie narratives help to expose the viewer to the ideology of necropolitics and

labour, in that they are representative of a body that has been used up in the ‘service of profit’.

By having Hye-sun turn into a zombie, who then eats the person who was exploiting her labour,

the film makes a powerful comment to South Koreans who may feel discomfort surrounding the

society’s current attitude to work and labour. In addition, McGlotten claims that such films

‘allegorize the logical end to capitalist society’ and perhaps, for South-Korean audiences, a

possible return to a collective mentality, often at the expense of comforts that the political elite

have thus far enjoyed.

Necropolitics and the Political Elite

This criticism of economic individualism appears as a common trope that has appeared in many

South-Korean horror or disaster movies; it often comes in the guise of high-level military

commanders making decisions that benefit them necropolitically (saving the rich and powerful

who keep them in their high-powered positions) or a minority of CEOs who make individualist

decisions for profit. In films such as Flu and Deranged, ordinary citizens who are portrayed as

sympathetic protagonists are often oppressed by military forces trying to quarantine ‘infected’

citizens. In Seoul Station, towards the end of the film, the army have quarantined the protagonist

Hye-Sun and others in an infected neighbourhood; Suk-gyu (her pimp) tries to get through to her,

but is pushed back by the soldiers, who proclaim that the citizens’ protesting is simply

‘annoying’. The location of the film and the response of the military can be evocative for a

South-Korean spectator, in that, until the early 1990s, Seoul Station ‘was the site of mass

demonstrations urging political action against authoritarian regimes’.

This ties in with

MacCormack’s cinesexual assertion that spectators view films with ‘established dominant

fictions’ and nostalgic memory in their minds.

For South-Korean viewers, then, a necropolitical

and cinesexual experience may occur because they may have living memory of times where the

government took an authoritarian view on who would live and who would die. In Flu, both

McGlotten, ‘Zombie Porn’, p. 365.

Ibid.

Song, ‘The Seoul Train’, p. 160.

MacCormack, Cinesexuality, p. 115.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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infected and uninfected people are quarantined in the same place by the army and South-Korean

government. Even though uninfected individuals were told that they would only be held for

forty-eight hours if they remained in good health, officials decide to hold them within the

quarantine to keep the rest of the country safe, especially the nearby capital of Seoul. This has

necropolitical implications, depicting authoritarian forces that enact a preference for keeping the

wealthy who live in the capital ‘safe’, by letting those who live in the less affluent suburbs and

rural areas die. In Seoul Station, this fear of the army and government using martial law to create

a quarantine is dramatised later when the commander of the police force becomes scared, while

notifying Hye-sun’s boyfriend that the government was now entirely in control of trying to

‘contain’ the zombie outbreak. The following exchange takes place:

Ki-woong: What’s up with those soldiers? What’ll happen now?

Commander: Capital Defence Command [panicked pause] is now in full control.

This fear of governmental control when it comes to disasters, which often require co-ordination

from different authorities, may also provide a cinesexual experience when it comes to recent

memory for South Koreans, such as the critical response to the government handling of the

Sewol Ferry disaster in 2014; the ferry crashed en route from Incheon to Jeju, killing 273 people,

many of them high-school students. The South-Korean government was criticised for their

botched co-ordinating of the coastguards’ rescue attempt, and for also downplaying their own

culpability when it came to the poorly enforced shipping regulations, which were a secondary

cause in the ship’s mechanical difficulties. Using MacCormack’s model, disasters such as this

allow us to view a lack of confidence in the political elite as a dominant narrative in South

Korea, which may constitute a subtext to the containment narratives in Seoul Station and Train to

Busan. Using MacCormack’s theory then, we can suggest that South-Korean audiences

experience a cinesexual pleasure when government officials are overrun in movies later in the

narrative.

In Train to Busan, the necropolitics concerning South-Korean class warfare are

represented via the character of Yon-suk, a wealthy CEO. Since the revival of Korean cinema in

the 1990s, an overarching theme has been that of taking revenge against egotistic capitalistic

characters. Andrew Lowry attributes this directly to the social upheaval of the time, as ‘social

Seoul Station, 01:07:39-01:07:47.

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anger was and is directed at business leaders, most of whom stayed quiet and got wealthy while

the earlier regime was shooting students in the streets’.

South-Korean horror films that critique

wealthy, capitalist characters, who are often depicted as saving themselves at the expense of

poorer characters, include Flu, OldBoy, I Saw the Devil, Snowpiercer, Parasite, and of course

Seoul Station and Train to Busan.

A similar critical depiction of the capitalist class is also seen

in Deranged, in which mutated horse-hair worms infect human beings through the water supply.

The infected, being controlled by the worms, begin to consume copious amounts of water or

throw themselves into nearby rivers so that the worms can proliferate and infect more humans.

By the end of the film, the spectator finds out that, in fact, a group of wealthy CEOs created

these worms, knowing that they had the cure stored in warehouses, which they could then sell at

top prices to the infected, while also increasing their company’s stock prices – and that they had,

of course, saved a remedy especially for themselves first.

This compliments the necropolitics seen in Train to Busan, as we see Yon-suk use his

wealth and position to kill off ‘less deserving’ passengers. When the train stops at Daejeon

Station, which turns out to be overrun by zombies, Yon-suk tries to save himself from the

zombie hoard by insisting that the train conductor leave other passengers behind. Later in the

film, the protagonist Seok-woo, his daughter Su-an, and a number of other passengers use

various measures to combat or avoid zombies as they move through the train cars to get to the

first-class cabin car where other survivors, including Yon-suk, are hiding. When Seok-woo

confronts and accuses Yon-suk of not saving other passengers, and actively using others as a

human shield, Yon-suk convinces the other passengers that Seok-woo is a threat:

Seok-woo: Why did you do it? You bastard! You could have saved them! Why?

Yon-suk: He’s infected! He’s one of them! This guy’s infected! His eyes! Look at his

eyes! He’ll become one of them! Do you all want to die? We must throw them out!

Train attendant: Those of you who just arrived, I don’t think you can stay with us, please

move to the vestibule.

Andrew Lowry, ‘Slash and Earn: The Blood-Soaked Rise of South-Korean Cinema’, The Guardian, 31 March

2011 <https://www.theguardian.com/film/filmblog/2011/mar/31/south-korean-cinema-blood-saw-devil> [accessed 1

October 2019].

Oldboy, dir. by Park Chan-wook (Show East, 2003); I Saw the Devil, dir. by Park Hoon-jung (Softbank Ventures

Korea, 2011); Snowpiercer, dir. by Joon-ho Bong (Moho Film, 2013); and Parasite, dir. by Joon-ho Bong (CJ

Entertainment, 2019).

Train to Busan, 01:15:50-01:16:39.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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Although it can be suggested that Yon-suk is lying about the survivors being infected because he

just wants them out of the first-class carriage, and that this scene therefore acts as a

characterisation tool, it also highlights the necropolitics surrounding these survivors to the South-

Korean spectators. The purpose of the exchange between Seok-woo and Yon-suk makes the

‘othering’ of the survivors apparent. The willingness of the first-class passengers to believe that

the survivors are turning into zombies when they are clearly not infected connects closely with

Mbembe’s theorisation of making the ‘Other’ into a threat that can legitimately be

extinguished.

MacCormack notes that othering of bodies occurs when they are split into

majoritarian or minoritarian (part of the elite or part of the minority); she states that ‘minoritarian

bodies are signified via their failures to be majoritarian – not female but not-male, not queer but

not-heterosexual and so forth’.

In this way, the survivors are already zombie Others, even

though they are not infected with the zombie virus. Yon-suk’s willingness to immediately enact

necropolitics by judging which passengers are minoritarian compared to his perceived

majoritarian self is reminiscent of historical events in South Korea such the April Revolution,

where President Syngman Rhee used violence to suppress opposing views.

Yon-suk uses

misinformation and then violence to try to ensure that he survives, which was a common way

previous South-Korean governments operated to keep the masses from overthrowing an

authoritarian rule. In cinesexual terms, the positioning of ‘the spectator as a desiring subject and

the relation between the image and spectator as a decision toward openness and grace or

reification of subject’ means that viewers are directed towards an ethical viewpoint regarding the

Yon-suk character, a viewpoint which may be less evident to viewers from a different socio-

cultural context.

However, it is becoming a minoritarian Other that in the end saves the survivors. Upset at

the death of her sister and disgusted by the banishment of the survivors, Jong-gil opens up the

doors and allows the zombie horde inside the first-class cabin. This is a pivotal scene, due to the

reversal of the zombies’ role – from monsters to heroes – as they are used to dispose of the ‘real

Mbembe, ‘Necropolitics’, p. 18.

MacCormack, Cinesexuality, p. 65.

Lee Moon-young, ‘When the April 19 Police Officers Asked the Marshall Commander to Borrow 100,000

Bullets’, Hani, 18 April 2011 <http://www.hani.co.kr/arti/society/society_general/473473.html> [accessed 30

January 2019].

MacCormack, ‘An Ethics of Spectatorship: Love, Death and Cinema’, in Deleuze and the Schizoanalysis of

Cinema, ed. by Ian Buchanan and Patricia MacCormack (London and New York: Continuum, 2008), pp. 130-42 (p.

132).

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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monsters’. For MacCormack, the tendency to view zombies merely as monsters can become

theoretically problematic. She writes,

When publicly disseminated and consumed, the separation of the zombie as Other

engenders both discursive and material power differentials. The theoretical nuances and

potentially disruptive capacities of zombies-as-monsters are thus lost due to a

fundamental rupture and subsequent hostility between humanity and what is now

something else. This separation, we argue here, is maintained by the arbitrary, but

specific, ‘rules of zombies’.

Therefore, it is vital to explore zombie narratives via a cinesexuality lens, as doing so highlights

zombie narratives’ potential for creating an ethical experience for the spectator via the figure of

the zombie. Shaviro notes this in relation to Romero’s zombie movies, arguing that zombies

‘serve to awaken a passion for otherness and for vertiginous disidentification that is already

latent within our own selves’.

The zombies in Seoul Station and Train to Busan are only

identifiable (and we are only on ‘their side’) when they begin disposing of the elite. Spectators of

the movie can therefore experience how becoming the minoritarian ‘Other’, and thus rejecting

the class structure present in South Korea, can save them from being cannibalised (by zombies or

ideologically). Jong-gil’s opening up of the first-class cabin (representing capitalist and corrupt

government) to allow the zombies to eat, and thus transform the first-class passengers into the

‘Other’, may therefore produce powerful cinesexual experiences for South-Korean spectators.

Within this framework, for spectators of Train to Busan, Yon-suk’s death later in the film

offers overt cinesexual pleasure. Yon-suk is characterised in the narrative as a totem for, or

crystallisation of, the revelations of corruption that emerged in South Korea in the years

preceding the release of the two movies. Specifically, the film’s positioning of Yon-suk as using

immoral means to stay alive has parallels with the immoral actions of South-Korean government

officials and CEOs in real life. For instance, President Lee Myung-bak (2008-13) was associated

with the company BBK, which had been implicated in stock-price manipulation in 2007, but he

was not arrested until 2018; President Park Geun-hye (2013-17) was impeached six months

before the two films release due to corruption.

In cinesexual terms, major corruption so close to

Rahm and Skăgeby, ‘Preparing for Monsters’, p. 82.

Shaviro, The Cinematic Body, p. 113.

Justin Fendos, ‘South Korea Goes from One Presidential Scandal to Another’, The Diplomat, 3 November 2017

<https://thediplomat.com/2017/11/south-korea-goes-from-one-presidential-scandal-to-another/> [accessed 30 May

2019].

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

18 (2020)

the release of these two films could be understood to have affected the viewing process for South

Koreans. This is similar to the way in which Shaviro describes how, when watching zombie

movies, he ‘enjoy[s] the reactive gratifications of resentment and revenge, the unavowable

delights of exterminating the powerful Others who have abused [him]’.

For those watching

Yon-suk throughout the movie, the tension created by his actions leads to the cinesexual release

of watching him pay the consequences (with his death).

A powerful exchange in Seoul Station concerning necropolitical labour occurs between a

man wearing a ‘Be the Reds’ T-shirt and a homeless man. ‘Be the Reds’ was a phrase used on

merchandise for the 2002 FIFA World Cup Korean Republic football team, when the team

reached the semi-finals. This image acts as an important signifier even before any words are

exchanged, due to the social connotations of ‘Be the Reds’ to South Koreans. Although it was a

popular phrase in 2002, controversy befell the slogan when it was trademarked later in 2003. The

original artist retaliated by trade-marking the font instead, and thus no official ‘Be the Reds’

shirts were made after this, essentially meaning that capitalist individualism ruined the message

of collectivism behind the shirt.

The ‘Be the Reds’ shirt exemplifies to the spectator the social

strata within South Korea, the exact opposite of what the shirt and slogan was trying to achieve

in the World Cup – a unification. For MacCormack, ‘the question is not how real an image is in

encouraging us to address difference, but to what extent it makes us different subjects within a

shifted ecology as an environment not of subjects populating a space but a system of differential

relations’.

Therefore, the image of the rich character wearing a shirt that is supposed to

represent collectivism acting in his own self-interest can have a cinesexual effect on the

spectator; South Koreans are told that they should all be industrious for the good of South Korea,

but instead find themselves in a corporate workplace culture that horror films like Train to Busan

and Deranged criticise.

The ‘Be the Reds’ shirt also serves as a sign of the concomitant visual othering of the

homeless man, which many South Koreans will experience in a culturally charged way due to the

treatment of the homeless at Seoul Station referred to above. Yang argues that, in the 1960s,

when the middle class was being created by government incentives, the government employed

Shaviro, The Cinematic Body, p. 116.

Anon., ‘Red Devils to Sport New Official T-Shirt and Slogan’, Chosun Entertainment, 2 January 2006

<http://english.chosun.com/site/data/html_dir/2006/01/02/2006010261003.html> [accessed 15 June 2020].

MacCormack, ‘An Ethics of Spectatorship’, p. 142.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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ideology to do so, stating that ‘the state could manage its population with less coercion and

violence by imposing the social discipline throughout society and creating more obedient and

industrious subject’.

‘Industrious’ is the operative word here, and serves to highlight why the

‘Be the Reds’ scene is so important. ‘Be the Reds’ is associated implicitly with a form of

national identity that is set in opposition to the so-called ‘Purangin’, figured by contrast as lazy,

spendthrift, and thus less deserving of life, in the necropolitical system. This is evident when it

comes to the verbal exchange between ‘Be the Reds’ and the homeless man:

Be the Reds: You bastards! I worked for my country! I’m different from you trash! You

are all useless! I don’t know how I got myself mixed up with you all! It looks like the

commies are behind this! But me? I don’t deserve to die here! I dedicated my life to this

country! I’m a good person. I’m a good person.

Homeless man: Out of my way. Dammit! I’m the same too! I made sacrifices for this

country! So how did I end up this way? Know why? Because this country doesn’t care

about us! But we worked ourselves to death, you fools! But the thing is, I must survive! I

want to live!

This kind of social anxiety is currently present in South Korea; there is a pervasive feeling that

being economically productive means that one is a ‘good’ member of South-Korean society. This

may be why this necropolitical narrative is far more pronounced in South-Korean horror movies

than in Western media texts, and why cinesexuality becomes important as a tool for analysis: a

cinesexuality lens allows us to interpret why narratives are culturally relevant to those who view

them rather than assuming, in this case, that all zombie narratives are about over-consumption. In

South Korea, as Arita’s study suggests, the urban middle class and ‘Be the Reds’ class system is

‘largely closed to intragenerational inflow mobility’, to the extent that ‘garnering [a white-collar]

job is greatly dependent upon a person’s level of education’.

Train to Busan and Seoul

Station’s use of zombies, and the interactions between those who are fleeing them, present to the

spectator the necropolitical labour of the extra-cinematic South Korea. Therefore, a South-

Korean audience may find cinesexual catharsis in seeing a character proclaiming that economic

productivity should not be the main aim of social collectivism in South Korea, especially given

the educational and social obstacles that prevent many from achieving this ideal.

This is a

Yang, p. 492.

Seoul Station, 01:07:56-01:09:23.

Arita, p. 218.

Ibid.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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theme evident in other South-Korean movies such as Deranged, in which the main character Jae-

hyuk is positioned to be viewed sympathetically by the spectator, because he lost his life savings

and job at a university due to a bad investment on the stock market, following which he is

shamed into taking a job as a pharmaceutical sales representative.

He has access to one of the

last boxes of the cure for the parasite and instead of saving it for himself, he tries to give away

some of the medicine to an ill mother and child. The implication here is that Jae-Hyuk is on the

side of collectivism rather than capitalist individuality, and thus is a character who may resonate

cinesexually with South-Korean viewers. For much the same reason, we are encouraged to grow

to like Seok-woo later in Train to Busan because he tries to save/look after not only himself but

his daughter, a Purangin, a pregnant woman, her husband, and two young teenagers. Instead of

passively watching the film, spectators may therefore engage in an ethical reading, via

cinesexuality.

Conclusion: Ethical Viewing Practices as Resistance

A cinesexual framework allows us to investigate how spectators may make ethical judgments

when watching Seoul Station and Train to Busan; in cinesexual terms, it is important to evaluate

the cultural importance of narrative choices and their effects on spectatorship. This essay has

argued that the representation of homelessness and labour versus the political elite has a specific

significance to South Koreans and may influence how they view the film. Within a cinesexuality

framework of the kind outlined here, spectators of Seoul Station and Train to Busan can see the

infected zombies as politically allegorical; death by zombie doesn’t mean a physical death but is

a representation to the viewer of how groups such as the Purangin, and those in the harsh

corporate culture permeating South-Korean workplaces, are being sacrificed already through

necropolitics. As MacCormack notes,

When we desire cinesexually we must think what extra-cinesexual social relations and

intensities the break away from dialectic communication will affect. As the fold of image

and spectator demands a rethinking of human subjectivity so too does this third trajectory

affect social relations.

Paul G. Bens, ‘Movie Review: Deranged (2012)’, Nameless Digest, 19 February 2017

<https://www.namelessdigest.com/movie-review-deranged-2012/> [accessed 1 October 2019].

MacCormack, Cinesexuality, p. 143.

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Scholars focusing on Western media texts note that zombies tend to function ‘as metaphors for

American anxieties over potential catastrophes, ranging from viral pandemics to global warming

to alienation to consumer society’, as well as demonstrating the ‘limitations of social structures

and patriarchy’.

In Western zombie movies, seeing a rich person get eaten by zombies and the

plucky working-class under-dog survive is a common theme; scenes such as this appear in TV

shows such as Dead Set, Z-Nation, and in the film Land of the Dead.

For Henry Giroux and

Dendle, these representations are familiar and sometimes even cathartic due to a well-established

social-class system, which some see as unfair.

In a similar way, but with important cultural

differences, as has been argued here, Seoul Station and Train to Busan are effective in cinesexual

terms for South-Korean viewers because they encourage the spectators to form ethical

judgements on the characters through their own cultural lens.

The zombie-as-metaphor is becoming increasingly utilised to describe necropolitical

spheres. Giroux proposes that ‘zombie politics’ is an apt descriptor to describe the way that

politicians in the United States often make decisions that increase human suffering, making some

people more likely to live or die.

MacCormack’s cinesexuality theory prompts the spectator to

make a ‘decision toward openness and grace or reification of subject and object through

perception via pre-formed signification’.

Thus ‘zombie politics’ can be situated as central to the

experience of watching Seoul Station and Train to Busan, which is subject to a specific

negotiation of the South-Korean environment, subjectivity, and social relations. In the process,

the figure of the zombie in these films serves to create an ethical viewership, in MacCormack’s

terms.

Death images are important in that, as mentioned previously by MacCormack, zombies

do not depict a literal death but a change, in thinking and in action. As I have argued here, Seoul

Station and Train to Busan use zombies as an important narrative tool to dramatise social forces

in South Korea. For Shaviro, zombie narratives in general enable spectators to understand and

sometimes resist those that are acting upon them:

Ho, ‘The Model Minority’, p. 59.

Deadset, dir. by Yann Demange (Zeppotron, 27-31 October 2008); Z-Nation, pro. by Karl Schaefer (The Asylum,

2014-18); and Romero (2008).

Dendle, ‘The Zombie as Barometer’, p. 47

Henry A. Giroux, ‘Zombie Politics and Other Late Modern Monstrosities in the Age of Disposability’, Policy

Futures in Education, 8.1 (2010), 1-7 (p. 1).

Ibid.

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The zombies do not […] stand for a threat to social order from without. Rather, they

resonate with, and refigure, the very processes that produce and enforce social order. That

is to say, they do not mirror or represent social forces; they are directly animated and

possessed, even in their allegorical distance from beyond the grave, by such forces.

Kevin Boon argues that ‘the zombie […] is the most fully realized articulation of this dynamic

interdependency between the human self and the monstrous other’.

However, it has been

argued in this article that the zombies in Seoul Station and Train to Busan do not occupy a binary

between human and the Other for the spectator. A more accurate way to describe these zombies

comes from Dendle, who asserts that ‘the essence of the “zombie” at the most abstract level is

supplanted, stolen, or effaced consciousness; it casts allegorically the appropriation of one

person’s will by that of another’.

I have argued that cinesexual enjoyment of zombies allowed

South Koreans to ‘become’ the Other, to experience the necropolitics being enacted in their

culture. Moreover, Lazendorfer has noted that Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari use zombies to

‘signify the particular relation between death and capital that modern life has produced: they are

“a work myth”’.

The relation between class warfare and labour discussed here is evident not

only in Seoul Station and Train to Busan but is a common narrative in other films such as Flu

and Deranged, all of which use zombies to make that relation explicit.

Seoul Station and Train to Busan can therefore be read as critiques of South-Korean

culture, and investigating the cinesexual experiences of spectators renders this critique even

more explicit, as does situating it within necropolitics and politically motivated ethical

arguments as to ‘who should live and who should die’. A possible explanation for the popularity

of zombie narratives may be found in the frequency with which those who are typically ‘saved’

by necropolitics in the real world (the wealthy, the oppressors) rarely share this opportunistic fate

in the zombie movie. In Seoul Station and Train to Busan (and the other South-Korean movies

referenced here), the rich are just as likely to become a zombie as anyone else. For cinesexual

spectators, this is just one of the many pleasures available while watching these films.

Zombies in Seoul Station and Train to Busan create a repulsion-versus-desire effect; the

zombies represent the aspirations of current South-Korean culture (to be mindlessly

Shaviro, The Cinematic Body, p. 100.

Boon, ‘Ontological Anxiety’, p. 34.

Dendle, ‘The Zombie as Barometer’, p. 47.

Lazendorfer, Books of the Dead, p. 1.

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economically active and individualistic), but also image the negative social forces that result

from these aspirations; they represent social issues, but also a desire to change. For Huntley,

horror is one of the areas in which cinesexuality challenges spectatorship, in that on-screen

deaths ask significant questions about images of death.

Zombie narratives are important

ethically because they require the spectator to answer questions about what the zombies

represent:

These films are about death, corroding, rotting and dishevelled flesh, about breakdown

and dysfunctions of narrative, body, society and reality. That’s the very point. What does

it mean to live the organized body, society and cinematic image as part of coherent

narrative film? These images show the death of what?

Therefore, it remains important to analyse zombie films through a cinesexual framework, as

doing so helps to reveal how different spectators may perceive deaths differently.

Huntley, ‘Abstraction is Ethical’, p. 19.

MacCormack, Cinesexuality, p. 116.

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Maternal Femininity, Masquerade, and the Sacrificial Body in Charlotte

Dacre’s Zofloya, or The Moor

Reema Barlaskar

Charlotte Dacre’s Zofloya, or The Moor (1806) is an unconventional tale about an aristocratic

woman dominated by her sadistic tastes and desires. It appropriates topics of erotic violence,

abandoned insatiability, and demonic love to engage a language of excess that eighteenth-

century critics described as too ‘shock[ing]’ for the ‘delicacy of a female pen [….] and mind’.

Such critical reviews, associating a female writer’s ‘pen’ with the ‘delicacy’ of her mind,

reflected a general rise in discourse about women’s education, conduct, and manners that, in

turn, shaped the moral rubric of contemporary novels.

As Dacre’s critics objected, the text’s

display of excess modes of desire, and extensive focus on libidinal femininity, transgress the

discursive boundaries prescribed to female reading and writing. Additionally, desire is not only

reflected in female figures but also in ‘rational’ male characters. However, as this essay argues,

when framed within earlier eighteenth-century representations of gender identity, the novel’s

display of provocative gender-bending suits the aesthetic practices of the eighteenth-century

masquerade.

Dacre articulates gender as a cultural performance reflective of the aesthetic and

discursive conventions produced by the masquerade, a public space providing individuals license

to explore and challenge the construction of gender identity.

In the masquerade, according to

Terry Castle, gender-related and social role reversals served as a popular mode of aesthetic

The eighteenth-century periodical The Annual Review’s response to Dacre’s novel can be found in the Broadview

Press edition of the novel. See Charlotte Dacre, Zofloya, or the Moor: A Romance of the Fifteenth Century, ed. by

Adrianna Craciun (Peterborough, ON: Broadview Press, 1997), p. 10. All subsequent references to the main

fictional text within this article will be cited via a page number in the body of the article.

See Nancy Armstrong’s Desire and Domestic Fiction: A Political History of the Novel (New York: Oxford

University Press, 1987) for a discussion on eighteenth-century conduct manuals, the rise of the novel, and

feminisation of discourse; and Ann Mellor’s Romanticism and Gender (London: Routledge, 1992) for an

examination of political tracts and writings promoting a ‘moral revolution in female manners’ in response to the

French Revolution (p. 10). For discussions on gothic fiction and domesticity, see Kate Ellis’s The Contested Castle:

Gothic Novels and the Subversion of Domestic Ideology (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1989), which

analyses how Ann Radcliffe’s gothic classics, The Mystery of Udolpho (1794) and The Romance of the Forest

(1791), domesticate the sublime in revealing the oppressive structure of the home, rather than portraying the terror

produced by nature, the focus of masculine gothic.

Terry Castle, Masquerade and Civilization: The Carnivalesque in Eighteenth-Century English Culture and Fiction

(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1986).

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performance.

As such, role reversal and play are the most pronounced themes in the novel,

featuring as it does sexually empowered female characters and their enfeebled male counterparts,

and therefore require further exploration. Much of the conversation about the text focuses on the

eponymous demonic villain, Zofloya, and his erotic relationship with the anti-heroine, Victoria.

However, what remains unexamined are dialectical patterns of relations intersecting the desires

of patriarchal and subversive figures. Dacre narrates the marriage plot between the gentleman of

noble birth and the sexually fallen woman to demonstrate the ways in which domesticity, sexual

politics, and the rhetoric of imperial conquest converge as discourses that reinforce and produce

one another. Such discursive configurations are further articulated within violent scenes of desire

that expose voyeuristic consumption of the maternal body. Essentially, masquerade aesthetics

empower feminine transgression, transforming the heroine from fallen mistress into a venerable

Madonna figure.

While masquerade aesthetics inform the language of excess in the novel, Dacre also

borrows gothic tropes from contemporary male novelists. In the anti-heroine Victoria, she figures

a protagonist similar to the anti-hero of the male-gothic tradition initiated by Matthew Lewis’s

novel, The Monk (1796). Adriana Carciun argues that Zofloya constitutes a ‘significant departure

from the more familiar tradition of women’s Gothic writing’, for in focusing on an exiled,

rebellious, female protagonist, Dacre privileges the point of view of the anti-hero and reimagines

the figure as woman.

Dacre’s appropriation of an anti-hero figure and her affinity to Lewis is

most evident in her adoption of the pseudonym ‘Rosa Matilda’ upon the publication of the novel,

a title alluding to his awe-inspiring femme fatale, whose sexual appeal is connected to a religious

figure. In The Monk, this femme fatale, Matilda, serves as a demonic force that inhabits a portrait

of a Madonna, which the male protagonist, Ambrosio, worships in idolatrous excess. Ambrosio

is a victim of Matilda’s supernatural powers but also of his own desire to possess the virginal

body.

By adopting the name Matilda, Dacre aligns herself with an aesthetic that appropriates the

trope of the religiously coded body. However, what makes Zofloya markedly different from The

Monk is the introduction of the eponymous character, a supernatural African servant of noble

descent. Zofloya is both an object of the gaze and an author of its dismantling. He unveils the

Castle, Masquerade and Civilization, p. 5-6.

Craciun, Introduction, in Zofloya, pp. 9-32 (p. 12).

Ambrosio spends much of the novel in an attempt to pursue and rape the delicate and innocent Antonia, a character

later revealed to be his sister.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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male gaze as masochistic and self-destructive, and channels Victoria’s violent sexual rebellion,

to expose male consumption of the maternal body, displaying the coterminous dysfunctionality

of the home and empire.

While critics have focused on Zofloya and on his erotic relationship with Victoria, they

have not explored the ways in which Dacre interweaves the subversive desires of Victoria,

Zofloya, and her husband, Berenza, characters whose identities are interwoven and exaggerated

by gender and racial categories.

This essay therefore examines how Zofloya destabilises cultural

categories and gender codes by employing the masquerade aesthetic of role reversal in its

depiction of these relationships. It furthermore engages sexual politics, feminine virtue, and

transgressive modes of desire within the context of patriarchal imperialist attitudes. The text

displays female consumption of the sexualised, raced body alongside male consumption of the

maternal, religiously coded body, portraying the collision and collusion of patriarchal and

colonial structures. It further interrogates the cultural ideal of the pure maternal body,

simultaneously destabilising the Madonna/whore dichotomy and patriarchal imperialist notions

of motherhood as bearer of home and empire. Victoria not only kills her husband by aligning

with the devil, but her hypersexuality, as postcolonial critic Homi Bhabha claims of the

colonised figure, ‘problematizes the sign of racial and cultural priority’.

Essentially, the notion

of the female body as bearer of culture and race collapses when mothers and their daughters

sacrifice maternal and domestic virtues to gratify their sexual desires.

The first section of this article therefore shows how marriage and motherhood function as

coterminous products of domestic ideology in the novel. It highlights a male misreading of

female desire and the ways in which the sign of virtuous motherhood defines the terms by which

patriarchal figures estimate feminine worth. I then move on to demonstrate how Zofloya mocks

and parodies the patriarchal undertones of colonial authority in its attempt to regulate the body

politic. As Zofloya helps Victoria don the image of sacrificial Madonna, the heroine exploits the

Most critical works have focused on Victoria and Zofloya’s miscegenistic and transgressive desire. These include

Diane Long Hoeveler, ‘Charlotte Dacre’s Zofloya: A Case Study in Miscegenation as Sexual and Racial Nausea’,

European Romantic Review, 8.2 (1997), 185-99; Ann Mellor, ‘Interracial Sexual Desire in Charlotte Dacre’s

Zofloya’, European Romantic Review, 13.2 (2002), 169-73; George Haggerty, ‘Female Gothic: Demonic Love’, in

Unnatural Affections: Women and Fiction in the Later Eighteenth Century (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University

Press, 1998), pp. 171-78; and David Sigler, ‘Masochism and Psychoanalysis in Zofloya, or the Moor’, in Sexual

Enjoyment in British Romanticism: Gender and Psychoanlaysis, 1753-1835 (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University

Press, 2015), pp. 151-80.

Homi Bhabha. ‘Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse’, October (Discipleship: A Special

Issue on Psychoanalysis), 28 (Spring 1984), 125-33 (p. 128).

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male gaze against itself. Patriarchy fails to control both raced and gendered bodies, and is

enfeebled by its own ideology. The final section examines the ways in which Zofloya

orchestrates and directs the sadomasochistic scene of desire between Victoria and Berenza, a

scene destabilising patriarchal authority and the empire’s claim over the body of the subjugated

Other. His meticulous instructions demand the gradual administration of poison, which controls

Victoria’s violent drive to kill her husband. Zofloya’s subversion of the domestic scene of

rational masculinity and virtuous femininity exposes how the home and empire (figured in

Victoria and Berenza’s repressed desires and bodies) collapse upon themselves, thereby

unveiling the violent sexual politics underwriting patriarchal imperialist structures.

The False Promise of Marriage and Maternal Femininity

Dacre was writing at a time when gender and social roles were becoming more explicit and

corrective. The violent and destabilising effects of the French Revolution made the English more

cautious toward transgressive acts of political expression.

Additionally, rebellion became a term

denoting foreignness and the potential to be contaminated by outside influence.

English critics

like Joseph Addison, who set the tone for definitions of high art and culture, advised their

countrymen to remain wary of the French habit of overindulgence.

Disassociating oneself from

the ‘foreign’ involved emphasising duty and responsibility in the home simultaneously. Thus, as

Terry Castle affirms, ‘the family and domestic space is typically both the starting point and the

end point in the eighteenth-century narrative’.

Late eighteenth-century gothic fiction, for

instance, begins and ends with the domestic space, reiterating cultural anxieties toward the

foreign while commenting on nationalistic discourse. Ann Radcliffe’s novels uphold this

narrative structure and contrast the habits of the immoral continental borders of France or Italy

with English values of modesty and domestic virtue. Her heroines, overemotional and sensitive

young women, are exiled from their homes as orphans. However, this initial narrative emphasis

The influential English critic and politician Edmund Burke opposed the French Revolution. He sought to

differentiate Britain from France in cautioning citizens to uphold and preserve the nation’s roots and identity rather

than demolish longstanding class structures. See Edmund Burke, Reflections on the Revolution in France, ed. by L.

G. Mitchell (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993).

Burke expressed concern that the revolution in France would incite a revolution at ‘home’: ‘Whenever our

neighbor’s house is on fire, it cannot be amiss for the engines to play a little on our own’ (p. 9).

Joseph Addison, The Spectator, 45 (21 April 1711) <https://www.gutenberg.org/files/12030/12030-h/12030-

h/SV1/Spectator1.html#section45> [accessed 2 May 2020].

Castle, Masquerade and Civilization, p. 116.

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on immaturity and instability permits them to undergo trials in which their virtue is tested.

Ultimately, they are rewarded for maintaining their virtue, and return to a harmonious domestic

space supported by the cultural and social institution of marriage and lineage. This return to a

harmonious domestic space produces a sense of respectable Englishness within the nation/home,

while reinforcing the transgressive Otherness outside its borders.

In this way, eighteenth-century gender and political discourse informs Radcliffe’s

writing, which devotes significant attention to the stability of the domestic space, as it is

cultivated by feminine virtue, marriage, and duty. Furthermore, both eighteenth-century conduct

manuals and political writings made duty an integral part of a young woman’s moral education

as the youth consumed more books.

In A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792), Mary

Wollstonecraft, one of the more prominent early feminists of the Enlightenment period,

advocated for women’s rights by calling for reform in marriage and education.

Though she

promoted the coeducation of children, Wollstonecraft also placed a strong emphasis on women’s

roles as mother-educators.

In addition to political discourse, novels of the period, such

Wollstonecraft’s own Maria: or, The Wrongs of Woman (1798) and Daniel Defoe’s Moll

Flanders (1722), wrestled with and engaged themes of feminine duty and motherhood. While

novels and pedagogical writing made their voices more prominent, domestic ideology limited the

territory of women’s writing and roles to the private sphere.

Feminine and masculine

discourses were demarcated as male writers, for example, could appropriate the image of breast-

feeding as an erotic subject while women writers focused on the mother’s role as a moral

guide.

Meanwhile, gothic fiction, such as Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto (1764),

Lewis’s The Monk, and Radcliffe’s novels featured the absence or effacement of the mother as a

dominant motif in their narratives. As a good mother is a sign of order, she is abjected for the

purpose of advancing a deviant plotline that permits evil male relatives to rape unprotected

See Ann Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho, ed. by Jacqueline Howard (London, England: Penguin, 2001) and

Romance of the Forest, ed. by Chloe Chard (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009).

Mellor, Mothers of the Nation: Women’s Political Writing in England, 1780-1830 (Bloomington, IN: Indiana

University Press, 2007).

Mary Wollstonecraft. A Vindication of the Rights of Woman and A Vindication of the Rights of Men, ed. by Janet

Todd (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993).

Alan Richardson, Literature, Education, and Romanticism: Reading as Social Practice 1780-1832 (Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press, 1994), pp. 167-203.

Ibid.

Mellor, Mothers of the Nation, pp. 65-85.

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young women.

Mothers determine the stability of the domestic space, and bad mothers can be

worse than missing ones. In Zofloya, Victoria’s mother, Laurina, commits adultery, a sin that

results in the death of her children.

Marriage and motherhood are conventions that Dacre’s text explores as coterminous

products of domestic ideology. As I argue in this article, Zofloya subverts the marriage plot

presented in Samuel Richsardson’s novel Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded (1740), a popular

eighteenth-century text. Pamela became a media event, attracting both positive and negative

attention, and prompting parodies and spinoffs, like Henry Fielding’s Shamela (1741) and

Joseph Andrews (1742). In Richardson’s novel, virtue and sexual restraint provide the heroine

with cultural capital, emblematising the rise of a middle class that attempts to distinguish itself

from the ‘vulgar’ classes below it and the ‘depraved’ classes above it.

Pamela wins the heart of

the aristocrat Mr. B---, who she also tames and civilises.

Her efforts to appeal to Mr. B---’s heart

and reform him reiterate the points made in the pedagogical literature of the period. Men were

required to learn the language and nature of the world, while women learned the language and

nature of men’s desires.

In Zofloya, Dacre inverts this gender code by demonstrating a failed

reading of female desire, which leads to an unhappy marriage. Both gothic and domestic novels

end with marriages, to signal a ‘happy ending’. Novels by Walpole, Radcliffe, Frances Burney,

and Jane Austen often conclude with such marriages. However, Zofloya does not progress

toward an ending in which narrative events lead to marriage after a series of moral tests and

trials. Rather, Victoria murders her husband after five unsatisfying years of marriage without

children. In transgressing the moral rubric of the eighteenth-century novel, the text constructs a

space for interrogating domestic and normative gender codes, for Victoria does not care to win

Berenza’s heart nor does she wish to make a home with him.

Critics have investigated Dacre’s subversive portrayal of feminine subjectivity,

highlighting her dynamic presentation of sexual politics and domesticity. Ann Mellor argues that

Victoria permits ‘female readers to explore a far wide range of sexual options, a more aggressive

libidinal subjectivity.’

James Dunn claims that Dacre’s ‘characterizations’ of depraved

Ruth Anolik Bienstock, ‘The Missing Mother: The Meanings of Maternal Absence in the Gothic Mode’, Modern

Language Studies, 33.1 (2003), 24-43 (p. 28).

Armstrong, Desire and Domestic Fiction, pp. 59-96.

Joe Bray, The Female Reader in the English Novel: Burney to Austen (New York: Routledge, 2009), p. 8.

Mellor, ‘Interracial Sexual Desire in Charlotte Dacre’s Zofloya’, European Romantic Review, 13.2 (2002), 169-73

(p. 173).

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femininity cannot be taken at ‘face value’, for, in highlighting aggressive female desire, she

‘make[s] women the subject rather than the object of a toxic erotic agony characterized by the

movement of desire into violence’.

This section demonstrates how Dacre’s gender politics

involves highlighting a sexual rebellion against the false promise of marriage in which feminine

worth is measured by the religious code of sacrifice. This is particularly evident in the novel’s

engagement with maternal femininity, and the ways in which the sign of virtuous motherhood

defines the terms by which patriarchal figures estimate feminine worth.

Though Victoria is not a mother, she is tainted by her mother’s sin of adultery. As a

result, the presence of maternal sin marks the absence of the sign of virtue in progeny. The

absence of women’s ability to demonstrate maternal sacrifice (in this case, Victoria’s mother

failing to sacrifice her desire for her family and committing adultery) is presented as a sin with

resounding consequences. The narrator often assigns the origin of Victoria’s depravity to

Laurina’s lack of virtue. Victoria’s father tells his wife, ‘“on thy example will the life and

conduct of thy daughter now be formed”’ (p. 120, emphasis in original), and later in the novel,

when Victoria desires her husband’s brother, Henriquez, the narrator states that ‘the curse of

Laurina were entailed upon her daughter’ (p. 132). Laurina’s affair with the German nobleman,

Count Ardolph, disturbs a tranquil household. When Victoria’s father dies in a duel with

Ardolph, he marks Laurina as the source of ‘contamination of bad example’ (p. 20). Her inability

to sacrifice her desire for her family propels her children towards infernal downfall, as her

violation of virtuous motherhood unleashes horrific events, culminating in Victoria’s sexual

allegiance with the devil and Leonardo’s transformation into the leader of a gang.

Following in her mother’s footsteps, Victoria first becomes Berenza’s mistress rather

than his legitimate wife, a narrative trajectory that seems to support what her father predicted.

The passing of moral sins from parents to children is a trope emphasised in one of the first

English gothic novels, Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto. However, Zofloya complicates the

notion of hereditary degeneration. While Laurina cannot return to a state of domestic purity and

bliss, Victoria is provided an opportunity to become the wife of a prominent nobleman long

before the narrative concludes. Crucially, however, it is not Victoria’s virtue that redeems her

status, for she is a fallen woman. Instead, male narcissism and the misreading of female desire

James Dunn, ‘Charlotte Dacre and the Feminization of Violence’, Nineteenth-Century Literature, 53.3 (1998),

307-27 (p. 308).

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allow her to reclaim her feminine worth. In a scene that demonstrates a failed reading of female

desire, Berenza interprets Victoria’s attempt at self-preservation as an act of sacrificial love (p.

27). Leonardo (who unknowingly tries to murder his sister under the influence of another power-

hungry mistress) enters Victoria and Berenza’s bedroom to kill Victoria, misses, and in effect,

relieves her in her husband’s eyes of her compromised status as a woman of questionable moral

origins. Victoria raises her arm to shield herself from the dagger, but Berenza misreads it as an

intention to save his life, and is thus prepared to marry her, concluding, ‘[w]hat could woman

more, than voluntarily, nay eagerly, oppose her own life in defence of his […]. Longer to doubt

the truth, the romantic ardour of her attachment, would, he [Berenza] esteemed, be sacrilege’ (p.

125). Berenza’s use of the religious term ‘sacrilege’ to characterise his response to Victoria’s

newly established ‘proper’ femininity invokes an image of the iconic Madonna, identified by her

sacrificial virtue, and delineates the terms by which male figures evaluate feminine virtue in the

novel. His narcissistic belief that Victoria is willing to sacrifice her life to save his elevates

Victoria’s status and restores her maternal femininity, a femininity previously effaced by her

mother’s sins. This pivotal scene is the point in which Victoria regains her worth, though

inadvertently, and simultaneously experiences a loss of autonomy. Marriage to a nobleman

permits Victoria to reclaim her aristocratic status, but male definitions of virtuous femininity

require her to be bound to a restrictive contract in which she must remain docile and sacrificial.

The false promise of marriage, as I later show, prompts Victoria’s sexual rebellion and

masquerade as a dutiful wife-mother.

The perpetrator of domestic ruin can therefore either be Victoria or Berenza. There has

been critical contention about the patriarchal undertones of the text, and more specifically,

whether Berenza fits the portrait of an oppressive patriarchal figure. Adrianna Craciun argues

that Dacre deviates from the female-gothic tradition in representing the ‘central institution of

marriage’ as a ‘nightmare’ and ‘compact with the devil’.

Conversely, Carol Margaret Davison

views marriage in the novel as an ‘equal opportunity enslaver’ and Berenza as a victim of

Victoria’s cruelty.

Though Berenza does not fit the portrait of the Radcliffian patriarchal

villain, as he does not imprison or attempt to rape Victoria, he does not represent an image of

Craciun, Introduction, in Zofloya, p. 11.

Carol Margaret Davison, ‘Getting Their Knickers in a Twist: Contesting the “Female Gothic” in Charlotte Dacre’s

Zofloya’, Gothic Studies, 11.1 (2009), 32-45 (p. 38).

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mild and benevolent masculinity either.

On the contrary, he adopts the position of a

domineering male figure whose willingness to relinquish status, in marriage to a woman of

compromised sexual worth, remains dependent on her corresponding willingness to forgo

autonomy. Berenza’s acceptance of Victoria remains conditional on her ability to conform to a

normative gender role, an identity that requires her to become docile, maternal, and sacrificial.

Early on in the novel, Berenza is introduced as an atypical Venetian aristocrat, an

inquiring ‘liberal philosopher’ of ‘peculiar sentiment’, who cares little for ‘amusement’ and is

more interested in ‘analys[ing]’ the ‘inhabitants’ of Monte Bello, a city full of ‘mirth and folly’

(pp. 26-27). Like a privileged foreigner visiting a scene of carnal desire, he tours Monte Bello to

‘investigate character, and to increase his knowledge of the human heart’ (p. 27). Finding

Victoria irresistible, he believes ‘he would have made her his wife upon speculation, and relied

upon the power he believed himself to possess over the human mind for modelling her

afterwards, so as perfectly to assimilate to his wishes’ (p. 27). In these opening pages, Dacre

highlights Berenza’s patriarchal tendencies, as he assumes the role of a father who wishes to

correct and ‘check’ Victoria’s childish behaviour. That he courts Victoria when she is

‘seventeen’ and he is ‘five and thirty’ further highlights the imbalance of power and Victoria’s

vulnerability (p. 27). Berenza is ‘instrumental in sinking [her] to that of lowest’ (p. 128), serving

as the only person ‘who would afford her protection’ (p. 134). Rather than marrying Victoria, he

uses and possesses her as his mistress. As her mother runs off with her lover and her father dies,

Victoria has no place to go, and Berenza takes advantage of her disadvantaged, orphaned status.

As the progeny of an adulterous mother, Victoria must, in the logic of the gothic mode,

sacrifice her own blood to prove her worth. Though her virginal purity is compromised as

Berenza’s mistress, the spilling of blood and act of sacrifice redeems female virtue for both

generations. Victoria’s sense of worth, however, is wounded after learning that Berenza’s offer

of marriage is conditional: we are told that ‘pride ha[d] always kept her from surmising the

struggles of Berenza upon her subject, and that he had not till this period offered to become her

husband, because till this period he had deemed her unworthy to become his wife’ (p. 126

emphasis in original). Zofloya is a text that invites conflicting interpretations, constructing a

space for critique while articulating conventional gender codes. Despite what is depicted as her

Radcliffe’s novels present villainous father figures who imprison heroines in dark castles in attempts to either rape

them or steal their property. Alternatively, she presents benevolent forms of masculinity and nurturing fathers in

contrast to villainous patriarchy.

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misplaced pride, for she is a fallen woman, Victoria is nonetheless portrayed as a victim of

patriarchal abuse, as she discovers her worth is conditional on her willingness to sacrifice her

own life for his. Upon discovering Berenza’s false love, Victoria finds that she is seen as

possessing no intrinsic worth, and therefore, has no real sexual power. Rather, she becomes

enslaved in marriage, as it is the only outlet in which she can be ‘afford[ed] […] protection’ (p.

134). Necessity dictates her decision to marry Berenza as a compromised woman, first marred by

maternal sin and later dependent on patriarchal authority.

Berenza’s conditional rather than intrinsic love, and the false promise of marriage,

arouses Victoria’s violent drives. In her discussion of gender in gothic texts, Michelle Massé

considers the consequences of women’s oppression, arguing that the false promise of marriage,

in which marriage repeats the oppression of the father’s home rather than releasing the heroine

from societal strictures, produces a trauma of ‘endless recollection and repetition […] that

remains unknown to her [the heroine] while its effects shape her life’.

On learning of Berenza’s

false love, his refusal to accept her as she is and only for her sacrificial worth, Victoria refuses to

remain passively confined within the bounds of marriage. In recollecting her relations with

Berenza, she reflects that ‘“the sort of union into which he entered with me, and which vainly I

preferred as proof of his love for me, was desired by him only as being least offensive to his

dignity and pride’” (p. 127). Realising that he has taken advantage of her, she experiences a

frenzy of emotions that are also calculated: ‘Rapidly these ideas passed through the mind of

Victoria; and, while secretly vowing the offense should never be forgotten, she again harmonized

her features, and clothed them with smiles’ (p. 127). For the five years they are married, Victoria

‘clothe[s]’ her ‘smiles’ and masks her desire for violence and revenge, validating the narcissistic

male gaze in order to exploit it (p. 127).

As Victoria remains married to Berenza for five years,

the narrator describes those years, not as a traumatic repetition of past horrors, but as providing

enough time for Victoria to internalise her revenge to the point of then materialising it in the

form of a destructive, demonic force – that is, Zofloya himself – who trains her in the art of

masquerade.

Michelle Massé, In the Name of Love: Women, Masochism, and the Gothic (Ithaca: Cornell University Press,

1992), p. 36.

See also Jennifer L. Airey, ‘“He Bears No Rival Near the Throne”: Male Narcissism and Early Feminism in the

Works of Charlotte Dacre’, Eighteenth-Century Fiction, 30.2 (2018), 223-41. This is one of the few texts that briefly

analyses Berenza’s position as narcissistic patriarchal critic.

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While the first half of the narrative accounts Victoria and Berenza’s illicit relations and

failed marriage, then, the second half takes a supernatural turn, as Satan appears in the disguise

of a Moor. Cloaked in the body of an African slave, Zofloya, as Satan, initiates a compact with

Victoria to free her from marriage by helping her poison her husband and fulfil her desire for his

younger brother, Henriquez. Victoria’s Faustian compact results in her release from the social

institution of marriage but consigns her in spiritual bondage to Satan. Her violent passions,

which awaken and summon Satan in her dreams, complicate a tale of domestic ruin, for Zofloya

is not only an African man of noble origins but also a refined companion. With the introduction

of an African servant, the text engages a master/slave dialectic across gender and racial

categories, interweaving the desires of three primary figures – Victoria, Berenza, and Zofloya.

Male Consumption of the Maternal Body

Victoria and Zofloya converse and meet in a dream-state, engaging in a dialectical exchange that

allows trauma to unfold within what French West-Indian psychiatrist Frantz Fanon characterised

as the ‘psycho-affective’ realm.

In his forward to Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth, Bhabha

claims that ‘[t]he colonized, who are often devoid of a public voice, resort to dreaming,

imagining, acting out, embedding the reactive vocabulary of violence and retributive justice in

their bodies’.

When Zofloya, as Satan, appears in her dreams, Victoria is presented with a

Faustian contract in which she gives her soul to Zofloya in exchange for killing Berenza. The

following morning, Victoria meets Zofloya as a noble servant but shortly after, Zofloya

disappears because another jealous servant, Latoni, kills him. Nine days later, to everyone’s

surprise, Zofloya reappears. From this point forward, Zofloya is depicted as a supernatural

figure, and he and Victoria conduct a dialogue in a dream-like state in which, in Bhabha’s terms,

they enact a ‘reactive vocabulary of violence and retributive justice’ against patriarchy. Engaging

in an erotic exchange based in a master/slave dialectic, Victoria finds herself in ‘involuntary

awe’ of Zofloya’s ‘manner’ as

uncommon sensations filled her bosom, as she observed her proximity to the Moor. The

dim twilight increasing to darkness, which now began to spread its sombre shadows

around, threw a deeper tint over his figure, and his countenance was more strongly

Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. by Richard Philcox, with commentary by Jean-Paul Sartre and

Homi K. Bhabha (New York: Grove Press, 1963), p. 149.

Bhabha, ‘Foreword: Framing Fanon’, in The Wretched of the Earth, pp. vlii-xlii (p. xx).

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contrasted by the snow white turban which encircled his brows, and by the large bracelets

of pearl upon his arms and legs. (p. 150)

In this scene, Victoria consumes the sexualised, raced body but is also an object of the male gaze

– not only Berenza’s, who estimates her value by her sacrificial maternity, but also Zofloya’s.

When persuading Victoria to reveal her dark desire to murder her husband, Zofloya exclaims,

‘“[d]oes the Signora believe, then, that the Moor Zofloya hath a heart dark as his countenance?

Ah! Signora, judge ye not by appearances! but, if you desire relief, make me at once the

depositary of your soul’s conflicts”’ (p. 151). Unlike Berenza, he values her less for her feminine

and more for her spiritual worth, as he attempts to enslave her soul. Zofloya is an object of the

gaze but also an author of its dismantling, for his supernatural powers expose the

dysfunctionality of the home and empire.

Critics have given considerable attention to the enigmatic figure of Zofloya. Sara

Schotland explores Zofloya’s significance within the context of bourgeois ambivalence toward

British imperialism.

Zofloya can also be viewed as a manifestation of Victoria’s subconscious,

for he appears in her dreams before he takes on an actively demonic and transgressive role in the

narrative. David Sigler devotes a chapter to Zofloya, arguing that the text is not a ‘consolidation

of subjectivity, but, rather, about its dismantling’.

His book examines ‘the scrupulous

management of sexual enjoyment’ in eighteenth-century discourse, and argues that ‘Zofloya is a

masochist, and he fashions Victoria into the picture of cruelty for the purposes of preserving her

and filling her with perverse jouissance’.

George Haggerty, Craciun, and Mellor all focus on

both Zofloya and Victoria, examining their interracial, transgressive desire and the ways in

which Victoria becomes consumed by Zofloya’s sublime presence. Nevertheless, despite these

useful and varied interpretations, critics have not explored the ways in which Dacre interweaves

the subversive desires of Victoria, Zofloya, and Berenza, characters whose identities are

exaggerated by gender and racial categories.

Consequently, Zofloya portrays masquerade and

disguise as an act of commodification, for while the raced body becomes an object of sublime

pleasure, the maternal body becomes an object of male consumption. As Hoeveler claims,

Sara Schotland, ‘The Slave’s Revenge: The Terror in Charlotte Dacre’s Zofloya’, Western Journal of Black

Studies, 33.2 (2009), 123-31.

Sigler, ‘Masochism and Psychoanalysis’, p. 154.

Sigler, pp. 4-6, 154.

See note 8 above.

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Victoria and Zofloya perform an act of revenge in poisoning Berenza, demonstrating the threat

of the ‘alliance’ between ‘dispossessed subject populations working together, recognizing their

mutual alienation and objectification and banding as one in a maniacal and deadly pursuit of the

great white father and his property’.

However, the text examines this violence and retributive

justice in scenes of desire in which patriarchal dependency and narcissism are exposed, while

monstrous femininity is empowered by the art of masquerade.

Castle argues that eighteenth-century masquerades permitted women of respectable

classes ‘sexual freedom’ from social restraints, as it was one of the few public events they could

attend ‘unescorted’.

However, prostitutes were also notorious for attending masquerades, and

often disguised themselves as virtuous maidens.

Anti-masquerade rhetoric therefore disparaged

upper-class women for risking their virtue in potentially being confused with ‘“prostitute[s] in

disguise” – at once hypersexualized, hypocritical, and an exploiter of innocent men’.

Zofloya, Victoria engages in disguise in that she transforms from a fallen, libidinal woman to

Madonna/nurturer, subverting gender binaries in the process. Castle continues by stating that the

‘controlling figure’ of the masquerade ‘was the antithesis’, as ‘one was obliged to impersonate a

being opposite […] to oneself’; in this way, the ‘masquerade inversion’ of identity served a

‘metacritical function’ and articulated a ‘gay assault on cultural categories’.

Zofloya

appropriates this masquerade aesthetic of role reversal and play. Victoria’s disguise as a woman

of sanctity serves as a weapon against patriarchy, as the elision of Madonna/whore dichotomy

manifested through role reversal permits the heroine to exploit the male gaze against itself.

Berenza’s assumption of women’s feminine traits further allows Victoria to exploit the

male gaze against itself. Upon witnessing what he interprets as Victoria’s sacrifice when he

believes she has risked her life to save his own, ‘[s]o complete and powerful a dominion had the

act of Victoria obtained over his mind, that his proud and dignified attachment, softened into a

doating and idolatrous love. He was no longer the refined, the calculating philosopher, but the

yielding and devoted lover! Devoted to the excess of his passion’ (p. 125). Berenza’s

transformation from ‘calculating philosopher’ to ‘doating and idolatrous love[r]’ is figured as a

Hoeveler, ‘Charlotte Dacre’s Zofloya’, p. 191.

Castle, Masquerade and Civilization, pp. 32-33.

Castle, pp. 30-31.

Castle, p. 33.

Castle, p. 6.

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self-indulgent ‘passion’; he is overcome by an ‘infatuat[ion]’ (p. 171) with Victoria’s apparent

maternal femininity (p. 171). This role reversal and subversion of controlled masculinity, as

Berenza succumbs to irrational indulgence and effeminacy, prefigures the introduction of the

‘foreign’ in the text, as enfeebled masculinity makes the domestic space vulnerable to foreign

invasion/rebellion. In the same chapter, the narrative glosses over five years, to introduce

Henriquez and his noble servant Zofloya. Zofloya initiates a Faustian contract with Victoria and

procures a poison for her to administer to her credulous husband, in exchange for her soul.

Against the voice of reason – for Henriquez begs Berenza to see a doctor – Berenza consumes

her deathly cure (p. 169). Zofloya concocts a poison that makes Berenza ill and its gradual

administration permits Victoria to don the image of a devoted wife, in masking the poison as a

drink of domestic nourishment or ‘lemonade’ (p. 169). Essentially, Victoria performs the role of

a nurturing mother-figure excessively devoted to alleviating her child/husband’s illness. Berenza

is enfeebled and transformed from a rational figure with patriarchal authority to a dependent,

‘doating’ child.

Male desire is also prefigured in voyeuristic terms. Insatiably thirsty for the lemonade

that he will only drink from the maternal hand of his devoted wife, Berenza denies all

conventional medical treatment and will only consume what is procured and prepared by

Victoria. Henriquez, as an obstructive force of reason, witnesses Berenza’s decline into deathly

illness and questions Victoria’s attempts at administering the cure of wifely devotion,

‘entreat[ing] his infatuated brother to receive advice, to explain his sensations, to hear the

opinion of a physician: no, he [Berenza] steadily refused; Victoria was all-sufficient, and on her

tender care would he alone depend’ (p. 171, emphasis added). Henriquez’s scepticism functions

as a substitute for the voice of rational paternity, but as he is the younger brother, it is

subordinated to Berenza’s insatiable desire. Ultimately, then, Berenza submits to Victoria:

‘Whatever she willed, or otherwise, was law to the fond, and dying Berenza, who forgot in her

present tenderness towards him and seeming devotion, all former coolness and discontent’ (p.

171). Rational masculinity, as figured in Henriquez’s insistence to retain valid medical treatment

and Berenza’s former ‘power […] over the human mind’ (p. 27), loses all potency and effect.

Berenza’s insistence on only receiving care from his wife complements and gives free

rein to the femme fatale’s sadistic will. However, she achieves her end by enacting the role of

sacrificial wife-mother, a vision of purity that Berenza consumes, like Lewis’s monk’s

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consumption of the portrait of Madonna. Maternal femininity is, moreover, here subject to the

male gaze, as Berenza pleads, “‘[o]h my love, whether have you been? I have been wishing for

my tender nurse to make me a glass of lemonade’” (p. 169). Though his body diminishes from

illness caused by Zofloya’s poison, the more nurturing attention Victoria provides, the more ‘his

appetite […] increase[s] even to ravenousness’ (p. 171). Berenza’s consumption of maternal

femininity manifests a role reversal in which he becomes a victim of Victoria and Zofloya’s

agenda, degenerating from a rational figure to an enfeebled idolater.

Zofloya and the Sadomasochistic Spectacle

In relation to Zofloya’s potency, Berenza’s effeminacy and masculine dependency not only

undermine patriarchal authority but also pose a threat to British imperial rule. Michele Cohen

argues that effeminacy threatened the classical humanist philosophy of the period, by associating

politeness with a reserved and disciplined masculinity. The discourse of politeness encouraged

men to seek out women’s company so as to acquire skills in wit and conversation.

At the same

time, while politeness served to refine masculinity and manners, civic humanism associated

reticence with strength and a more conventional form of masculinity. In the beginning of the

novel, Berenza’s restrained behaviour and corrective paternal attitude toward Victoria is

represented as positive masculinity. As excess was associated with luxury, the effeminate

gentleman threatened to undermine the nation’s economic and military strength.

Thus, when

Berenza degenerates and becomes slave to his desires, his excess not only emasculates

patriarchal authority but also threatens the British imperialist agenda.

When Zofloya trains Victoria to murder her husband by administering poison through a

carefully executed timeline, representations of sexual and colonial rebellion collude in an act of

allegiance between oppressed Others.

Zofloya instructs Victoria in the mechanisms that permit

the production of pleasure from pain. She pleads to Zofloya to ‘advise’ her in murdering her

husband but he responds, ‘“I direct, Signora, not advise”’ (p. 173). Whereas Berenza’s

masochism ‘steadily refuses’ (p. 171) medical treatment to prolong pleasure, Zofloya produces

the scene of desire in concocting a poison that induces gradual pain. Henriquez is a potential

Michele Cohen, Fashioning Masculinity: National Identity and Language in the Eighteenth Century (Routledge:

London, 1996), pp. 1-13.

Ibid.

Hoeveler, ‘Charlotte Dacre’s Zofloya’, p. 191.

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force of interruption because he wants Victoria to stop nursing Berenza and seek valid medical

treatment, but so is Victoria as she wants to murder Berenza immediately rather than gradually

poison him. Thus, Zofloya must assert his supernatural authority to avert her premature wish to

‘speedily and effectually’ murder her husband (p. 166). He restrains her: ‘your movements have

already outstepped my directions […]. I warn you, that if my directions are in the smallest tittle

infringed, you weaken the power by which I act, and destroy the effect which strict adherence to

the rules laid down can alone produce’ (p. 166). Zofloya’s desire to discipline the body, via both

the sadistic act of inflicting pain and gradually administering pain, serves as a profound attack on

colonialism. An emphasis is placed on Berenza’s degenerative masculinity as he is gradually

enfeebled by the poison, revealing his insatiable and self-destructive desire for the maternal

body. As director, Zofloya is less concerned with serving Victoria’s appetite and more with the

‘effect which strict adherence to the rules laid down can alone produce’ (p. 166). ‘The rules’

subvert the narrative of imperial progress as it is represented in patriarchy authority, and

heighten the scene that inverts racial categories of degenerate masculinity.

Zofloya performs the role of an artist strictly focused on the production of this carnal

scene. In The Sadeian Woman, Angela Carter provides a feminist reading of the Marquis de

Sade’s novels, describing him as the ‘terrorist of the imagination’ who demystifies sex and lays

bare the ‘real conditions of the world in terms of sexual encounters’.

Craciun discusses de

Sade’s influence on Dacre in focusing on Victoria and her antithesis, Lilla (the emblem of

feminine virtue and purity), as literary reproductions of de Sade’s heroines in Justine (1791) and

Juliette (1797).

Zofloya can also be read as a tribute to de Sade as the author of

sadomasochistic scene of desire. He adopts the role of artist, or of de Sade himself, ‘turn[ing] the

unacknowledged truths of the counters of sexuality into a cruel festival’.

On the level of plot,

Zofloya insists on inflicting a slow death to conceal Victoria’s crime and stage it as an

irrecoverable illness. However, timing remains a point of contention between Zofloya and

Victoria, and the significance of the poison’s effect, as immediate or slow, serves as more than a

plot device. Rather, as Carter explains, it is the ‘propaganda’ that the artist ‘consciously utilizes

[…] to express a view of the world […] which deviates from the notion that all this [sex] takes

Angela Carter, The Sadeian Woman and the Ideology of Pornography (Harpers and Row: New York, 1980), p. 21.

Carter, The Sadeian Woman, p. 28.

Carter, p. 22

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place in a kindergarten of soiled innocence’.

Zofloya exposes the dysfunctionality of the home,

as it is represented in male desire for the maternal body, and the empire, as it is figured in

subjugated, gendered, and racial bodies, thereby illuminating the ‘unacknowledged

psychological mutilations’ underwriting patriarchal imperialism.

The gradual administration of

the poison reveals the ways in which patriarchy fails to subjugate gendered and raced bodies, and

falls victim to its own mechanisms of control. Zofloya’s meticulous directions then unveil

Berenza’s masochistic dependency on the maternal body, in addition to Victoria’s subversive

exploitation of patriarchal ideology, which transforms the act of maternal nourishment into an act

of violent rebellion.

Victoria’s hypersexuality, as Bhabha claims of the colonised figure, not only

‘problematizes the sign of racial and cultural priority’ (for the female body no longer serves as

bearer of home and empire), but is self-destructive as well.

Rational masculinity fails by its

own mechanisms but feminine rebellion also pays a price. Zofloya possesses Victoria’s soul and

pushes her into the depths of hell by the end of the narrative; the novel therefore ultimately

positions her sexual rebellion as sacrificial. In having to choose between death and desire,

Victoria perishes, and the domestic space is further impaired, thereby displaying the

dysfunctionality of the nation/empire and its inevitable collapse upon itself. Dacre’s character

Zofloya therefore exposes the horrifying psychosocial effects of patriarchal colonialism, by

becoming the author of a sadomasochistic scene of desire. His directions enable a spectacle that

reveals male narcissistic and masochistic consumption of the maternal, sacrificial body, while

subverting the ideology of sacrifice in enacting a sexual rebellion through the art of feminine

masquerade. Dacre appropriates the tradition prepared by de Sade’s subversive literary themes

but contributes to Sadeian aesthetics, in demonstrating the ways in which the art of masquerade

empowers a rebellion that exposes the collision and collusion of religious, colonial, and

patriarchal structures.

Carter, p. 21.

Carter, The Sadeian Woman, p. 23.

Bhabha ‘Of Mimicry and Man’, p. 128.

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The Thing in the Ice: The Weird in John Carpenter’s The Thing

Michael Brown

Upon its original release, John Carpenter’s The Thing (1982) was subject to notoriously scathing

reviews.

It was spurned by audiences, while critics almost universally rejected what they saw as

excessive gore; as one commentator put it, the film was ‘overpowered by Rob Bottin’s visceral

and vicious special make-up effects’.

Others were quick to dismiss the film as ‘Alien on ice’.

Vincent Canby, writing for the New York Times, declared it ‘instant junk’, attributing its

supposed failure to a lack of a central monster, insisting that ‘[o]ne of the film’s major problems

is that the creature has no identifiable shape of its own. It’s simply a mass of bloody

protoplasm.’

The impulse to characterise The Thing as a monster movie that somehow failed

because there was either too much or too little monster is crucial. That the creature that gives the

film its title (or non-title, given the elusive nature of the entity it seeks to name) confounds

recognition, and even lacks discernible mass, is precisely what distinguishes it from ‘creature

features’ like Ridley Scott’s Alien (1979), which displace human anxieties and concerns onto an

anthropomorphised, vaguely humanoid Other.

Rather than offering yet another metaphor for ‘Otherness’ (whereby characters contend

with the familiar ‘category confusion’ of traditional horror and the gothic, testing and reaffirming

the category of the human self against a threatening ‘outside’ located somewhere along a vector

of difference), Carpenter’s The Thing, I demonstrate in this article, has much more in common

with the cosmic horror of early twentieth-century weird fiction, whose chief proponent was

arguably H. P. Lovecraft. The ‘weird’ (with its propensity for narratives that emphasise the

incomprehensibility of a universe largely indifferent to human concerns) can be identified in

Carpenter’s film precisely because the Thing’s paradoxical absence and excess of form, which

early critics found so troubling, challenges human comprehension and categories of knowledge.

Paired with an Antarctic imaginary that has, at least since early European exploration, been

The Thing, dir. by John Carpenter (Universal Pictures, 1982) [on DVD].

Linda Gross, cited in Heather Addison, ‘Cinema’s Darkest Vision: Looking into the Void in John Carpenter’s The

Thing (1982)’, Journal of Popular Film and Television, 41.3 (2013), 154-66 (p. 154).

Anne Billson, The Thing (London: British Film Institute, 1997), p. 8.

Vincent Canby, ‘The Thing, Horror, and Science Fiction,’ New York Times, 25 June 1982,

<https://www.nytimes.com/1982/06/25/movies/the-thing-horror-and-science-fiction.html> [accessed 9 July 2019].

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conceived of as an ‘alien’, unhuman space, Carpenter’s The Thing invites us, this article argues,

to consider the coexistence of human and nonhuman agency within a universe that is immanently

‘weird’, a stance shared by contemporary strands of philosophy known as ‘speculative realism’.

Despite a general acknowledgement of Lovecraft’s influence on Carpenter, commentators

persist in interpreting The Thing simply as an alien film, a genre that invariably tends to manifest

as displaced parables about humans themselves. For Ziauddin Sardar, ‘[a]liens demonstrate what

is not human the better to exemplify that which is human’.

Anne Billson, often credited as

among the first to give serious critical attention to The Thing in her well-regarded volume for the

British Film Institute Modern Classics series, situates the film within this tradition of an

alien/human binary, so that ‘what it means to be human’ is put in stark opposition to the ‘alien

from outer space’, though she does concede that Carpenter’s version doesn’t necessarily ‘play

fair’ with such clear-cut distinctions.

Commentators who follow this assumption are thus likely

to devalue the importance of the creature itself, inviting social readings such as Stephen Prince’s,

for whom the appearance of the Thing as an alien other serves only to illustrate ‘the breakdown

of the team’s networks of authority, friendship, and trust as the social order is infiltrated by the

ambiguous “thing”’.

Much the same could be said of the Season 1 (1993) X-Files episode called

‘Ice’ (itself an homage to Carpenter’s film), in which an extraterrestrial parasite takes over

members of a crew in an isolated Alaskan research facility, leading to paranoia and fear among

the group.

However, approaching the film within the framework of ‘the weird’ provides an

alternative to those readings that emphasise human or social concerns, refocusing instead on a

consideration of the ‘thingness’ of the Thing, that, in turn, forces us to reconcile our relationship

to the unknowable that surrounds us.

For Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock, traditional weird fiction ‘utilises elements of horror,

science fiction and fantasy to showcase the impotence and insignificance of human beings within

a much larger universe populated by often malign powers and forces that greatly exceed the

Ziauddin Sardar, ‘Introduction’, in Aliens R Us: The Other in Science Fiction Cinema, ed. by Sardar and Sean

Cubitt (London: Pluto Press, 2002), p. 6.

Billson, The Thing, pp. 59, 64.

Stephen Prince, ‘Dread, Taboo, and The Thing: Toward a Social Theory of the Horror Film’, in The Horror Film,

ed. by Prince (New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2004), pp. 118-30 (p. 123).

‘Ice’, The X-Files, Season One (Twentieth-Century Fox Home Entertainment, 2007) [on DVD].

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human capacities to understand or control them’.

In tales of the weird, human drama and human

characters may be sidelined or recede to the margins of the narrative. In The Thing, characters

disappear from the story altogether, or return belatedly to the point of action. The question they

frequently ask of each other – ‘where were you?’ – projects mistrust and paranoia but also a

more general feeling that their involvement in proceedings simply ceases to matter. These

tendencies occur throughout early-twentieth-century weird fiction in the work of writers such as

Algernon Blackwood, Arthur Machen, and William Hope Hodgson, but are perhaps most

recognisable in Lovecraft. Most overtly throughout his treatise, Supernatural Horror in

Literature (1927), as well as in the so-called ‘great texts’ of his oeuvre such as ‘The Call of

Cthulhu’ (1926) (which introduced his ‘Cthulhu mythos’), ‘The Dunwich Horror’ (1928), ‘The

Whisperer in Darkness’ (1930), and ‘At the Mountains of Madness’ (1931), Lovecraft arguably

helped formalise the weird.

In particular, for my purposes here, for those Lovecraft

protagonists who encounter the ‘unexplainable dread of outer, unknown forces’ and the ‘defeat

of those fixed laws of Nature which are our only safeguard against the assaults of chaos and the

daemons of unplumbed space’, the failure of reason that this precipitates usually ends in a swift

descent into madness.

The question of what it is to be human raised by traditional alien-contact

narratives is of little consequence in Lovecraft’s tales; instead, it is summarily swept into

oblivion, and the self-important human minds that could sustain such questions along with it. To

put it simply, unlike traditional tales of aliens or monsters, in which the human species is tested

in some way but ultimately reaffirmed, the weird is not invested in returning its human

characters to a state of normalcy; rather, their understandings of the world, if not their minds, are

usually permanently unravelled. The Thing follows just such a pattern. The dissonance and

uncertainty that remain at the end of the film acknowledges the ‘defeat’ of human thought and

humanity itself.

Despite being ignored in critical circles for much of the twentieth century, Lovecraft has

more recently been taken up by contemporary theorists, most especially those aligned with the

Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock, ‘The New Weird’, in New Directions in Popular Fiction, ed. by Ken Gelder (London:

Palgrave Macmillan, 2016), pp. 177-99 (p. 183).

Michel Houellebecq, H. P. Lovecraft: Against the World, Against Life (London: Gollancz, 2008), p. 41.

H. P. Lovecraft, Supernatural Horror in Literature (Toronto: Dover, 1973), p. 15.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

18 (2020)

so-called ‘speculative realism’ movement in philosophy.

In fact, the day before the April 2007

conference held at Goldsmiths College, University of London, that gave speculative realism its

name, the college also hosted a symposium on the works of Lovecraft, prompting an admiration

for the writer among those philosophers in attendance, including Ray Brassier, Iain Hamilton

Grant, Graham Harman, and Quentin Meillassoux.

For Harman – one of the movement’s

figureheads, who once declared Lovecraft their ‘poet laureate’– Lovecraft provides a way to

rethink humanity’s relationship to the world via a ‘weird realism’, which posits that ‘[r]eality

itself is weird because reality itself is incommensurable with any attempt to represent or measure

it’.

This sentiment among contemporary philosophers challenges previous human-centric

assumptions that the world can only be said to exist because we are there to ‘think’ it – to

measure it through science, experience it through sensual engagement, catalogue it though

epistemology – such that reality is only ever available ‘for us’.

In response to this

anthropocentric bent, Meillassoux has called for a renewed philosophic attention to the ‘great

outdoors, the absolute outside […] not relative to us’.

Taking up this challenge set out by ‘weird’ and ‘speculative’ realism, this article

examines how Carpenter’s film works against the customary alien-threat and paranoia narratives

with which it is usually linked, and instead can be read as prioritising the weird. By briefly

tracing Carpenter’s debt to Lovecraft, I explore how the unknowability of the universe is

privileged in the film via two adjacent but interrelated cinematic strategies. Firstly, I demonstrate

how the setting of the film in the Antarctic recalls an established tradition in polar narratives that

imagine the continent as an ‘alien’ planet. This impression helps establish this space, by virtue of

its forbidding geological, geographic, and temporal characteristics, as emblematic of a ‘negative

knowledge’. This is communicated visually by voids, blankness, and holes, but also through the

narrative’s preoccupation with the failure of its scientist protagonists to sufficiently ‘think’ the

Thing – to measure it or provide answers through scientific means. Somewhat paradoxically, the

second major strand of this argument focuses on how through the special effects, scenes of

Graham Harman, Weird Realism: Lovecraft and Philosophy (Winchester and Washington: Zer0 Books, 2012);

Collapse: Philosophical Research and Development IV, ed. by Robin Mackay (Falmouth: Urbanomic, 2009); and

Carl H. Sederholm and Weinstock, The Age of Lovecraft (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2016).

Harman, Speculative Realism: An Introduction (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2018), p. 91.

Harman, Weird Realism, pp. 32, 51.

Quentin Meillassoux, After Finitude: An Essay on the Necessity of Contingency (London: Continuum, 2008), p. 5.

Meillassoux, After Finitude, p. 7, emphasis in original.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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bodily transformation, autopsy, and species hybridity emphasise an excess of materiality. While

physically announcing the presence of the Thing, this materiality nevertheless, due to the shape-

shifting, metamorphic nature of the creature, fails to embody it. This paradox – there is too little

and too much creature – distinguishes the film as ‘weird’, in the sense discussed above. As the

characters in the film are confronted with the all-too-porous boundaries that separate them from

the ‘outside’, what is revealed through the images of contamination, assimilation, and shared

bodily fluid, along with the strategic use of sound and colour schemes, is a ‘weird immanence’

already present within the world itself that precipitates a flattening out of human exceptionalism.

In The Thing, an extra-terrestrial biological agent is discovered hidden deep within the ice

of the Antarctic. Once released upon the crew members of an American research station, ‘US

Outpost 31’, it is able to imitate other life forms, absorbing organisms from within and assuming

their qualities.

Mark Fisher, in attempting to define the feeling of the weird, draws attention to

the ‘sensation of wrongness’ when

a weird entity or object is so strange that it makes us feel that it should not exist, or at

least it should not exist here. Yet if the entity or object is here, then the categories which

we have up until now used to make sense of the world cannot be valid.

When the crew, along with the audience, are confronted with the spectacle of one of the

creature’s elaborate and mangled transformations – a grotesquery of canine snouts, human

torsos, and flailing tentacles, for example – this ‘wrongness’ manifests as horror, the horror of

the thought that those categories by which they have thus far organised the world have collapsed.

While Brian R. Hauser has advocated for the recognition of a category that he calls ‘weird

cinema’, based around the experience of dread, there has been insufficient attention paid to The

Thing as a weird film.

Therefore, this article reads Carpenter’s film not purely as a monster

movie, with its attendant themes of otherness or alterity that serve to re-affirm the uniqueness of

humanity, but rather as an exercise in cosmic horror that can and should be positioned within the

Although visually identified on a wooden sign outside the facility as ‘United States National Science Institute

Station 4’, radio transmissions from the station’s crew designate it ‘Outpost 31’, as do the film’s fan community,

such as the website Outpost #31.

Mark Fisher, The Weird and the Eerie (London: Repeater Books, 2016), p. 15, emphasis in original.

Brian R Hauser, ‘Weird Cinema and the Aesthetics of Dread’, in New Directions in Supernatural Horror

Literature, ed. by Sean Moreland (Cham: Springer, 2018), pp. 235-52.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

18 (2020)

category of ‘the weird’, whereby the incapacity to ‘think’ the Thing is marked, somewhat

paradoxically, by a ‘negative knowledge’, and an excess of materiality.

This negation is represented through an absence of knowledge – a ‘thing’ that cannot be

named – but also visually through an Antarctic emptiness that has, since early European

explorations, been imagined as ‘the alien planet – the antihuman, the monstrous’.

Rather than

simply an ‘alien (or Alien) on ice’, in Carpenter’s film, the Thing and the blank landmass out of

which it emerges are figured as excessive absences that go beyond the designation ‘alien’,

approaching instead the unknowable. In so doing, the absence of human knowledge, like the void

of the Antarctic, when paired with the material excess of the Thing, suggests a ‘weird

immanence’, implicating the world around us as already containing Lovecraftian ‘unknown [or

unknowable] forces’. By gesturing towards Harman’s ‘weird realism’ as indicative of

contemporary strands of anti-anthropocentric thought (in writers such as Eugene Thacker,

Timothy Morton, and Ben Woodward, among others) that align early-twentieth-century weird

fiction with speculative theory in order to propose new ways of thinking about the world, this

article examines how The Thing foregoes customary horror techniques of building and releasing

suspense and terror in response to a threatening Other. Instead, it privileges conspicuous special

effects, multiple scientific examinations, and displays of human incomprehension, as a means of

producing an aesthetics of ‘wrongness’.

While Carpenter’s film is ostensibly a remake of director Christian Nyby and producer

Howard Hawks’s The Thing from Another World (1951), it more faithfully draws on the literary

source material, the 1938 novella ‘Who Goes There?’ by John W. Campbell, which first

appeared in Astounding Science Fiction. Campbell was a contemporary of Lovecraft’s, whose

1936 novella ‘At the Mountains of Madness’ had featured in the same magazine just two years

earlier and which, like The Thing, involves an Antarctic expedition and the discovery of

unearthly life-forms. A third film version appeared in 2011 – Matthijs van Heijningen Jr’s The

Thing – which served as a prequel to Carpenter’s version (although the screen time given to

spaceship interiors and an over-reliance on CGI effects make for a more run-of-the-mill alien-

threat film). Robert Latham makes the claim that Campbell ‘basically rewrote’ Lovecraft’s tale,

delivering a ‘revisionist’ take on Lovecraft’s cosmic pessimism. According to Latham,

Eric G. Wilson, The Spiritual History of Ice: Romanticism, Science, and the Imagination (London: Palgrave

Macmillan, 2003), p. 145.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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Campbell’s optimistic view of science at a ‘privileged institution’, in which ‘reason never fails’,

was reflective of the ‘essential differences’ between horror and science fiction that were in the

process of being codified within the pulp magazines of the time.

While such a sentiment might

be difficult to defend in light of sci-fi’s many later dystopian futures, it does prompt a closer look

at Carpenter’s more nihilistic interpretation of Campbell’s technocratic fantasy. Critics have

noted Lovecraft’s considerable influence on Carpenter’s films, particularly his ‘Apocalypse

Trilogy’: The Thing, The Prince of Darkness (1987) and, finally, In the Mouth of Madness

(1994), the title of which references the 1931 Lovecraft story.

These works, beginning with The

Thing, are deeply engaged with Lovecraft’s ‘cosmic horror’, his term for the fear induced by an

encounter with a ‘shadow-haunted Outside’ that confirms human concerns as ‘negligible’.

According to Vivian Ralickas, as a mode of the weird, cosmic horror is the ‘fear and awe

we feel when confronted by phenomena beyond our comprehension, whose scope extends

beyond the narrow field of human affairs and boasts of cosmic significance’, often expressed in

such stories via a focus on ‘the limits of language to represent adequately both the awe-inspiring

spectacle and the subject’s experience of the violation of the limits of being’.

Similarly, I argue

here that The Thing is a weird film that operates in the cosmic-horror mode, foregrounding the

fear, awe, and ‘wrongness’ of the incomprehensible Thing. Rather than simply functioning as a

study in paranoia, a critical throwback to Hawks/Nyby’s Arctic-set, Cold-War allegory, or an

ode to triumphant human reason and resourcefulness, as in Campbell’s story, Carpenter’s version

reinstates the cosmic horror of weird fiction’s rejection of human exceptionalism, a rejection

exemplified in the plight of Lovecraftian characters who succumb to madness and defeat. In

particular, the lack of trust in the motivations of others that typifies paranoia narratives, such as

the classic sci-fi of It Came From Outer Space (Jack Arnold, 1954) and Invasion of the Body

Snatchers (Don Siegel, 1956), and reinvigorated in the conspiracy thrillers of Watergate-era

America such as All the President’s Men (Alan J. Pakula, 1976) and Marathon Man (John

Schlesinger, 1976), is scaled up in Carpenter’s film to a lack of trust in the very assumption of

Rob Latham, ‘SF Intertextuality: Lovecraft and Campbell’, Science Fiction Studies, 28.3 (2001), 468-70 (p. 468).

Anna Powell, ‘Something Came Leaking Out: Carpenter's Unholy Abominations’, in The Cinema of John

Carpenter: The Technique of Terror, ed. by Ian Conrich and David Woods (London: Wallflower Press, 2004), pp.

140-54 (p. 142).

Lovecraft, letter to Farnsworth Wright (5 July 1927), in Lovecraft, Selected Letters: 1925–1929, ed. by August

Derleth and Donald Wandrei (Sauk City: Arkham House, 1968), p. 150.

Vivian Ralickas, ‘“Cosmic Horror” and the Question of the Sublime in Lovecraft’, Journal of the Fantastic in the

Arts, 18.3 (2007), 364-98 (p. 364).

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

18 (2020)

the presence of an ‘us’ that could be positioned against a ‘them’. Carpenter’s oeuvre is often

typified as ‘siege films’, as in Assault on Precinct 13 (1976), Escape from New York (1980), and

The Fog (1980); however, the director himself has differentiated The Thing from his earlier work

because of the way it operates as a ‘siege from within’.

This ‘siege from within’ is thematised

in the film via the parasitic appropriation of human bodies and identities by the Thing, thus

opening up the subject to the infiltration of an alien creature and an ‘alien’ Antarctic space as a

signifier for the ‘weirding’ of the planet and ultimately ourselves.

In The Thing, the setting – a research facility in the midst of an Antarctic expanse – is

consistent with the horror genre’s spatialisation of thresholds and borders in its many haunted

castles, secluded cabins, unexplored frontiers, or, as Vivian Carol Sobchack notes of 1950s sci-fi

creature features, spaces of ‘civilization’ relegated to a ‘small town on the edge of the abyss’.

By looking briefly at the how the film conveys, and undermines, these spatial thresholds, I

propose that the setting, rather than simply incidental, is in fact instrumental to creating a weird

realism, whereby the imagining of the Antarctic as already an ‘alien space’ invites us to consider

the world around us as ultimately beyond human comprehension. The opening shots of the film

make clear the camp’s envelopment by polar landscape. Cinemaphotographer Dean Cundey’s

daylit, sweeping long shots of frozen peaks and endless ice give us a sense of the vastness and

isolation of the Antarctic, aided by the aerial point-of-view shot of a Norwegian helicopter, from

a nearby settlement, circling the surrounds of ‘US Outpost 31’, presumably a research station,

though what kind is never clearly established. In contrast, the accompanying interior tracking

shots through the cramped, utilitarian space of sleeping quarters and service areas help to

visually demarcate a clear threshold of familiar/unfamiliar and inner/outer worlds, at least

superficially.

One way of understanding the ‘space’ of the Antarctic outside the compound is to turn to

cultural geographer Yi-Fu Tuan’s study of human responses to isolated landscapes.

Differentiating between three categories of ‘space’, Tuan suggests that a ‘homeplace’ (a

Steve Smith, ‘A Siege Mentality? Form and Ideology in Carpenter’s Early Siege Films’, in The Cinema of John

Carpenter: The Technique of Terror (London:Wallflower Press, 2004), pp.35-48; and Erik Bauer, ‘John Carpenter

on The Thing’, Creative Screenwriting, 22 July 2014 <https://creativescreenwriting.com/the-thing/> [accessed 8

June 2018].

Vivian Carol Sobchack, Screening Space: The American Science-Fiction Film (New York: Rutgers University

Press, 2001), p. 113.

Roger B. Salomon, Mazes of the Serpent: An Anatomy of Horror Narrative (New York: Cornell University Press,

2018), p. 9.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

18 (2020)

protective enclave for human habitation, such as a hut or station) is surrounded by ‘home space’

(less protected but familiar), which acts as buffer zone against the outer ‘alien space’ (which is

always perceived as a source of threat). Understandably, in the case of polar environments like

the Antarctic, the buffer zone vanishes, so that ‘homeplace is the hut and immediately beyond is

alien space, an expanse of whiteness reaching out in all directions to seemingly nowhere’.

Elizabeth Leane applies Tuan’s ideas insightfully to Campbell’s ‘Who Goes There?’, stressing

the pronounced vulnerability of the story’s research station as ‘homeplace’ or to the threatening

‘alien space’ of Antarctica beyond.

The differentiation between ‘homeplace’ and ‘alien space’

is useful in understanding The Thing, and is in line with Carpenter’s films more generally, which

use space to exemplify the ‘the fear of personal endangerment that comes when the places in

which [we] feel safest are somehow opened up and the unknown let in’.

More broadly, the construction of arctic regions as an alien space can be traced back to

eighteenth- and nineteenth-century European expedition accounts that emphasised the sublime

experience of the frozen waters, glacial peaks, and endless white expanses of ice and snow,

fuelling what Katherine Bowers calls the ‘polar gothic’ of literary productions such as Samuel

Taylor Coleridge’s ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ (1798), Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein

(1818), and Edgar Allan Poe’s The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket (1838).

However, Bowers makes the distinction between Arctic-set tales that allow the all-to-human

‘subconscious anxieties to come to the surface’ and those that find in Antarctica the

‘antihuman’.

In formalising the idea of a polar gothic, she recounts Captain Cook’s 1775 visit

to Antarctic coastlines and the abortive efforts to breach extreme weather in order to reach the

frozen wastelands beyond. Echoing Stephen J. Pyne’s sentiments, Bowers calls this failed

attempt ‘an anti-discovery, a “negative discovery”’, which dampened the Enlightenment-era

pursuit of knowledge and conquest over the natural world by deflecting both physical and

interpretive possession, becoming for the European mind what Siobhan Carroll calls ‘an

Yi-Fu Tuan, ‘Desert and Ice: Ambivalent Aesthetics’, in Landscape, Natural Beauty, and the Arts, ed. by Salim

Kemal and Ivan Gaskell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 139-57 (pp. 139-40, 154).

Elizabeth Leane, ‘Locating the Thing: The Antarctic as Alien Space in John W. Campbell’s “Who Goes There?”’,

Science Fiction Studies, 32.2 (July 2005), 225-39 (p. 229).

Robert E Ziegler, ‘Killing Space: The Dialectic in John Carpenter’s Films’, The Georgia Review, 37.4 (1983),

770-86 (p. 772).

Katherine Bowers, ‘Haunted Ice, Fearful Sounds, and the Arctic Sublime: Exploring Nineteenth-Century Polar

Gothic Space’, Gothic Studies, 19.2 (2017), 71-84.

Bowers, ‘Haunted Ice’, p. 69.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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uncolonizable space’.

For Bowers, this produced a sense in Western culture of the Antarctic as

somehow impenetrable to human designs, a sense that persisted until Lovecraft and Campbell’s

time. The race to the South Pole by explorers such as Robert Scott, Roald Amundsen, and Ernest

Shackleton again encouraged a flourishing of fantastic fiction set in the Antarctic, by which time

the polar gothic of earlier tales was superseded by the interplanetary scale of new modes such as

cosmic horror and the weird.

Leane argues that, in Campbell’s ‘Who Goes There?’, the confusing, continually

morphing topography of the Antarctic is personified by the Thing.

However, I would go further

and propose that the Antarctic space in Carpenter’s The Thing can be read metonymically as the

‘great outdoors’ of cosmic space. Carpenter intimates as much when he states that ‘[w]hat’s

scary about the movie is not that it’s big and action-filled, but it’s small and there’s nothing out

there but this blowing blackness and storm and cold and right next to you maybe a creature.

That’s the creepiness of the story.’

In the film, this spatialisation of boundaries extends

ultimately to the human body itself. For Kathleen M. Kirby, the Enlightenment individual is

projected as a form of space, such that ‘the “individual” expresses a coherent, consistent, rational

space paired with a consistent, stable, organized environment’. This clear distinction not only

establishes an ‘inside and outside space’, but guarantees ‘the order of each, and the elevation of

the former over the latter’.

Throughout the film, the assimilation and substitution of characters

by the Thing breaches and, finally, dissolves this rational coherent space of the human and its

presumed ‘elevation’. In this way, the unhuman space of the Antarctic in Carpenter’s The Thing

can be read as presenting a weird realism that is malignant but also largely indifferent to the

human, whether expressed as an individual, a species, or a human ‘world’. The ‘blowing

blackness’ of the Antarctic setting therefore rehearses humankind’s confrontation with the black

depths of an unhuman universe.

If Campbell’s original tale, and the Hawks/Nyby adaptation that followed, can be said to

adhere to these spatial boundaries, such that the protagonists vanquish the threatening other and

Bowers, p. 72; Stephen J. Pyne, The Ice: A Journey to Antarctica (Seattle and London: University of Washington

Press, 1998), p. 66; and Siobhan Carroll, An Empire of Air and Water: Uncolonizable Space in the British

Imagination, 1750-1850 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015), p. 6.

Leane, ‘Locating the Thing’, p. 225.

Bauer, ‘John Carpenter on The Thing’, n. p.

Kathleen M. Kirby, Indifferent Boundaries: Spatial Concepts of Human Subjectivity (New York: Guilford Press,

1996), p. 40.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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uphold the integrity and dominance of humanness, the projection of Outpost 31 as a ‘homeplace’

is far less certain in Carpenter’s version. Commentators such as John Kenneth Muir have

interpreted the camera’s wandering point-of-view shots of common areas, labs, and hallways in

the initial sequences as conveying a sense of place.

However, the personal interactions we

witness by way of introduction to the characters, both through dialogue and non-verbal cues,

imply a group whose social cohesion has already worn thin, frayed by seclusion, cramped

quarters, and personal dysfunction. The loner helicopter pilot, R. J. MacReady (Kurt Russell),

the first time we meet him, is holed up in a separate cabin, steadily drinking his way through a

bottle of J&Bs while losing against a computer chess game (which he summarily short-circuits

with his beverage). Elsewhere, Nauls (T. K. Carter), the cook, refuses to turn down a radio at the

request of his injured colleague, Bennings (Peter Maloney). Meanwhile we see the frustrated

harassments of radio operator Windows (Thomas Waites) by both station chief Garry (Donald

Moffat) and senior biologist Blair (Wilford Brimley) on separate occasions. These moments do

little to impart an impression of human space as ordered, rational, or a ‘homeplace’. That these

men are mostly scientists, ‘men of reason’, only adds to a picture of human pre-eminence as

suspect. Prince, in reading the film as an example of the fracturing of social bonds and structures

of authority, sees these early interactions as setting the stage for the intrusion of ‘formlessness’

that the Thing represents.

While it is possible to interpret the film in this way, this argument is

in some ways an extension of the paranoia reading. An alternative is to view these establishing

sequences as having already played out this paranoia scenario. Mistrust and over-familiarity have

effectively dissolved the sanctuary of the station by this time, without the need for an outside

agent. Carpenter’s film marks an important point of departure in this regard. The ‘siege from

within’ that the remainder of the film charts is not limited to the breakdown of group dynamics,

but extends to the ‘individual’ itself, as a space for the Enlightenment virtues of reason and

selfhood, but also as a material body that becomes unknowable to itself, becomes weird.

The first intrusion upon this tenuous human space comes from something deceptively

mundane. The arrival of a husky into the camp, evading the pursuit of a Norwegian chopper,

whose occupants are attempting to shoot the dog for as-yet-unknown reasons, provides a fitting

cover for the Thing’s arrival. Allowed to roam freely around the base, the husky is only revealed

John Kenneth Muir, The Films of John Carpenter (Jefferson: McFarland and Company, 2000), p. 109.

Prince, ‘Dread, Taboo, and The Thing’, pp. 123-25.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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for what it really is when it is banished to the kennels along with the other sled dogs. There the

dog-Thing sprouts tentacle-like appendages, gushing some variety of digestive liquid and

assimilating part of another dog. Soon it passes from the dog to an unknown number of crew

members. The ability of the Thing faithfully and completely to absorb and reproduce both human

and animal bodily matter further refashions the station into a space of uncertainty, in which who

is human and who is a Thing is continually called into question. Leane and Guinevere Narraway

do well to stress the importance of the canine intruder to the story’s overall themes. By situating

the husky as an already-hybrid creature – part domestic dog, part wild wolf – they demonstrate

the collapse of binaries (nature and culture, wild and tame, inside and outside) that the dog’s

metamorphosis represents.

This troubling of previously fixed categories also carries with it an

inversion of the usual species hierarchy (human/animal), as the ‘dog/wolf/Thing literally

incorporates first the dogs and then the human[s]’.

Drawing attention in this way to the

dissolution of material bodies and boundaries, the film produces an ever-wider series of species

entanglements, upending the seeming distinctiveness of human subjects or agency.

By turning to how station personnel react to the discovery of the Thing, via recourse to

scientific discovery and material examination, what becomes clear is how the film announces the

presence of the creature as a lack, an absence that frustrates human schemas of reason and

knowledge, producing only incomplete data and speculation. This exposure of the shortcomings

of human thought serves as an entry point to locating the weird. Drawn by the disturbance from

the kennels, the dog handler, Clark (Richard Masur), is joined by MacReady, the helicopter pilot,

who, having already raised the alarm, pragmatically sets out to destroy the creature and contain

the menace. The scene shifts to the medical bay as the group gather around the biologist, Blair.

Challenged with conducting an autopsy of sorts, Blair proceeds to ‘break down’ the dog-Thing,

removing excess limbs and slicing into layers of skin with his scalpel. Interposed with shots of

the dissected viscera and gnarled skeletal mutations, close-ups of a groaning, visibly repulsed

Blair convey a profound disgust. ‘He says nothing’, Heather Addison points out; ‘words are

inadequate to express the monstrousness of the Thing […]. Yet even a presumably experienced

Leane and Guinevere Narraway, ‘Things from Another World: Dogs, Aliens, and Antarctic Cinema’, in Cinematic

Canines: Dogs and Their Work in the Fiction Film, ed. by Adrienne L. McLean (New Brunswick: Rutgers

University Press, 2014), pp. 181-98.

Leane and Narraway, p. 184, emphasis in original.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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scientist like himself is ill-equipped to handle this situation.’

Blair’s abhorrence turns to

intellectual defeat when he humbly bows his head as the screen dissolves to black, a moment not

of illumination but darkness.

This is not the only time the incomprehensibility of the Thing will make a crew member

speechless. Jez Conolly draws attention to numerous instances where the Thing covers, fills, or

obstructs the mouth of the men, literally silencing them, such as during the climax when the

Blair-Thing places a hand over Garry’s mouth, its fingers morphing into the flesh of his face.

As a device, the stoppage of voice, speech, and language, showing characters at a loss for words

or left dumbstruck, helps demonstrate the feeling of incomprehensibility that the Thing produces,

a wrongness that stupefies human thought. This wrongness is visually and thematically

expressed most forcefully in scenes involving dissection and discussion of the material reality of

the Thing, scenes that likewise expose gaps in understanding. Hypothesising on the constitution

of the Thing to the rest of the group, Blair draws attention to a furry, canine-like appendage,

stating, ‘[t]hat’s not dog. It’s imitation.’ In attempting to satisfactorily identify the Thing, by

pointing to an object and placing it within a familiar schema, Blair’s encounter with the material,

bodily object fails to produce certainty; he can only gesture to what it is not. The assertion of

‘not dog’ but ‘imitation’ also relies on an assumption of what a dog ‘is’, an essentialism

projected onto the dog by human denotations. The ability of the Thing to take any form renders

such distinctions, and those with presumed authority to make them, meaningless. As Eugene

Thacker argues,

[t]his thing is really a ‘no-thing’, insubstantial and without determinant form […] it

cannot be identified by simply pointing to it or even by naming it […]. When the ‘thing’

does manifest itself, it does so not through an un-veiling or un-masking […] [it] only

indicates its presence by un-doing the body.

The Thing as a ‘no-thing’, like the ‘anti-discovery’ or ‘negative discovery’ of the Antarctic by

early explorers, suggests the way in which the world resists our ability to experience it through

our limited senses or our technological extensions. As speculative realists would infer, objects

Addison, ‘Cinema’s Darkest Vision’, pp. 158-59.

Jez Conolly, The Thing (Leighton Buzzard: Auteur Publishing, 2014), p. 60.

Eugene Thacker, ‘Thing and No-Thing’, in And They Were Two In One And One In Two, ed. by Nicola

Masciandaro and Thacker (London: Schism Press, 2014), cited in Edia Connole, ‘Black Metal Theory: Speculating

with Bataille’s Unfinished System – “Mystical Vomit” from Neoplatonism to Neroplatonism’, in Georges Bataille

and Contemporary Thought, ed. by Will Stronge (London: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2017), pp. 173-216 (p. 186).

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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such as the Thing ‘withdraw from knowing’.

The Thing is Lovecraft’s unnameable, the ‘thing

that should not be’, but is.

For Thacker, whereas ‘the monster [is] an aberration of nature, the

unnameable creature is an aberration of thought’.

Blair’s sounds of disgust and facial grimaces

exhibit the apparent failure of language and reason to account for the Thing; they image the

limits of language when faced with the violation of the limits of being in cosmic horror. The

horror of the moment, as suggested by the lingering camera, is not a product of an immediate,

temporary repulsion, but rather of the contemplation of a ‘world’ beyond our knowing.

Somewhat paradoxically then for a horror film packed with a number of memorable

sequences focused on the Thing – in an increasingly elaborate spectacle of wildly mutated,

contorted semblances – we never actually see its true form, if indeed it can be said to possess

one. Unlike the creature described as an ‘intellectual carrot’ in the Hawks/Nyby’s 1951 version –

a vaguely humanoid form and therefore a more distinct, anthropomorphised, and conventional

alien threat – Carpenter’s Thing reveals itself (or rather fails to do so) as an absence.

Seeking

some clarity regarding their circumstances, MacReady twice flies out into abominable weather

with various members of the team. The first time is a scouting mission accompanied by Copper

(Richard Dysart), the station physician, to the Norwegian base; they surmise that those in the

neighbouring research station on the internationally governed Antarctic landmass might have

gone ‘stir crazy’, leading to the erratic behaviour of their helicopter in pursuing the husky in the

film’s opening. The second outing occurs after the revelation of the dog-Thing and the

subsequent viewing of a videotape from the Norwegian team that appears to document some

form of excavation. This time it is the geologist Norris (Charles Hallahan) who also makes the

trip. In both instances, their explorations are framed in terms of gaps and absences, negative

discoveries that withhold knowledge. At the Norwegian camp, MacReady and Copper are

confronted with a large rectangular block of ice with an open cavity, where presumably some

iteration of the Thing once lay. On closer inspection, the site excavated by the Norwegians and

visited by MacReady and Norris is revealed to have uncovered a crashed object. A circular

spaceship lies exposed by thawing ice and explosive charges. As if something has been thrown

Sederholm and Weinstock, ‘Introduction’, in The Age of Lovecraft, pp. 1-43 (p. 5).

Lovecraft, ‘At the Mountains of Madness’, in The Thing on the Doorstep and Other Weird Stories, ed. by S. T.

Joshi (New York: Penguin Books, 2001), pp. 246-340 (p. 335).

Thacker, In the Dust of This Planet (Winchester and Washington: Zer0 Books, 2011), p. 130.

The Thing from Another World, dir. by Christian Nyby (Winchester Pictures Corporation, 1951) [on DVD].

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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from the impact of the craft, there is a secondary void in the ice not far from the ship itself that

matches the recovered rectangular block of ice back at camp. A wide shot emphasises this void,

with the men peering down into it, against the larger void of the Antarctic icescape itself. Maria

Beville’s astute analysis of this scene also positions the Thing in terms of the negative and is

worth quoting at length:

The representation of the void as a sign of simultaneous presence and absence is

characteristic of much horror and science-fiction cinema, whereby the cinematography

relies on absence […] because [it] effectively presents the unrepresentable through the

suggestion of a lack or deficiency in the remaining tangible outline of the ‘Thing’ […].

The mould that is left behind in the ice signifies both excess, in that it is massive, but also

emptiness: a void of both reality and knowledge. This places the ‘Thing’ in relation to its

very essence of negativity.

Beville’s argument astutely situates the Thing within an array of unrepresentable and

unnameable forms in horror and sci-fi cinema. This representational void, Beville concludes,

elicits a ‘doubling of reality’, where we as viewers seek to fill in the gaps and omissions of

knowledge but are prevented from doing so when confronted by a nothing that refuses to

coalesce into a something.

Tom Whalen’s identification of Carpenter’s ‘characteristic ominous

use of empty space’ is doubly relevant if we consider the void as set against the Antarctic tundra.

We as viewers, like the crew, are propelled to look into it, via a close-up shot, but are met only

with a blank.

This peering into blankness echoes Drew Struzan’s iconic film poster for the

movie, which depicts a human figure in snow gear against an icy backdrop; substituting the face

is a negative space – a white nothingness emanating outwards. By the end of the film, humans

themselves will be just such an empty vessel, their ‘being’ equally vacuous.

The significance of looking into this emptied space in the ice is not limited, however, to a

filmic strategy for depicting the unrepresentable. The act of excavation and digging, as well as

the thawing of ice, invites us to consider not just the space of the Antarctic, but also its relation

to time. The radical exteriority accredited to Antarctica spatially by virtue of its geographical

distance and forbidding environment also extends to its temporality. Leane notes ‘the

inseparability of the sense of time and place in Antarctic narratives’, which frequently turn time

Maria Beville, The Unnameable Monster in Literature and Film (New York: Routledge, 2014), p. 132.

Beville, The Unnameable Monster, p. 132.

Tom Whalen, ‘“This Is About One Thing – Dominion”: John Carpenter’s Ghosts of Mars’, Literature/Film

Quarterly, 30.4 (2002), 304-07 (p. 305).

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itself into a theme or motif, depicting time as ‘anomalous’ or having its own ‘inertia’, likening

the motif to Mikhail Bakhtin’s contention that castles in gothic novels are ‘saturated’ with their

historical past.

Leane traces this motif from the ‘lost-world’ romances of the late nineteenth

century to accounts of Douglas Mawson’s expedition, through to contemporary fictions such as

Marie Darrieussecq’s White (2003). In The Thing, producer Stuart Cohen has recounted how the

claustrophobic set design and muted colour schemes used for the interiors and costuming were

purposefully employed to convey what he called the ‘glacial passage of time’.

Far from being

inundated with a historical past, however, the landscape of Antarctica implies the opposite.

Largely untouched by human history until recently, the feeling of inertia expressed in such

narratives is akin to the feeling of time as ‘frozen’, as outside human time. Consequently,

portrayals of digging and excavation beneath the glacial surface cannot help but infer a

geological past, on a scale outside of human space and human time.

Benjamin Noys has referred to this measurement of time as horror temporis, the horror of

time – ‘cosmic timescales that proceed and exceed the existence of humanity’.

Just as

Lovecraft’s unnameable creatures and ‘blasphemous’ entities are described as emerging from

forgotten eons, or what has come to be known as ‘deep time’, the intimation of geological and

cosmic timescales is evoked in the film during the examination of the crash site and the

discussion of the age of the spacecraft between MacReady and the geologist Norris. As Gerry

Carlin and Nicola Allen have noted, Lovecraft regularly featured deep time in his stories for the

way it ‘renders human values meaningless, exceeds all comprehension and measurement, and

produces intense existential dread’.

It is for this very reason that the archaeologist character

became something of a cliché in Lovecraft’s work, as a device to ‘dig up’ the horror of deep

time.

The British science-fiction horror film Quatermass and the Pit (dir. by Roy Ward Baker,

1967) uses this same trope to uncover life forms buried deep beneath the streets of contemporary

Leane, Antarctica in Fiction: Imaginative Narratives of the Far South (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,

2012), pp. 21, 154, 158.

Stuart Cohen, ‘A Producer’s Guide to the Evolution and Production of John Carpenter’s The Thing’, 31 January

2013 <http://movie-memorabilia-emporium.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-producers-guide-to-evolution-and.html>, p. 20

[accessed 14 June 2019].

Benjamin Noys, ‘Horror Temporis’, in Collapse: Philosophical Research and Development, 4, ed. by Robin

Mackay (Falmouth: Urbanomic, 2009), pp. 277-85 (p. 277).

Gerry Carlin and Nicola Allen, ‘Slime and Western Man: H. P. Lovecraft in the Time of Modernism’, in New

Critical Essays on H. P. Lovecraft, ed. by David Simmons (New York: Springer, 2013), pp. 73-90 (p. 74).

Jeb J. Card, Spooky Archaeology: Myth and the Science of the Past (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico

Press, 2018), p. 230.

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London. Both the spacecraft and the Thing in Carpenter’s film allude to this Lovecraftian

engagement in deep time, resembling as they do Meillassoux’s concept to the ‘arché-fossil’,

which he defines as ‘a reality or event […] that is anterior to terrestrial life’.

Edia Connole makes just such a claim in relation to the Thing, because of the way it

implies ‘the state of the world prior to “the world” – that is, the world as experienced “for us”’.

We need only look to the continually shifting age of the Thing across its various textual

incarnations to see this premise at work. The geologist Norris estimates its age to be ‘a hundred

thousand years old. At least.’ In Campbell’s original tale, he places the age at ‘twenty million

years’.

While Carpenter’s slightly more conservative aging of the craft does place it within the

period of human existence, the evocation of such barely conceivable time scales nevertheless

supports the argument that the Thing represents a kind of deep time. If we are to accept this, then

we need to rethink the opening shot of the film, a shot that is ‘impossible’, at least from a human

vantage point. From out of the starry expanses of the universe, rendered with knowingly low-

budget effects, a spaceship topples and flares into Earth’s orbit. ‘Among the ironies of this self-

conscious (re)opening scene’, Elene Glasberg remarks, ‘is that the sky needed to have been

watched 10,000,000 years ago, before humans existed’.

Glasberg’s comment is telling in two

ways: not only does her inflation of a hundred thousand to ten million years perhaps demonstrate

how cosmic timescales can become abstractions, stretching our capacity to understand them, but

her observation that the view of Earth offered in this shot cannot be a human one hints at how

Carpenter’s film shifts the ‘story’ of the universe away from us toward agencies other than our

own.

The question of the age of the Thing is also a question of origins, and with it, implicitly,

the question of its relation to ‘us’ as the organising principle around which we orientate

knowledge. The temptation here might therefore be to equate the Thing with Lovecraft’s ‘Great

Old Ones’, the fictional original inhabitants of Earth that went into slumber long before the

arrival of humans. However, Carpenter has on a number of occasions voiced enthusiasm for

Meillassoux, After Finitude, p. 10.

Connole, ‘Black Metal Theory’, p. 186.

John W. Campbell, ‘Who Goes There?’, in Science Fiction Hall of Fame, ed. Ben Bova, 2 vols (Devon: Reader’s

Union Group, 1973), II, pp. 31-80 (p. 38). The age of the spaceship is never given in the Hawks/Nyby 1951 version,

perhaps to accentuate the immediacy of the threat of alien (implictly Communist) invasion.

Elene Glasberg, Antarctica as Cultural Critique: The Gendered Politics of Scientific Exploration and Climate

Change (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), p. 66.

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another type of Lovecraft story, one without a particular entity or antagonist, called ‘The Colour

Out of Space’ (1927), in which a fallen meteorite begins transforming the vegetation and animals

around it, including humans.

Both the weird and speculative realism effectively argue in favour

of recognising the agency of the material world, be it animate or inanimate. However, when non-

human agency is acknowledged in weird tales, its origins and motivations are often left obscured

precisely because they serve as a reminder of the limits of the powers of human observation and

understanding. Instead, as Fisher notes, these tales emphasise ‘that “we” “ourselves” are caught

up in the rhythms, pulsions and patternings of non-human forces’.

That is, we may find

ourselves entangled in or harmed by non-human processes, drives, actions, or logics of which we

are largely ignorant, which are seemingly indifferent to their effect on us, and which ultimately

compel us to rethink our assumptions concerning what ‘we’ are.

In The Thing, the creature’s similarity to a parasite further complicates these related

concepts of agency, origin, and inside/outside. In the case of the parasite, the intertwined

destinies of it and its host leave such questions contingent and deferred. Reflecting on the similar

parasitic qualities of Scott’s Alien, Stephen Mulhall situates the monstrosity in the ‘alien’s form

of life’ as simply life itself: ‘not so much a particular species but the essence of what it means to

be a species […] a nightmare embodiment of the […] Darwinian drives to survive and

reproduce’.

Arguably, the propagation of life as a ‘nightmare embodiment’ finds its clearest

expression in the entity at the centre of The Thing. At least in Alien there is the ability to

determine particular stages in the life cycle of the xenomorph; in The Thing, we are never certain

if what the station is dealing with is a parasite, something cellular, a creature, a biological mimic,

an alien capable of flying an aircraft, or simply an organism hitching a ride. What we can gather

is that to consider the life of the Thing as motivated solely by organic imperatives, within a non-

terrestrial context, troubles Earth-bound Darwinism and its consoling fantasy that human beings

are the apotheosis or privileged beneficiary of a biological endgame spanning billions of years. If

non-human agents can adopt human qualities (speech, thought, personality, personal memory)

Bauer, ‘John Carpenter on The Thing’, n. p.; and David Portner, ‘Don’t Call John Carpenter a Horror-Movie

Director, Says John Carpenter’, Interview, 2 February 2015 <https://www.interviewmagazine.com/film/john-

carpenter> [accessed 10 April 2018].

Fisher, The Weird and the Eerie, p. 12.

Stephen Mulhall, On Film (New York: Routledge, 2015), p. 18.

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such that they go for the most part undetected among other humans, then what is the special

privilege of humans?

The series of blanks in knowledge that assail the characters in the film therefore

exemplify the ‘weirding of the world’ integral to both the weird and speculative realism, by

showing the world to be beyond our capabilities to comprehend it.

In the wake of the film’s

various discoveries, or anti-discoveries – an autopsy that fails to locate the Thing in itself, a void

in the ice, a crash site from which something unidentified has escaped – what the crew of the

base are forced to confront is a kind of negative knowledge, the world ‘withdraw[n] from

knowing’. In spite of the epistemological and rationalist authority conferred by the group’s

scientific credentials, their efforts fail to secure knowledge and hence fail to secure the place of

humans as rarefied beings capable of understanding the universe. What is more, the fact that the

men are progressively assimilated by the Thing means that, as Marie Mulvey-Roberts puts it,

‘the observers are being taken over by that which they are observing’.

Aside from the literal

colonisation of their bodies by the Thing, the crew must also contend with an intrusion that is

ontological, one that denies their privileged status as an individual self or even as human. By

staging the encounter with the Thing within a research station, staffed by a meteorologist,

biologist, geologist, and physician, who appear unable to come up with sufficient answers, the

film would seem to be unequivocal about the limits of rationalism and scientific authority.

Blaring out of Naul’s kitchen radio in the film’s early scenes, the lyrics of Stevie Wonder’s

‘Superstition’ (1982) and Billie Holiday’s ‘Don’t Explain’ (1944) help foreshadow the point that

satisfactory explanations will not be forthcoming.

Consequently, while many horror texts (including the earlier film version, The Thing

from Another World) revolve around a group under threat pulling together to expel the dangerous

outsider, thus reaffirming the social bonds and the primacy of humanity, Carpenter’s version

dispenses with such reassurances. Despite their collective scientific expertise, the station crew is

unable to define, isolate, or contain the Thing. Whatever information they do gather about it is

fragmented and incomplete, and does not further their interests in maintaining a secure sense of

self or their own survival. So-called advanced intelligence and human achievement therefore

Weinstock, ‘The New Weird’, p. 181.

Marie Mulvey-Roberts, ‘“A Spook Ride on Film”: Carpenter and the Gothic’, in The Cinema of John Carpenter:

The Technique of Terror, ed. by Ian Conrich and David Woods (London: Wallflower Press, 2004), pp. 78-90 (p. 81).

Glasberg, Antarctica as Cultural Critique, p. 67.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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become less assured. Instead, as in the case of the senior biologist Blair (who we are encouraged

to view as the epitome of reasoned thought), as he fails to categorise the unnameable dog-Thing,

scientific methods prove insufficient. Later faced with the outcome of a computer simulation that

tracks the progress of the Thing’s infection rate, Blair’s reason falters, and he descends first into

sabotage, and then murderous rage, madness, and suicidal thought. It is a disintegration that is

writ large onto the fortunes of the camp; hierarchies of command and social structures collapse.

The crew turn to the heavy-drinking helicopter pilot MacReady for answers. As systems of social

authority break down and science fails to provide solutions, MacReady, whose preference for

military green and an oversized cowboy hat would seem to identify him as a Vietnam veteran,

comes to signify the pure drive for Darwinian survival. When pressed for answers, MacReady

can only haltingly reply, ‘I don’t know. Because it’s different from us, see […]. Ask him’ –

motioning to a distinctly mute Blair. The mental collapse of Blair (positioned here as the ultimate

authority) at the half-way point of the film echoes the fate of Lovecraftian protagonists undone

by contact with an unthinkable reality. Blair’s inability to answer the concerns of the team here

and his subsequent breakdown impart a strong sense of the ‘impotence and insignificance’ (as

Weinstock puts it) of human beings dwarfed by a malignant or indifferent universe.

Indeed, more broadly, as Addison points out, the Thing’s transgression of boundaries

‘relentlessly exposes the fragility of our bodies, our identities, our relationships, and our

system[s] of meaning’, in effect undoing the human ‘world’.

Along with the inability of these

men of reason to remain guarantors of knowledge or overcome species threat, they also become

incapable even of asserting their own identities. As station mechanic Childs (Keith David) asks,

‘[s]o, how do we know who’s human? If I was an imitation, a perfect imitation, how would you

know if it was really me?’ More than a mere physical imitation, a biological doubling, the

Thing’s apparent ability to replicate the speech and thought of those it absorbs erodes the very

privilege of those attributes as markers of human pre-eminence. Prince’s assertion that the

Thing’s ‘very existence challenges the ontology separating human from nonhuman, solid from

liquid, edible from inedible’ registers the film’s own fascination with the materiality of the

Thing.

As it turns out, it is not, as we might expect, any displays of superior intelligence,

emotion, or heroism that differentiates an individual from the Thing, but rather it is in the realm

Weinstock, ‘The New Weird’, p. 183.

Addison, ‘Cinema’s Darkest Vision’, p. 157.

Prince, ‘Dread, Taboo, and The Thing’, p. 126.

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of flesh itself, via a scientific test, that the question of the human is reduced to mere degrees of

matter, via tissue and blood samples. It is on the level of matter and materiality that the weird –

what ought not to be, an absence that reveals itself as a presence – vividly manifests in the film.

The flattening out of ontologies in the film (dog/human/Thing) reaches its highpoint in

those set pieces where characters begin to engage with their own bodies as weird. It also marks

the film’s second strategy for imagining the weird, as I have been tracing it, in the transition

from a negative knowledge to an excess of materiality. Child’s question as to who is human and

who is not occasions MacReady’s improvisation on Dr Copper’s proposed blood-serum test and

the belief that ‘[m]aybe every part of it is a whole’ – that even the smallest material traces of the

Thing are a complete organism unto themselves. This leads to the assumption that it would

reflexively attempt to defend itself if it came under attack – in this case, by MacReady plunging

heated electrical wire into blood samples. By this point in the film, the paranoia over who may

be a Thing has desiccated the already tenuous social bonds in the group. Apart from the scene’s

function as a point of drama, causing an escalation of the suspicions and mistrust within the

group, it becomes clear at this juncture that the crew themselves are less certain of their own

individuality and humanity. As MacReady begins his tests, Windows lowers his head in

anticipation of his result. When it comes back negative, the camera is quick to register the relief

visible on Windows’s face and in his slackening shoulders. ‘It is as though’, Shelagh Rowan-

Legg points out, ‘the scientists themselves do not trust their own [identities] […] that they might

not be themselves’.

When the contents of the Petri dish spectacularly come to life, it is clear

that even human bodily fluids are potentially alien. The startling loss of their ontological

privilege is shown here as a loss of the crew’s own materiality, their own bodies, an attack

launched within what Prince refers to as the ‘epidermal boundary of the self’.

The confluence of the human and the Thing at the level of fluid recalls Jean-Paul Sartre’s

discussion of slime. Sartre states that ‘at the very moment when I believe I possess it, behold

[…] it possesses me […]. That sucking of the slimy which I feel on my hands outlines a kind of

continuity of the slimy substance in myself.’

Visually, by far the most frequent depictions of

Shelagh Rowan-Legg, ‘“The Hollow the Image Leaves Empty: Das Ding and The Thing’, (n. d.)

<http://www.academia.edu/download/36729591/THE_HOLLOW_THE_IMAGE_LEAVES_EMPTY-

_DAS_DING___THE_THING_Rowan-Legg.pdf>, p. 8 [accessed 2 June 2018].

Prince, ‘Dread, Taboo, and The Thing’, p. 128.

Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology (London: Routledge, 1993),

pp. 608-09.

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the Thing entail slime; oozing layers of pulpy flesh are the focus of the multiple biological

examinations and autopsies, and of the scenes of interrupted, incomplete transformations

between dog and Thing or man and Thing. The resultant entities are depicted as glistening with

secretions and discharge, and erupting with tentacular organs. The excessive morphology and

bodily viscera in scenes such as these turn the inside of the body out, graphically demonstrating a

continuity between blood, slime, flesh, and Thing, reducing humans to an equally anonymous

material state, as ‘things’ within an ecology of things. The paradoxical presence of the Thing as a

negative knowledge teratologically transforms the very matter of the crew’s bodies into

something weird.

Those critics that glibly branded the creature a ‘mass of bloody protoplasm’, or who have

expressed displeasure over Rob Bottin’s practical effects, have failed to appreciate the role of

those effects in creating a link between materiality and the film’s more philosophical concerns.

Instead, I argue, the excess of materiality on display signifies in ways that exceed the ‘gross-out’

factor, suggesting in particular a window into a previously hidden Lovecraftian weird ‘reality’

that overwhelms human epistemological categories. Here, the evocation of a concealed reality is

commensurate with our own limited account of reality outside the text, such that both can be

thought of as ‘speculative’. It is the dilemma of a ‘double reality’: the reality we thought we

knew and the reality we once thought was impossible, but isn’t. This unthinkable reality

provokes a feeling of wrongness that proclaims itself in the film through an aberrant materiality.

This excess of materiality is what Kelly Hurley refers to as the ‘gothicity of matter’; the blood

serum that shrieks with life and autopsies that ooze with slime point towards the idea that

‘[m]atter is not mute and stolid, but rather clamorous and active’.

Likewise, the excess of

materiality on display is a visceral reminder that the material world need not be inert simply

because we fail to acknowledge its agency. Dale Kuipers’s original concept for the creature

during pre-production envisioned a reptilian alien that induced various nightmarish

hallucinations among the characters. After Kuipers left production due to a personal injury,

Carpenter turned to Bottin, whom he had worked with on The Fog. Bottin took over as make-up

effects supervisor on the basis of his insight, as recalled in an interview with Cinefantastique,

that since the creature ‘had been all over the galaxy, it could call upon anything it needed

Kelly Hurley, The Gothic Body: Sexuality, Materialism, and Degeneration at the Fin de Siècle (Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 33; see also Mulvey-Roberts, ‘“A Spook Ride on Film”’, p. 84.

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whenever it needed it’.

Impressed by Bottin’s initial concepts, Carpenter gave him and

storyboard artist Mike Ploog free rein over the creature’s visual effects, as long as they were

practical. This license to create whatever conceivable effects came to mind effectively highlights

the representational absence of the Thing; being everything, it is also nothing.

This inherent difficulty in representing the unrepresentable, given that human beings

cannot conceive of a reality beyond their own limited experience of it, is what Harman positions

as the centre of weird realism – the idea that that ‘[n]o reality can be immediately translated into

representations of any sort’.

That is, our representations of reality, whether in our cultural

productions or our philosophical thinking, cannot surmount our own intellectual, imaginative,

and sensual limitations. The problem, in terms of speculative thought and the weird, is being able

to envision what Harman calls ‘the strangeness in reality that is not projected onto reality by us’,

but that nevertheless remains whether we acknowledge it or not.

In the place of this

representational difficulty, Harman admires Lovecraft’s famously verbose writing style for the

way his ‘language is overloaded by a gluttonous excess of surfaces and aspects of the thing’.

the presence of an elusive, unknowable reality, representations must compensate with a likewise

elusive, oblique, dizzying, ‘cubist’ approximation of its effect.

In a similar sense, when faced

with the problem of showing on film an unthinkable thing, Bottin’s own aesthetic of gluttonous

excess in practical effects eschews a literal manifestation of the creature, despite a wealth of

visual detail and ample lighting. The result is a creature that is spectacular but vague and

ungraspable. Whereas its objecthood as special effect is only limited by the imagination of the

mind, it is this limit, in a philosophical sense, that is the subtext of the film. Enabled by Bottin’s

special effects, bodies, whether dog, human, or other, are turned inside-out and exhibited, most

strikingly in the autopsy sequences. The revelation that the insides of bodies appear ‘normal’

(that is, biologically identical to dogs or humans, even as at the same time they are also Things)

tests the interpretive abilities of the crew.

As Fisher points out, the ‘very existence of “philosophy” – the orderly contemplation of

phenomena, even, perhaps especially, matter – entails – indeed constitutes – a commitment to

David J. Hogan, Michael Mayo, and Alan Jones, ‘“I Don’t Know What It Is, but It’s Weird and Pissed Off,”’

Cinefantastique, 13.2-3 (1982), p. 54.

Harman, Weird Realism, p. 51.

Harman, Speculative Realism, p. 91.

Harman, Weird Realism, p. 25.

Ibid.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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idealism’.

That idealism is the human-centric belief that we possess sufficient capabilities to

understand the world. If, as S. T. Joshi remarks, the ‘distinguishing feature’ of the weird is ‘the

refashioning of the reader’s view of the world’, then The Thing is surely weird.

An excess of

material reality, imagined in an excess of representation, precipitates a feeling of ‘wrongness’.

Much of the horror of the film, I would argue, its fear and awe, is relayed to the audience via the

members of the crew, who embody the process of thought approaching its limit. Whether it is

Blair puzzling over his computer’s calculations or the pot-smoking, assistant mechanic Palmer’s

(David Clennon) disbelieving ‘you’ve gotta be fucking kidding’, it is thought as horror that

distinguishes the film as weird.

One of Bottin’s most memorable effects, leading to Palmer’s exclamation, is particularly

noteworthy in its humorous denial of the privileging of human thought. When Norris, after

suffering an apparent heart attack, is revealed as a Thing, MacReady acts swiftly to incinerate it,

but does not manage to do so before what was Norris separates its own head from the burning

body, creating a new Thing that sprouts arachnid-like legs and scuttles away. Thacker reminds us

of the symbolic function of such decapitations in fiction, where ‘the decapitated body is,

arguably, one of the most precise allegories of philosophy. The head, bearer of the brain and the

seat of reason, is detached from a body that it can no longer govern.’

Gary J. Shipley applies

this idea to the scene, suggesting that ‘the head’s former claim to transcendence is suddenly

contradicted from within: an antinomy of form, an all too human unhumaness, a debasement of

the divine in man’.

The divine aspect, or its secular humanist equivalent of the rational

Cartesian individual, is what is at stake in Carpenter’s film.

With the collapse of the human body and human reason as rarefied spaces, as containers

of human privilege, the Thing’s dissolution of species and spatial boundaries indicates a weird

immanence within the planet itself, an outsideness that becomes suspect, that becomes always

already an inside. For Prince, the Thing is a kind of ‘cosmic pollution’ that erases the boundaries

between human and other.

The fear of contamination, viscerally present in our aversion to

Fisher, ‘Gothic Materialism’, Pli: The Warwick Philosophy Journal, 12 (2001), 230-43 (p. 232).

Joshi, The Weird Tale (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1990), p. 118.

Thacker, Tentacles Longer Than Night (Winchester and Washington: Zero Books, 2015), p. 96.

Gary J. Shipley, ‘Remote Viewing: Observations Inspired or Furthered by “And They Were Two in One and One

in Two”’, Bright Lights Film Journal, 30 April 2013 <https://brightlightsfilm.com/remote-viewing-observations-

inspired-or-furthered-by-and-they-were-two-in-one-and-one-in-two/#.XScdz-gza00> [accessed 4 June 2018].

Prince, ‘Dread, Taboo, and The Thing’, p. 126.

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slime, Ben Woodward suggests, is prompted by the distasteful reminder of our beginnings in

primordial ooze.

Similarly, philosopher Dylan Trigg, in his study of phenomenology in horror,

insists that cosmic pollution can be read as the very precondition to the formation of life on

Earth. For Trigg, our own bodies are made other if we reflect on their ‘alien materiality’, a

consequence of the ‘possibility that life on Earth may have had its origins elsewhere in the

universe’, so that we in a sense already ‘share’ our bodies with the alien.

Trigg even goes so far

as to conclude that, in regard to The Thing, ‘the abject creature in the film is an expression of the

origin of life itself’.

There is certainly something to be said for such a reading. It posits a horror of the body

that traces its origins to a primordial life anterior to the earth. But this runs the risk of reducing

the Thing simply to new knowledge that in time can be comfortably absorbed back into human

epistemological structures. While no doubt a horrific prospect for some, in The Thing, the

encounter with the unhuman, as I have been describing it, leaves no room for the human; the

Thing itself is neither against the human nor does it ‘share’ the human, other than perhaps as

protein and tissue. That is, just as in the film, the Thing absorbs us; we cannot absorb or

assimilate it into some revised notion of ourselves. Nor, if Blair’s computer calculations are

correct, would there be time enough for humans to survive its incursions, let alone understand it

at some point in the future. As indicated by the equivocation over the age of the Thing discussed

above, when it comes to the film, origins recede from knowing, are continually beyond knowing.

We should remind ourselves that Carpenter’s The Thing is itself an origin retold, a remake of a

previous film, which in turn is an adaption of a story, possibly influenced by yet another novella.

The recycling of origins is playfully acknowledged by both the plot and structure of the film. The

Norwegian subplot in Carpenter’s film, in which a group of researchers uncover the Thing and

are subsequently decimated, foretells the end of the very film that we are watching, a subplot that

in turn becomes a prequel in 2011’s The Thing. Additionally, the recorded footage of the

Norwegian discovery as watched by the American crew is itself an intertextual nod to the

original 1951 version. In it, the Norwegian team form a circle around the craft still encased in ice

to indicate its shape. Shot in black and white, the image explicitly recalls a corresponding shot in

Ben Woodward, Slime Dynamics (Winchester and Washington: Zero Books, 2012), p. 1.

Dylan Trigg, The Thing: A Phenomenology of Horror (Winchester and Washington: Zer0 Books, 2014), p. 10.

Trigg, The Thing, p. 12.

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the Hawks/Nyby original.

This ‘remake of a remake of a remake’, where ‘origins are thus

multiplied’, is fitting for a film that takes as its subject the duplication of bodily forms.

As with

the crew of Outpost 31, the Thing evades interpretive frameworks, cannot be integrated fully into

human thought as anything other than false resemblances; like the creature itself with its ever-

changing forms, it refuses to be contained by either (diegetic) scientific knowledge or (extra-

diegetic) storytelling. It remains an expression of negative knowledge. What the Thing requires

of us is not new categories, not a readjustment or reshaping of boundaries; rather, as in the filmic

depictions of the Thing mid-transformation, with its assemblages of dog/human/plant, it is

always in process, a remake, a continual ‘becoming’. We don’t absorb the Thing; it absorbs us.

We become ‘things’ in an undifferentiated universe of things.

The themes of absorption, imitation, and immanence drive Carpenter’s production

decisions throughout the film. The score by legendary composer Ennio Morricone is memorable

for its minimalist heartbeat motif. For Conolly, ‘the music often lapses into a fixed landscape of

fundamental tones, frequently centring on a monotone that can be felt as much as heard’.

This

fixity of the soundscape, significantly, often means that the heartbeat we hear seems to bear no

relation to what is on screen – that is, it is not limited to the screen time of the creature. Rather,

as when we first hear it, over the establishing shots of the Antarctic terrain, it acts as an aural cue

for immanence. It suggests an ontology, present during the entire film, that is independent of

human agents – a state of being or presence that is ‘felt’ by us as audience throughout, but not

necessarily seen or acknowledged by the crew until they come upon the Thing. Trace Reddell

posits that The Thing’s exploitation of the new frontiers of surround-sound technologies, and

Carpenter’s predilection for synthesisers on his soundtracks, contribute to the uncertainty or

violation of ontological space within the film, diffusing the Thing’s ‘synthetic presence’ across

the ‘multichannel carrier wave of the Dolby system’.

This simultaneous diffusion of and

immersion in sound, created by new technology, recreates the Thing’s presence, but also our

inability to ‘locate’ or differentiate it.

Anne Billson also notes how this image reappears on a TV screen in the background of Carpenter’s Halloween

(1978) (Billson, The Thing, p. 21).

Glasberg, Antarctica as Cultural Critique, p. 68.

Conolly, The Thing, p. 60.

Trace Reddell, The Sound of Things to Come: An Audible History of the Science-Fiction Film (Minneapolis:

University of Minnesota Press, 2018), p. 378.

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Likewise, just as the soundtrack hints at an immanence through monotone, the visual

palette renders absorption stylistically via monochrome and an intentional neutralising of colour.

Cinematographer Dean Cundey’s use of shades of grey for the set design, along with the muted

dark blues and browns for the wardrobe, means that the Thing is usually the most colourful

aspect of the film.

Aside from contributing to the sense of temporal inertia that producer Stuart

Cohen has noted, this colour scheme fits in with a more general movement in the film as a whole

from white to black, from illumination to its negation.

The sweeping vistas of daylit Antarctic

whiteness give way to an ever-increasing number of dim interiors or night-time shots.

Throughout this transition, we also witness the image of flame as a reoccurring motif, one that

culminates in the fiery conclusion. Whether using flamethrowers, lit gasoline, or flares, the crew

attempts to ‘shine a light’ on the Thing, using that most ubiquitous symbol of human knowledge,

fire, to combat the creature. After MacReady’s last-ditch effort to purge the camp through fire,

the dwindling flames are all that are left in the ‘blowing blackness’ into which they will almost

assuredly soon be absorbed.

Much like Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818), which similarly

ends in the Arctic as the creature walks off ‘lost in darkness and distance’, Carpenter’s The Thing

is a cautionary tale aimed not only at science but at all contingencies of thought that presume to

elevate us over the world, and the cosmos, of which we are a part.

Perhaps it should not be surprising then that, in the final climatic appearance of the

Thing, we see it as a monstrous assemblage of forms, emerging from beneath the snow-packed

basement floor of the facility, literally demolishing the very ground on which the human ‘world’

is situated. As in the beginning of the film, the Thing surfaces from the ice of the Antarctic.

Amongst the obliterated ruins, MacReady and Childs are now all that remain of the crew,

watching on as the last flames slowly darken. Trigg may well detect in the film’s final scene an

‘impasse’ between human and Thing.

However, this scene strongly implies that, while the

Thing may again slumber in the ice, any humans left on the compound will not be as fortunate.

In opposition to the conventional closure of mainstream horror narratives, which are

conventionally read as ideologically serving rational and cultural authority, Addison insists that

Steve Swires, ‘An Inteview with Cinemaphotographer Dean Cundey’, Starlog Magazine, June 1982, p. 38.

Cohen, ‘A Producer’s Guide’, p. 20.

Bauer, ‘John Carpenter on The Thing’, n. p.

Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or The Modern Prometheus (Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Classics, 1993), p. 170.

Trigg, The Thing, p. 145.

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Carpenter’s ending to The Thing ‘“conserves” nothing’.

MacReady’s exhausted entreaty to

Childs that they ‘just wait here for a little while. See what happens’ suggests a vestigial glimmer

of hope that their facial expressions deny. We the audience, like them, are only too aware that all

contact with the outside has been cut off, first by winter blizzards and then decisively by Blair’s

rampage. The finality of their situation is made bleaker by the ambiguity as to which, if either, of

them remains human, a question that appears to be answered as the screen fades to black and we

hear once again the heartbeat of the Thing in the score.

In Alan Dean Foster’s novelisation of the film, this final scene is altered slightly, alluding

back to MacReady’s affection for chess. In this rewriting, MacReady sets up a chess table that

has survived the camp explosion, and advances a pawn piece against Childs.

The battle of wits

implied by this game is left significantly underdeveloped in the finished film, and those involved

in the production are quick to point out that Foster was not in contact with the filmmakers and

added embellishments of his own.

In Carpenter’s film, MacReady’s loss to the computer at the

start of the film, if anything, paints him as a flawed strategist. Billson, in drawing attention to the

predominance of the chess-like black-and-white colour scheme throughout, dismisses the

possibility that MacReady and the Thing might be considered evenly matched, insisting that the

game is stacked heavily in favour of the Thing.

Just as MacReady pours his drink into the chess

simulator at the start of film, by the end he is content to blow it all up. It is an unwinnable game

and he knows it. Despite his counterpart in Campbell’s story maintaining that humans will fight

and triumph because ‘[w]e’re human. We’re real. You’re imitations, false to the core of your

every cell’, Carpenter’s weird cinematic vision strips away such anthropocentric assurances.

this article has shown, the film version problematises the distinction between real and imitation,

and asks us to consider the notion that, if humans are manifest as a set of false presumptions,

illusory spatial boundaries, and ill-earned exceptionalism, then any claims to be authorities on

reality are specious and baseless.

Despite its bleak ending and initially chilly reception among critics and viewers, the film

has in the ensuing years earned an appreciative following, frequently making it into the top ten of

Addison, ‘Cinema’s Darkest Vision’, p. 156.

Alan Dean Foster, The Thing (Toronto and New York: Bantam Books, 1982), p. 196.

Cohen, ‘A Producer’s Guide’, p. 44.

Billson, The Thing, p. 23.

Campbell, ‘Who Goes There?’, p. 73.

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Best Horror Film lists and spawning a number of cross-media adaptations in video games,

comic-book sequels, film prequels, and inter-textual homages.

100

This growing acceptance and

influence within popular culture is mirrored by numerous critical re-evaluations such as those

discussed throughout this article. As with Foster’s novelisation, however, expansions of

Carpenter’s story tend to rewrite, reclaim, or revoke the nihilistic ending. As evidenced by a

number of Reddit boards, YouTube videos, and web pages, the film’s fan community continually

express a desire to recuperate this ending by advancing theories or deciphering clues as to the

‘truth’ of whether MacReady or Childs remain human or have become Things.

101

Such pursuits

are perhaps an understandable, although misguided, effort to restore order to the narrative,

excising the ending’s grimmer overtones. For example, ‘The Things’, a 2010 award-winning

short story from Peter Watts, is a point-of-view account of the events of the film from the

perspective of the Thing. In this story, the Thing’s narration slips between the various characters

it has assimilated, thus offering a plurality of ontology, producing a ‘hive mind’ or networked

approximation of the alien’s ‘being’. While admirable for its experimental take on the film,

turning the characters’ ‘selves’ into something like interconnected nodes, Watts’s story is yet

another recuperative strategy, becoming yet another metaphor for human concerns, reframing

alien psychology as religious zeal. While such exercises make for fun reading, it presumes an

empathetic human insight into the Thing, whereas the Thing, as I have argued here, derives its

fictional and philosophical appeal precisely from its unknowability.

Another of Carpenter films, Ghosts of Mars (2001), again features an invasive entity, this

time ancient Martians. In this film, however, Carpenter chooses to insert perspective shots for the

alien intruder. In so doing, the film renders the Martians a far more conventional threat than does

The Thing, in which the nameless creature is kept unknowable. As humans, the tendency is

always to construct the universe outward from the centre principle of ourselves. Despite the

effort to inhabit a different centre imaginatively, through various ‘distortions’ of an alien

100

See for example Owen Williams, ‘The 50 Best Horror Movies’, Empire, 31 October 2019

<https://www.empireonline.com/movies/features/best-horror-movies/>[accessed 20 October 2019]; Tom

Huddleston, ‘The 100 Best Horror Films – The Scariest Movies Ranked by Experts’, TimeOut, 1 October 2019

https://www.timeout.com/london/film/best-horror-films [accessed 20 October 2019]; The Thing videogame by

Universal Interactive, 2002; and The Thing From Another World, Dark Horse Comics, 1991.

101

See for example ‘John Carpenter’s The Thing: Who Is The Thing? Scene with Keith David | SYFY WIRE’,

YouTube video, 3:57, SYFY WIRE, 31 July 2017; and lhbruen, ‘I Know Who the Thing is in the 1982 Classic THE

THING, Finally Solving the Mystery Ending. [spoilers, of course]’, Reddit

<https://www.reddit.com/r/movies/comments/73gulr/i_know_who_the_thing_is_in_the_1982_classic_the/>

[accessed 9 February 2019].

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perspective, we, as humans, cannot escape the distortion inherent in our own intellectual limits

by simply trading one perspective for another. The weird does away with such presumptions, as

does The Thing. Thus, the decentring of the human species within a ‘weird’ or speculative

realism framework (displacing it from atop a presumed hierarchy fuelled by Enlightenment

appropriations of Darwinian evolution) helps us to re-conceive it as perhaps as ontologically

interchangeable as any of the store of biological forms through which the creature in the film

manifests. In doing so, the film figures the coexistence of human and unhuman realities in the

world and, by extension, the cosmos, as immanently ‘weird’.

For the crew of Outpost 31, the encounter with the Thing diverges considerably from

familiar horror and science-fiction tropes of alien contact and species threat, whether in It Came

From Outer Space or in recent updates like the Alien franchise. Rather than a vaguely

anthropomorphised creature that expresses human anxieties of a menacing other, the

inaccessibility of the Thing produces a horror that is defined by a lack, a negative knowledge that

radically decentres the human. Confronted with the weird realism of the unthinkable Thing, our

identities, our bodies, and our notion of human exceptionalism are subsumed, like the camp

members, into a cosmic incomprehensibility. The paradoxical absence and presence of the

Thing, arriving from beyond the farthest reaches of time and the cosmos, serves as

epistemological and ontological trauma, intimating a world, however we wish to define it, that

has never been ‘for us’. Like the dwindling flames of the camp, the film reminds us that any

warmth or illumination afforded by human thought is always contingent, is always on the edge of

a ‘great outdoors’ like the Antarctic, an ‘alien space’ that recalls an even greater alien space, the

unending abyss of a black universe.

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Harry Clarke, the Master of the Macabre

Marguerite Helmers

Widely recognised for his religious and secular stained glass, Irish artist Harry Clarke (1889-

1931) was also an imaginative book illustrator, whose representation of the macabre and

grotesque fused high-art and popular traditions. A critical publication marking a turn in his style

to more ominous and complex subject matter is the edition of Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of

Mystery and Imagination, published in London by George G. Harrap in 1919.

Tales of Mystery

and Imagination followed the publication of Fairy Tales by Hans Christian Andersen (also

published by Harrap in 1916).

An unpublished work, destroyed by fires during the Easter Rising

in 1916, was Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner (1916).

Following the

publication of the Poe edition, Clarke’s work took a darker turn, with illustrations for Goethe’s

Faust (1925) and Swinburne’s selected poems (1928).

To borrow a phrase from literary critic

Peter Coviello, just as in Poe’s stories, a ‘persistent erotic strain’ is evident in Clarke’s

illustrations for the Tales of Mystery and Imagination, a deliberately provocative amplification

and distortion of natural forms that would become more marked in subsequent publications.

In this essay, I explore the ways that five of the Poe illustrations use conventions of

representation that are also found in the cheaply published and widely available crime literature

known as ‘penny dreadfuls’ and the early tabloid publication The Illustrated Police News, while

also borrowing from the exaggerated dramatic presentations in the theatre of the Grand Guignol.

Together, these form a core of sensationalist visual spectacles that codified horror and the

gestures representing the macabre. I look at five of Clarke’s images: ‘The Facts in the Case of M.

Valdemar’, ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’, ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’, ‘The Mystery

of Marie Rogêt’, and ‘The Man of the Crowd’. The first four are black-and-white line drawings

Edgar Allan Poe, Tales of Mystery and Imagination, illus. by Harry Clarke (London: George G. Harrap, 1919; repr.

1923).

Fairy Tales by Hans Christian Andersen, illus. by Clarke (London: George G. Harrap, 1916).

Nicola Gordon Bowe, Harry Clarke: The Life and Work (Dublin: The History Press Ireland, 2012), p. 87.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust, illus. by Clarke (London: George G. Harrap, 1925); and Algernon Charles

Swinburne, Selected Poems of Algernon Charles Swinburne, illus. by Clarke (London: John Lane, The Bodley

Head, 1928).

Peter Coviello, ‘Poe in Love: Pedophilia, Morbidity, and the Logic of Slavery’, ELH: English Literary History,

70.3 (Fall 2003), 875-901 (p. 896).

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and the latter illustration is a full-colour plate added to the second edition of The Tales of

Mystery and Imagination that was published by Harrap in 1923.

A comparison between the traditions of horror from sensationalist media and Clarke’s

illustrations shows a clear visual correspondence. Accruing across the nineteenth century and

into the twentieth, a catalogue of gestures and facial expressions became synonymous with alarm

and fright. In order to consider how the language of gesture was used by Clarke, I often deal with

affect, the emotional content of the image. I begin with an overview of Symbolism, an

international art movement influential in the latter half of the nineteenth century. Symbolism

predisposed Poe and Clarke to explore verbal and visual worlds that border the real and the

unconscious. Dream states and death were Symbolist themes – sensations, impressions, and

emotions. The same period of time that fostered the rise of Symbolism also saw the rise of

sensationalist literature such as true-crime stories. The second section of this essay is focused on

these forms of mass entertainment, which trod some of the same emotional ground as the

‘higher’ art forms of Symbolist poetry and painting. Penny dreadfuls and The Illustrated Police

News were popular tabloid publications in mid- to late-nineteenth-century England. Penny

dreadfuls were primarily aimed at a readership of adolescent boys, while The Illustrated Police

News presumed an adult readership. They were known for their lurid black-and-white

illustrations of ghastly crimes (according to Judith Flanders, one publisher’s standing instruction

to his illustrators was ‘more blood – much more blood!’).

By the end of the nineteenth century,

the Théâtre du Grand Guignol was founded in Paris and, like penny dreadfuls and sensationalist

tabloids, it relied on shocking and purportedly true tales of intrigue and murder, going so far as

to publish a staging guide for actors to exaggerate panic and distress.

The macabre vision of Harry Clarke continues to intrigue viewers, in part because of the

detailed nature of his technique; his ability to synthesise multiple artistic inspirations and

traditions resulted in layers of allusions. He was a keen lover of literature, theatre, and film and

drew on an abundance of visual material for his book illustrations and his stained glass. In his

own time and in ours, art critics and historians connected Clarke’s illustrations to high-art

traditions, such as the works of Gustav Klimt, members of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, and

Aubrey Beardsley – each of whom explored Symbolist themes and probed the relationship

Judith Flanders, The Invention of Murder: How the Victorians Revelled in Death and Detection and Created

Modern Crime (New York: St Martin’s Press, 2011), p. 59.

Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

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between Eros and Thanatos, purity and transgression. Yet as Jarlath Killeen points out in his

recent study of the relationship of pantomime to Clarke’s portrayal of ‘Little Riding Hood’, and

as Nicola Gordon Bowe has noted about Clarke’s love of the Ballets Russes and Charlie Chaplin

films, Clarke also owed his inspiration to popular cultural forms of his day.

Placing Clarke’s

Poe illustrations within a milieu of theatrical and modern entertainments highlights the fluid

boundary between high and popular arts.

Poe’s tales were continuously in print since their initial publication in magazines and

were often gathered together into volumes that also contained his poetry. A 1902 World’s

Classics edition published by Grant Richards collected them under the title Tales of Mystery and

Imagination.

Interestingly, it was another Irishman, the writer Pádraic Colum, who in 1908

organised the selection of stories into the relatively stable collection of tales that continues to be

published to this day. Colum’s edition, with an introduction by himself, was published by J. M.

Dent in London.

In his Introduction, Colum cites Poe’s predilection for describing events ‘on

the margin’ – ‘experiences on the margin of sanity, or on the border of unconsciousness’.

Given that Dent’s publication of the Tales remained in print and continued through twelve

subsequent reprintings, it was likely this edition that inspired Clarke to create his own

illustrations of the strange, aesthetic, and beautiful aspects of the tales (to borrow language from

Colum).

Due to the unflagging demand for Poe’s work, it would have been clear to Clarke’s

publisher George Harrap that a market existed for a new edition that could augment Colum’s

selections of tales with Clarke’s unique vision.

Artistic Traditions of Naturalism and Symbolism

Clarke joined a long list of famous illustrators who illustrated Poe’s tales and poems, beginning

with Edouard Manet in 1875 and followed by Odilon Redon (1882), Gustave Doré (1883),

Aubrey Beardsley (1894), William Thomas Horton (1899), Édmund Dulac (1912), and Arthur

Jarlath Killeen’s discussion of the perceived dangers of fairy tales and pantomime appears in ‘Meeting Little Red

Riding Hood Again: Harry Clarke and Charles Perrault’, in Harry Clarke and Artistic Visions of the New Irish State,

ed. by Angela Griffith, Marguerite Helmers, and Róisín Kennedy (Newbridge: Irish Academic Press, 2019), pp.

224-45 (p. 232). Clarke published his image of ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ in The Fairy Tales of Charles Perrault

(London: George G. Harrap, 1916). On films, see Bowe, Harry Clarke: The Life and Work (Dublin: The History

Press Ireland, 2012); she discusses Chaplin and also F. W. Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922).

Poe, Tales of Mystery and Imagination (London: Grant Richards, 1902).

Poe, Tales of Mystery and Imagination (London: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1908).

Pádraic Colum, Introduction to Tales of Mystery and Imagination (1908), pp. vii-xv (p. vii).

Colum, Introduction, p. xiii.

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Rackham (1935).

Of these artists, it is Clarke whose work bears the closest semblance to

Redon’s series of charcoals titled To Edgar Poe (Figure 1).

Redon was a master of the

unheimlich and his dreamlike images fuse human, animal, and plant life in weird comic

grotesques. Just as Clarke studied fossils and flora at the National Museum in Dublin, Redon

worked from observation in the Museum of Natural History in Paris, and his drawings merge

natural history and the supernatural in uncanny combinations. The surprising juxtaposition of the

living and the dead in the subject matter, as well as the use of defined line against blackness, is

an important precursor to Clarke’s own depiction of horror in his illustrations for Poe. Much like

Clarke’s work, Redon’s charcoal illustrations To Edgar Poe are not direct transcriptions of the

tales; rather, they express the mood of darkness and the sense of fantasy beyond observable

reality.

Figure 1: Odilon Redon, from To Edgar Poe (Paris: G. Fischbacher, 1882)

William Thomas Horton was a mystic and friend of W. B. Yeats. Horton contributed seven illustrations and a

cover design to the London publisher Leonard Smithers and Co. for a publication titled The Raven, the Pit and the

Pendulum. A copy of this book may be found in the W. B. Yeats Library collection at the National Library of

Ireland, YL 1600. Rackham’s illustrations were published by Harrap as Tales of Mystery and Imagination (1935).

Odilon Redon, To Edgar Poe: Six Lithographies (Paris: G. Fischbacher, 1882).

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Clarke’s illustrations should not be seen as imitative of Redon’s. The greater influence on Clarke

was the high-art tradition of Symbolism, a nineteenth-century continental artistic movement that

encompassed painting and poetry. Symbolism drew from the earlier Gothic Revival and

embodied its fascination with decay and ruins, as well as occult and religious forms of

spirituality. Artists were inspired by dreams and sensations; they probed the mythical and

religious for subject matter and exploited the connections between love, death, sexuality, and sin,

particularly the linguistic and visual play between physical death (le mort) and sexual pleasure

(le petit mort).

Although Symbolist writers and visual artists turned to dream visions in a rejection of the

almost scientific inquiry of the artistic movement known as Naturalism, at its core, Symbolism

was also based on natural forms and the sordid aspects of daily existence. In literature, the

duality emerged in the foundational publication of the poems Les Fleurs du Mal by Charles

Baudelaire in 1857. Baudelaire was the first to translate the work of Poe into French and he

became the pre-eminent writer of the Symbolist tradition. Clarke, who according to Nicola

Gordon Bowe was ‘a voracious reader’, read Baudelaire’s work alongside that of Poe, Nietzsche,

Keats, Dante, and Pater, and one of his unfulfilled wishes was to illustrate Les Fleurs du Mal – a

dream that his untimely death cut short.

Like Baudelaire, Clarke was fascinated by the

‘supernatural or spiritual meaning […] beyond the observable world’.

In her exploration of

Clarke’s ‘Gothic Modernist trope of balancing opposites’, Kelly Sullivan traces Naturalist and

Symbolist elements to ‘a dark slum-urban Gothic’ that arises in Clarke’s work in the 1920s,

particularly evident in his Nosferatu-like grotesque walking amidst a decaying Dublin, titled

‘The Last Hour of the Night’ (1922, Figure 12).

The representation of the human body in all its

permutations – from fetal to wrinkled with age – would become increasingly complex in

Clarke’s drawings from 1919 onward, eventually erupting into homunculi that, like

Frankenstein’s creature, are a collage of body parts (Figure 2). In the Tales of Mystery and

Imagination, he begins an exploration of decay and death, how time and illness wear at the body.

Among many works on Symbolism, one of the standard publications is Michael Gibson and Gilles Néret,

Symbolism (London: Taschen, 2006).

Bowe, ‘Symbolism in Turn-of-the-Century Irish Art’, Irish Arts Review Yearbook (1989-90), pp. 133-44 (p. 140).

Kelly Sullivan, ‘Harry Clarke’s Natural World’, in Harry Clarke and Artistic Visions, pp. 101-30 (p. 120).

Sullivan, ‘Harry Clarke’s Modernist Gaze’, Eire-Ireland, 47 (2012), 7-36.

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Figure 2: Harry Clarke, from Goethe’s Faust (London: George G. Harrap, 1925)

The Forensic Horror of M. Valdemar

According to Bowe, ‘The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar’ was the first illustration that Clarke

designed for an anthology of Poe stories and he approached publishers in London to propose a

full illustrated edition.

She writes, ‘Clarke’s diary records that he was reading Poe’s Tales of

Mystery and Imagination in the Spring of 1914 and an interview with Duckworth’s resulted in

his [devoting] three days to make a specimen design’.

Gerald Duckworth and Company was a

rival publisher to George Harrap, but eventually the commission landed with Harrap, who later

recalled, ‘there could be little doubt but that Poe’s bizarre and gruesome fancies would offer

ideal inspiration to an artist of Clarke’s particular bent, [and] we were glad to encourage him’.

The hallmarks of Clarke’s illustrations for Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination are

cadaverous human figures. If they are not suspended in a moment of living death, they are

exhibiting the pale skin, emaciated bodies, and darkly rimmed eyes of the terminally ill. As

Coviello notes, in Poe’s stories,

death unfolds, in maddeningly partial and progressive stages. And to say that death

unfolds is of course to intimate that death, properly conceived, actually lives in the bodies

of Poe’s creations, and has therefore an unnervingly animate presence in the body that in

most instances cannot be readily distinguished from the functions of life – which is one

reason why what are taken for corpses in Poe tend not to stay dead.

Bowe, Harry Clarke: His Graphic Art (Mountrath: Dolmen Press, 1983), p. 34. Clarke had been reading Poe’s

tales for several years and had created illustrations for ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ (1839) and ‘The Tell-Tale

Heart’ (1843) as early as 1914.

Bowe, Harry Clarke: His Graphic Art, p. 34.

The quotation is from George Harrap and quoted in Bowe, Harry Clarke: His Graphic Art, p. 35.

Coviello, ‘Poe in Love’, p. 884.

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Clarke built upon Poe’s own forensic interest in the progression of illness and the process of

death to create his images. ‘The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar’ (1845) is told in the first

person by one ‘P.’, who has a strong interest in mesmerism and who is an acquaintance of the

writer and translator M. Ernest Valdemar of New York. Valdemar is dying of tuberculosis and

accedes to P.’s request to hypnotise him at the moment of his death in order to determine

whether the boundary between this world and the next may be suspended. Yet even in life, signs

of death are evident: for one, ‘the skin had been broken through by the cheek-bones’.

Valdemar

remains mesmerised for seven months, attended by two nurses and visited daily by P. and Drs F.

and D. In this state, although his mouth swings open at the jaw to reveal a ‘swollen black

tongue’, Valdemar can still speak and shows an awareness of those around him.

He finally

requests to be released from his half-life. Complying with Valdemar’s wishes, P. reverses the

spell, at which point, Valdemar’s ‘whole frame at once – within the space of a single minute, or

even less, shrunk – crumbled – absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before

that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loathsome – of detestable putridity.’

In the black-and-white plate that accompanies the story (Figure 3), Clarke employs a

stylistic device familiar from many of his works: the proscenium frame, complete with drapery

and a stage door. The draperies and doorway create liminal spaces that represent life and death.

The drama of the story – the story’s probing of the unknown – is represented by the large top

half of the image, which is almost blank, suggesting a deep void that the human mind cannot

represent in words or images. Attending Valdemar are three fully realised figures at the right and

two mysterious watchers on the left, figures who do not appear in the tale itself and are purely

Clarke’s invention. Their veils and the position behind the heavy curtain suggest shadowy

guardians of the otherworld. One figure – possibly the narrator P. – is at the doorway, in

silhouette. He is a voyeur, one of several introduced into Clarke’s illustrations for the tales. One

of the figures at the right reaches both arms toward Valdemar, drawing the readers into the

central moment of waking death that Valdemar embodies. The figures at the right are also shown

Poe, ‘The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar’, in Tales of Mystery and Imagination, illus. by Clarke (Mineola, NY:

Calla Editions, 2008), pp. 374-82 (p. 376). All subsequent page references to stories by Poe refer here to the Calla

edition.

Poe, ‘M. Valdemar’, p. 380.

Poe, ‘M. Valdemar’, p. 382.

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with open eyes and open mouths, depicting their horror and revulsion at Valdemar’s literal

dissolution.

Figure 3: Harry Clarke, ‘The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar’

These physical gestures are part of part of the penny-dreadful tradition, and the illustration for

M. Valdemar owes much of its impact to the cross over between Clarke’s distinctive style and

his allusion to a range of prevalent popular aesthetic techniques for depicting horror. The

position of the body on the bed, the framing device that marks us as witnesses to this moment of

death, and the technique that Clarke has used to denote Valdemar’s postmortem corporeal

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fluidity echo the illustration techniques employed by the tabloid publication The Illustrated

Police News. Introduced to the reading public by George Purkess in 1864, the tabloid was

criticised for ministering ‘to the morbid craving of the uneducated for the horrible and the

repulsive’.

For example, similar artistic techniques to those used by Clarke are evident in an

illustration that accompanied the story of murder committed by Robert Coombs and his brother

Nathaniel in July 1895 (Figure 4).

Figure 4: Plaistow Murder, The Illustrated Police News, Saturday 27 July 1895

Francis Hitchman, quoted in Robert J. Kirkpatrick, From the Penny Dreadful to the Ha’Penny Dreadfuller: A

Bibliographic History of the Boys’ Periodical in Britain, 1726-1950 (London: The British Library, 2013), p. 32.

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As Kate Summerscale details the case, Robert Coombs had entered his mother’s bedroom early

in the morning and stabbed her while she slept. He and his younger brother then took the

housekeeping money and went on a ten-day spending spree, leaving the body in the house. The

engraving in The Illustrated Police News positions the figures in the way that Clarke would later

use with the Valdemar plate, and a woman in the lower left of the page escapes the scene in

terror.

Of course, Clarke would not have directly copied, but his own depictions of terror

participated in the same visual shorthand that would be culturally understood by Clarke’s

contemporaries. The Coombs case was just one of many sensationalist crime stories from the

time and illustrators had to focus on ways to heighten the drama of the crime. Consequently, they

invented scenes and imagined emotions. At the core was something that Clarke contended with

as well – how to represent feelings of fear and astonishment through scene, facial expression,

and gesture.

The Mesmeric Effects of Bloods and Dreadfuls

Prosecutors in the Coombs case tried to ascribe the murder to Robert’s avid consumption of

penny dreadfuls.

The cheap publications were the cause of moral concern in England and

Ireland: such reading materials were said to bring about ‘an unhinging’ effect in the young.

Among other reports of their deleterious effects, in one case, ‘[w]hen a twelve-year-old servant

boy hanged himself in Brighton in 1892, the jury delivered a verdict of “suicide during

temporary insanity, induced by reading trashy novels”’.

In 1896, when Clarke was seven years

old, an English newspaper attributed ‘the suicide of a fourteen-year-old London errand boy to the

negative effects of reading “penny horribles”’.

It may have been around this time that Clarke

encountered his first copies of the magazines. The following year, in 1897, six new ‘boy’s

periodicals’ were launched, adding to an already crowded field.

Kate Summerscale examines the case in detail in The Wicked Boy: An Infamous Murder in Victorian London

(New York: Penguin, 2017).

Summerscale notes the tendency of the press to blame penny dreadfuls for Robert’s acts (The Wicked Boy, p. 185).

She further discusses the case in ‘The Untold Story of a Mother Brutally Murdered by her Young Sons in Victorian

England’, The Telegraph, 22 April 2016 <https://www.telegraph.co.uk/books/authors/the-untold-story-of-a-mother-

brutally-murdered-by-her-young-sons/> [accessed 14 April 2019].

Summerscale, The Wicked Boy, p. 112.

Ibid.

Mimi Matthews, ‘Penny Dreadfuls, Juvenile Crime, and Late-Victorian Moral Panic’, The Victorian Web:

Literature, History, and Culture in the Age of Victoria, 12 January 2016

<http://www.victorianweb.org/genre/matthews1.html> [accessed 13 April 2019].

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Following a tradition of bloody dramas extending back to Shakespearean times and

Jacobean revenge tragedies, penny bloods and penny dreadfuls were part of a popular literary

tradition that included the Newgate Calendar, the gothic novel, melodrama, folklore, and street

ballads.

Over the course of the nineteenth century, the appellation changed from ‘penny blood’

(in use from the 1830s to 1850s) to ‘penny dreadful’ and encompassed a wide range of

adventurous and far-fetched subject matter that included crime, detection, the supernatural, and

even Wild-West adventures. In his short story from Dubliners titled ‘An Encounter’ (1914),

James Joyce included a reference to the surreptitious circulation of the penny dreadfuls among

Irish schoolboys, writing that one Joe Dillon ‘had a little library made up of old numbers of The

Union Jack, Pluck and The Halfpenny Marvel’.

Having brought his worn copies to school to

pass among his friends, the unfortunate Dillon is confronted in the classroom by the teacher,

Father Butler, who confiscates one of the magazines hidden behind a school book:

‘What is this rubbish?’ he said. ‘The Apache Chief! Is this what you read instead of studying your

Roman History? Let me not find any more of this wretched stuff in this college. The man who

wrote it, I suppose, was some wretched fellow who writes these things for a drink. I’m surprised at

boys like you, educated, reading such stuff. I could understand it if you were ... National School

boys […].’

At the age of thirteen in 1895, Joyce likely was aware of the lurid tale of Mrs Coombs’s murder

through the trade in the literature among his school friends. Joyce was born in 1882, the same

year as Robert Coombs (Harry Clarke was only a few years younger and he attended the same

secondary school as Joyce, Belvedere College in Dublin). Stephanie Rains adds that, although

Ireland did not produce its own penny dreadfuls, the ones that were purchased were shared

among adolescent readers, suggesting ‘that the contents of these publications were more widely

influential than would be presumed simply from their circulation figures’.

Furthermore, in her

study of the reading habits of English children, Kirsten Drotner notes that the ‘most successful

publishers of boys’ papers were found among those who continued [the] more sensational style’

Flanders, The Invention of Murder, p. 58. See also Michael Anglo, Penny Dreadfuls and Other Victorian Horrors

(London: Jupiter, 1977); and John Springhall, Youth, Popular Culture, and Moral Panics (New York: St Martin’s,

1999).

James Joyce, ‘An Encounter’, in The Portable James Joyce, ed. by Harry Levin (New York: Penguin, 1976), pp.

29-38 (p. 30).

Ibid.

Stephanie Rains, ‘Money Matters: The Cost of Books, Newspapers and Magazines in Early 20thC Ireland’, Irish

Media History, 4 October 2016 <https://irishmediahistory.com/tag/penny-dreadful/> [accessed 13 April 2019].

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and in ‘an industry rife with rivalries, it became imperative to secure’ working-class juveniles as

readers.

She continues,

The introduction of the rotary press and the use of wood-pulp paper had facilitated the

expansion in mass literature at mid-century, and the invention in the late 1880s of the

Linotype machine, casting whole lines of type, forged the final link in fully mechanizing

the printing process. Furthermore, the general expansion in retail trades created a national

network of local tobacconists, sweetstalls, and cornershops to which adolescents

swarmed on their way from school or work to get their Wednesday and Saturday

weeklies.

One popular tale persisted for over one hundred years and appeared in serials dating well into

Clarke’s teens and adult life. This was the story of London’s Spring-Heeled Jack, who attacked

servant girls, clawing at their clothing before leaping or flying away over gates and fences.

Spring-Heeled Jack first appeared in the penny literature in 1837, and was still a feature in The

Boys’ Monster Weekly (1899) and the twelve weekly issues of the Spring-Heeled Jack Library

(1904). As the legend grew over time, he was variously depicted in bat costume or as a cross

between beast and man, nude and with horns (an allusion to the sexual nature of his crimes

against young women, Figure 5). A sketch by Clarke for the cover of Poe’s Tales hints at a Jack-

type character in the making (Figure 6); it shows Clarke working with the idea of horns or a

crown and a naked torso. Clarke would later create figures that crossed genders and species, and

this sketch offers an early taste of a bi-gendered creature, cloven-hoofed, giving birth to an

effluvium of atrocity.

Kirsten Drotner, English Children and Their Magazines, 1751–1945 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988),

p. 124.

Ibid.

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Figure 5: One of a series of publications

featuring Spring-Heeled Jack [c. 1840]

Figure 6: Harry Clarke, ‘Design drawn in

pencil for book jacket of Edgar Allan Poe’s

book Tales of Mystery and Imagination’

[c.1919], National Library of Ireland PD 3046

TX 2 (A).

Poe, captivated by gothic sensationalism, ultimately plays with the concepts of murder and

bestiality in his tale ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ (1841). The story is the first to feature Le

Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin, who works through the logic of a locked-room mystery. A woman

and her daughter are found brutally murdered; the daughter’s body has been thrust up the

chimney and the mother’s head has been severed from the body. Dupin deduces that the deed

was carried out by an orangutan, who had escaped confinement and brutality at the hands of a

sailor.

The brilliance of Clarke’s illustration for ‘Rue Morgue’ is that he captures what is hidden

in the text: the moment of death. The orangutan, crazed by years of savage abuse, squeezes the

final breath from Mlle L’Espanaye, while the body of her mother lies thrown on the bed (Figure

7). In Clarke’s illustration, the full fury of the orangutan is on view. He faces the readers and

dominates the frame, issuing a direct threat to our interference. The daughter reaches upward

toward the beast. Poe writes, ‘[t]he sight of blood inflamed its anger into phrensy. Gnashing its

teeth, and flashing fire from its eyes, it flew upon the body of the girl, and imbedded its fearful

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talons in her throat, retaining its grasp until she expired.’

The sailor peers in from a window on

high, a voyeur looking upon the grisly scene unfolding in front of him. The horrible face of Mme

L’Espanaye the fortune teller gazes upwards, implicating the sailor as the orchestrator of

destruction, having ruthlessly imprisoned and abused the orangutan. As in ‘The Facts of the Case

of M. Valdemar’, the onlooker is present in the liminal space of the window. This theatrical

theme frames the moments of death between the reader of the text and the watcher in the tale.

Figure 7: Harry Clarke, ‘Murders in the Rue Morgue’

Clarke’s illustration directly quotes the gestural language of the tabloid press. Peter Haining

notes that ‘fierce plates’ of lurid scenes on the covers of tabloids increased sales. They also

codified the visual language of true crime, hoping to capitalise on the emotional experience of

the viewer. As Haining asserts, ‘[t]he woodcuts and stories perfectly supplement each other [...].

Poe, ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’, pp. 177-210 (p. 208).

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The outstretched hands point to the power of destiny, the falling curve of the heroine’s body

illustrates her helpless innocence, the villain’s enormous eyes show devouring lust.’

Clarke

takes the representation one step further. Mme L’Espanaye’s body is represented as so many

illustrations of Jack the Ripper’s victims were in the illustrated press – discarded almost

carelessly, in a heap (Figure 8). Thus, Clarke’s work is a step beyond the literal, raising questions

about the bestial, sexual, and gendered nature of crimes against women.

Figure 8: Coverage of Jack the Ripper, Illustrated Police News, 1888

From the Penny Blood to the Blood Moon of the Grand Guignol

Le Théâtre du Grand Guignol opened in the Pigalle district of Paris in 1897 and quickly became

identified with graphic horror. Established by the playwright Oscar Méténier and under the

direction of Max Maurey from 1898 onward, the theatre specialised in shock and terror, offering

Peter Haining, The Penny Dreadful (London: Gollancz, 1976), p. 15. Haining is citing Louis James, who

published Fiction for the Working Man, 1830-1850: A Study of the Literature Produced for the Working Classes in

Early-Victorian Urban England (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1963).

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audiences an animated view of tabloid fodder. One of the major contributions was a staging

guide to expression and gesture.

Drawing topics from crime reports in newspapers similar to those discussed above, the

plays were about criminals and prostitutes, lust and revenge, rape and murder, and initially

exposed the underside of the Parisian Belle Époque. Yet Richard J. Hand and Michael Wilson

point to the theatre’s eclecticism, noting that, although the Guignol tradition emerged from

‘Zola-inspired naturalism’, by the fin de siècle, Symbolism became more important as a means of

expressing visually, through melodrama, ‘hidden, internal and unutterable fear’.

By 1901, when

the theatre hired André De Lorde as its principal playwright, the focus of the performances

turned to interior mental states, exploring psychology and insanity, themes that resonated with

the oppressive atmosphere of Poe’s tales, in which the narrators are ‘prone to madness, drug-

induced visions, and mental illness, especially in the form of “monomania” through which they

fixate upon their beloved not as a person, but as a physical fragment’.

Agnes Pierron writes that

Grand Guignol excelled at exploring the borders of consciousness and morality:

[W]hat carried the Grand Guignol to its highest level were the boundaries and thresholds

it crossed: the states of consciousness altered by drugs or hypnosis. Loss of

consciousness, loss of control, panic: themes with which the theatre’s audience could

easily identify. When the Grand Guignol’s playwrights expressed an interest in the

guillotine, what fascinated them most were the last convulsions played out on the

decapitated face. What if the head continued to think without the body? The passage from

one state to another was the crux of the genre.

As a term, ‘Grand Guignol’ ‘soon became synonymous with the excesses of heightened horror’

and its taxonomy of melodramatic gestures had a lasting influence on horror films in the

twentieth century.

Although there are no photographs of the actual plays from the war years,

Grand Guignol’s André de Lorde wrote a staging guide to expression and gesture in 1908 that

offers ‘clues to the stylization of the body in Grand Guignol performance’.

It is this staging

Claude Schumacher, Alfred Jarry and Guillaume Apollinaire (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1984), p. 16, quoted in

Richard J. Hand and Michael Wilson, Grand Guignol: The French Theatre of Horror (Exeter: University of Exeter

Press, 2002), p. 8.

Jenny Webb, ‘Fantastic Desire: Poe, Calvino, and the Dying Woman’, The Comparatist, 35 (2011), 211-20 (p.

216).

Agnes Pierron, ‘The House of Horrors’, trans. by Deborah Treisman, Grand Street, 15 (1996)

<http://www.grandguignol.com/grandstreet.htm> [accessed 13 April 2019].

Hand and Wilson, Grand Guignol, p. 19.

Hand and Wilson, p. 40.

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guide that provides the visual cues for the iconic gestures of outstretched arms and twisted faces.

It included instruction for posture, head position, eyes, lips, and mouth: eyes to be ‘wide open

[in] amazement, anger, terror’, lips and mouth to be ‘wide open [in] astonishment’.

Far from being an underground or subversive activity, Le Théâtre du Grand Guignol

drew in a fashionable crowd. By the 1920s, ‘[e]vening dresses and tuxedos were a

commonplace’, and the theatre attracted celebrities and royalty.

An evening at the theatre

usually included four or five plays, alternating between ‘hot’ tales of horror and ‘cold’ comedies,

a duality of expression that Clarke himself revealed in book illustrations that combined frightful

emotions with playful fantasy. Although his diaries and correspondence are silent on the subject,

it is possible to imagine that, with his interest in the macabre, Clarke may have visited the

theatre; he was in Paris in 1914 in the midst of sketching his initial ideas for Tales of Mystery

and Imagination and may have taken in a performance.

However, should Clarke have opted out

of an evening in Paris, he would have had another chance in London. The Grand Guignol opened

at the Coronet Theatre in Notting Hill Gate on 14 June 1915, after which its popularity

necessitated a transfer to the more centrally located Garrick Theatre on Charing Cross Road, in

the heart of the West-End theatre district. At the start of the London run, only one horror play

was included in the repertoire, La baiser dans la nuit by Maurice Level, in which the main

character is monstrously transformed by facial disfigurement. La baiser dans la nuit was so

enthusiastically received, however, that by the end of the London season (16-21 August 1915),

the majority of the evening’s entertainment consisted of the horror plays. Of particular note is

Sous la lumière rouge, also by Level, which plays on fears of being buried alive and reveals the

influence of Poe’s ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ (1839): the main female character is

exhumed and revealed to have tried to claw her way out of her casket.

In fact, two of the plays produced in Paris by Grand Guignol were based on Poe’s Tales

of Mystery and Imagination – ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ (1908, retitled Lady Madeline)

and the ‘Telltale Heart’. This points to a similar affinity between Poe’s sensibilities and those of

the Grand Guignol. In Poe’s telling of ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’, the narrator visits his old

Ibid.

P. E. Schneider, ‘Fading Horrors of the Grand Guignol’, New York Times, 17 March 1957, p. 7.

Clarke, pocket diary, 1914, National Library of Ireland MS 39,202/ B.

Helen Brooks, ‘Horror on the London Stage: The Grand Guignol Season of 1915’, Great War Theatre, 26 January

2018 <https://www.greatwartheatre.org.uk/2018/01/horror-on-the-london-stage-the-grand-guignol-season-of-1915/>

[accessed 13 April 2019].

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friends Roderick and Madeleine Usher in their old mansion, much dilapidated. During his visit,

Madeleine Usher dies in the night. Her brother buries her in the mausoleum under the house, a

‘temporary entombment’ in an oppressively small, damp, and pitch-black vault behind iron

doors. But Roderick continues to be haunted by noises in the night and days later cries out, ‘[w]e

have put her living in the tomb!’ (Figure 9).

Madeleine emerges from the crypt and, as in the

story of M. Valdemar, the doors between life and death are opened briefly.

Figure 9: Harry Clarke, ‘The Fall of the

House of Usher’

Figure 10: Harry Clarke, ‘The Mystery of

Marie Rogêt’

Clarke’s illustration for the story emphasises the theatricality of Madeline’s entrance into the

upper quarters of the Usher mansion. Poe wrote only that she was standing, ‘lofty and

enshrouded’ and ‘remained trembling and reeling to and fro upon the threshold’, before falling

‘heavily inward upon the person of her brother’.

But Clarke captures the weight of the doors

Poe, ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’, pp. 124-41 (p. 140), italics in original.

Poe, ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’, p. 141.

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through the almost complete blackness of the page. Madeline emerges from the pit, wrapped in a

shroud that trails behind her. Her eyes are wide open in astonishment and her arms claw the air

in front of her. Furthermore, the webs and bindings of her shroud are both literal and metaphoric

– synonyms for joining, attaching, and uniting. The tensions in Poe’s tales between love and

obsession, life and death, the natural and the supernatural are therefore replicated in Clarke’s

drawings.

The illustration to ‘The Mystery of Marie Rogêt’ equally employs the tropes of

voyeurism and hyperbolic theatricality inherent to the Grand-Guignol stage, specifically

invoking the viewer’s position in relationship to the text (Figure 10). Set in Paris and again

featuring the investigator Dupin, Poe’s ‘The Mystery of Marie Rogêt’ (1842-43) is about the

body of a young woman found floating in the Seine at the point where a forest path meets the

water.

The central evidence in the crime is that the body was dragged from the point of death to

the river’s edge: Poe describes a witness who, ‘while roaming among the woods near the

Barrière du Roule, chanced to penetrate a close thicket’, where she discovered that the ‘earth was

trampled, the bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of a struggle. Between the

thicket and the river, the fences were found taken down, and the ground bore evidence of some

heavy burthen having been dragged along it.’

At two points in the tale, Poe refers to the murder of Marie Rogêt as a ‘lonely’ crime,

with the word ‘lonely’ signifying a solitary killer and an isolated victim. Clarke capitalises on

that word to draw the final moments of terror and misdeeds: the two figures in his illustration are

the ‘lonely assassin’ and Marie. The blank space and the wide swaths of black emphasise that

they are cut off from the people of the city. The murderer’s eyes are histrionically rimmed in

black to emphasise his association with depravity. The victim’s eyes and mouth are open, in

keeping with melodrama, in terror and shock. A further Grand-Guignol touch is the element of

the erotic in this illustration. For example, in the words of the story, Marie’s torn undergarment

is twisted ‘fast about the neck’ to enable the murderer to drag ‘his victim to the brink of the

river’, and Clarke captures this physical action in his image.

As I noted earlier, the reputation

Poe had drawn his tale from newspaper reports of the disappearance of Mary Cecilia Rogers, a New-York

shopworker who disappeared in 1841, and whose body was found along the shores of the Hudson River in New

Jersey. Clarke’s illustration shows something of the imaginings of an American frontier in his drawing of an

abandoned wilderness with fantastically tall trees.

Poe, ‘The Mystery of Marie Rogêt’, pp. 210-56 (p. 221).

Poe, ‘The Mystery of Marie Rogêt’, p. 250.

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of the Grand Guignol was based on its ability to apply tension to the balance between death (le

mort) and sex (le petit mort), and it was reported that many of the theatre’s patrons became so

aroused by the pornographic sex and violence in the ‘hot plays’ that the private boxes needed to

be swabbed down after performances.

Seducing viewers with that same salacious spirit,

Clarke’s Marie is barely clothed. Her bodice is ripped and her breasts are exposed; her

undergarments are torn to shreds and the dress over her upper right thigh is cast open, a strap

winding around it.

If Guignol performances were intentionally gory and racy, a ‘concoction of sadism,

alcoholism, eroticism and insanity’, then Clarke’s illustration for ‘Marie Rogêt’ brings that

sadism and insanity, titillation and revulsion, to the viewers.

Because there are no other figures

represented in the scene, the viewers are like theatre patrons in a balcony, positioned at a high

vantage point and alone in the dark, looking down upon the murder. Readers occupy the same

viewing space as the sailor in ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ and the spectators who witness

the death of M. Valdemar.

Conclusion: From Tales of Imagination to the Madness of Crowds

Hand and Wilson argue that the First World War did not deter representations of gore in popular

publications. Rather, ‘one of the consequences of slaughter on such a grand scale was the

realization that, under a certain set of circumstances, everybody was capable of extreme acts of

brutality’.

In the wake of the war, mysteries and thrillers increased in popularity, potentially

because, after 1918, as John Stokes notes, it was possible to conceive of ‘the murderer as

Everyman’.

In Clarke’s lifetime, then, cheap thrills were plentiful, existing alongside serious

social, economic, and racial horrors. The Illustrated London News, the Daily Telegraph, and the

Times all covered crime in lurid detail, and Madame Tussaud’s waxworks continually updated its

Chamber of Horrors near London’s Regent Park.

In addition, the supernatural was in vogue;

bereaved and traumatised relatives hired mediums and attempted to contact the dead and missing

Hand and Wilson, Grand Guignol: The French Theatre, p. 74.

Hand and Wilson, London’s Grand Guignol and the Theatre of Horror (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2007),

pp. 72-76.

Hand and Wilson, London’s Grand Guignol, p. 10.

John Stokes, ‘Body Parts: The Success of the Thriller in the Inter-War Years’, in British Theatre Between the

Wars, 1918-1939, ed. by Clive Barker and Maggie Gale (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 38-62

(p. 57).

Richard Altick, Victorian Studies in Scarlet (New York: W. W. Norton, 1970), pp. 60-61.

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through séances. This cultural moment, in which horror and loss merged with reality and

extraordinary theatricality, likely accounts for why, of all his illustrated books, Tales of Mystery

and Imagination was the most commercially successful for Clarke, going into several reprints in

his lifetime, including the 1923 edition that featured eight new full-colour plates.

Writer,

painter, and visionary George Russell (A. E.) said that Clarke was ‘the ideal interpreter’ of Poe.

Harrap called Tales of Mystery and Imagination his ‘greatest book’ and claimed in its advertising

that ‘the morbid imaginings of Poe’s extraordinary genius are depicted without any attempt to

soften their weird effects upon most readers’.

The colour plates in the 1923 edition are more abstract and dreamlike than the black-and-

white plates produced for the 1919 edition. However, one stands out among them because of the

way that Clarke connects the visceral effect of horror to social decay and the living conditions of

the urban poor. ‘The Man of the Crowd’ (Figure 11) could be set amidst Dublin’s tenements or

even Dublin’s main thoroughfare Sackville Street. The infamous Monto brothel district was to

the east of the Clarke Studios, between Sackville Street and the railway station, but according to

Maria Luddy, Sackville Street itself ‘was a principal promenading ground for prostitutes, and

many working as prostitutes were also to be found in St Stephen’s Green and around the dock

area’.

In Poe’s story, a fevered flâneur follows a strange man, walking London’s streets deep

into the night, watching the flood of trades, professions, and characters around him. Clarke’s

illustration presents a goblin-like figure trampling on a dismembered female torso, surrounded

by prostitutes and alcoholics breathing in and out the filthy ether of the city. The themes of sex

and death are evident, as is an allusion to sin; however, the sin is less that of the individual than

that of the government, abandoning sections of the city to waste and decay.

Tales of Mystery and Imagination was published in America by Brentano’s. Further editions appeared after

Clarke’s death. The current Calla Press edition reprints Harrap’s 1923 edition of the book, including the colour

plates.

Quoted in Bowe, Harry Clarke: His Graphic Art, p. 53.

Quoted in Bowe, Harry Clarke: His Graphic Art, p. 52.

Maria Luddy, Prostitution and Irish Society, 1800-1940 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), p. 35.

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Figure 11: Harry Clarke, ‘The Man of the

Crowd’

Figure 12: Harry Clarke, ‘The Last Hour of the

Night’

As in his social commentary ‘The Last Hour of the Night’ (Figure 12), published in the 1922

town-planning document Dublin of the Future, Clarke’s illustration for the Poe story shows

cracked brickwork, broken panes of glass in the windows, walls propped up with beams, people

huddled in doorways. The central figures in the Poe illustration and the town-planning document

echo Sigmund Freud’s concept of the unheimlich or uncanny.

They extend long hands with

pointed fingernails, share facial features, and even share strange plant-like protrusions from their

faces that echo Redon’s work for the Poe tales. In both illustrations, the psychological effect of

the uncanny or unheimlich is used as a commentary on contemporary urban life.

Considering the book’s debt to a range of horror genres, it is no wonder that Clarke’s

friend and supporter Thomas Bodkin wrote a review of Tales of Mystery and Imagination that

was careful to point out that ‘this is not a book which can be safely shown to a child shortly

Sigmund Freud, ‘The Uncanny’, trans. by James Strachey, in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological

Works of Sigmund Freud (London: Hogarth Press, 1953), XVII, pp. 219-52.

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before its bedtime’.

The visceral impact of the book is, as I have been arguing, due to Clarke’s

ability to translate and embroider upon visual languages of his day inspired by both high-art

traditions such as Symbolism and range of popular-cultural forms. As these rich visual texts from

Tales of Mystery and Imagination demonstrate, Clarke can be considered a master of the

macabre due to his ability to synthesise multiple visual traditions, stylising nightmare visions

from the fabric of life.

Quoted in Bowe, Harry Clarke: His Graphic Art, p. 54.

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Gods of the Real: Lovecraftian Horror and Dialectical Materialism

Sebastian Schuller

The work of H. P. Lovecraft has recently experienced a rise in prominence via the philosophical

currents of speculative realism and object-oriented ontology. Quentin Meillassoux and Graham

Harman, the founding fathers of both schools of thought respectively, argue that the human

subject has no privileged position within the universe, but has to be situated within an egalitarian

ontology, wherein the object-world is thought to exist in autonomy besides the subject-world.

Speculative realism and object-oriented ontology both originated in the early 2000s and

share a critique of Kantian and post-Kantian philosophy. Meillassoux ascribes to Kantian and

post-Kantian philosophy what he calls a ‘correlationist’ worldview – that is, ‘the idea according

to which we only ever have access to the correlation between thinking and being, and never to

either term considered apart from the other’.

In other words, knowledge is limited to the

correlate of thought and being, within these philosophies, which means, following this line of

critique, that we can only know objects in relation to other objects and to the (human) subject,

while objects outside this correlate (the Kantian Ding-an-sich) are not accessible.

This resulted

in privileging the human position, in various forms of anthropocentrism. Meillasoux and Harman

negate the anthropocentric perspective and consequently reject correlationism in all forms. For

them, objects are conceived as in retreat from anthropocentric, sensuous apprehension (and

therefore unknown and ‘unknowable’ to and for us) and are thus endowed with the same

ontological significance as human beings or objects of human cognition, which results in a

radical decentralisation of humankind.

Meillassoux, for instance, postulates that to think beyond human finitude is a

philosophical imperative. In our world, we are inevitably exposed to objects or residues that are

proofs of and, for a reality before and without us, arche-fossils’, as he terms them. These residues

(meteors, for instance) are signs of a reality that has existed before the emergence of the human

See Quentin Meillassoux, After Finitude: An Essay on the Necessity of Contingency, trans. by Ray Brassier

(London: Continuum, 2008), pp. 109-16; and Graham Harman, The Quadruple Object (Winchester: Zer0 Books,

2011), pp. 59-64.

Meillassoux, After Finitude, p. 5.

Meillassoux, p. 60.

See Harman, The Quadruple Object, p. 62.

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correlate, and thus indicate that non-human entities, even if they may be objects within the

human correlate, are also objects for themselves, belonging to non-human realities.

Therefore,

the discovery of ‘arche-fossil[s]’, for Meillassoux, constitutes material proof of ‘the existence of

ancestral reality’ that appears unthinkable, being beyond human phenomenology, and yet that

must have existed independently of the emergence of thinking human bodies in time.

In this context, it is clear why, in Weird Realism: Lovecraft and Philosophy, Harman

called H. P. Lovecraft the ‘poet laureate of object-oriented-ontology’

. Lovecraftian fiction, with

its in- and superhuman monstrous entities, stresses man’s insignificance and the human inability

to grasp cosmic reality completely, gesturing towards the existence of the un-representable and

un-knowable as a feature and even central aspect of the human experience of reality.

Moreover,

the cosmic deities and monsters of Lovecraftian fiction can be read as literalisations of the arche-

fossil avant la lettre. In consequence, as proponents of speculative realism tell us, Lovecraftian –

cosmic – horror allows to rethink human exceptionalism from a non-philosophical perspective:

the basic presumption of Lovecraftian horror is that entities beyond human understanding ruled

the Earth (and are still ruling the universe) long before humankind arrived. Humankind is but an

insignificant coincidence in a wide and dark universe, and not its centre. Hence, the rejection of

anthropocentrism and the imagination of the significance of non-human realities, the cornerstone

of anti-correlationist thinking, are central gestures of Lovecraft’s fiction and Lovecraftian horror.

Through monstrous entities, as envisioned by Lovecraft, we are confronted with arche-fossils –

that is, with the possibility of a world that is world but not for us. Hence, Lovecraftian horror can

be understood, in the words of Eugene Thacker, as ‘a non-philosophical attempt to think about

the world-without-us philosophically’.

In contrast to Harman’s assimilation of Lovecraft to the philosophy of speculative

realism, I argue in this essay that there is a dialectical-materialist unconscious lurking beneath

the surface of Lovecraftian horror. I propose a re-reading of Lovecraft’s writings that does not

relate cosmic horror to the obvious, superficial cosmicism to which Lovecraft himself adhered.

For Meillassoux, this is the central quality of science. Through mathematicising objects, it shows a ‘world capable

of autonomy’, as the mathematicised objects ‘can be described independently of their sensible qualities, such as

flavor, smell, heat, etc’ (After Finitude, p. 115).

Meillassoux, After Finitude, p. 10.

Harman, Weird Realism: Lovecraft and Philosophy (Winchester: Zer0 Books, 2012), p. 32.

Harman, Weird Realism, pp. 24-25, italics in original.

Eugene Thacker, In the Dust of this Planet: Horror of Philosophy, 2 vols (Winchester: Zer0 Books, 2011), I, p. 9.

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Cosmicism, as developed by Lovecraft throughout his fictional and non-fictional writings,

decentres the anthropocentric perspective by assuming the essential insignificance of humanity

and all human experience within a larger and void universe.

While many approaches, including

Harman’s re-interpretation, focus on the philosophical and/or political aspects of this worldview,

I read the cosmicist content of Lovecraft’s horror as, at one and the same time, a reflective

prosopopoeia of regressive reactions against modernity, and an articulation of the emancipatory

potentials confined within its scientific discourse. In this sense, my intervention challenges both

Harman’s interpretation of Lovecraftian fiction as anticipation of speculative realism and those

approaches (presented for example by Michel Houellebecq) that focus only on the reactionary

kernel of cosmicism in Lovecraft’s writing.

As this essay demonstrates, the traits in Lovecraft’s

work that can be read as indicating that a regressive political worldview, and an engagement with

speculative realism avant la letter, contain moments that exceed the merely speculative and

reactionary. Thus, I argue, there is an inherently dialectical moment within Lovecraft’s fiction,

that tends out of itself towards a dialectical-materialist reading and an emancipatory potency, one

that is overlooked or neglected by prominent readers of Lovecraft, like Harman or Houellebecq.

‘Une haine absolue du monde’: The Regressive Foundations of Cosmic Horror

It is a critical commonplace that cosmic horror has a decisively reactionary and oftentimes

explicitly racist underside; for example, Houellebecq stresses this point in his seminal essay on

Lovecraft.

In doing so, Houellebecq neither excuses Lovecraft’s racism nor explains it away, in

stark contrast to Lovecraft-scholars like S. T. Joshi: Joshi rejects the notion that racism was an

inherent feature of Lovecraft’s work, and maintains that the racist undertones of Lovecraft’s

writing are either due to misinterpretations of his work or, at worst, effects of the reactionary

worldview that Lovecraft had as a young men (and changed in his later years).

From the point

of view of established Lovecraft scholarship, Houellebecq’s project must consequently appear as

a heresy, insofar as the French author does not explain away Lovecraftian racism, but proposes

See Jeff Lacy and Steven J. Zani, ‘The Negative Mystics of the Mechanistic Sublime: Walter Benjamin and

Lovecraft’s Cosmicism’, Lovecraft Annual, 1 (2007), 67-70.

See: Michel Houellebecq, H. P. Lovecraft: Contre le monde, contre la vie (Paris: Éditions de Rocher, 2005), pp.

131-33.

Ibid.

See S. T. Joshi, ‘Why Michel Houellebecq is Wrong about Lovecraft’s Racism’, Lovecraft Annual, 12 (2018), 43-

45.

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to read the reactionary and racist moment as central to the understanding of Lovecraft’s

cosmicism.

He grounds his argumentation in a surprisingly conventional, biographical reading of

‘The Horror at Red Hook’ (1925), a story usually dismissed by critics as both poorly written and

openly racist.

Houellebecq relates this story to Lovecraft’s stay in New York City, where he

lived for nearly two years (1924-26) with his wife, unable to integrate into a modern, capitalist

city that by no means resembled the well-ordered, ossified New-England micro-cosmos he was

used to.

Repelled by the free intercourse of different races and by a social context wherein his

‘pure’ ancestry had no meaning at all, Lovecraft composed ‘The Horror at Red Hook’, the plot of

which centres around Inspector Malone’s uncovering of a dark black-magic cult in a

neighbourhood that is described as ‘a maze of hybrid squalor’, ‘a babel of sound and filth’.

The

sprawling life inhabiting the multicultural quarter of Red Hook is depicted as threatening the

stability of society as a whole – a threat reflected by the destructive activities of an occult sect,

who worships demon-like entities hiding in caverns beneath the city. As becomes clear in the

following passage, a demonic vitalism is ascribed to both the demons beneath the city and their

worshippers on the surface (who Lovecraft describes using a broad variety of racist slurs):

One can trace the relics of this former happiness in the trim shapes of the buildings, the

occasional graceful churches, and the evidences of original art and background in bits of

detail here and there – a worn flight of steps, a battered doorway, a wormy pair of

decorative columns or pilasters, or a fragment of once green space with bent and rusted

iron railing. The houses are generally in solid blocks, and now and then a many-

windowed cupola arises to tell of days when the households of captains and ship-owners

watched the sea. From this tangle of material and spiritual putrescence the blasphemies of

an hundred dialects assail the sky. Hordes of prowlers reel shouting and singing along the

lanes and thoroughfares, occasional furtive hands suddenly extinguish lights and pull

down curtains, and swarthy, sin-pitted faces disappear from windows when visitors pick

their way through.

It is not the undead who interfere with the living here, but the living themselves who appear as

undead and demonic. The social ideal as portrayed in this story exists only as a residue of the

past, one that has since been subsumed by the ‘blasphemies of an hundred dialects’ and ‘[h]ordes

Houellebecq, H. P. Lovecraft, pp. 111-15.

Lin Carter, Lovecraft: A Look Behind the Cthulhu Mythos (New York: Ballantine Books, 1972), p. 46.

Houellebecq, pp. 133-36.

H. P. Lovecraft, ‘The Horror at Red Hook’, in The Tomb and Other Tales (New York: Ballantine Books, 1970),

pp. 70-93 (p. 74).

Lovecraft, ‘Red Hook’, pp. 74-75.

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of prowlers reel[ing] shouting and singing along the lanes’. The non-human entities acting as

central objects of horror, along with their human, generally non-white devotees, are the ones

endowed with agency. The conspiracies of their cult followers subvert and undermine society.

The cultists and the multi-cultural quarter of Red Hook are presented as invested with a surplus

of life; there is a permanent ‘shouting and singing’ to be heard in the streets and a ‘hundred

dialects assail the sky’ over ground, while beneath the surface, monstrous beings brood over their

dark plans. Meanwhile, the white, Anglo-Saxon society appears as past and bygone,

memorialised by the decaying houses of the ‘captains and ship-owners [that] watched the sea’.

This memory ‘of former happiness’ is now literally inhabited by the multicultural and pluri-

racial mass of people, and appears thus as a mortified and lost past. Moreover, the mere

existence of the monstrous entities in the underground beneath New York, worshipped by the

cultists, proves that the social order has always been unstable and endangered. The unity of an

organic, white society appears, when set against the horror of the monstrous other, as a bloodless

illusion that never truly existed. Consequently, Inspector Malone is not a white-supremacist hero

who reinstalls harmony; instead, confronted with the horror beneath his city, he functions as a

stereotypical Lovecraftian protagonist who can only passively register that the white society he

stands for is already lost.

As this implies, ‘The Horror at Red Hook’ is structured around what is more or less a

basic Lovecraftian plot, in which a protagonist, generally young and of WASP origin, accidently

discovers during more or less desultory research a dark mystery or sinister plot, engineered by

nonhuman monsters, lurking at the very margin of our ‘space-time’. In the course of events, the

protagonist is confronted not only with the margins of reality but first and foremost with the

margins of society. He finds himself in the ‘backwaters’ of New England, has to travel to half-

deserted villages (like in ‘The Dunwich Horror’ (1929)), impoverished towns (like in ‘Shadow

Over Innsmouth’ (1931)), or outright slums (‘Pickman’s Model’ (1927)), where what awaits him

is not merely cosmic monstrosities, but also the monstrosity of a society in the state of decline.

Indeed, this decline – ‘decay’ and ‘degeneration’ are Lovecraft’s favourite terms to relate to

these settings

– is no mere coincidence, but indicative of the (soon-to-be-revealed) presence of

the unnatural. The margins of society are marked by the disintegration of the demarcations

China Miéville, ‘Introduction to At the Mountains of Madness’, in Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness, ed. by

Joshi (New York: Modern Library, 2005), pp. xi-xxv (p. xxi).

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between white and non-white, nationals and foreigners, and, in consequence, human and non-

human, and by the occult agency of the monstrous presence of monstrous agents.

Houellebecq reads this fixation on disintegration as the core of Lovecraft’s reactionary

stance towards modernity.

Lovecraftian horror is first and foremost the horror of the decaying,

white, Anglo-Saxon gentry, which has to register the decline of its quasi-aristocratic, solid,

hierarchical lifestyle. It is the horror of modern life, of the dissolution of white supremacy and

male identity through an all-encompassing circulation of commodities, human bodies, and

cultures.

Yet this disintegration of ‘all that is solid’,

to use Marx’s famous phrase, by modern

capitalism is not to be separated from the disintegration of the organic and the non-organic, the

human and the non-human in the Lovecraftian universe. The seemingly solid identity of Anglo-

Saxon America therefore appears here as a mere historic contingency, undermined by dark forces

of disintegration that undermine both social boundaries and the boundaries of human bodies

themselves.

Crucially, however, as exemplified by ‘The Horror at Red Hook’, the social changes

threatening society are presented in Lovecraft’s work as mere expressions or results of the work

of the non-human. It is not only the world of the gentleman that is dissolved; reality itself

becomes unstable, allowing for the world to be considered from a non-human perspective as a

mere point in a cold and dark universe.

Lovecraft’s operation hence does not consist in a

nostalgic return to a seemingly harmonic pre-modernity. Instead of opposing modernity and its

Although Lovecraft scholars like Kenneth W. Faig and Joshi argue that Lovecraft lost many of his Anglophile,

white-supremacist views in his later life, it still cannot be denied that he maintained a racist worldview throughout

most of his career and also, in his last years, declared himself an adherent of a ‘fascist socialism’. See Faig and

Joshi, ‘H. P. Lovecraft: His Life and Work’, in H. P. Lovecraft: Four Decades of Criticism, ed. by Joshi (Athens,

OH: Ohio University Press, 1980), pp. 1-19 (pp. 14-15).

Lovecraft himself supports such an interpretation in his poetological essay Supernatural Horror in Literature

(1927). On the one hand, horror in literature appears here as a reflection of the social situation of a decaying class

realising the dissolution of the social reality in which it emerged and existed. Its ‘appeal’ can only be felt by those

who are ‘detached from daily life’, by which Lovecraft means readers who do not (and perhaps do not need to)

participate in modern society. Thus he establishes horror as a sentiment of an elite that is decisively pre-modern,

never mingling with the profane world of ‘daily routine’. On the other hand, this elitist horror seems to constitute a

non-synchronic interruption of his contemporaneity, which he sees as defined by ‘rationalisation, reform, or

Freudian analysis’; grounded in psychological or even biological traits, this modernity, for Lovecraft, allows

traditional ideological formations –‘fancies’ – to persist within the modern world in form of a simple negation:

modernity is met with horror, in which the sentiment of a dissolved pre-modernity is preserved in the very moments

of its disintegration (Lovecraft, Supernatural Horror in Literature (New York: Ben Abramson, 1945), pp. 104-06).

Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, Selected Works, trans. by Samuel Moore and Friedrich Engels, 3 vols (Moscow:

Progress Publishers, 1969), I, p. 108.

Brian Johnson, ‘Prehistories of Posthumanism: Cosmic Indifferentism, Alien Genesis, and Ecology from H. P.

Lovecraft to Ridley Scott’, in The Age of Lovecraft, ed. by Carl H. Sederholm and Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock

(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2016), pp. 97-116 (p. 99).

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positivistic rationalisations of life, Lovecraft embraces these forces as a means to decentralise

radically the human experience.

While he may cling to his regressive and racist convictions, he

nonetheless does not tell tales of race war or Aryan Übermenschen, but reduces his protagonists

to mere spectators or, more often, victims who can only passively register the presence of cosmic

entities beyond human imagination or resistance.

In ‘The Horror at Red Hook’, Inspector

Malone at least discovers actively the dark secrets of the cult, but is unable to exorcise the

monstrous underworld of his city once and for all. In later tales, like in ‘The Dreams in the Witch

House’ (1932), this structural moment is radicalised. The protagonist, a student named Walter

Gilman, is possessed by the undead witch Keziah Mason, who forces him to enter

interdimensional spaces by using black magic.

Gilman is ultimately helpless to stop the

demonic presence of the witch; he can only register the horrors of a wider cosmos and of the

abysmal entities that inhabit it, without any agency of his own. And even though he manages to

defeat the witch by the rather mundane means of a silver cross, he is brutally killed by Mason’s

demonic familiar.

There is no final harmony possible in the dark cosmicism of Lovecraft.

Lovecraftian horror thus neither desires to return to premodern times nor to escape the

distortions of modernity. Rather, it radicalises these distortions. The modern scientific

worldview, as figured in these stories, disavows the reality of the simple, quiet life of the white

gentleman, depicting such a life as always-already an impossibility, one that is threatened not

only by historic, social transformations but by cosmic forces. The seemingly ordered harmony of

a hierarchical human world is but an exception in the madness of relativistic space-time, as

revealed to human brains by modern sciences, resulting in a cosmic horror that organises not

only a reactionary revulsion to modernity but, as Houellebecq puts it, an absolute hatred of the

world, or what he calls ‘[u]ne haine absolue du monde en général, aggravée d’un dégoût

particulier pour le monde moderne. Voilà qui résume bien l’attitude de Lovecraft.’

In other words, the political implications of cosmic horror are not to be restricted to

simple racism and reactionary thought. While these features remain prominent within

Ibid.

Houellebecq, H. P. Lovecraft, pp. 67-73.

See Lovecraft, ‘The Dreams in the Witch House’, in At the Mountains of Madness and Other Tales of Terror, ed.

by August Derleth and Donald Wandrei (New York: Ballantine Books), pp. 149-53.

Lovecraft, ‘The Dreams in the Witch House’, pp. 175-77.

Houellebecq, H. P. Lovecraft, p. 65. This translates as ‘an absolute hatred of the world in general, aggravated by

his disgust for the modern world in particular. This sums up the attitude of Lovecraft’ (trans. by Schuller).

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Lovecraft’s stories, they are connected to a radical nihilism that devaluates the very existence of

humanity in its confrontation with the non-human Other. Thus, modernity is not simply negated;

instead, exactly the moments that Lovecraft saw as defining moments of modernity – scientific

development, capitalism, and burgeoning multiculturalism – are paradoxically employed in his

work for aesthetic ends. The negated modernity appears as vivid object and subject of horror,

while the glorified past is but a lifeless spectre; its proponents are reduced to spectators of the

cosmic horror of decay and surplus life that is devouring their world. And, what is more, in the

negation of modernity, the whole of human existence is decentred and negated as an irrelevancy

in the wider cosmos.

Demonology of the Real

This negation is only possible because Lovecraft’s nihilism is anti-modern and yet informed by

modern sciences. He himself makes this clear in a passage of Supernatural Horror in Literature

(1927), which might be termed his poetological essay on the history and contemporary

possibilities of weird fiction. In it, Lovecraft argues explicitly against simple regressive reactions

towards modernity, which seek to neglect modern sciences for the sake of an anachronistic

preservation of the mystical and occult. Instead, he proposes to employ rationalism for the sake

of a new, rationalised, materialistic horror. As he puts it,

For those who relish speculation regarding the future, the tale of supernatural horror

provides an interesting field. Combated by a mounting wave of plodding realism, cynical

flippancy, and sophisticated disillusionment, it is yet encouraged by a parallel tide of

growing mysticism, as developed both through the fatigued reaction of ‘occultists’ and

religious fundamentalists against materialistic discovery and through the stimulation of

wonder and fancy by such enlarged vistas and broken barriers as modern science has

given us with its intra-atomic chemistry, advancing astrophysics, doctrines of relativity,

and probings into biology and human thought.

Lovecraft’s point of departure in this passage is the ‘sophisticated disillusionment’ brought about

by the natural sciences, which have broken with a mystical apprehension of nature and, in

consequence, with the ostensible harmony of pre-modern societies. These developments are

paralleled first with the modern phenomenon of the rise of esotericism, a position for which

Lovecraft, Supernatural Horror in Literature, pp. 105-06.

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Lovecraft displayed little sympathy.

He figures it as a ‘fatigued reaction’ against modernity – a

secondary, reactionary, and, in the end, anti-modern position. He himself does not subscribe to

such forms, which he sees as simply and nostalgically reclaiming the past, but instead describes

an alternative reaction to it. He argues that discoveries by modern sciences allow for an

understanding of reality that proves the utter indifference of the universe towards human

existence, and thus grant a new and decisively materialist ‘stimulation of wonder and fancy’.

The implications of this inhuman structure of being become most obvious in the case of

‘The Colour Out of Space’ (1927), particularly in the passage that runs as follows:

The colour, which resembled some of the bands in the meteor’s strange spectrum, was

almost impossible to describe; and it was only by analogy that they called it colour at all.

Its texture was glossy, and upon tapping it appeared to promise both brittleness and

hollowness. One of the professors gave it a smart blow with a hammer, and it burst with a

nervous little pop. Nothing was emitted, and all trace of the thing vanished with the

puncturing.

‘The Colour Out of Space’ is narrated from the perspective of a surveyor who examines the

countryside near Arkham, where a reservoir is being planned. Over the course of his

examinations, an old farmer reports an uncanny incident from forty years ago. A meteorite

crashed on a farm, unleashing a horror which consumed all living things on the farm and finally

killed the farmer, as well as his entire family. Right after the crash, scientists from the University

of Arkham examined the meteorite, only to find a ‘colour’ at its core. This is, of course, a

misleading description, since naming the thing a ‘colour’ is nothing but a mere approximation or

analogy. Yet even that analogy is not upheld: the story never suggests what earthly colour inside

of the meteorite might have resembled, or what material qualities the entity – the ‘colour’ –

within the meteorite had. In general, it seems impossible to determine its essence, as ‘the thing’

disappears at the first contact with the professor’s hammer, just as probes transported later to a

laboratory simply dissolve into nothingness, without revealing the nature of the ‘colour’. It is

simply there, endowed with (ultimately fatal) agency. Its very presence causes mutations in the

farmland. Organic life expires and human beings lose their mind. On the other hand, its motives,

if it has any, are as unclear as its form and essence are. It is not even safe to assume that it acts

Philip A. Shreffler, The H. P. Lovecraft Companion (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1977), p. 21.

Lovecraft, ‘The Colour Out of Space’, in The Best of H.P. Lovecraft: Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the

Macabre (New York: Ballantine, 1982), pp. 193-217 (p. 198).

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rationally, since it may just be a natural phenomenon, not a sentient agent. Nobody – neither

scientists from the University of Arkham nor its victims – prove able to classify it within any

metaphysical or scientific system. The ‘colour’ lacks representation in any discourse and any

stable place within reality, appearing as an impossibility that exists in spite of its (literal)

instability. In this sense, we could describe the ‘colour’ as an arche-typical arche-fossil. It

presents us and its victims with the possibility of a world beyond the human correlate that

nonetheless has significance for the human experience, and is endowed with an agency of its

own.

While ‘the colour’ might be an extreme example of the typical non-human other in

Lovecraftian tales, this characterisation nonetheless can also be applied to entities like Yog-

Sothoth, Dagon, or Cthulhu. Far from being the familiar ghosts or ghouls of gothic novels, like

Count Dracula, they cannot be integrated into a formally established metaphysical, folkloristic,

or esoteric reference system. It is not clear what they really are – if they are material entities, or

supernatural beings that do not obey natural laws. They appear as impossibilities within the

world of the stories, negativities that deny any attempts to determine their nature. In fact, even

their names, if they have any, do not really name them in the sense of a symbolic determination,

as it is unclear, for instance, how properly to pronounce the name ‘Cthulhu’, which is open to all

kinds of variations. In this sense, the monster of Lovecraftian horror is monstrous not because it

is positioned as extraterrestrial or extra-dimensional (in some cases, like ‘Dagon’ (1917) or ‘The

Shadow Over Innsmouth’ (1931), the monstrous seems indeed native to Earth), but because it

designates the indeterminable within the structure of reality. Reality and the symbolic order are

not simply interrupted; the presence and pure existence of the monster within the realm of reality

indicates that the structure of reality is broken in itself. The absolute negative, the

indeterminable, appears as immanent to reality itself, rendering it, and therefore our own position

within it, instable and irrational.

At this point, we could easily return to speculative realism. For example, as Isabella van

Elferen proposes,

It is not hard to conceive of these cosmic eras as ancestral times in Meillassoux’s

definition. Time and time again […] the tireless scientists populating Lovecraft’s stories

prove that these ancestral realities exist even though they never appear before the eyes of

any observer. The scientists’ gathering of empirical evidence in order to chart the

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ancestrality of the universes they are confronted with ties in with Meillasoux’s

mathematical paradigm, which similarly endeavors to calculate insight into the outside-

human-perception.

In such a reading, the Lovecraftian monster serves as the un-representable, the objective-in-itself,

which is beyond human imagination or perception, but still exists, decentralising the human

position within the universe. The Lovecraftian monster, the object of horror in his stories, is, so

to speak, an arche-fossil that has come to life, opening up an anti- or, more accurately, a non-

human vista of reality. In this sense, cosmic horror is understood as the consequence of an

ontological consideration that anticipates speculative realism. The universe and being in itself are

seen from a non-human point of view, rendering a reality thinkable in which humankind is but

one (and rather irrelevant) point within interfering networks of non-human, objective agents.

Yet while this may hold true, the ontological point of cosmic horror cannot be reduced to

speculation regarding the non-human – or, in other words, for Lovecraftian horror, to speculate

about the realm of the non-human means always and decisively a negation of the human.

Speculative materialism does not so much understand the dissolution of ‘correlationism’ – that

is, as defined above, the observation of the world from the privileged point of view of the human

subject – as a negation of human experience altogether, but rather constitutes modes of accepting

the decentred position of humankind in parallel with various perceivable and non-perceivable

phenomena. By contrast, Lovecraft’s conception of horror puts the negation (of the human in

itself) at the centre of reality. This becomes explicit in the introductory remarks to his famous

short story ‘The Call of Cthulhu’ (1926), in which the narrator states that

The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to

correlate all of its content. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black

seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each

straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing

together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of

our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from

the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.

In this sense, Lovecraft is not so much a speculative realist avant la lettre, as Harman assumes.

While it accepts, just like speculative realism after him, a non-human perspective, Lovecraftian

Isabella van Elferen, ‘Hyper-Cacophony: Lovecraft, Speculative Realism, and Sonic Realism’, in The Age of

Lovecraft, pp.m79-96 (p. 87).

Lovecraft, ‘The Call of Cthulhu’, in The Best of H. P. Lovecraft, pp. 72-97 (p. 72).

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horror focuses on the position of humanity within this perspective. The horror does not consist in

the fact that there are ‘terrifying vistas’ of reality besides our human perception, but that these

vistas reveal our ‘frightful position’ within the universe. This relates to the structure discussed

above in relation to ‘The Horror of Red Hook’. It is not the presence of the monstrous entities

beneath New York City that inspires horror; instead, the horror lies in the fact that the mere

existence of the monstrous, and of the cult that worships it, reveals that the illusion of a

harmonious, white society was always already distorted and consequently lost beyond salvation.

On the one hand, the presence of the non-human does indeed distort an anthropocentric

worldview. Confronted with the ‘deadly light’ of a modern scientific worldview revealing our

insignificance, humanity is bound to flee ‘into the peace and safety of a new dark age’. But on

the other hand, the non-human perspective cannot be subtracted from its social and political

implications: Through the mechanisations of the non-human agents and their followers, the

values and the stability of pre-modern, white-settler society are questioned, negated, and

revealed to be but mere illusions.

This social aspect of Lovecraftian horror is apparent in ‘The Call of Cthulhu’. This short

story, centred around the most popular Lovecraftian creation that has entered popular culture, the

cephalopodan demi-god Cthulhu, is in itself a rather conventional Lovecraft tale, which presents

scenarios similar to those described above. The protagonist, while examining the inheritance of

his uncle, unravels step by step a cult make up of people of colour (introduced in a typical racist

manner), worshiping the messiah-like figure of Cthulhu, preparing for his eventual return by

undermining society, organising human sacrifices, and so on. In this story, the topoi of

degeneration, the disintegration of civilised society, and the concomitant disintegration of reality

are prominent and inspire fear in the protagonist, who must come to understand that, at the

margins of his middle-class, urban society, brutish cults are threatening the world as he knows it

with a nihilist destructive force. Yet the true subject of horror is not the power of the world

conspiracy of the Cthulhu cultists, uncovered by the protagonist, nor is it the mere monster

Cthulhu in itself. It is the realisation of the radical negation of human knowledge in and by

Cthulhu’s existence. Cthulhu is not a mere demon that has no place within the world but still

forms part of a metaphysical order; instead, it appears as an unnatural impossibility, which does

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not cohere to any fixed (symbolic) order.

It is not possible to name what it really is, not even if

he is made out of earthly matter. But nonetheless, much like the mysterious ‘colour’, it is there.

Confronted with Cthulhu, human subjects have to acknowledge two horrifying truths.

First, they have no real place in the cosmic order. Second, the categories they rely on – like

matter, time, and space – are revealed to be neither fixed nor stable. Cthulhu cannot be known or

understood. As the account of Johansen (the only survivor of an unlucky ship’s crew that by

accident landed on the shores R’lyeh, the city of Cthulhu that has risen temporarily out of the

ocean) tells us, ‘The Thing’ ‘cannot be described – there is no language for such abysms of

shrieking and immemorial lunacy, such eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic

order’.

Cthulhu is the absolute negation of our symbolic order and phenomenological capacity,

but it is there nonetheless. And what is more, in the confrontation with this embodiment of the

‘black seas of infinity’, we may grasp a more complete understanding of reality.

Thus, to be in

contact with Cthulhu means to encounter the negation as the essential centre of reality; or, to put

it another way, it is only through its absolute negation that reality becomes perceivable as reality.

In this sense, the demonic entities with which Lovecraft’s protagonists are confronted are neither

intruders into a harmonic universe nor unnatural deviations from the cosmic order. They are the

realisations not only of the limitation of human knowledge and subjectivity, but also and

furthermore, of the negative core of human reality in itself. As the narrator realises in despair at

the end of ‘The Call of Cthulhu’, “[l]oathsomeness waits and dreams in the deep, and decay

spreads over the tottering cities of men’.

In this account, counterintuitive as it may sound, Lovecraft’s fascination with non-

Euclidian geometry coincides with the mode of modern scientific knowledge – at least if we

follow Alexandre Koyré.

Koyré undertook to rethink modern science against and beyond the

paradigm of positivism and empiricism. Positivism and empiricism both claim that science is a

form of knowledge that is not grounded upon metaphysical speculation but emerges from the

interaction of logical human reason with reality. This produces a (re-)affirmation of teleological

conceptions of history. The emphasis on logic over all ‘bad’ metaphysics results in the

Johnson‚ ‘Prehistories of Posthumanism’, pp. 99-10.

Lovecraft, ‘The Call of Cthulhu’, p. 95.

Lovecraft, ‘The Call of Cthulhu’, p. 72.

Lovecraft, ‘The Call of Cthulhu’, p. 97.

See Alexandré Koyré, Études d’histoire de la pensée philosophique (Paris: Gallimard, 1961), pp. 311-29.

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postulation of a gradual historic unfolding of the object of science, knowledge of which is

progressively perfected by the ‘savant’, the scientist.

Against this progressivist notion of

modern sciences, Koyré describes the dialectical core of modern science by contrasting its truth

procedures to Aristotelean (that is, pre-modern) physics.

For Aristoteles and pre-modern

scientists – that is, sciences before the Enlightenment – the world had to be thought of as

automaton, a set of phenomena appearing in a determinable, structural, and strictly speaking

‘regular’ manner.

In other words, reality is, for Aristotle and those who follow his ideas, only

to be determined from a structural perspective. Reality is understood as automaton, an automatic

mechanism that reproduces the same structural moments time and again, while everything that

negates the structure is to be seen in simple opposition to it.

Reality and the real are, in this

formulation, one and the same.

In contrast, modern science (that is, science after the advent of

Enlightenment and capitalism that broke with the conception of the world as an automatic and

harmonious whole) understands the distortion of reality as the only vantage point from which we

can understand it. Reality is not real, but the interruption of reality is the real of our reality. That

is to say, positive knowledge of the real of reality is impossible, as the real appears only in the

negation of reality.

This becomes obvious if we follow for one moment Koyré’s understanding of the

structural logic behind an empirical experiment – specifically, the case of astronomical

observations. The experimenter, in Koryé’s formulation, does not simply experience reality ‘as it

is’, but first and foremost dehumanises themselves in the experiment, in the sense that reality is

experienced, not by means of human organs alone, but with the help of instruments, like a

telescope.

These instruments in turn are not only prostheses; they are material expressions of

mathematical considerations. Constructing such instruments requires a pre-understanding of

Samo Tomšič, ‘Das Unmögliche der Mathematik: Koyré und Lacan’, in Die Wirklichkeit des Realismus, ed. by

Veronika Thanner, Joseph Vogl, and Dorothea Walzer (München: Fink, 2018), pp. 277-93 (pp. 278-80).

Ibid.

Tomšič, ‘Das Unmögliche der Mathematik’, p. 281.

Ibid.

This has to be read in context with the contemporary tradition of Lacanian Marxism. In short, Lacan’s point is that

there is a gap within the symbolic order of our reality (language/body; form/matter; phenomena/noumena) that is not

simply a transcendental limitation of our notion of reality (as Kantian discourses would have it), but rather

constitutive of reality itself. This ‘gap’ is the real of reality that structures it, while it exists only as a gap (and not as

proper content) that is part of reality itself. See Slavoj Žižek, Absolute Recoil: Towards a New Foundation of

Dialectical Materialism (London; New York: Verso, 2014), pp. 104-06.

Koyré, Études d’histoire philosophique, pp. 311-29.

Ibid.

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what should be observed; this understanding is expressed by and in mathematical language.

Hence, nature is not observed, as Aristotelean science would have it, but reality appears as

predetermined by means of mathemata. For it is our mathematical interpretation of the world that

determines the shape and functions of the instruments with which we can observe it, with the

result that all our observations are effectuated in the end by mathematical considerations (a high-

end telescope for instance does not simply ‘see’ something. Instead, it registers intensities of

electromagnetic radiation that it interprets according to our mathematical understanding of the

physical realm, which produces the images we may be familiar with). And, in a more abstract

sense, this means that the symbolic order is not derived from the perception of the structures of

nature, but through the symbolic, the scientific-mathematical discourse, that precedes the act of

observation.

The subject of modern science therefore does not rely on the ‘natural’ experience

of the world, like the subject of pre-modern, Aristotelean science, but on the mathematical

interpretation of our world, that produces, when confronted with the empirical, ‘reality’. Our

modes of knowing are implicated in the very production of reality.

The consequences of this interaction of the symbolic and material reality (subject and

object, so to speak) are far reaching. First, the automaton as base of human knowledge is

devaluated, as all regularities found through an experiment are experienced through the material

application of mathemata in the experiment. The instruments of the experiment, conceived

through the mathematical interpretation of our world, may show irregularities, revealing gaps

within these interpretations, and thus result in new or amended mathematical approaches that

produce in turn new instruments and make new experiments necessary. This means that no linear

and immediate experience of the world in the experiment is possible (neither can the world be

understood directly through mathematics), but every ‘empirical’ experience of the experiment is

charged with the symbolic (of the mathemata) and thus broken in itself, as we experience the

symbolic to be limited. The regular, that which meets the expectation (of the mathematical

calculation), cannot expand scientific understanding, as it is already a result of it. Hence, the only

way of expanding human knowledge is to look for the moments in which the expectations based

on the mathematical discourse are not fulfilled. Only the impossible irregularity within reality

allows the scientist to restructure and thus enhance the mathematical models of reality, leading to

Tomšič, ‘Das Unmögliche der Mathematik’, pp. 284-86.

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a new symbolic, which again allows new observations, leading to new impossibilities.

Thus,

modern science understands being as a dynamic process circling around the negation (of

knowledge, of the symbolic). There is no positive knowledge, but scientific knowledge is

precisely a process of constant negation of any positive knowledge. As Samo Tomšič claims,

science posits the negation of reality as its real. The real of reality is the defect from reality.

This, of course, is the original operation of dialectical materialism, which understands

reality as the dynamic unity of the mutual negation of subject and object.

Therefore, modern

science and dialectical materialism share a common ground or common structural logic. Both

discern between reality and the real, and describe – in different terminologies of course – that the

real is to be known only as negation of reality.

It is this immanent anti-Aristotelean logic of

modern science and dialectical materialism that is repeated in Lovecraftian horror. Modern

science breaks with the pre-modern mode of human knowledge, introducing radical negativity as

the essential core of any scientific knowledge, just as the presence of the monster in Lovecraft’s

stories breaks the reality of his WASP-protagonists, forcing them to question their pre-modern

worldviews. Fascinated by new insights brought forward by modern sciences,

Lovecraft

constantly deploys allusions to modern sciences in his texts; from Riemannian (non-Euclidian)

geometry (in ‘Dreams in the Witch House’), through neurology (‘From Beyond’ (1934)), to

Einsteinian relativity (‘The Whisperer in Darkness’ (1931)), he uses modern science as a means

to devaluate human exceptionalism. Science, as the narrator of ‘The Call of Cthulhu’ states at the

beginning of the story, reveals a new reality, in which humankind has lost its privileged position,

and thus can serve, as Lovecraft himself theorises in Supernatural Horror in Literature, as we

have seen above, as a means to inspire a new, materialistic horror.

It is this use of scientific devaluation of the human position within the world that may

align Lovecraft to speculative realism, as it breaks with anthropocentric ‘correlationism’. But

Koyré, Newtonian Studies (London: Harvard University Press, 1965), p. 10.

Tomšič, ‘Das Unmögliche der Mathematik’, pp. 289-90.

In fact, Karl Marx criticised pre-dialectical materialism (especially Feuerbach) for sticking to a mere mechanist

(that is, post-Kantian) worldview in which subject and object remained separated. In opposition to this, he laid the

foundation for a dialectical-materialist notion of reality, which relies upon the idea of a processual unity of subject

and object within their dynamic, mutual negation: ‘The chief defect of all hitherto existing materialism (that of

Feuerbach included) is that the thing, reality, sensuousness, is conceived only in the form of the object or of

contemplation, but not as sensuous human activity, practice, not subjectively’ (Karl Marx, Early Writings, trans. by

Rodney Livingston and Gregor Benton (London: Penguin Books, 1992), p. 422).

Tomšič, The Capitalist Unconscious (London; New York: Verso, 2015), pp. 50-55.

See Fritz Leiber Jr., ‘A Literary Copernicus’, in: H. P. Lovecraft: Four Decades of Criticism, pp. 50-62 (p. 53).

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Lovecraft is not content with simply imagining a non-human universe beyond human

knowledge. Rather, he confronts his readers with a ‘scientific uncanny’.

The objects of his

horror, monstrous as they are, are presented in a quasi-scientific manner. Lovecraft employs an

oftentimes accurate taxonomic language to describe them (as happens for example in length in At

the Mountains of Madness (1936), where the ‘elder things’ are described with biological

accuracy),

and relates their discovery to new scientific methods and models. Through scientific

and rational observation, the impossibility and irrationality of the monstrous as well as of the

entire reality are unearthed. It is not the occult, pre-modern, and irrational but the decisively

modern, rational, and scientific worldview that opens up vistas of a reality, but, crucially, that

reality is revealed to be irrational in its core.

From here, we can return to the dialectical core of modern science, discussed above. As

we have seen, modern science is distinguished from Aristotelean science as it thinks reality from

the vantage point of its inherent irregularities – of its negation (and not as an automatic

structure). Just as capitalism and Enlightenment unravelled the ossified social structure of

feudalism, modern science, as a product of Enlightenment, distorted reality, revealing the void as

its real. Lovecraft, while deploring the destruction of the old certainties, applied nonetheless the

modern mode of knowledge as his aesthetic principle. The monstrosity of the world of modern

science and modernity by and large, which introduce the distortion into reality as its centrepiece,

are translated in the horror of a universe of monstrosities that are undeterminable and yet there.

Thus, Lovecraftian horror reproduces the mode of modern scientific knowledge by introducing

monsters that designate an experience of the impossible within the structures of reality; it does so

by describing and characterising them within or at least in regards to discourses of modern

science. Furthermore, analogous to the discoveries of non-Aristotelean science outlined above,

the intra-diegetic reality described in his fiction is distorted by the appearance of the monstrous.

However, this distortion becomes a constitutive moment of reality, as the protagonists of his

stories come to apprehend the frailty of their world and the indeterminate nature of reality when

confronted with the indeterminable monstrosity of the non-human. In contrast to all forms of

speculative-realist ontology, the negation of reality is revealed to be its real, just like in the

dialectical mode of modern science. In this sense, it is not the supernatural in itself but the

Miéville, ‘Introduction’, p. xv.

Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness, pp. 19-22.

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dialectical kernel of scientific knowledge that appears as the prime source of Lovecraft’s

‘materialist horror’.

The Political Unconscious of Cosmic Horror

The tendencies that I have been outlining can be related, as paradoxical as it may sound, to

Lovecraft’s reaction towards the impositions of modernity. Throughout this work, the liquidation

of a hierarchical white-settler society through the emergence of capitalism is reflected as

threatening decay, and connected with the liquidation of the organic and non-organic, the

invasion of dark, monstrous forces, disrupting worldly harmony, as we have seen on the example

of ‘The Horror at Red Hook’. On the surface, this disruption gives rise to regressive

ideologemes. Lovecraftian horror confronts modernity with a vitriolic mixture of reactionary

thought and open racism, accompanied by an elitist disgust for the proletarian masses arising

together with capitalism. As China Miéville has argued in his Introduction to At the Mountains of

Madness, Lovecraftian horror is also the horror of the masses; their self-determined

heterogeneity finds its image in the distorted, fluid, and shapeless body of the monster of cosmic

horror.

This becomes evident in At the Mountain of Madness. The short novel narrates the fate of

an Antarctic expedition that by mere coincidence first discovers fossil relics of the ‘Elder

Beings’ and then eventually also the ruins of their civilisation, which is millions of years old.

While, for most of the novel, it seems evident that the ‘Elder Beings’ are the monsters of this

story – some of them are revived by bad luck, and kill off (and maybe eat) part of the expedition

team – it is later made clear that they themselves are but ‘men of another age and another order

of being’ for whom the narrator feels contempt.

Their well-ordered society has been brought

down by the rebellion of their slaves – shoggoths – who took over the city millions of years ago

and brutally exterminated their former masters. The shoggoths – at least one of them – survived

through the millennia, lurking beneath the lost city of the ‘elder beings’; they finally kill even

those last, revived specimens, to once and for all destroy the master race.

The uprising of the enslaved shoggoth masses has, as the researchers conclude from

observing the preserved artworks in the city, not only resulted in the radical ‘degeneration’ of

Miéville, ‘Introduction’, p. xv.

Miéville, p. xxiii.

Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness, pp. 30-33, 92.

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civilisation; in addition, the unruly slave appears as the real monster to be feared, as a ‘thing that

should not be’.

Described as ‘shapeless congeries of protoplasmatic bubbles, faintly self-

luminous, and with myriads of temporary eyes’,

the shoggoths, as Miévielle indicates, are

emblems of the masses; they constitute ‘a mass presence, various, multicoloured, refusing to

behave’.

Lovecraft himself compares them to a subway train – the symbol for modern,

technological mass-transportation systems. Thus, the shoggoth, lacking any fixed shape, stands

in for the emergence of the dissolutive forces of modernity, devaluing inherited traditions and

positions, as well as literally embodying the proletarian masses, destroying the elitist culture of

the exploring gentleman. The mortal fear experienced by the protagonists of At the Mountains of

Madness when confronted with one shoggoth can therefore be read as Lovecraft’s own

reactionary terror of the crumbling of the pre-modern, aristocratic order.

Yet, as we have seen in following Houellebecq’s reading of Lovecraft, the latter’s

reactionary views are dialectical in themselves. The modern world of capitalism is met with

disgust but this does not lead to an anti-modern denunciation of the status quo of modernity.

Lovecraftian horror does not advocate a return to a nostalgic, harmonious, pre-modern society,

but reveals that such a return is impossible. The distortion is already there; the monstrous

presence of the void that decentres the human experience appears as the unavoidable real of

reality; the entities that lurk in Lovecraft’s tales cannot be banned or exorcised. Consequently,

the protagonists of Lovecraft’s stories appear as representations of male, upper-class, white

society, fulfilling a social ideal to which Lovecraft adhered. Yet they are no defenders of the

social order. Most of them lack any agency; Inspector Malone may still be able to stop at least

the cult activities in monster-infested New York City, but the scientists of At the Mountains of

Madness – one of Lovecraft’s mature works – are only able to register the horror, and escape

with their bare lives. Like the majority of Lovecraft’s protagonists, they are only spectators and

victims of vitalist forces beyond their imagination that cannot be controlled.

The proponents of the old order – such as the ‘Old Ones’ in At the Mountains of Madness

– as well as those who are in line with a traditional understanding of reality, are therefore

confronted with a surplus of life on the side of the monstrous. There is nothing to defend and no

battle to be ultimately won in Lovecraftian fiction, as the kernel of its horror consists precisely in

Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness, p. 96.

Ibid.

Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness, p. 97; and Miéville, ‘Introduction’, p. xxiii.

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the realisation of the vanity of clinging to tradition and the traditional order. This is the final

horror that the expedition of At the Mountains of Madness has to face. They realise that they

possess a similarity with the ‘Elder Beings’; these entities had a civilisation, were part of an

successful, aristocratic culture, and the resurrected specimens even acted like curious

researchers. Yet, in spite of all their success and their achievements, their society was finally

doomed to collapse by the hands of the enslaved masses. Their rise appears as an inevitability,

presaging the certain doom of the white, elitist society in the human realm. Lovecraft thus

established a nihilistic perspective that disables any fantasies of realising a harmonic order, since

human harmony is impossible within a dark universe that is in itself dis-harmonic and

monstrous.

The stability of human society, and the ontological notions of reality upon which it is

grounded, therefore appear as mere illusions. Nothing is left but a nihilistic worldview that

stresses the vanity of human existence within the void of cosmic space-time – something that

could be described as Lovecraft’s speculative realism avant la lettre. On the other hand, by

reflecting these tendencies, Lovecraftian horror unconsciously also reflects the dialectical-

materialist form inherent to modern sciences and the development of the whole capitalist

formation.

While Lovecraft personally denounced Marxism,

we nevertheless catch a glimpse

of dialectical materialism shining forth precisely within the reactionary moment of cosmic

horror.

The perspective of cosmic horror is the perspective of modern science. In the presence of

the cosmic, non-human other, the impossible appears as the real of reality, and reality therefore

as incomplete – that is, as a dynamic process rather than a fixed structure. Cosmic horror thus

reproduces the experience (in both senses) of modern science, constituting a non-human,

dialectical notion of reality within the literary. While Lovecraft’s work espouses regressive

convictions, cosmic horror breaks the limitations of a pre-modern (Aristotelean) worldview by

The consequence of this historic tendency is the implementation of dialectical materialism not only in political

theory but as ontological foundation for a modern sciences; the reality of capitalism is the dynamic process of the

circulation of commodities, leading, as Sohn-Rethel argues, to a science which reproduces this understanding,

implementing the dynamic, dialectical negation of reality as the real of reality itself, which again opens up an

emancipatory notion transcending the existing order of capitalism, and at the same time negating all regressive

desires. See Alfred Sohn-Rethel, ‘Die Formcharaktere der zweiten Natur’, in Das Unvermögen der Realität:

Beiträge zu einer anderen materialistischen Ästhetik, ed. by Gisela Dischner (Berlin: Klaus Wagenbach, 1974), pp.

185-208 (pp. 198-201).

See Paul Buhle, ‘Dystopia as Utopia: Howard Phillips Lovecraft and the Unknown Content of American Horror

Literature’, in: H.P. Lovecraft: Four Decades of Criticism, pp. 196-210 (pp. 204-05).

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highlighting a scientific uncanny based in a dialectical-materialist understanding of reality. The

monstrosity of Cthulhu and his cosmic cousins can therefore be read as reflecting the underlying

monstrosities of capitalism – that is, the regressive monstrosities of racist, reactionary disgust, as

well as the monstrous capacity of our time to think (and act) beyond the limits of a fixed reality.

Consequently, reading Lovecraft only as a speculative realist is tantamount to pacifying

Lovecraftian horror. While cosmic horror does indeed contain features that can be linked to

speculative realism, it also displays a militant potential, as it is both the expression of an ultra-

reactionary, racist, and nihilist stance towards modernity and an allusion to dialectical

materialism, and thus a form of thought that is tied to an emancipatory, historic project.

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Virgins and Vampires: The Expansion of Gothic Subversion in Jean

Rollin’s Female Transgressors

Virginie Sélavy

The Shiver of the Vampires © Salvation Films 2020

Best known for the vampire films he made in the 1970s, Jean Rollin was a singular French

filmmaker who straddled the boundaries between art, horror, and exploitation. Working on

the margins of the mainstream film industry, he also made adult films in order to finance his

more personal work. Due to this association with the exploitation circuit and because of the

peculiar eroticism and fanciful tone that characterised his films, he was violently scorned and

ridiculed by French mainstream critics and audiences, who saw him as nothing more than a

base purveyor of sleaze.

His first film, The Rape of the Vampire (Le viol du vampire),

released in 1968, triggered riotous reactions in cinemas and a ‘surge of hateful rage’ in the

press.

Genre critics and fans were no more receptive to his work: according to Cathal Tohill

and Pete Tombs, the most important French genre publication, Midi-Minuit Fantastique

Jean Rollin, MoteurCoupez!: Mémoires d’un cinéaste singulier (Paris: Edite, 2008), p. 288.

Rollin, MoteurCoupez!, pp. 57-58. Rollin remembers that the respected newspaper Le Figaro dismissed the

film as the work of drunken students, and he later singles out the smug contempt of critics such as Alain Riou

and Jean-Philippe Guérand, from the influential Nouvel Observateur, in a section entitled ‘La honte’ (‘Shame’)

pp. 288-90.

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magazine, ‘hated’ The Rape of the Vampire and did not review it; The Iron Rose (La rose de

fer, 1973) was booed and heckled at the Convention du film fantastique de Paris, and The

Night of the Hunted (La nuit des traquées, 1980) got a similarly hostile reaction at the Sitges

fantastic film festival.

Damaging myths were constructed around him, and Rollin gained a

terrible reputation in the French film industry.

A special derogatory term, ‘Rollinade’, was

even coined to describe what was perceived as the disastrous quality of his filmmaking.

As a result, Rollin’s work has received comparatively little thoughtful attention. This

has been slowly changing since the landmark publication of Cathal Tohill and Pete Tombs’s

book Immoral Tales in 1994, and the Redemption DVD releases in the early 2000s, which

made Rollin’s work more readily available. In recent years, a special issue of Kinoeye, Samm

Deighan’s edited collection Lost Girls: The Phantasmagorical Cinema of Jean Rollin, and

key essays by Isabelle Marinone and Mario De Giglio-Bellemare have started to develop

more complex reflections on Rollin,

although to this day, his work is still categorised as

‘Eurotrash’ by numerous scholars, including those who appreciate his films.

Despite this

enduring perspective on his cinema, and the feminist dismissals by authors such as Bonnie

Zimmerman and Andrea Weiss,

within the exploitation framework that he was working in,

Rollin created a richly transgressive gothic-inflected world dominated by women. Over the

course of his long and turbulent career, he persistently ignored genre conventions and

Cathal Tohill and Pete Tombs, Immoral Tales: Sex and Horror Cinema in Europe 1956-1984 (London:

Primitive Press, 1994), p. 142. According to Tohill and Tombs, Midi-Minuit Fantastique did not mention the

film because the magazine’s publisher, Eric Losfeld, was a friend of Rollin’s and did not want to give him a bad

review; see also Rollin, MoteurCoupez!, pp. 118, 194.

Rollin, MoteurCoupez!, p. 101. According to Rollin, he had an atrocious reputation in the early 1970s, and

there were even rumours that his actresses disappeared and ended up in brothels in Tangiers or Egypt.

Tohill and Tombs, Immoral Tales, pp. 151-52. The term was later reclaimed positively by sympathetic critics,

starting with Jean-Marie Sabatier in 1973 (Rollin, MoteurCoupez!, p. 118).

See Blood Poetry: The Cinema of Jean Rollin, ed. by Steven Jay Schneider, Kinoeye, 2.7 (2002)

<http://www.kinoeye.org/index_02_07.php> [accessed 23 September 2020]; Samm Deighan, Lost Girls: The

Phantasmagorical Cinema of Jean Rollin (Windsor, Ontario: Spectacular Optical, 2017); Isabelle Marinone, ‘Le

surréalisme au service du fantastique. Jean Rollin un cinéaste “parallèle”’, in Les cinéastes français: A l’épreuve

du genre fantastique, ed. by Frédéric Gimello-Mesplomb (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2012), pp. 271-86; and Mario De

Giglio-Bellemare, ‘Dreaming Revolt: Jean Rollin and the French Fantastique in the Context of May 1968’, in

International Horror Film Directors: Global Fear, ed. by Danny Shipka and Ralph Beliveau (Bristol and

Chicago: Intellect Press, 2017), pp. 191-222. Jean Rollin’s films are now available to stream at

<redemptiontv.net>.

Ernest Mathijs and Xavier Mendik, Alternative Europe: Eurotrash and Exploitation Cinema Since 1945

(London and New York: Wallflower Press, 2004) includes a foreword by Jean Rollin and a chapter on his work.

It is telling that in his foreword, Rollin uses the terms ‘popular’ and ‘B-series’, and never ‘Eurotrash’ or

‘exploitation’, to define the cinema he practises.

Bonnie Zimmerman, ‘Daughters of Darkness: The Lesbian Vampire on Film’, in Planks of Reason: Essays on

the Horror Film, ed. by Barry Keith Grant and Christopher Sharrett (Oxford: Scarecrow Press, 2004), pp. 72-81

(p. 74); and Andrea Weiss, Vampires and Violets: Lesbians in the Cinema (London: Penguin, 1993), p. 85.

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undermined traditional roles, fashioning complex female characters that defied dominant

views of women in horror cinema, and in society at large.

Rollin’s anarchic reveries emerged in the charged landscape of late-1960s France, as

the country was gripped by student protests and paralysed by a general strike. The Anglo-

Irish gothic novel was born in the ripples of the French Revolution, and Rollin’s ruined

castles, decaying cemeteries, imperilled innocents, and seductive predators appeared in

another time of social and political upheaval. In keeping with the period’s general

questioning of power structures, the feminist movement was gaining momentum. Just as

gothic novels such as Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto (1764) or Ann Radcliffe’s The

Mysteries of Udolpho (1794) had reflected women’s changing positions and aspirations in

eighteenth-century society, Rollin’s virgins and vampires tapped into the revolutionary

redefinition of sexual and social roles in the 1960s and 70s. This was true of all of the

vampire films he made in that period, from his 1968 debut The Rape of the Vampire, through

The Nude Vampire (La vampire nue, 1970), The Shiver of the Vampires (Le frisson des

vampires, 1971), and Requiem for a Vampire (Requiem pour un vampire, 1971), to Lips of

Blood (Lèvres de sang, 1975).

These pale damsels and their forbidding fortresses came obliquely from the gothic

novels of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, including Radcliffe’s The Italian, or The

Confessional of the Black Penitents (1797) and The Mysteries of Udolpho, which Rollin

mentioned in his memoirs,

as well as Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897), referenced in the later

part of his career in La fiancée de Dracula (2002).

Rollin’s use of these gothic motifs does

not conform with the cinematic conventions established by Universal in the 1930s – isolated

mansion, stormy night, eerie mist – or Hammer in the 1950s – lavish sets, period costumes,

graphic gore. Full of literary references and heightened artifice, their eroticism shaded by

strangeness, Rollin’s films are more poetic than horrific. This is because their gothic elements

are filtered through Rollin’s artistic and literary influences, most importantly Surrealism. His

castles are shaped by the paintings of Paul Delvaux and Clovis Trouille, and, most crucially,

Horace Walpole, The Castle of Otranto (London: Penguin, 2002); and Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of

Udolpho (London: Penguin, 2001).

Rollin, MoteurCoupez!, pp. 323-25; and Radcliffe, The Italian, or The Confessional of the Black Penitents

(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998).

Rollin’s references therefore encompass the initial burst of gothic novels, generally considered to run from

Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto to Charles Robert Maturin’s 1820 Melmoth the Wanderer (Oxford: Oxford

University Press, 1992), as well as the late-Victorian evolution of the gothic into the vampire tales, such as J.

Sheridan Le Fanu’s 1871 Carmilla (in In a Glass Darkly (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), pp. 243-

319); and Stoker’s Dracula (Ware: Wordsworth Editions, 1993).

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by André Breton’s reflections on gothic literature.

The Anglo-Irish gothic novel provided a

model for the imaginary space of Surrealism, and Breton specifically refers to Matthew

Lewis’s The Monk (1796) in the First Manifesto of Surrealism (1924).

Aspiring to inhabit

that imaginary space, Rollin adopted the references that framed it.

Within this surrealist-inflected gothic territory, his perilous maids were closely

inspired by Simone, the perverse young protagonist of para-Surrealist Georges Bataille’s

novella Story of the Eye (Histoire de l’oeil, 1928).

Under Bataille’s potent influence, Rollin

revitalised the subversive potential of the gothic heroine and created a new type of female

rule-breaker, who took up the challenge to the patriarchal order that had been initiated by her

predecessors. Rollin’s murderous maidens go further, fundamentally questioning not simply

male authority, but all structures of power. Like Bataille’s Simone and her forebears, Sade’s

Juliette and Radcliffe’s Emily, Rollin’s female characters, precisely because of the

transgressive potential of their gender, are the ultimate embodiment of individual freedom in

their own tumultuous times.

For Rollin, and preceding male authors of subversion such as

Sade and Bataille, it is female characters, and more specifically, freely erotic female

characters, who come to represent the most radical revolt against the law.

Rollin, MoteurCoupez!, pp. 367-68, 92; and Marinone, ‘“Poésie folle”: Jean Rollin, cinéaste parallèle’, in

Cinémas libertaires: au service des forces de transgression et de révolte, ed. by Nicole Brenez and Marinone

(Villeneuve d’Ascq: Presses Universitaires du Septentrion, 2015), pp. 327-36 (p. 329).

André Breton, Manifestes du surréalisme (Paris: Gallimard, 1966), p. 22. Sade had already singled out

Lewis’s The Monk (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990) as an example of ‘enchantment and

phantasmagoria’ in his 1799 pamphlet ‘Idées sur les romans’, in Sade, Oeuvres (Paris: Le club français du livre,

1953), pp. 635-56 (p. 648). The extent of the influence of the Anglo-Irish gothic novel on Breton is evident in

the numerous mentions throughout his work, including in Les vases communicants (Paris: Gallimard, 1955), p.

118, and ‘Limites non-frontières du surréalisme’, which specifically references Walpole’s Otranto (in La clé des

champs (Paris: Union Générale d’Editions, 1973), pp. 2-35 (pp. 30-31)). Breton also wrote an essay on

Maturin’s Melmoth, which was published as the preface to Jean-Jacques Pauvert’s 1954 edition of the novel.

Rollin, MoteurCoupez!, p. 12; and Georges Bataille, Histoire de l’oeil, in Madame Edwarda, Le mort,

Histoire de l’œil (Paris: 10/18 Jean-Jacques Pauvert, 2012) (1928), pp. 87-169.

Sade, Juliette, ou les prospérités du vice, in Œuvres, ed. by Michel Delon, 3 vols (Paris: Gallimard/La

Pléiade, 1998), III (1797-1801), pp. 180-1262.

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The Rape of the Vampire © Salvation Films 2020

Revolutions and Their Heroines

Gothic novels appeared in the century of revolutions, at a time when an entirely new political,

social, economic, and philosophical worldview violently deposed the previous divinely

validated feudal structure. Sade, whose tales of persecuted innocents and amoral tormentors

were in close affinity with gothic novels,

explicitly linked the genre’s literary transgressions

to the political upheaval of the period, describing it as the ‘necessary fruit of the

revolutionary tremors felt by the whole of Europe’.

As the ideas of the Enlightenment

seemed to triumph, gothic novels more or less consciously channelled the suppressed

contradictions underpinning them. The rise of the new bourgeois, commerce-based society in

the eighteenth century had also led to the beginning of a shift in sexual and social roles.

Gothic novels interrogated not only the nature of the human subject and its place in the

world, but also, more specifically, the place and nature of woman as subject and as object.

The most commonly discussed gothic female character type is the persecuted maiden

who must fight off a male villain. In The Castle of Otranto and The Mysteries of Udolpho, the

misused young women are at once victims and heroines: oppressed by abusive male

authority, they must find ways of resisting the threats made to their integrity, both personal

and economic, without departing from social expectations regarding their gender. In his study

of romantic literature, Mario Praz adds a type less frequently discussed in the context of the

Anglo-Irish gothic novel – the ‘fatal woman’, a trope that, he asserts, finds its origin in

For more on this, see Annie Le Brun, Les châteaux de la subversion (Paris: Garnier Frères, 1982).

Sade, ‘Idées sur les romans’, p. 648, trans. by Victor Sage, in The Gothick Novel: A Casebook, ed. by Sage

(London: MacMillan Press, 1990), pp. 48-49.

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Matilda, the ambiguous tempter of The Monk.

For Praz, both ‘fatal man’ and ‘fatal woman’

are at odds with society – different, superior, and deadly.

The fatal woman, who, like her

brother, ruthlessly seeks satisfaction of her appetites and ambitions, clearly is a transgressive

figure, but I would argue that the persecuted maiden is too, to a lesser, more socially

acceptable degree. Although the fatal woman is forceful and aggressive, while the persecuted

maiden (Radcliffe’s Emily or Walpole’s Isabella) is modest and decorous, both express

personal desires and endeavour to gain control over their lives and bodies, and are therefore

both key to the gothic novels’ undermining of the social hierarchies of their time.

When Rollin began to make films in the late 1960s, Western societies were once more

in the midst of a revolutionary turmoil that threatened all power structures – capitalist,

colonial, patriarchal, and generational. The use of gothic motifs in his work at this time

corresponded to a renewed questioning of the established order.

His first feature film, The

Rape of the Vampire, was released in May 1968, the precise month when opposition to

President Charles de Gaulle’s morally repressive government, students’ revolt against

university authorities, workers’ uprising against factory bosses, and anti-Vietnam-War

protests coalesced into a general strike. As fighting raged on the barricades and youthful

rebels exchanged paving stones and tear gas with riot police, most cinema releases were

cancelled by distributors, and Rollin’s debut was one of the only films screened in that

turbulent month. As male authority was shaken with fresh vigour in the 1960s-70s by the

women’s movement, Rollin’s female vampires, to an even greater extent than their gothic

predecessors, tapped into the re-assessment of sexual identity and roles.

They were not alone; in the early 1970s, a horde of female vampires descended on

European cinema, many of them inspired by two central figures, one fictional, the other

historical: J. Sheridan Le Fanu’s Carmilla (1871-72) and the sixteenth-century Hungarian

Countess Báthory (1560-1614). Roger Vadim updated Le Fanu’s story in Blood and Roses

Mario Praz, La chair, la mort, et le diable dans la littérature du XIXe siècle: Le romantisme noir (Paris:

Editions Denoël, 1977), p. 167. Although Praz connects this character type to the influence of the vampiric myth

on Romantic authors (pp. 183-94),

he curiously omits to mention Le Fanu’s vastly influential Carmilla.

Praz, La chair, la mort, et le diable, p. 234. But where the ‘fatal man’ deliberately embraces evil, the

examples of the ‘fatal woman’ given by Praz tend to emphasise her passivity, an immorality that is innate rather

than conscious, and a cruelty that is inadvertent rather than intended. His text suggests that the female of the

species is immoral by nature rather than by design, fatal because of her excessive beauty and sensuality rather

than through active desire. This implies that evil is a fault of character in those women, rather than the

intentional (im)moral choice of their male counterparts, which comparatively diminishes the agency and

potency of the fatal woman. In his examination, Praz ignores instances of actively fatal women who are true

equivalents of his male examples, such as Carmilla, and Charlotte Dacre’s Victoria in her 1806 work Zofloya, or

The Moor (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), not to mention Sade’s foundational Juliette.

In ‘Dreaming Revolt’, Giglio-Bellemare connects the revolutionary impact of The Rape of the Vampire to its

place in the French fantastique tradition.

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(Et mourir de plaisir, 1960), and this was followed by Camillo Mastrocinque’s Crypt of

Horror (La cripta e l’incubo, 1964). Seeing the potential, Hammer developed their Karnstein

trilogy – The Vampire Lovers (1970), Twins of Evil (1971), and Lust for a Vampire (1972) –

while in Spain, Vicente Aranda filmed his own take on Carmilla (The Blood-Spattered Bride

(La novia ensangrentada, 1972)), followed a year later by his fellow countryman Jess Franco

with The Female Vampire. Countess Báthory inspired Hammer’s Countess Dracula (1971),

as well as Harry Kümel’s Daughters of Darkness (Les lèvres rouges, 1971), Jorge Grau’s The

Legend of Blood Castle (Ceremonia sangrienta, 1973), and a segment of Walerian

Borowczyk’s Immoral Tales (Contes immoraux, 1973). Franco’s Vampyros Lesbos (1971),

Stephanie Rothman’s The Velvet Vampire (1971) and José Larraz’s Vampyres (1974) were

also centred on sexually ambivalent female vampires.

One of the reasons for the popularity of these characters was the erotic potential of

lesbian-vampire tales. As David Pirie has noted, the erotic connotations of the vampire films

began to be more systematically expressed in the 1950s.

As censorship shifted and social

standards mutated, filmmakers and producers began to devise increasingly daring fare in

order to satisfy the demands of the cinema-going public. Yet many of these films go far

beyond mere exploitative thrills. Working on the margins of the film industry afforded genre

and exploitation filmmakers a high level of freedom. This meant that some of the European

lesbian-vampire films (including Rollin’s own), while directed by men for the most part,

offered richer, franker, and bolder explorations of female desire than many productions of

their equally male-authored mainstream counterparts. In particular, genre and exploitation

filmmakers were able to express more freely their own fascination and ambivalence in

relation to the power of female sexuality.

David Pirie, The Vampire Cinema (New York: Crescent Books, 1977), p. 100.

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The Rape of the Vampire © Salvation Films 2020

The Birth of the Vampire

The Rape of the Vampire thus anticipated the flood of female-vampire films that followed in

its wake, but Rollin’s debut already featured well-defined, singular character types that would

become typical of his work, and would mark it out from other similarly themed films of the

period. In contrast to other contemporary directors, Rollin’s gothic inspiration is oblique and

he does not feature specific literary figures (the late appearance of Dracula in La fiancée de

Dracula being the exception). His films are not structured around the opposition between

female victim and male aggressor found in Udolpho, Otranto, The Monk, or Dracula, as both

virgin and vampire, prey and predator, are female. Neither is there a disapproving emphasis

on the monstrous nature of the female vampire as in the Hammer films (the ‘monstrous libido

machine’, as Pirie describes Mircalla in Lust for a Vampire).

Instead, both virgins and

Pirie, The Vampire Cinema, p. 123.

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vampires blur the lines between persecuted maiden and fatal woman, between vulnerability

and violence, innocence and perversion, the nature of both often uncertain, ambiguous,

shifting, the demarcation between them indistinct. In fact, very often, the virgin is the

vampire in Rollin’s films, merging what is habitually separated, not only in gothic novels, but

also in 1960s-70s cinema, and more specifically in Hammer films.

The origin of the striking mix of innocence and perversity that is so characteristic of

Rollin’s heroines can be traced to Bataille’s Story of the Eye and its main character Simone,

the teenage disrupter who leads the young male narrator into increasingly outlandish sexual

experiments. Bataille was the lover of Rollin’s mother for four years, after she had separated

from his father.

Although the relationship ended when Rollin was still a child, it had an

enormous influence on his artistic development. This is how Rollin explained the importance

of Simone on his work:

All the adolescents in my books and films are reinterpretations of Simone, of

possibilities of her, of no one but her. They are covert representations of the little girl

who is so angelically perverse, so innocent, when you think about it: only a child

could experience such fever without being sullied. Only adolescents could remain

innocent, pure, while having committed the worst acts, for their atmosphere was

disobedience itself. […] It is also Simone who haunts my Two Vampire Orphans,

who cannot be spoiled or tarnished by anything, and who practise evil with the same

tranquil impunity. Finally, she is in the savage girls with childlike bodies, all full of

true obscenity, that is, those whose transgressions are natural.

It is this conflation of opposites, of sweetness and savagery, of purity and criminality, in the

character of Simone that led Rollin to the blending of habitually antithetical categories of

female characters in his films. This is already the case in The Rape of the Vampire, which

marks the inception of the two central character types found throughout Rollin’s work: the

elementally cruel domineering vampire and the child-like but lethal virgin-vampire. Divided

into two parts, each with its own distinct atmosphere, the film focuses first on four sisters

who live in a derelict castle in the woods, on the edge of a village. Persecuted by the villagers

and manipulated by the shady owner of the castle, the sisters believe that they are vampires.

A young psychoanalyst, Thomas, accompanied by two friends, visits them with the aim of

disproving what he takes to be a delusion. But after he falls in love with one of the young

women, he becomes convinced that they truly are what they claim to be. Wistfully wandering

through dark woods or candle-lit corridors in long white dresses, the four sisters are

Marinone, ‘“Poésie folle”’, p. 332.

Rollin, MoteurCoupez!, p. 12 (trans. by Sélavy).

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enshrouded in a melancholy world of affliction, doom, and decay. Reprising some of the

characters from the first part, the tonally different second part sees an exotic-looking vampire

queen arrive from the sea to enact her vengeance on those who betrayed her, and to advance

her secret plans for domination. Dadaist, playful, and anarchic, this section embraces the raw

vigour of the undead ruler, as she seeks to impose her will upon the world.

In both parts, the film blurs the boundaries between persecuted and aggressor as

virgins and vampires, women and men, are found in both categories. The sisters are both

victimised heroines and supernatural creatures with deadly powers, although they do not use

them. While they initially appear to be defenceless maidens, they are ambivalent figures that

unite characteristics of both the victims and villains of gothic tales. On the other hand, the

vampire queen, played by Jacqueline Sieger (who appears to be the first Black vampire in

cinema, a few years before 1972’s Blacula and 1973’s Ganja and Hess), is a fatal woman

whose uninhibited drive and irresistible vitality are portrayed with a great degree of

enthusiasm, as she ruthlessly pursues her desires. Improbably arriving from the sea on a small

boat, she is as wilfully energetic and unconsciously calamitous as a tidal wave.

In this complication of the victim-and-villain opposition found in gothic novels, the

long white dresses worn by the vampire sisters plays an important part. The customary attire

of the imperilled young woman in gothic cinema (as seen, for instance, F. W. Murnau’s 1922

Nosferatu, and the 1931 and 1958 versions of Dracula), it has a direct source in the gothic

novel, in the white nightdress of Lucy Westenra in Dracula, or the white gown of the much-

coveted Antonia at the beginning of The Monk, for instance. The white dress in those literary

scenes, as in Nosferatu, Dracula, and The Rape of the Vampire, is an immediate visual

signifier of virginity and vulnerability, the two notions being intimately connected, and it

bears a complex erotic charge.

In Rollin’s cinema, the white dress continues to denote the erotic appeal of virginity,

but it no longer simply designates the young woman wearing it as an object of desire destined

to be victimised. A recurrent motif of Rollin’s cinema, as seen also in Lips of Blood,

Lucy’s nightdress, worn out on the streets as she sleepwalks to meet the Count, is an improper public outfit

for a young woman of her time; this is underlined by Mina, who worries about the possibility Lucy may be seen

when she finds her missing friend (Stoker, Dracula, pp. 76-78). In The Monk, Antonia first appears in a white

dress and is immediately presented as an object of desire; it is the tension between the very limited parts of her

body that are visible and the severely chaste attire that hides her beauty that makes her so attractive to Don

Lorenzo (Lewis, The Monk, p. 9). Sarah Heaton has reflected on the symbolic ambiguity of the wedding dress,

representing both innocence and sexual availability, and also noted the ‘associations the white dress has with the

nightgown – a garment that has become increasingly associated with the dream space of sleep, the erotic of

underwear, and the madness of asylum wear’ (Sarah Heaton, ‘Wayward Wedding Dresses: Fabricating Horror

in Dressing Rituals of Femininity’, in Fashioning Horror: Dressing to Kill on Screen and in Literature, ed. by

Julia Petrov and Gudrun D. Whitehead (London: Bloomsbury, 2018), pp. 83-100 (pp. 83, 85)).

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Fascination (1979), and The Living Dead Girl (La morte vivante, 1982), the white dress worn

by the virgin-vampire associates innocence with transgressive urges. It visually embodies the

mix of innocence and perversity that so fascinated Rollin in Bataille’s Simone. It also

correlates feminine sexuality with the spectral and the funereal, a connection made explicitly

in later gothic-inflected novels such as Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations (1860) and

Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre (1847).

However, in contrast to Miss Havisham or Bertha

Mason, whose decaying and sinister wedding dresses signal dispossession and warn against

feminine desire of the wrong kind – according to the patriarchal norms of their time – the

spectral eroticism of Rollin’s heroines signifies their freedom from all rules and boundaries.

As one of the vampire sisters and her psychoanalyst lover try to resist the vampire

queen’s nefarious designs, the second part pitches two kinds of vampires against one another.

Instead of the opposition found in Dracula and Carmilla (and many Hammer films) between

the disorder embodied by a supernatural creature and the rule of reason represented by a

doctor or scholar, the fight here is between two kinds of irrationality. The psychoanalyst, who

seems to be a clear heir to his learned gothic predecessors, is rapidly seduced by the other

side, and easily convinced of its reality, wishing to become a vampire himself. To this is

added the further complication that the vampire queen is using scientific, albeit fictional,

experiments to achieve her aims, so that the line between real and unreal, rational and

supernatural, like the one between virgin and vampire, and victim and aggressor, is

irredeemably blurred. This plunge into irrationality goes with the elliptical, illogical tone of

the film, the dream-like atmosphere, the sudden resurrections, and the impossible jumps

between disconnected spaces.

The second part of The Rape of the Vampire was shot in the La Borde clinic, an

experimental psychiatric clinic run by psychoanalyst Jean Oury and psychotherapist-cum-

philosopher Félix Guattari (co-author of Capitalism and Schizophrenia with Gilles Deleuze,

1972-80), which provides an apt setting for the film’s muddling of boundaries. Instead of the

traditional separation between staff and patients, the latter were encouraged to take part in the

running of the clinic. Sieger, the vampire queen, was a former inmate who had stayed on to

help care for other patients, embodying in herself this rejection of rigid categorisations.

In Jane Eyre (1847), Jane describes Bertha’s mysterious appearance in her room at night in this manner: ‘I

know not what dress she had on: it was white and straight; but whether gown, sheet, or shroud, I cannot tell’

(Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre (London: Penguin, 2006), p. 326). Quoting this passage, Catherine Spooner notes

the connection between the wedding dress and the ghostly in Brontë’s (and Radcliffe’s) work. See Spooner,

Fashioning Gothic Bodies (Manchester: University of Manchester Press, 2004), p. 46.

Rollin, MoteurCoupez!, p. 47.

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its challenge to the period’s commonly held views on sanity and insanity, The Rape of the

Vampire is in tune with the countercultural conception of madness as an alternative, non-

conforming way of apprehending the world, and as a tool to challenge prevailing norms.

It is worth remembering that madness, and, more generally, the opposition between

rational and irrational, are also central gothic themes, which are often strongly associated

with gender. Gothic novels put reason and sanity to the test, either irrevocably upsetting, or

more or less convincingly restoring, the rational order at the end. In Otranto and Udolpho,

young women are nearly driven to distraction by the torment inflicted upon them by

powerful, tyrannical males. In Carmilla and Dracula, men of science and status repress,

control, and violently destroy a female sensuality that is associated with the irrational. In The

Rape of the Vampire, that rational male authority, represented by the psychoanalyst, is

quickly invalidated, or rather, invalidates itself because it is seduced by the other side – the

feminine, the beautiful, the irrational, the imaginary. Those aspects – troublingly ambivalent

in the novels mentioned above, where villains and vampires are described with a heady

mixture of attraction and revulsion – have become wholly positive in Rollin’s work. Not only

does the psychoanalyst grant that his female objects of study, who he thought deluded and

ignorant, are right and he is wrong, but he also passionately desires to become one of them. In

addition, the old crooked owner of the castle, who was exploiting the sisters’ ingenuousness,

loses his power over them – and his life – when he is killed by the vampire queen. In this

manner, The Rape of the Vampire ushers in Rollin’s two kinds of deadly enchantresses, the

vampire queen and the virgin-vampire, who expand on gothic gender subversions.

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Requiem for a Vampire © Salvation Films 2020

The Vampire Queen

The figure of the domineering female vampire that Rollin pioneered with Sieger is found

again in his third and fourth films at the turn of the 1970s, The Shiver of the Vampires and

Requiem for a Vampire. With echoes of Carmilla, the former’s story of fatal lesbian

seduction makes it the closest of Rollin’s films to those of his contemporaries, at least in

terms of plot. On the way to her honeymoon, the newlywed Isle decides to stop off at her

cousins’ castle with her husband, Antoine. On their arrival, they find that her cousins have

been killed by a female vampire, Isolde, who has taken over the place. On what should be

their wedding night, Isle, still wearing her white dress, asks Antoine to let her sleep alone,

claiming that she is too upset by the death of her cousins. During the night, in one of the most

famous scenes in Rollin’s work, Isolde suddenly appears inside the grandfather clock in Isle’s

room. Isolde seduces Isle, then leads her to the cemetery, where, attended by the two maids of

the castle, she bites her victim’s throat. In this scene, the traditional consummation of

marriage is rejected by Isle and is replaced by another form of penetration that marks the

vampiric lesbian union between Isle and Isolde.

The transition from the norm of marriage to the deviant union of Isle and Isolde is

paralleled by their physical transition from the castle to the cemetery. But although it would

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be easy to see this as a move from the world of the living to the world of the dead, that

distinction is fluid and not quite as clear cut as it may seem, as Isolde suggests when they

enter the cemetery. Castles and cemeteries are both connected to death in Rollin’s world.

Skulls, bones, and various macabre objects abound around the castle in The Shiver of the

Vampires, marking it as otherworldly a space as the cemetery is. Throughout Rollin’s cinema,

death is a magical realm outside of the realistic world. As part of that realm, both the castle

and the cemetery are placed outside of the rules of the living, and therefore outside of social

rules, and it is there that unconventional individual desires can be expressed.

The Shiver of the Vampires © Salvation Films 2020

The wedding dress worn by Isle at the beginning of the sequence is significant in relation to

both the gothic genre and the film’s dismissal of marriage. Once her husband has left the

room, Isle takes her wedding dress off and is surprised in the nude by Isolde. After seducing

the young woman, the female vampire puts a black cape over Isle’s shoulders – leaving her

breasts fully exposed – before leading her to the cemetery. While acknowledging that some

of the decisions concerning’s Isle state of undress were taken to satisfy the requirements of

the exploitation circuit, Isle’s sartorial transition still offers an interesting reversal of gothic

conventions. In filmic adaptations of Dracula (starting with Tod Browning’s 1931 version),

the black cape has become a staple of the vampire costume. In the novel, Stoker makes much

For a discussion of the castle in Rollin’s work, see Virginie Sélavy, ‘“Castles of Subversion” Continued:

From the roman noir and Surrealism to Jean Rollin’, in Lost Girls: The Phantasmagorical Cinema of Jean

Rollin, ed. by Samm Deighan (Windsor, Ontario: Spectacular Optical, 2017), pp. 254-83.

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of the contrast between the virginal white of the victim and the black shadow of the vampire

in the nightly encounter between Lucy and the Count.

In The Shiver of the Vampires, Isle

therefore sheds the traditional white dress of the imperilled virgin to don the black cape of the

dangerous predator.

In so doing, she affirms her own individual desires and diverts the

sexual availability/vulnerability signalled by her dress away from its socially legitimate

claimant, her husband Antoine.

The subversion of the institution of marriage is also found in Blood and Roses, which

preceded The Shiver of the Vampires by ten years, and in The Blood-Spattered Bride, which

followed Rollin’s film by two years. The modernisation of Carmilla in those films casts

doubt on the idea that women may find sexual and emotional fulfilment within the limitations

of matrimony, and hints at the sweeter delights to be found in Sapphic bonds. The theme

chimes with the period’s questioning of social conventions, and in The Shiver of the

Vampires, it is pushed further into countercultural territory through Isle’s hippie-esque purple

dress and braided hair, the psychedelic music composed by young French rock band

Acanthus, and the hallucinatory pink and purple lights that tint the castle walls. In all three

films, the sexual menace and forbidden pleasures that Carmilla represents in Le Fanu’s story

have become much more explicit, and much more attractive, with none of the anguished

repulsion attendant to the exquisite thrills felt by her nineteenth-century victims.

Indeed, Isle welcomes, rather than shuns, the danger to which she is exposed. In the

scene of her seduction, Isolde is an intruder who violates Isle’s private space, but Isle seems

happy to be ravished. The fantastical appearance of Isolde inside the clock indicates that we

may be in a dream world, and that what follows may reflect Isle’s own obscure fantasies,

suddenly materialising in the form of the vampire. Barbara Creed notes that, in lesbian-

vampire films of the period, ‘once bitten, the victim is never shy’, and this certainly applies

here.

Isle actively participates in her seduction and clearly prefers the illicit rapture of her

nightly trysts to socially sanctioned marital intercourse – so much so that, when her husband

wants to escape from the castle, she refuses to go with him. The virgin here is a woman very

much happy in her peril.

Stoker, Dracula, pp. 76-77.

There is a similar transition from white dress to black cape in Fascination, as Eva transforms from white-clad

victim to scythe-wielding killer. In both cases, the nudity framed by the black cape is an image of sexual power

and agency.

For Heaton, the wedding dress ‘suggests masculine anxieties concerning femininity in its symbolic promise of

innocence juxtaposed with the suggestion of sexual availability on the wedding night’ (‘Wayward Wedding

Dresses’, p. 83).

Barbara Creed, The Monstrous-Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis (Abingdon and New York:

Routledge, 1993), p. 61.

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In this manner, The Shiver of the Vampire repositions the virgin and the vampire on a

new axis of transgression. Although she initially seems to have all the characteristics of the

fatal woman, Isolde, an extension of the dangerously sensual gothic creature found in

Carmilla, does not destroy or corrupt her victim, but rather serves as an instrument for her

initiation and liberation from the norm. Once she has served her purpose, she loses her power.

Unusually, the vampire’s role as ‘sexual initiator’, noted by Creed, is not connected here to

any sway over the fascinated victim.

Once Isle has discovered lesbian pleasures and violent

eroticism, she continues her own exploration, and later throws herself into an incestuous

union with her cousins that culminates in deadly ecstasy. Here, the white-clad virgin is

therefore the most transgressive character, because she is the one who crosses the boundaries

from heterosexual to homosexual, from marriage to incest, and from conventional life to the

thrills of death.

The Shiver of the Vampires © Salvation Films 2020

Dominique, the actress who played Isolde, returned as another imperious vampire in Rollin’s

following film, Requiem for a Vampire. The story focuses on two young delinquent girls on

the run, Marie and Michelle, who come across a forbidding castle in the forest and find

themselves prisoners, virgins destined to be used by an ailing male vampire, who inhabits the

Creed, The Monstrous-Feminine, p. 65.

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nearby cemetery, to propagate his dying race. The last vampire is supported in this scheme by

two women who he has turned into blood-suckers, the cruel Erica (Dominique), who rules the

castle, and the kinder Louise. Marie and Michelle first encounter Erica in the chapel of the

castle, to which they are attracted by the sound of the organ. Three hooded monk figures

stand around the altar, their backs to them (and to the camera), but when the girls come

closer, they see that inside the hoods there are only skeletons. The organ player turns around

and is revealed to be a woman dressed in masculine aristocratic garb, ominously baring two

long, pointed canines. In typical gothic manner, in this first encounter with Erica, the girls’

perceptions are unreliable: what seems to be alive is dead, what appears to be living is

undead, and a masculine exterior reveals a female entity.

In her dandyish accoutrements and in the pleasure she takes in the pain of others,

Erica recalls the fatal man embodied by Montoni in Udolpho, or the eponymous anti-hero of

Charles Maturin’s Melmoth the Wanderer (1820), as well as Sade’s ferocious libertines. Even

more androgynous and ambiguous than Isolde in The Shiver of the Vampires, Erica makes

explicit the muddying of gender in the vampiric figure in Rollin’s oeuvre. But despite her

formidable, commanding presence, she is only a half-vampire, not quite successfully turned

by her master, and unable to stop the disappearance of his race. Despite first impressions, the

vampires here are weak, and they desperately need the virgins.

Requiem for a Vampire © Salvation Films 2020

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Concomitantly, Marie and Michelle are not conventional damsels in peril, but social outcasts

and sexual explorers. In the opening scene of the film, they are fleeing in a speeding car,

dressed in clown outfits, shooting at their pursuers. Their incongruous dress instantly marks

them out as outside of the norm, and their actions designate them as outlaws. Once they find

themselves in the traditional situation of the persecuted gothic heroine, imprisoned in a castle,

their virginal integrity endangered by the vampires’ designs, their reactions not only diverge

from their literary predecessors, but also from one another’s. Michelle accepts the vampires’

plans while Marie rejects them, instead setting about losing her virginity in the manner she

pleases. As a consequence, Michelle chains her up and brutally whips her to make her reveal

the whereabouts of her lover, in an attempt to save them both from the vampires’ wrath and

retain their chances of eternal undead life.

Once more, the virgins are more transgressive than the vampires. Michelle embraces

death and is happy to trade her virginity for immortality; ostensibly an imperilled maiden, she

is herself capable of inflicting savage violence when Marie threatens their safety. For her

part, Marie transgresses against the transgressors, resisting their commands and disposing of

her body according to her own desires; although she appears to be the gentlest character in

the story, she is in effect the most defiantly individual. Both Requiem for a Vampire and The

Shiver of the Vampires therefore reverse the respective subversive weight of virgin and

villain in the gothic novel. In both films, the vampiric persecutor turns out to be a facilitator

who opens up doors onto fantastical worlds in which the virgin is free to explore her own

desires.

The Nude Vampire © Salvation Films 2020

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The Virgin-Vampire

Although the fatal-woman type, incarnated in the domineering female vampire, plays an

important part in Rollin’s films, it really is the transgressive virgin who is at the heart of his

work, and more particularly the virgin-vampire, who is first introduced in The Rape of the

Vampire. In The Nude Vampire, released two years later, she is again the focus, with

significant variations. Rollin’s second feature can be described as a contemporary, science-

fiction-tinged update on the ubiquitous gothic plot found, for instance, in Udolpho or

Otranto, in which a defenceless young woman is kept locked up in a castle by a powerful

older man with villainous intentions. In The Nude Vampire, a mysterious orphan girl is

sequestered by unscrupulous businessman Radamante, who has experiments performed on

her to discover the secret of her immortality. When Radamante’s son, Pierre, tries to find out

more about his father’s mysterious activities, Radamante and his associates remove her to a

castle outside of Paris.

In The Nude Vampire, as in The Rape of the Vampire, the supernatural blood drinker

is not the aggressor, but the persecuted, and the true vampires are the businessmen who want

to use her to become immortal. Wrapped in see-through orange veils rather than virginal

white, the placid, mute orphan is chased in one scene through bleak streets at night by human

figures wearing animal masks. Influenced by Georges Franju’s Judex (1963), this surreal,

oneiric scene is an urban modernisation of the supernatural occurrences found in Udolpho,

Otranto, or The Monk, the dark alleys and animal heads evoking the obscure, rapacious

forces of desire that threaten the vulnerable virgin.

Following Stoker’s Dracula, cinematic

vampires have often been associated with nocturnal or predatory animals (wolf and hyena in

Nosferatu; wolves, bats, and spiders in the 1931 Dracula; bats in Requiem for a Vampire;

bats and a stuffed tiger in Vampyres), but in The Nude Vampire, it is the humans who are

closely affiliated with the feral, and the fantastical masks worn by the girl’s pursuers

underline the savage impulses that lie under social appearances.

The opposition between the businessmen on the one hand and their victim and her

rescuers on the other reflects the generational and ideological conflict of the time, and as in

The Shiver of the Vampires, there is a clear countercultural streak running through the film.

The rag-tag group of semi-naked young people who invade the castle to liberate her from the

clutches of her armed captors look like flower children. The true nature of the orphan girl and

Rollin, MoteurCoupez!, p. 67.

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her people remains ambiguous: they may be vampires, or mutants prefiguring a new future

human race. The struggle between the vampires/mutants and the businessmen echoes that of

young hippies against a brutally oppressive older generation that seeks to exploit others for its

own gains. It is a battle between young and old, love and greed, freedom and repression. The

Nude Vampire thus reinvents for the Woodstock generation the gothic novel’s trope of the

young woman in peril: still persecuted by the patriarchal, and also here, capitalist, order, she

now has the potential within her to overthrow that domination. For although the orphan

vampire remains passive throughout, it is implied that she has a dormant deadly power that

her gothic predecessors did not possess.

In The Nude Vampire, the virgin-vampire may not use that power, but in the majority

of Rollin’s films, she does. By far the most common type of character in his work is the

ethereal maiden who kills. Frail-looking and white-clad like the persecuted young woman of

gothic nightmares, she is in fact the most lethal threat in the story. The character of the

virginal but dangerous young woman reappears in Lips of Blood, Fascination, and The Living

Dead Girl. In Lips of Blood, she is the angelic-looking, incestuous, patricidal vampire kept

locked up and hidden away by her mother, until she is discovered and freed by her brother. In

The Living Dead Girl, she is the dead chatelaine revived by a chemical accident, who needs

to feed on the living to sustain her unnatural existence. In Fascination, she is found in the two

young women who so daintily dance together to a nostalgic tune, before they are revealed to

belong to an all-female blood-drinking secret society. All of these characters ruthlessly act on

their immediate and bloody desires, but they do so with the guileless ingenuity and primitive

unselfconsciousness of children.

Lips of Blood © Salvation Films 2020

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Rollin’s favoured character type can thus be described as a recurring gothic figure revised

through Bataille’s lens: the virgin who embraces desire instead of fleeing from it, or rather,

the virgin who openly acts on her own desires, instead of being subjected to predatory male

desires. Struggling to dispose of herself as she wishes, her impulses circumscribed by

obligations of propriety, the persecuted gothic maiden of Radcliffe and Walpole’s

imaginations is the object of criminal desire and must protect herself from it, while covertly

seeking to bring about the satisfaction of her own desires. In contrast, Rollin’s virgin-

vampires, like Bataille’s Simone, are criminally desiring subjects who still retain the

innocence of the virginal gothic maiden. Actively lustful and naively amoral, they reverse the

transgressive order of gothic characters: even more so than the fatal woman and her tenebrous

male counterpart, Rollin’s virgin-vampire is the radical rule breaker, and she continues to

expand the dislocation of the dominant world order started by her gothic ancestors.

The abundant female nudity in Rollin’s films must be understood in this context.

Initially, it was imposed by producers on Rollin, but at a time when censorship limited what

could be shown on screen in France, the representation of sex and nudity still bore a powerful

political charge, of which Rollin was keenly aware.

Soon, he realised ‘the subversive

potential of those kinds of scenes, and their poetic and strange quality’, and turned them into

an integral part of his cinema. In this, he was influenced by Paul Delvaux’s paintings, which

featured ‘nude, majestic women appearing in unusual places (train stations, rail tracks, busy

streets, etc.)’.

The statuesque Brigitte Lahaie brandishing a scythe on the bridge over the

moat in Fascination, the elfin Marie-Pierre Castel emerging from openings in the castle’s

walls in The Shiver of the Vampires, or the voluptuous Joëlle Coeur writhing wildly with

ferocious pleasure among the rocks on the beach in The Demoniacs (Les démoniaques, 1974)

are all startling, memorable images, imbued with a surreal strangeness that diverts their

intended erotic purpose. The use of well-known adult-film actresses, such as Lahaie, in

unexpected situations, and their casting based on their emotional qualities, rather than as

mechanical performers of sexual acts, is central to this (and this was a deliberate choice that

was misunderstood and mocked with snarling derision by the critics).

Rollin thus films

Peter Blumenstock, ‘Jean Rollin Has Risen from the Grave!’, Video Watchdog Magazine, 31 (1996), 36-57 (p.

40). It is also worth noting that Rollin made the X-rated Phantasmes (1975) under his own name in response to

an article by André Halimi in Pariscope, which criticised ‘cowardly’ porn directors for using pseudonyms (see

Rollin, MoteurCoupez!, p. 152.

Rollin, MoteurCoupez!, p. 92 (trans. by Sélavy).

Rollin, MoteurCoupez!, p. 289.

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female nudity in a way that does not signal frailty, weakness, objectification, or victimhood

(the ‘pure temptation’ of the virginal body described by Le Brun), but rather asserts the

confident vigour of the desiring female subject and the formidable power of her lustful

vitality.

The Nude Vampire © Salvation Films 2020

Mistresses of the Castle

Often presented amid the crumbling stones of decrepit fortresses, female nudity is the true

inhabitant of Rollin’s castles. Much has been written about the relationship between the

persecuted gothic heroine and the castle, and the connection between issues of legitimacy and

usurpation and the unjust limitations on women’s property rights in the eighteenth century.

Ownership of the castle is also a key, if more discreet, theme in Rollin’s films. In The Rape of

the Vampire, there is some ambiguity about who really owns the castle – the vampire sisters

who inhabit it, or the shady old man who is manipulating them to his own ends. In The Nude

Vampire, Radamante initially controls the castle where he hides the orphan girl, but later, his

two maids, who are revealed to be vampire/mutant people, take over. This reversal of

Le Brun, Les châteaux de la subversion, p. 206.

Angela Wright, ‘“It is Not Ours to Make Election for Ourselves”: Gender and the Gothic’, in Gothic Fiction:

A Reader’s Guide to Essential Criticism (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), pp. 125-49 (pp. 136-38);

Robert Miles, ‘Ann Radcliffe and Matthew Lewis’, in A Companion to the Gothic, ed. by David Punter (Malden

MA and Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), p. 50; and Kate Ferguson Ellis, The Contested Castle: Gothic Novels and the

Subversion of Domestic Ideology (Chicago: University of Illinois Press,1989).

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ownership is strikingly illustrated in a scene where the two maids, played by real-life twins

Marie-Pierre and Catherine Castel, simultaneously descend the stairs inside the two identical

towers that connect the first-floor mezzanine to the ground-floor hall, their own symmetry in

harmony with the architecture. In The Shiver of the Vampires, Isle’s two male cousins and

owners of the castle are killed by Isolde, who likewise seizes control. Here again, the two

maids in the service of Isle’s cousins play a crucial role in fighting Isolde, eventually

defeating her deadly rule. Performing the actions that their incapacitated masters cannot, they

are the true mistresses of the castle. In Requiem for a Vampire, Erica reigns over the castle

that her master is too weak even to inhabit, confined as he is to his coffin. In Fascination,

Eva and Elisabeth present themselves as maids who have travelled ahead to prepare the castle

for their masters, but for most of the film they are in charge of the place, and they await the

arrival, not of their masters, but of their fellow female blood drinkers.

Within and across these films, there is thus a transition of ownership of the castle,

from male to female, and from master to servant. This transition hints at a change of order, an

upending of the hierarchical system that has dominated up until that point. In this thematic

strand too, Rollin furthers subversions originally introduced in the gothic novel. As Kathleen

Hudson argues, servant characters, and in particular, servant narratives in the gothic novel,

reflected the rise of individualism and the seismic renegotiation of social relationships

between dominant and dominated in the eighteenth century.

In Rollin’s films, the overthrow

of the masters’ rule is similarly connected to a challenging of the social power structure – in

this case, the 1960s rejection of patriarchal capitalist society. The maids in The Nude Vampire

are initially defined by their submission to Radamante’s will, almost doll-like in their blank

obedience. The unexpected assertion of their individual, dissenting will later in the film

(similar to that of the maids in The Shiver of the Vampires) extends beyond the gothic

servant’s already ambivalently subversive role, dramatising a complete overturn of the social

order that would have been unthinkable in the eighteenth century.

As the examples above indicate, the transfer of power from master to servant in

Rollin’s films is often to the benefit of twinned young women. Rollin’s virgins-vampires

indeed frequently come in twos, and these female pairs, sometimes played by the Castel

twins, are a central foundation of his world. Often, as in The Shiver of the Vampires,

Fascination, or The Living Dead Girl, their mutual attachment is more intense than the ones

they form with men. In Requiem for a Vampire, Michelle whips Marie when the loss of her

Kathleen Hudson, Servants and the Gothic, 1764-1831: A Half-Told Tale (Cardiff: University of Wales Press,

2019), p. 9.

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virginity dents the perfect hermeticism of their bond and threatens their access to immortality.

These pairs are not an uncommon feature in female vampire films of the time, as Twins of

Evil and Vampyres show, although they are used in significantly different ways. In the

former, the twins represent two crudely opposed poles, the good, chaste girl on the one hand,

and the lustful bad girl on the other, in a clear-cut moral contrast that typifies many Hammer

horror films of the period. In Vampyres, the two female vampires are central to an

oppressively sensual tale of all-consuming love, although the focus on their relationship is

diluted by a passionate affair with a male lover. More radically, in Rollin’s films, the twinned

virgin-vampires signify absolute female autonomy: the women create a self-contained world

with no need for anyone else, a world of imagination and poetry that men find hard to

penetrate but that some (Thomas in The Rape of the Vampire, Pierre in The Nude Vampire, or

Frédéric in Lips of Blood) dream of joining. Instead of expressing ‘a fundamental fear that

woman-bonding will exclude men and threaten male supremacy’, as Bonnie Zimmerman

argues lesbian-vampire films do, the sealed world of Rollin’s twinned women offers a

seductive alternative order.

That new, or parallel, order, ruled by the female pairs who have taken over the castles

from their former male masters, is, however, not a simple reflection of the feminist

movement and the advances of women in society. The feminine in Rollin’s work represents

something that goes beyond a simple gender category. In its position as socially non-

dominant, it comes to epitomise more broadly the outsider in relation to the normative mass,

the minority in relation to the majority. Rollin’s female characters are social outcasts and

criminals, like the vampire sisters in The Rape of the Vampire, Marie and Michelle in

Requiem for a Vampire, Jennifer in Lips of Blood, or Eva and Elisabeth in Fascination. In

Rollin’s work, as in Sade’s Juliette, or the Prosperities of Vice (1797-1801) and Bataille’s

Story of the Eye, female criminal desire – murderous, incestuous, deviant – is the most

subversive force precisely because female desire is the form of desire that is most repressed

by social and moral norms. As such, it becomes the most spectacular embodiment of the

irreducibility of all individual desire. Himself at odds with social, political, and artistic

norms, Rollin, like transgressive male creators Sade and Bataille before him, expresses

kinship with his female characters: the virgin-vampire is a figure of otherness that he

simultaneously identifies with and is seduced by.

Zimmerman, ‘Daughters of Darkness’, p. 74.

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E. J. Clery compares the character of the persecuted maiden in Radcliffe’s The

Romance of the Forest and Sade’s Justine, or the Misfortunes of Virtue (1791) and wonders

why it is that, in both novels, ‘it is the fate of a female character that occasions [the]

examination’ of ‘the nature of “man”, that gendered “abstraction”’.

She argues that, in the

two novels, ‘woman appears as a test-case; other than herself yet always retaining the

decisive mark of sexual difference’.

One of the key points emerging from her discussion is

that the revolutionary potential of gothic female characters is not rigidly tied up to the gender

of the author, and that both male and female authors have used the persecuted maiden as a

‘test-case’. Rollin’s female vampire, whether fatal or virginal, can also be considered as such

a ‘test-case’. In her sexual difference, as well as in the more general otherness that she

embodies, Rollin’s ingenuous temptress is the ultimate challenger to authority in the cultural,

social, and political drama of her time; here, she is the locus for the examination, not of the

nature, but of the freedom of ‘man’ as a ‘gendered “abstraction”’. In Rollin’s films, as in

Sade and Radcliffe’s novels, woman offers the maximal illustration of the conflict between

‘man’s’ individual freedom and repressive collective power. Under the influence of Bataille,

heir to Sade, Rollin’s female characters continue the disruption of order already begun in the

century of revolutions, and update it for a post-May-1968 world. Merging the two gothic

poles of damsel in peril and deadly seducer, it is their gender, and their transgression of it,

that makes his perverse innocents the radical incarnation of the spirit of revolt of their time.

E. J. Clery, ‘Ann Radcliffe and D. A. F. de Sade: Thoughts on Heroinism’, Women’s Writing, 1-2 (1994),

203-14 (p. 208).

Clery, ‘Ann Radcliffe and D. A.F. de Sade’, pp. 209-10.

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BOOK REVIEWS: LITERARY AND CULTURAL

CRITICISM

B-Movie Gothic, ed. by Justin D. Edwards and Johan Höglund

(Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2018)

Justin D. Edwards and Johan Höglund have compiled a collection investigating what might

best be described as the hidden cinematic underside of horror and the Gothic, mapping the

proliferation of a mostly underground network of b-movie industries that have cropped up

worldwide in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The collection is composed of thirteen

chapters and divided into three sections, each dedicated to regionally specific cinemas: Part I:

the Americas, Part II: Europe, and Part III: Africa and Asia. The collection takes the reader

through overlooked cinematic traditions, offering a glimpse into what is regarded as the

‘lowest form’ of cinema (horror is often considered as the most indecent, libidinal genre),

while addressing the rather conspicuous lacuna in scholarship on regional horror. In this way,

Edwards and Höglund zero in on ‘[t]he international and transnational territories of Gothic

and horror [that] have been neglected by scholarship’, in order to stage an encounter with

these overlooked traditions and academic studies on cinema (p. 6).

In the Introduction, the duo develops a robust theory of the Gothic, outlining its socio-

political and cultural relevance, its proximity to the horror genre, as well as its geopolitical

implications. The editors point out how the ‘[i]nternational dimension to Gothic and B-

Movies’ developed largely due to the ‘hegemonic cultural forces’ of ‘Anglophone North

Atlantic cultures’ (p. 1). This development indicates much more than a mere aesthetic

absorption of the Gothic into international cinemas; it rather identifies the spread of European

and American tropes via actual ‘economic and cultural forces’ (p. 1). Edwards and Höglund

go on to point out how the ‘Gothic in film has become more multidimensional than the mode

in literary texts’, as ‘movies can easily cross linguistic borders’, highlighting the special place

of the cinema as a transnational and translinguistic apparatus (p. 2).

Whereas the Gothic’s ‘recognizable mise-en-scène’, with its ‘visual signifiers and

narrative codes’, is so often ‘associated with the uncanny’, and thus largely in contrast to

horror’s privileging of a ‘different affective response’ (p. 3) – physical violence, visceral

disgust, gore, and so on – the editors are quick to note how the two often combine to take on

a hybrid shape. This elucidating observation culminates in a(n almost Lacanian) definition of

horror as ‘the real merg[ing] with the simulation’ (p. 4). This definition suggests that, while

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horror often functions as a universal, affective cinematic mode, wherein the viewing body

translates the image on the screen into a visceral, embodied response, the low-budget, b-

movie Gothic offers what the authors call a ‘[v]ernacular cinema’, which ‘speaks to itself’ (p.

7). This vernacular offers a more esoteric cinematic experience rooted in local traditions, and

engaged in an ongoing conversation between its fans and producers, while allowing the

exploration of ‘alternative intellectual and affective spaces’ (p. 7). This divide would seem to

privilege the long-standing debate between semiotic and affective, or hermeneutic and

phenomenological approaches to cinema; however, the collection cannot be said to find its

footing on either side of this divide. Rather (and to the credit of the editors and authors), this

volume explores hybrid forms of gothic and horror cinemas, therefore allowing both to find

purchase, while ensuring that each is nurtured in tandem with one another.

Such insights are peppered throughout the Introduction, setting the scene for

Edwards’s own opening essay, ‘Its, Blobs and Things: Gothic Beings Out of Time’, on the

American b-movie epidemic of the 1950s. Before we proceed, however, a note on the text is

necessary: given the various theoretical, critical, and at times philosophical frames through

which the collection discusses how the Gothic is regionally adopted and adapted through

various economic, technical, aesthetic, and political means, the breadth and depth of this

collection could never be captured adequately in this short review. Though this volume

collects a host of excellent essays from a wide variety of regional, cultural, and critical

perspectives, I will only be able to focus on several of the highlights, and thus I have chosen

to examine at length only of one from each section. The essays I will not be able to explicate

in greater detail are certainly no less worth reading.

Edwards approaches the Gothic as revealing a materiality that is directly at odds with

human corporealisation and temporality at the very ‘limits of alterity’ (p. 19). From his

perspective, the American b-movie Gothic features ‘a Thing that confounds ontological and

phenomenological conceptions of being or sentience’ (p. 18); it has life, though a life not

born from the temporal and spatial frame of anthropic vérité. For instance, in the iconic film

The Blob (1958), Edwards contends, ‘we see the stirrings of an embryonic life form merge

from the expanse of an infinite void’ (p. 26), ‘reanimated from the depths of an abyssal time’,

its ‘unstructured body [revealing] a temporal plane […] that is at odds with our understanding

of both Earth and the body’ (p. 27). Edwards isolates the Thing as a ‘primal terror’ where ‘the

revenant of the unhuman is housed in a nameless body’ (p. 30, emphasis added). At the end

of the first section, Daniel Serravalle de Sá’s ‘Gothic Forests and Mangroves: Environmental

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Disasters in Zombio and Mangue Negro’ also discusses a similar theme; whereas Edwards

describes a completely alien materiality and temporality, Sá unpacks two Brazilian b-movies,

emphasising the ecological narratives out of which a particular kind of alterity emerges,

evoking the popular Object-Oriented view of ecology espoused by Timothy Morton to do so.

In Part II, which focuses on the European b-movie tradition, John Edgar Browning

examines the economics underlying the history of the Hammer-Studio phenomenon that

came out of the UK in the 1950s, while Michael Fuchs offers a view of environmental and

class critique via the Austrian film Das Ding Aus Der Mur (2012). But by far the most

intriguing chapter belongs to Tuğçe Bıçakçı Syed, who offers an in-depth account of the

Turkish gothic film industry, and particularly the film Ölüler Konuşmaz Ki (The Dead Don’t

Talk, dir. by Yavus Yalinkiliç, 1970). In this chapter, the reader is offered a valuable and rare

glimpse into the history of the early-Ottoman, pre-Turkish-Republic cinema industry, which

was funded, according to Syed, by the military. After the founding of the Republic in 1919, a

b-movie industry eventually emerged in the 1950s. For Syed, the Turkish Gothic produced

hybrid forms of the undead based on ‘similarities between vampires, zombies and hortlaks’

(p. 149),

representing a unique blend of European, American, and local folklores and

religious influences, while ‘still convey[ing] a comprehensible narrative using B-Movie

Gothic aesthetics’ (p. 147).

Part III focuses on both African and Asian iterations of b-movie Gothic, although only

‘Filamu Ya Kutisha: Tanzanian Horror Films and B-Movie Gothic’ by Claudia Böhme

represents the former. One of the high points of Part III is Katarzyna Ancuta’s ‘Hong Kong

Gothic: Category III Films as Gothic Cinema’. This chapter examines the aesthetic, cultural,

and political ramifications of the 1997 Hong-Kong Handover on the region’s b-movie

Gothic.

Ancuta’s contribution is the most politically salient of the entire collection, offering

Timothy Morton is known for his scholarship on ecology and ontology, aligning with the bourgeoning school

of speculative realism. One of Morton’s more notable contributions is his concept of ‘hyperobjects’, which are

non-local, n-dimensional entities such as global warming, radioactive materials, seismic activity, and so on, and

which transcend our conventional anthropocentric notions of space and time. See Timothy Morton,

Hyperobjects: Philosophy and Ecology after the End of the World (Minneapolis and London: University of

Minnesota Press, 2013).

Guy de Maupassant’s short gothic tale ‘Le Horla’ (1887) about a strange ghostly presence demonstrates the

etymological link to the myth of the Hortlak. We find as well a strange mythological parallel in William

Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying (1930): Ma is inadvertently and somewhat comedically stilettoed through her head

while being fitted for her coffin – as Syed points out, this is a well-known feature of the Hortlak myth, which is

said to ensure that the dead remain dead. If anything, these parallels simply bolster the editors’ claim to the

universal import of the Gothic through its particular regional and cultural manifestations.

The 1997 Handover was the formal transfer of Hong-Kong sovereignty from British colonial administration

back to the Chinese authorities. Hong Kong maintains a unique status as a site of separate administrative power

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both an in-depth survey of the extreme gore of Category-III films, and a robust history of the

‘Gothic borderland’ between Communist China and capitalism. For Ancuta, Category-III

films serve a ‘dual purpose […] depict[ing] the exploitative nature of capitalist society

characterized by “rabid consumption” [...] but also feed[ing] the racial tensions, a constant

reminder that Hong Kong is about to be consumed by its primitive and cannibalistic

Communist mother’ (p. 197).

This collection juxtaposes discrete regional and cultural iterations of b-movie gothic

cinema, offering a useful – crucial perhaps – account of the horror and gothic tropes that we

in the West come to rely upon and take for granted in cinema and scholarship alike. In sum,

the mutability of gothic motifs through time and region proves in many ways not only to

demonstrate the universality of the gothic aesthetic, but also perhaps to offer an inherent

critique of the hegemony of Western literary and cultural forces. Depending on how the

proliferation of the Gothic across the globe is interpreted, the genre demonstrates both the

strength and weakness of its hegemony; in order to thrive, the Gothic necessarily must have

spread like a virus to other cultures and regions, after which it was reanimated and kept alive

synthetically through the b-movie industry – an industry which has long been understood as

representing the most deep-seated and often taboo libidinal desires of the public.

Although Edwards and Höglund identify a common thread between culturally discrete

iterations of the Gothic, the collection demonstrates how this common thread is in a sense

inherently uncommon to itself to an almost Hegelian degree. Despite falling under the

universal banner of ‘Gothic’, the b-movie form (and culturally specific manifestations

thereof, which translate its precepts through economic, political, and social constraints)

necessarily alters these precepts and colours the universal with indelible flecks of cultural,

social, and regional residues. This collection thus hinges upon something of a formalist

paradox; insofar as the Gothic has become universal, in the sense of composing a more-or-

less-consolidated genre with specific aesthetic sensibilities, the genre still nonetheless

necessarily must become particularised in and through its discrete cultural manifestations. B-

Movie Gothic is undertaking more than just rearranging the contents of the gothic form,

giving them a linguistic and/or visual twist (for instance, instead of a castle in the English

countryside, a mangrove forest in Brazil) – rather, it actually comes to identify the formal

shifts inscribed in the gothic genre itself. Without the viral proliferation of the Gothic across

the globe through the particular medium of the b-movie, it could be argued that perhaps the

and economic practices, which differ from those practiced in mainland China. The recent 2019 protests over

Hong Kong’s extradition bill make Ancuta’s chapter especially prescient.

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genre itself would have dissolved long ago into relative obscurity. In this way, the book

presents the radical albeit implicit thesis that the survival of the Gothic as such may well have

been wholly dependent upon its various iterations in culturally specific contexts.

Certainly, a deeper dive into the African b-movie industry would be warranted, as in

the present volume the continent is represented by one solitary chapter, Claudia Böhme’s

excellent contribution on the Tanzanian b-movie gothic genre filamu ya kutisha (frightening

film). This shortcoming ought to, and very well could, be remedied in subsequent editions.

Although there may not be much demand for critical exegesis – and this is the fault of

scholarly neglect surely – this collection, both in its strengths and its inadequacies, invites

others to pick up and develop where it has both left off and left out. For these reasons and

others, it will be exciting to see how this volume is utilised in scholarship in the coming

years.

Anthony Ballas

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Werewolves, Wolves, and the Gothic, ed. by Robert McKay and John Miller

(Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2017)

Werewolves, Wolves, and the Gothic is an ambitious and comprehensive study of the wild

beasts in literature and across the media. As editors Robert McKay and John Miller state,

‘[t]he wolf is both determined by the Gothic and a point at which the Gothic imagination is

subject to a certain exposure’ (p. 5). However, rather than just focus on the nature of the wolf,

this critical study explores its representations, challenging how the wolf is perceived and

depicted through different media, from classic novels to modern-day portrayals on the big

screen. From their beginnings in myths and legends, through their emerging roles in late-

Victorian literature, to more contemporary imaginings of these monsters, this book critically

evaluates (were)wolf figures in literature, exploring how they are seen and portrayed. The

wolf usually exists at the conjunction between the aesthetic and the supernatural. However,

this text goes beyond such concerns to force a reconsideration of the creature from the 1890s

to the present. In their Introduction, McKay and Miller explain that wolves and werewolves

‘raise unsettling questions about the intersection of the real and the imaginary and the natural

and the supernatural, foregrounding the instability of categories of human identity and the

worldliness and political weight of the Gothic’ (pp. 1-2). This questions the werewolf’s

hybridity – half human, half beast – a hybridity that makes a concrete link between reality

and the supernatural. They explain that ‘[a]t the heart of this study is the ever-vexed arena of

identity politics’ (p. 4), which is central to understanding the werewolf as a supernatural

being composed of two real creatures, the human and the wolf. How the wolf is portrayed in

certain media shapes the preconceptions about the behaviour of said beast. The editors

rigorously investigate the identity of the wolf in Western culture by bringing together critical

essays on, for instance, Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897), Guy Endore’s The Werewolf in Paris

(1933), and the romantic teen supernatural drama, Twilight (2005) by Stephenie Meyer.

Taken together, the essays trace the development of the wolf’s identity over more than a

century through literature, film, and television. The text comprises ten chapters, examining a

range of topics centred on how the werewolf has developed in fiction and popular

perceptions. The chapters are grouped into two sections – ‘Social Anxieties’ and ‘Species

Troubles’.

As McKay and Miller point out in their Introduction, the section entitled ‘Social

Anxieties’ ‘traces the multifarious ways in which the werewolf imaginary figures a series of

concerns that we can regard as peculiar to human society’ (p. 6). Hannah Priest’s opening

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chapter, ‘Like Father Like Son: Wolf-Men, Paternity, and the Male Gothic’, and Jazmina

Cininas’s ‘Wicked Wolf-Women and Shaggy Suffragettes: Lycanthropic Femmes Fatales in

the Victorian and Edwardian Eras’, both draw on the political, gendered, and geographical

landscapes inhabited by the wolf. These chapters discuss sexuality, race, and ethnicity, and

capture the obsession with lycanthropy in addition to the various political and social elements

that have surfaced over the years through several media. These chapters question how the

werewolf’s origins resulted in their westernisation, and how the creature has struggled to

determine its identity – as a villain, a victim, a hero, and even a love interest.

Next, Michelle Nicole Boyer pays close attention to the postcolonial and

contemporary depictions of the wolf, evaluating films such as Dances with Wolves (dir. by

Kevin Costner, 1990), and Last of the Dogmen (dir. by Tab Murphy, 1995). As Boyer

explains, the characterisation of werewolves is problematic; their ‘identity is non-existent

because popular cinema has written them out of existence’ (p. 76). The wolf figure is, she

asserts, representative ‘of the colonised indigenous peoples of North America’, a trend that

‘continues in later filmic texts’ (p. 8). Specifically, Boyer argues that ‘popular culture expects

that Native Americans should become the human embodiment of wolves’ (p. 8). Boyer then

explores popular contemporary teen franchises such as The Vampire Diaries (2009-17) and

True Blood (2008-14), and considers the identity of the wolf across different North-American

cultures, as well as the supernatural elements of each culture’s depiction of the wolf. This

chapter is useful as it not only looks at the identity of the werewolf as a supernatural

character, but also as a postcolonial product that both empowers and stigmatises the colonised

indigenous peoples of America. This section also includes chapters by Roman Bartosch and

Celestine Caruso, who focus primarily on Twilight, a work of fiction that sparked a four-part

film franchise (2008-12), depicting the werewolf as a potential love interest for the

protagonist, instead of as a cursed villain, as seen for example in An American Werewolf in

London (1981). As Bartosch and Caruso explain, Twilight ‘endorses the character

constellation of the vampire, werewolf and human in ways to help understand the

ubernatural, although it cannot be considered “horror” in the strict sense’ (pp. 87-88, italics in

original). Instead of typical ‘horror’ werewolves who are the villains, this popular teen

franchise opens up more discussion about the werewolf being a romantic love interest for the

characters and, for some, even the hero of the story.

Batia Boe Stolar completes the ‘Social Anxieties’ section with a chapter dedicated to

‘girl power’, concentrating on the ‘monstrous feminine’ in the Ginger Snaps trilogy (2000-

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04). As the werewolf figure is stereotypically male, Stolar discusses how Ginger Snaps (dir.

by John Fawcett) and the subsequent sequels challenge cinematic convention by depicting a

female werewolf. Stolar assesses these ‘feminist films that invite us to read werewolf

narratives beyond a Freudian psychoanalytical lens’ (p. 114), highlighting how the figure of

the werewolf can be utilised to overthrow outdated and misunderstood ideals. This is an

incredibly interesting chapter as it explores the werewolf as female when in books, films, and

legends, werewolves are predominantly male, embodying a masculinity that is also associated

with particular forms of power. When a female character becomes a werewolf, she is

therefore effectively transformed into a masculine beast, which arguably entails denying her

female self. Therefore, not only do these films figure the monstrous woman as a beast (rather

than a seductress, such as Dracula’s brides); they also depict a prominent power struggle

between different gender roles, further complicating the identity politics of the werewolf.

The chapters in the second section, ‘Species Troubles’, ‘consider werewolf narratives

whose social horizons reach beyond the human to trouble the very distinction between

humans and all other animals’ (p. 11). Examining the symbolic and metaphorical

connotations of the wolf and werewolf, this section foregrounds issues relating to identity,

and specifically, the ‘politics of human-animal relations’ (p. 11). The section opens with Kaja

Franck’s chapter on the gothic-horror classic Dracula, followed neatly by John Miller’s

‘Saki, Nietzsche, and the Superwolf’, and Robert McKay’s analysis of The Werewolf in

Paris. These essays focus on (in)famous depictions of werewolves and how the market for

beastly horror villains has expanded, allowing older texts to be reconsidered in light of new

forms of representation and interpretation. In a cultural climate hungry for depictions of

supernatural beasts, a new perspective of the creature’s symbolism therefore emerges.

No study on werewolves would be complete without a discussion of Angela Carter.

Margot Young explores the world of Carter’s wolves in a new light, concentrating on animal

studies and the ecoGothic within her stories. This is followed by Bill Hughes’s examination

of the Shiver series (2009-12) by Maggie Stiefvater, which builds on the previous chapter,

exploring non-antagonistic relationships forged between lycanthropic narratives. The

concluding chapter by Matthew Lerberg, ‘Transforming the Big Bad Wolf: Redefining the

Werewolf through Grimm and Fables’, begins with a quotation from ‘Little Red Riding

Hood’, coming full circle to the legend of the wolf that many of us first encountered as

children. Lerberg examines whether the werewolf archetype exists merely within imagination

or acts as a metaphor for contemporary anxieties (p. 252). Lerberg focuses on NBC television

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series Grimm (2011-17), and connects it to the contemporary fairytale revival seen in other

popular films and TV programmes such as The Brothers Grimm (dir. by Terry Gilliam,

2005), Once Upon A Time (2011-18), and Maleficent (dir. by Robert Stromberg, 2014), a

trend that has produced further adaptations and re-imaginings of the archetype. Grimm

portrays the wolf in a new light, set as it is in a world where supernatural beings exist,

including a ‘modern’ version of the werewolf, the ‘Blutbad’. Grimm challenges the

werewolf’s fantasy origins by looking at its identity once again. Lerberg explains that the

‘Blutbad, or wolf/werewolf species suffer from negative representations because of their

storied past’, a past that associates then with ‘violence and gore’ (p. 255). Consequently,

rather than focus on how becoming a werewolf dehumanises the lycanthropic individual, in

Grimm, the emphasis is placed on the werewolf’s identity. For example, the wolf character,

Monroe, battles with his personality, experiencing an inner conflict regarding his own

integrity, as he attempts to negotiate the negative fairytale representations of his species. This

chapter acts as a conclusion to the text as a whole, while also taking a thought-provoking

approach, intended to stimulate further conversation about the creatures and ‘problematic

representations of nonhumans in Western culture’ (p. 251). It is an incredibly useful chapter

as it also ends with a discussion on how werewolves are perceived in the modern day, and

how we can only imagine what portrayals of the werewolf are to come in future years. This

chapter exemplifies what the collection is trying to convey overall; it takes the wolf in a

different and inventive direction, examining its role a contemporary setting, and in particular

as a misunderstood and victimised figure, rather than the terrifying beast from horror films.

McKay and Miller’s ground-breaking critical text – the first of its kind concerned

with the depiction of wolves and werewolves across a variety of media – is an invaluable

guide to wolf-related myths for anyone studying within the realm of the Gothic. The wolf’s

significance is analysed by passionate and dedicated scholars who challenge conventional

interpretations of the creature as a villainous beast fuelled by violence and gore. The

werewolf is shifting away from its westernised connotations and beginning to be

reinterpreted. The wolf can now be empowering, worthy, and a deserving beast in the horror

genre, but also a victim, a hero, and even a love interest, or an individual searching for its

identity through its ancestral origins. As a whole, the book presents a compelling and

persuasive argument for reassessing the wolf, its history, values, and perception.

Rebecca Bruce

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Jordan Peele’s Get Out: Political Horror, ed. by Dawn Keetley

(Ohio State University Press, 2020)

In her recent book Darkly: Black History and America’s Gothic Soul, Leila Taylor unearths

the strains of gothicism interwoven with the history and culture of Black America. Alongside

now canonical manifestations of the African-American Gothic – Toni Morrison’s 1987 novel

Beloved, Billie Holiday’s haunting rendition of ‘Strange Fruit’ (1954) – Taylor also argues

for the existence of a lived gothic reality unique to the Black experience. Taylor positions the

violence of slavery, segregation, and structural racism as historical horrors capable of

challenging the most chilling of ghost stories, the most gruesome of slashers. For Taylor,

racism and its capacity to dehumanise Black Americans is inherently uncanny. Writing about

the Three-Fifths Compromise, the historical decision that for the purposes of legislative

representation only three-fifths of the slave population would be counted as people, Taylor

describes this concession as inherently ‘spooky’.

If only three out every five Black

Americans were considered human, what happened to the other two? Should African

Americans be considered only three-fifths of a full person? As Taylor herself puts it, ‘[d]id

those extra two Black people never exist? Are they phantom people who are almost there but

not quite? […] Like [Ralph] Ellison’s invisible man, the three-fifths man walks here among

us, yet not all here, not all whole.’

Jordan Peele’s 2017 horror film Get Out is equally preoccupied with the uncanniness

of the African-American experience. Imagining a quasi-science-fictional reality in which

ageing whites can pay to have their minds transplanted into the unwilling bodies of people of

colour, Get Out literalises the physical and cultural estrangement at the heart of Black

America. The film’s depiction of Black bodies stolen and occupied by a powerful extrinsic

force not only replays the trauma of the transatlantic slave trade; it also invokes pertinent

questions about white liberal racism, the intersection of race and class, the insidious nature of

micro-aggressions, and the racialised division of urban, rural, and suburban space. Alongside

its profusion of textual meaning, Get Out has also emerged as an immensely important film in

cultural and cinematic terms. Nominated for four Academy Awards – and winning in the Best

Original Screenplay category – Get Out accrued a level of critical respect rarely afforded to a

horror film. At the same time, some critics and observers attempted to disentangle Get Out

from the claws of such a disreputable genre: it was, inexplicably, nominated for Best Picture

Leila Taylor, Darkly: Black History and America’s Gothic Soul (London: Repeater Books, 2019), p.65.

Ibid.

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in the Musical or Comedy category at the 2017 Golden Globes. Likewise, a number of

writers have attempted to re-classify Peele’s film as ‘elevated horror’, suggesting that Get

Out’s incisive social commentary might be out of place within a cinematic mode commonly

associated with exploitation, gore, and cheap shocks. Moving beyond these controversies,

Get Out can be understood not only as a film that reflects the complexity of race relations in

the US, but as a work of art that has actively contributed to the discussion of race, prejudice,

and privilege in modern America. Phrases and images lifted from the film have been

deployed and even memeified in mainstream and online discussions of systemic racism. The

term ‘Sunken Place’ – a reference to the state of living death inhabited by victims of Get

Out’s racist body-swap procedure – has even entered the discursive lexicon to describe the

ongoing oppression of African Americans in the twenty-first century.

Compiling an academic study of such an immediately important and influential film

was always going to be a challenge. Yet Dawn Keetley’s new edited collection, entitled

Jordan Peele’s Get Out: Political Horror, not only succeeds in unravelling the multitudinous

discourses that have already accrued around the film; it also elegantly suggests new ways of

reading and contextualising Get Out. The collection brings together sixteen diverse essays,

each offering a fresh and insightful perspective on the film, its contexts, and its intertexts.

The selection of essays is impressive, not only in its scope, but in the sophistication of the

interconnections between the individual chapters. The collection flows beautifully, with each

chapter building on the last to present a carefully interwoven, multifaceted view of Get Out.

Taken together, the essays compiled in Jordan Peele’s Get Out constitute a rigorous analysis

of one of the most intriguing films of the past twenty years. The collection opens with an

editor’s Introduction by Keetley, in which she contextualises the film within an established

canon of ‘political horror’, carefully placing Peele’s work alongside an extant ‘tradition of

body horror that emphasizes the ways in which black bodies, in particular, are not their own’

(p. 5). The Introduction also aligns Get Out with two other films, Invasion of the Body

Snatchers (dir. by Don Seigel, 1956) and The Stepford Wives (dir. by Bryan Forbes, 1975),

which Keetley identifies as works centred around politicised body-swaps. In these earlier

works, Keetley notes, human bodies are swapped out for nonhuman forms – that is, alien

invaders and robots. Get Out not only draws on this narrative tradition, but renders it

infinitely more disturbing by focusing on whites who view African Americans as nonhuman,

as ‘Black repositories for white minds’ (p. 6). Keetley then moves on to examine how Get

Out’s central narrative conceit, ageing whites who desire to appropriate and occupy youthful

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Black bodies, draws on nineteenth- and early-twentieth century theatrical traditions of

Blackface minstrelsy. Intriguingly, however, Keetley argues that this kind of racial

masquerade is also adopted by Black characters in the film, who, in order to survive in a

white world, must present themselves as what philosopher Lewis Gordon terms ‘black bodies

with white conciousnesses’ (quoted p. 7). Keetley’s careful teasing out of the psychological,

philosophical, and political horror at the core of Get Out thus situates the film within a long-

standing tradition of African-American Gothic, in which the iconography of stolen bodies

and fractured minds expresses the fundamental uncanniness of racist dehumanisation.

After the Introduction, the book is divided into two parts, whose reverberant titles

suggest how the sections will mirror and indeed converse with each other. Part One, ‘The

Politics of Horror’, locates Get Out within the broader horror tradition, exploring its links to

texts as diverse as William Shakespeare’s Othello (1604), Victor Halperin’s White Zombie

(1932), and the horror novels of Ira Levin. Part Two, ‘The Horror of Politics’, engages more

explicitly with the politics of Get Out, analysing how the film offers a rigorous yet nuanced

critique of racist institutions and ideologies. Essays in this section of the book explore a wide

variety of interconnected themes, from Get Out’s fantastical reconfiguration of the slave

revolt to its engagement with W. E. B. Du Bois’s concept of ‘double consciousness’. The

breadth and insight of these essays is truly extraordinary, and it is difficult to do justice to the

conceptual inventiveness of the book’s sixteen chapters in a brief review. The critical

dexterity evinced by each of the authors included in this book is breath taking, and the entire

collection offers an enticing glimpse at the creative scholarship currently being undertaken in

the study of Black speculative fiction and popular culture.

Chapter One, by Jonathan Byron and Tony Perrello, charts the generic shift from

tragedy to horror in fictive representations of interracial relationships. Comparing Get Out to

Othello, Byron and Perrello argue that, not only do both texts centre on an accomplished

Black man who is forced to confront the racist assumptions of white society, but they also

explore how that white society mobilises stereotypes in order to manipulate and nullify Black

agency. In Chapter Two, Linnie Blake convincingly argues that Get Out adapts a number of

the narrative and aesthetic tropes of the Female Gothic to reflect uniquely African-American

experiences, while simultaneously refusing to feminise the film’s protagonist. Next, Robin R.

Means Coleman and Novontny Lawrence show how Get Out renders monstrous the

‘Whitopia’ – a predominantly white space valued for its homogeneity and ‘exclusivity’.

Chapter Four opens with a discussion of a 2012 skit in which director Jordan Peele and his

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sketch-comedy partner Keegan-Michael Key confront an army of racist zombies who simply

refuse to bite them, even backing away in fear from the two Black men.

From here, Erin Casey-Williams moves on to explore the textual and conceptual links

between Get Out and earlier zombie films like White Zombie (dir. by Victor Halperin, 1932)

and Night of the Living Dead (dir. by George A. Romero, 1968). Following on from this,

Bernice M. Murphy offers an engaging analysis of the role of space in Get Out, examining

how the film restructures suburbia as a site of Black anxiety, and reconfigures the cinematic

tropes of the ‘backwoods-horror’ subgenre. Chapter Six presents an intriguing comparative

reading of Get Out and John Frankenheimer’s 1966 film Seconds, in which Robyn Citizen

unravels the political subtexts embedded in the body-swap narrative. In Chapter Seven, the

wonderfully titled ‘Jordan Peele and Ira Levin Go to the Movies’, Adam Lowenstein reads

Get Out in tandem with two novels, Rosemary’s Baby (dir. by Roman Polanski, 1967) and

The Stepford Wives (dir. by Bryan Forbes, 1972), by popular mid-century novelist Ira Levin.

Through an insightful analysis of Peele and Levin’s representations of the minority

experience, Lowenstein maintains that both creators treat the persecution of social minorities

(African Americans, Jews, women) as real, legitimate pain rather than the paranoid fantasies

that their fanciful narratives might initially suggest them to be. The final chapter in this

section, Sarah Ilott’s discussion of African-American gothic realism, serves as an apt coda to

arguments put forward in the previous chapters, as the author demonstrates how the Gothic

serves an ideal form through which to critique structural and systemic racism.

Part Two, ‘The Horror of Politics’, engages in a subtle shift away from generic,

formal, and literary concerns, and towards the real-world inequalities and abuses that

produced Get Out, and the context of unrelenting violence into which the film was ultimately

released. Chapter Nine constitutes an in-depth study of Get Out’s critical reception, in which

Todd K. Platts and David L. Brunsma undertake a qualitative content analysis of twenty-six

different reviews of Get Out. In doing so, the authors seek to uncover how reviewers

responded to Get Out’s treatment of race; how reviewers deployed diverse analytical and

interpretative frameworks to guide audiences through the film; and how reviews by white

writers differed from those of writers of colour. Next, in what might be one of the collection’s

most inventive chapters, Sarah Juliet Lauro explores how, in Get Out, Peele found ‘a way to

talk about slave revolt without talking about slave revolt’ (p. 149). Commencing with an

overview of the complex historical responses to Nat Turner’s 1831 slave uprising, Lauro

argues that Get Out’s story of ‘capture, occupation, and revolt’ not only re-enacts the

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historical trauma of the transatlantic slave trade, but also revisits some of the diverse

strategies of resistance performed by enslaved peoples in the US (p. 149). In Chapter Eleven,

Mikal J. Gaines reads Get Out’s Sunken Place through the lens of Du Bois’s notion of

‘double consciousness’. A formative analysis of Black subjectivity, Du Bois famously

described double consciousness as a ‘twoness’ that arises from the dual condition of being

Black in America: ‘two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in

one dark body whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder’ (quoted p.

162). Gaines persuasively argues that the Sunken Place, where people of colour watch

helplessly as their bodies are controlled by occupying whites, ‘literalizes the paralysis that

accompanies being forced to occupy a splintered sense of self as a principle condition of life’

(p. 161). Protagonist Chris’s foray into the dark, cavernous Sunken Place, his alienation from

his own mind and body, can therefore be understood as a visceral expression of the

splintering inherent in double consciousness. Chapter Twelve is an engaging discussion of

Black manhood, wherein Robert Larue uses Get Out’s ‘tea cup’ sequence to explore the

disturbing manner in which Black males are regularly (mis-)interpellated as men/boys.

The subsequent chapter, by Kyle Brett, examines the role of photography in Get Out,

unpacking the paradox of the photographer’s privileged position behind the camera. Chapter

Fourteen is another highlight, as Laura Thorp engages Get Out in an inventive intertextual

dialogue with James Baldwin’s 1965 short story ‘Going to Meet the Man’. Here, Thorp

argues that, just as whiteness is portrayed in Baldwin’s story as contingent upon anti-Black

violence, so too does Get Out predicate the endurance of whiteness on the occupation of the

Black bodies. In the penultimate chapter, Cayla McNally convincingly argues that the

violence enacted against people of colour in Get Out forms part of a disturbing history of

scientific racism, wherein racial difference was ascribed biological origins to legitimise

structural inequality. Lastly, the concluding chapter undertakes a detailed study of Get Out’s

paratexts, with a special emphasis on the film’s advertising campaign. Here, Alex Svensson

pays particularly close attention to a billboard advert that accompanied the film’s release.

Emblazoned with the confrontational question ‘Do You Belong in This Neighborhood?’, the

advert, Svensson maintains, provoked vital discussions about Trumpism, anti-immigration

sentiment, gentrification, and segregation.

As stated above, Keetley’s book is an impressive achievement and a fitting response

to an important film. The essays that comprise the collection are well chosen, and each author

approaches Get Out from a distinct critical, theoretical, or political perspective. Although

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offering a multiplicity of diverse readings of the film, there is also a coherence to the essays,

as each work clearly foregrounds the unique imbrication of speculative horror and political

critique that defines Get Out. The essays are brief – all under twenty pages – and, as such, the

pace of the collection remains lively and dynamic. Yet, despite their brevity, the essays are all

endlessly insightful. Jordan Peele’s Get Out is a book certain to attract a wide and varied

audience. While possessing obvious appeal for scholars of horror and popular cinema,

researchers working on African-American history and culture will likewise find much to

engage their interest. Teachers, too, should also find Keetely’s book both edifying and useful.

Indeed, the collection would be well suited to courses on Black cinema, science fiction,

contemporary Gothic, and popular culture. Because the essays are both brief and written in an

accessible style, they are ideally positioned to serve as recommended readings on

college/university courses.

At this point in history, with the Black Lives Matter movement once again mobilised

against racist violence and police brutality, it seems almost trite to describe Keetley’s

collection as timely. It might, in fact, be more accurate to say that, at this moment in time, it

is a necessary book. Each of the essays collected here foregrounds the deft, disturbing manner

in which Get Out intertwines politics and horror. Excavating the dense layers of meaning

embedded in Peele’s film, each chapter frames the African-American experience of

pervasive, insidious racism as inherently uncanny, infinitely horrifying. Jordan Peele’s Get

Out: Political Horror examines the horror of a history marred by slavery, violence, and

dehumanisation, while simultaneously elucidating some the ways in which horror can give us

a language through which to speak about both the corporeal and psychic trauma of racism.

Miranda Corcoran

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Rikke Schubart, Mastering Fear: Women, Emotions, and Contemporary Horror

(Bloomsbury Academic, 2018)

In the first chapter of her new book, Mastering Fear: Women, Emotions, and Contemporary

Horror, Rikke Schubart reminds us that rats – socially advanced creatures whose complex

communal and mental lives have resulted in their use in countless psychological experiments

– engage in detailed forms of play fighting and social play. Rats, Schubart notes, learn many

useful skills from this type of play – ‘[m]otor skills, social skills, and abilities that are useful

later when they fight, hunt, mate, and interact socially’ (p. 42). For these rodents, then, play is

not simply a mode of escapism; it is a vital part of their biological, psychological, and

interpersonal development. Conversely, we humans tend to view play in a dismissive manner:

we admonish one another to stop playing around; we tell our children that they are too old to

play, or that certain toys are inappropriate for their age; the phrase ‘playing games’ suggests

deceit and immaturity. Play is, to us, anathematic to maturation. It is regressive and a

signifier of arrested development.

Mastering Fear challenges this dismissive view of play, as Schubart makes a case for

play as a valuable developmental tool. Just as for the rats described in the first chapter of the

book, play can help us to grow as human beings by allowing us to engage with diverse

imaginative scenarios where we can learn sensorimotor skills, social skills, emotional

robustness, and creativity (p. 11). While such play can take many forms – games, role-

playing, sports, and so on – Schubart’s book makes the unique case that horror cinema can

function as a challenging and stimulating variety of play. In Schubart’s schema, horror is

neither escapism nor, as many critics have argued, a sadistic or sadomasochistic fantasy.

According to Schubart, horror is an essentially enriching genre. For all of its grotesquery and

its much-maligned brutality, horror is nothing less than a phantasmagoric playground, an

imagined realm of celluloid and shadow where we can interact with and perhaps even work

through challenging emotions. Even at its most disturbing, when abject iconography and

hopeless despair compel us to turn away, to retreat to the warmth and safety of the everyday,

horror is emotionally and psychologically elevating. With its often unsettling violence and

preoccupation with the darkest corners of the human psyche, horror affords us a unique

opportunity to imagine difficult, frightening, or uncomfortable situations.

The sadistic, masochistic, or sadomasochistic pleasure of horror has been touched on by a number of critics,

including Carol J. Clover in Men, Women, and Chainsaws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film (Princeton and

Oxford: Princeton University Press, 1992); Barbara Creed in The Monstrous Feminine: Film, Feminism,

Psychoanalysis (London and New York: Routledge, 1993); and Aviva Briefel in her article ‘Monster Pains:

Masochism, Menstruation, and Identification in the Horror Film’, Film Quarterly, 58 (2005), 16-27.

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Schubart maintains that horror can therefore be seen as a ‘dark stage’ where viewers

can play with fear (p. 15), immersing themselves in terror and giving themselves over to

dread. The act of watching and identifying with protagonists who delve or are plunged into

the depths of abjection teaches us, as viewers, how to ‘manage challenging emotions and

make difficult choices’ (p. 15). As a dark stage, an imaginative playground in which we can

sink to the furthest reaches of depravity, horror teaches us to navigate potentially

overwhelming emotions such as fear, disgust, and anxiety. Horror, Schubart tells us, is to

humans what play fighting is to animals: it confronts us with violence and distress while all

the while teaching us how to respond to these sensations in a healthy, or at least acceptable,

manner. For women, horror can be especially useful, as its transgressive iconography,

monstrous characters, and unsettling narratives create a space in which traditional

conceptions of womanhood can be expanded, reconfigured, or even demolished. In this way,

horror allows women to ‘re-author negative gender scripts’ (p. 4) and open themselves up to

new possibilities, new ways of being.

Mastering Fear is very much a multi-disciplinary work, bridging the chasm between

science and the humanities. The theoretical paradigms guiding the study therefore draw on a

range of disciplines, from neuroscience and psychology to sociology and literary criticism.

Schubart’s writing is dynamic, traversing these distinct frameworks with ease and combining

them to produce a nuanced reading of contemporary horror cinema. One of the most

engaging facets of Schubart’s study is the manner in which she employs the sociological

concept of ‘edgework’ to edify the nature of horror-film spectatorship. Drawing on ideas

initially cultivated in the field of sports sociology, Mastering Fear foregrounds the notion of

edgework – ‘when we do exciting and dangerous activities for fun’ – in order to analyse

horror as ‘play with danger’ (p. 47). Edgeworkers are those individuals who tread the

boundary or ‘edge’ separating life and death, sanity and insanity, consciousness and

unconsciousness, by undertaking potentially dangerous activities like rock climbing,

skydiving, high-speed racing, and so on. Those who partake in such pastimes often report that

their activities help them to develop and strengthen themselves, building physical and psychic

fortitude. Horror, Schubart argues, serves a similar function by confronting viewers with

challenging emotions. Even as we witness characters, our fictive avatars, being brutalised,

traumatised, or even killed, we as spectators are learning – these limit experiences teach us to

master our emotions. In neuroscientific terms, ‘we shift perspective, expand our ego tunnel,

increase activity in our neuronal cloud, and tell ourselves the incremental story’ (p. 56). In

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doing so, Schubart explains, ‘we learn to master fear’ (p. 56) and, consequently, we discover

new possibilities, new identificatory prospects; we discover that we can transcend social

scripts about appropriate femininity or prescribed social roles.

Schubart’s study operates according to two central theoretical frameworks:

bioculturalism and evofeminism. Underscoring the dynamic interdisciplinarity of her work,

Schubart describes the first of these paradigms, bioculturalism, as a theoretical mode that

merges the sciences and the humanities by exploring, for example, how human biology

adapts to new cultural scenarios and demands. The second of these frameworks,

evofeminism, derived in part from evolutionary theory, is Schubart’s own coinage, which she

defines as a mode of inquiry that combines ‘truth-based science (bioculturalism) with a

politics of equality (feminism)’ (p. 40). Schubart’s evofeminism is broad and inclusive. It

draws on all forms of feminism, encompassing first-, second-, third-, and fourth-wave

feminisms, as well as employing discourses derived from postfeminsim, neofeminism, and

ecofeminism. Schubart’s book is therefore ambitious in its theoretical objectives, as the

author seeks to unite a range of intellectual strands, drawn together from across the

humanities and the sciences. Set against this wide theoretical scope, the range of her textual

analysis is more concentrated, more rigidly defined, as Schubart focuses almost entirely on

postmillennial texts featuring women. Mastering Fear employs these texts as a means of

charting female engagement with horror film and television.

The book’s contents are arranged chronologically, reflecting the major phases of a

woman’s life, from childhood to old age. In this way, Schubart moves from a stunning

section on childhood – where she argues that, by watching the child heroine of Guillermo del

Toro’s Pan’s Labyrinth (2006) push ‘herself over the edge in her play’, the viewer can

envision a world free of violent patriarchy (p. 77) – to a thoughtful discussion of older

womanhood, in which she constructs The Walking Dead’s (2010-present) depiction of Carol

as a powerful subversion of the limited, static gender script usually assigned to middle-aged

women. In each of these life stages, Schubart argues, horror provides women (viewers as well

as characters) with a means of engaging with complex, even disturbing, emotions, an

engagement that empowers them to re-author the social scripts that dictate who and what they

are supposed to be at each stage of their lives. Over the course of her powerful and original

study, Schubart explores a broad array of horror texts, from teen-centred television shows

like The Vampire Diaries (2009-17) to the harrowing bodily trauma of the New French

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Extremity.

Yet despite this textual variety, Schubart remains focused on opening up the

possibilities of horror, reconfiguring it, not as a passive engagement with sadism, but as an

active, transformative experience that enables women to navigate uncomfortable emotional

experiences, and come away strengthened and revitalised.

In her incisive reading of Jennifer Kent’s 2014 film The Babadook, Schubart contrasts

the protagonist Amelia’s response to grief and trauma with that of her son, Sam. While

Amelia attempts to repress her sorrow over her husband’s sudden death, confining his

belongings to the basement and refusing to engage with his memory, Sam’s response is

decidedly more morbid but also significantly healthier. Speaking about his parents with

strangers in the supermarket, Sam declares, ‘my father is in the cemetery, he got killed

driving my mom to the hospital to have me’ (quoted p. 193). The young boy here expresses

an understanding of both the emotional and the biological realities of death. He embraces the

actuality of loss and sorrow, which allows him to heal and grieve fully for the father he never

knew. Likewise, Sam is infatuated with horror and the grotesque – he revels in the magical

and the monstrous. Rather than repressing the darker aspects of reality, Sam engages with the

morbid and the macabre, and is therefore enabled to process difficult emotions in a way that

his mother is not.

Although this analysis is applied specifically to The Babadook, it could also serve as

the thesis statement for Schubart’s entire book. Delving into darkness, rather than trapping us

in the depths of despair, is a powerful and cathartic activity; doing so allows us to construct

an imaginative space in which we can confront, process, and overcome even the most

disturbing of emotions. Horror, then, is not a passive exercise in masochistic terror; instead, it

is a creative playground in which we can challenge ourselves and grow as individuals. An

insightful and original study, Mastering Fear will undoubtedly have a broad appeal. The

author’s clear and coherent prose coupled with her penetrating analysis of the films she

explores will certainly attract horror fans both within and outside of the academy.

Researchers and teachers interested in gender and aging in cinema will also find Schubart’s

comprehensive study indispensable. Perhaps most significantly, her cogent, unambiguous

discussion of biocultural theory will provide an accessible introduction to this critical

framework for scholars interested in learning more about the relationship between biology

and culture.

Miranda Corcoran

Examples of New French Extremity include films such as Claire Denis’s Trouble Every Day (2001); Marina de

Van’s In My Skin (2002); Alexandre Aja’s Haute tension (2003); and Pascal Laugier’s Martyrs (2008).

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Posthuman Gothic, ed. by Anya Heise-von der Lippe

(Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2017)

Anya Heise-von der Lippe’s edited collection, Posthuman Gothic, offers ‘a structured,

dialogical contribution to the discussion of the posthuman gothic in different media, forms

and critical contexts’ (p. 10). In doing so, it brings posthumanism into a compelling and

productive dialogue with the supernatural personae and monstrous motifs associated with the

gothic and horror genres. Encompassing an Introduction and thirteen chapters, with the latter

arranged in four parts – ‘Organic’, ‘Undead’, ‘Evolving’, ‘Reimagined’ – the text adopts a

Derridean approach to the subject of monstrosity, derived from the Latin monstrare (to

demonstrate), insofar as it considers what the posthuman Gothic can tell us about our cultural

fears and existential anxieties.

The methodological framework for this approach is established in the general

Introduction, which plots a neat path between posthumanist and gothic discourses that is

accessible to gothic scholars unfamiliar with posthuman studies, or vice versa. The text

adopts a two-pronged understanding of posthumanism, namely, ‘critical posthumanism’,

which challenges the underpinnings of humanist philosophy, and ‘ontological

posthumanism’, concerned with the ostensible stability of the existential limitations imposed

by human mortality. Lippe identifies Victor Frankenstein’s reanimated monster as an

archetype of the commonality that exists between gothic fiction and this dualistic mode of

posthumanism, noting the monster’s status as ‘a harbinger of category crisis – that is, of a

state of epistemological and ontological unease, which challenges the basic paradigms we

associate with being human’ (p. 2). Indeed, this disruptive potential functions as the common

denominator and primary catalyst in the analyses of narrative fiction, film, television, and

video games that comprise the main body of this collection.

Each of the essays in Part I – ‘Organic’ – surveys the ways in which medical and

genetic discourses have been deployed in speculative fiction to prompt a reconsideration of

the animal/human dichotomy. To begin, Michael Sean Bolton sets the zombies in David

Wong’s John Dies at the End (2009) and This Book is Full of Spiders (2012) against the

Ship-of-Theseus problem, thereby complicating the idea that zombification is an unnatural

state that is foisted on the human subject. This is followed by Antonia Peroikou assessment of

Margaret Atwood’s MaddAddam trilogy (2003-13), which explores how the animal/human

dichotomy is muddied by the prospect of technoscientific beings and the states of existential

liminality that these nonhuman beings personify. For his part, Lars Schmeink looks at the

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vampires in Francis Lawrence’s film I Am Legend (2007), the Blade series (1998-2004), and

the Spierig brothers’ Daybreakers (2009), and explores the degree to which these figures

dramatise cultural anxieties around racial and class politics.

In Part II – ‘Undead’ – the essays evaluate the ways in which the dynamics that

underpin human/nonhuman relationships complicate the firmness of these seemingly binary

states. Analysing the ellipses that punctuate the epistolary and omniscient narrative structure

of Richard Matheson’s novel I Am Legend (1954), Chris Koenig-Woodyard perceives a

hermeneutic fissure, which allows the reader to envisage the posthuman utopia represented

by the paranormal romance that the protagonist resists. Erica McCrystal brings the thought of

Emmanuel Levinas and Jacques Derrida to bear on True Blood (2008-14), arguing that

‘Home’ operates as the locus for a hospitality that paves the way for the ultimate act of

human/nonhuman deconstruction – blood sharing. Moving from vampires to zombies, Maria

Alberto looks at Dominic Mitchell’s BBC-3 series In the Flesh (2013-14), and the ways in

which the communal acts of ‘language’ and ‘appearance’ expose the performative status of

the human/nonhuman dichotomy. To conclude this section, Maria Marino-Faza makes a

strong case for the vampire figure being the ultimate embodiment of

human/inhuman/posthuman liminality, and shows how The Vampire Diaries (2009-17)

harnesses the potential of female monstrosity and the uncanny double to explore this liminal

space.

Part III – ‘Evolving’ – moves away from the vampires and zombies that prominently

feature in the initial chapters, taking a more wide-angled view of the posthuman Gothic,

which continues the discussion of female identity that emerges in Marino-Faza’s essay.

Analysing the otherworldly lake in Jane Campion’s Top of the Lake (2013), Amalya Ashman

and Amy Taylor identify a point of critical resistance to cultural fears around primitivism and

the reversion to animalistic impulses. They note that the lake offers the abused women in this

TV series an opportunity to reconnect with nature and overcome the trauma of their

respective pasts. Turning to Portal (2007) and Portal 2 (2011), Dawn Stobbart points out that

these video games deploy classic gothic motifs and techniques, such as female imprisonment

and embedded narration, to construct an immersive experience that explores the shifting

parameters of twenty-first-century patriarchy. For her part, Donna Mitchell draws on the

work of Jean Baudrillard, Michel Foucault, and Laura Mulvey to demonstrate that the man-

made protagonist in Louise O’Neill’s Only Ever Yours (2014) personifies the psychological

burdens that are imposed on women by the performative demands of patriarchal culture.

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The essays that comprise Part IV – ‘Reimagined’ – endeavour to broaden the

discussions around what constitutes the ‘Gothic’ and the ‘posthuman’ in our contemporary

cultural moment. First, Dennis Yeo categorises The Truman Show (dir. by Peter Weir, 1998)

as a posthuman gothic film, insofar as it transcends generic classification and foretells a truly

horrific ‘reality’ in which the protagonist languishes in a posthuman space between the

corporeal and virtual worlds. Shifting our attention to Ellen Ripley in the Alien films (1979-

2012), and representations of the Borg Collective in the Star Trek franchise (1966-present),

Evan Hayles Gledhill uses the concept of ‘transgression’ to draw a number of important

distinctions between the ‘human-to-monster’ and ‘monster-to-human’ narratives that play out

in these texts. To conclude this section, and the book, Aspasia Stephanou adopts a

Foucauldian lens to examine the posthuman narratives that frame the prospect of a techno-

enhanced future in strictly nihilistic terms. Referring to Greg Bear’s Blood Music (1985),

Michael Crichton’s Prey (2002), and the Japanese horror films, Meatball Machine (dir. by

Yūdai Yamaguchi, 2006) and Tokyo Police (dir. by Yoshihiro Nishimura, 2008), Stephanou

outlines a mode of ‘inhumanism’ that complicates the human/nonhuman dichotomy and with

it the distinction between organic nature and inorganic technology.

If one were obliged to identify a weakness, it seems that Posthuman Gothic would

benefit from a brief conclusion that considers the future of posthuman-gothic studies from the

vantage points established in the collected essays. This is a minor point, however, that pales

in comparison to the book’s many strengths. For instance, the recurring allusions to Mary

Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818) lend cohesiveness to what is an erudite and multifaceted

analysis of a complex subject that cuts across generic boundaries. This multi-generic

structure is one of the book’s greatest strengths, not simply because these essays traverse the

terrains of narrative fiction, film, television, and video games, but because the central

arguments are usually grounded in the relationship between textual form and content. It is

equally impressive that this cross-generic structure is brought to bear on a multifarious range

of subsidiary topics. Beyond the explicit focus on posthumanism and the Gothic, there is a

great deal here for scholars and students with an interest in cultural materialism, feminist and

masculinist studies, postmodernism, queer theory, and continental philosophy.

Matthew Fogarty

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Jessica Balanzategui, The Uncanny Child in Transnational Cinema: Ghosts of Futurity at

the Turn of the Twenty-First Century

(Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2018)

In his essay on the significance and relevance of the Gothic in contemporary culture, Steven

Bruhm argues that we need tales of horror and the Gothic in order to understand the traumas

of our cultural moment. Indeed, he suggests, ‘the Gothic itself is a narrative of trauma’.

Jessica Balanzategui’s study of children and childhood in contemporary transnational cinema

might be seen to take up where Bruhm left off. Her expansive and persuasive book, The

Uncanny Child in Transnational Cinema: Ghosts of Futurity at the Turn of the Twenty-First

Century (2018), constitutes a consideration of perhaps one of the most pervasive tropes of

gothic narrative – the strange, ghostly, haunted or haunting child – placing it in the context of

our understanding of national and global changes in cinema and culture over the past few

decades. It is an important work, not only for its detailed examinations of a wide range of

films from a range of cultural contexts, but for the ways in which it positions cinematic

narrative within broader historical critical and popular discourses.

The Uncanny Child in Transnational Cinema is comprised of four sections: ‘Secrets

and Hieroglyphs: The Uncanny Child in American Horror Film’; ‘Insects Trapped in Amber:

The Uncanny Child in Spanish Horror Film’; ‘Our Fear Has Taken on a Life of its Own: The

Uncanny Child in Japanese Horror Film’; and ‘Trauma’s Child: The Uncanny Child in

Transnational Coproductions and Remakes’. Each section consists of two or three chapters,

pairing an examination of the origins of the trope in the relevant sociocultural context with its

twenty-first-century manifestations. The study thus allows for an understanding of the

particularities of horror in American, Spanish, and Japanese contexts, before turning to its

global mutations in contemporary transfers of genre, character, and narrative.

The figure of the uncanny child is so commonplace in the Gothic as to have become a

trope. From the precocious Miles and Flora in Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw (1898),

to the demonic Regan in The Exorcist (dir. by William Friedkin, 1973) and Damien in The

Omen (dir. by Richard Donner, 1976), the child is monstrous precisely because of its

unknowability and vulnerability in contrast to adult power and knowledge. In these works,

the child is uncanny because it is ‘an empty vessel for evil to inhabit’ (p. 11) – in this

subversion of the child’s innocence, then, the uncanny child ‘challenges normalised

ideologies of childhood’ (p. 9). Despite these prominent origin stories of the uncanny child,

Steven Bruhm, ‘The Contemporary Gothic’, in The Cambridge Companion to Gothic Fiction, ed. by Jerrold E.

Hogle (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), pp. 259-76 (p. 268).

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however, Balanzategui’s study shows that the figure is even more critical in contemporary

horror films. These works employ a self-conscious postmodernity and transnational exchange

of ideas that expose ‘the gothic underside to the romantic conceptual entanglement of

childhood innocence and adult nostalgia, as childhood is positioned as the site of traumatic,

imperfectly recalled pasts that haunt the adult’s present in obfuscated ways’ (p. 12). That is, it

is not simply that such works recognise childhood as an adult construct. Rather, in a period

preoccupied with memorialising individual and collective trauma, childhood is put to work as

an idealised or sacralised identity. However, this also means that the child becomes a locus

for adult anxiety, a trope ripe for affective exploitation in the horror film. The uncanny child

is therefore central to an understanding of gothic narrative as trauma narrative, since its

association with the spectrality, disruption, and backwards glance that characterise trauma

allow it to act as a challenge to the Enlightenment discourse of both individual and

sociocultural narratives of progress.

The Uncanny Child in Transnational Cinema begins with an examination of The

Shining (dir. by Stanley Kubrick, 1980), The Changeling (dir. by Peter Medak, 1980), and

Poltergeist (dir. by Tobe Hooper, 1982), in order to show how uncanny children function as a

symbol of adult trauma in North-American horror films from the 1980s. In these works, the

child’s experience or knowledge of trauma becomes a threat to the ontological security of the

adults around them. In a number of millennial examples – The Sixth Sense (dir. by M. Night

Shyamalan, 1999), Stir of Echoes (dir. by David Koepp, 1999), and Insidious (dir. by James

Wan, 2010) – however, this traumatic knowledge is taken a step further, so that not only does

it threaten the individual adult, but the very ‘sociocultural structures’ of the nation, by

revealing, for example, the way in which ‘present adult society is founded on violence and

oppression, and depends upon the repression of this truth to function cohesively’ (p. 74). In

support of this, Balanzategui points to an instance in The Sixth Sense in which Cole, the

young boy who can famously ‘see dead people’, questions the authority of a teacher who

asserts the history of his school building as a place upholding law and justice, since he can

see the corpses of wrongly punished citizens swinging from the rafters.

This shift in the power of the uncanny child in horror films produced in the United

States is seen even more powerfully in a Spanish context, in which this figure has only

recently had the capacity to challenge ‘Francoist trajectories of national progress that worked

to suppress the cultural traumas of the Civil War (1936-1939) and dictatorship (1939-1975)’,

and which so often depended on the concept of childhood to convey those false narratives of

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progress, hope, and futurity (pp. 96-97). In The Devil’s Backbone (dir. by Guillermo del

Toro, 2001), The Nameless (dir. by Jaume Balagueró, 1999), and The Orphanage (dir. by J.

A. Bayona, 2007), we see an explicit rejection or reshaping of the collective memory and

approved histories often represented by institutional sites like orphanages and hospitals. In

The Orphanage, for example, Laura’s (literal and metaphorical) desire to simply ‘paper over’

(p. 148) the individual and national past, rather than to acknowledge it, directly results in the

disappearance and death of her son, itself an uncanny echo of the death of another child at the

orphanage decades earlier. Laura must confront and commune with these ghosts in order for

these symbols of a restless history to be at peace. These uncanny children thus offer a

different kind of revolutionary potential than those that had dominated Spanish cultural

discourse throughout the twentieth century.

Even though ghost stories have occupied a more respected place in Japanese

mainstream culture than in Spain or the United States, contemporary Japanese horror cinema,

including films such as Ringu (dir. by Hideo Nakata, 1998) and Ju-On: The Grudge (dir. by

Takashi Shimizu, 2002), also depict the way the uncanny child constitutes a ‘counter

memory’, a challenge to established history and discourses of progress (p. 186), often taking

the form of a ghostly ‘internal alien’ (p. 162), a figuration of the trauma that cannot or will

not be acknowledged but that forces its way back into the present. For instance, the horror of

Ringu depends on a cursed or haunted VHS cassette tape. This invention is an example of

Japan’s leadership in commercial technology in the late decades of the twentieth century (p.

193). However, by the late 1990s, this cinematic medium was being rapidly replaced by the

DVD. Thus, Balanzategui observes, Sadako (the child ghost), ‘infect[s] an analogue device

that symbolised Japanese technological supremacy at the very moment when it was tipped to

be overcome by the technological paradigm shift to digital storage: an uncanny evocation of

stalled progress that resonates with the anxieties of the Lost Decade’ (p. 193). In this way, the

uncanny child has a stranglehold on the declining power of the nation. In the final section,

Balanzategui traces the way the construction of these original films and their remakes cross

national and cultural lines, so that, for example, the ghostly bodies of Japanese horror cinema

influence the ghosts of The Devil’s Backbone, while Poltergeist, The Exorcist, and The Omen

are acknowledged as explicit influences on Ringu. The ‘culturally hybrid’ children produced

by such transnational exchanges, Balanzategui shows, only contributes to their uncanniness

and their potential for traumatic disruption.

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The only critique one can level at this work is that its fascinating premise leaves the

reader wanting more – an encyclopaedic study tracing the appearance of the uncanny child in

other national and social contexts, and perhaps even in other non-cinematic narratives. The

Uncanny Child in Transnational Cinema is a nuanced and insightful contribution to the study

of children and adolescence in popular culture, as well as of the Gothic and horror films,

transnational cinema, and trauma theory, and is worthy of attention from any scholar dealing

with these themes.

Jessica Gildersleeve

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Neo-Victorian Villains: Adaptations and Transformations in Popular Culture, ed. by

Benjamin Poore

(Leiden: Brill Rodopi, 2017)

In Adaptation Studies, there can be a tendency to focus on the one-to-one relationship

between source material and product(s), commonly referred to as the ‘fidelity theory’.

Benjamin Poore’s edited collection Neo-Victorian Villains: Adaptations and Transformations

in Popular Culture, published as part of the Neo-Victorian Series from Brill, instead aims to

trace the archetype of the (Neo-)Victorian villain and its representations in modern fiction.

Offering a range of essays dedicated to specific case studies and figures such as Jack the

Ripper, Dracula, and Edward Hyde, it takes an intriguing approach, drawing attention to the

idea of transformation as well as more direct adaptation. Alongside examinations of the

aforementioned fidelity argument and the ways in which classic Victorian characters are

depicted in contemporary media, the collection also explores the ways in which these icons

have been reimagined and, in many cases, reinvented to fit their Neo-Victorian context.

The other characteristic that makes this volume stand out is the subject matter of the

chapters and the breadth of ground covered by the individual authors. Divided into four

sections, Poore’s collection leads with ‘Theatrical Transformations’, charting the move of the

villain across media and foregrounding research into the performing arts, which is rare in

gothic and Neo-Victorian scholarship, and which helps to highlight the theatrical roots of

many of these antagonists. This section is followed by essays that examine the re-

interpretation and reinvention of villains whose origins cannot be traced to a clear singular

source text (‘Transitional and Liminal Figures’), while the third section features readings that

focus on aspects and representations of sexuality within these narratives (‘Neo-Victorian

Sexuality and “Sexsation”’). The final section, ‘Literary Villains Reimagined’, brings the

work full circle by returning to some of the classic works of Victorian fiction, and those who

inhabit it, with essays on Svengali, Dracula, and Dorian Gray.

Poore’s introductory essay comes in at a substantial fifty pages (as opposed to the

fifteen to twenty pages of the essays that follow). Setting out the themes of the collection,

Poore puts forward a model he calls the ‘villain-effect’, ‘the sleights-of-hand of emplotment

The following works provide an introduction to the issues of fidelity in adaptation: Adaptation Studies: New

Challenges, New Directions, ed. by Jørgen Bruhm, Anne Gjelsvik, and Eirik Frisvold Hanssen (London:

Bloomsbury, 2013); Linda Hutcheon, A Theory of Adaptation, 2

edn (London: Routledge, 2013); Thomas M.

Leitch, ‘Twelve Fallacies in Contemporary Adaptation Theory’, Criticism, 45.2 (2003), 149-71; and Robert

Stam, ‘Beyond Fidelity: The Dialogics of Adaptation’, in Film Adaptation, ed. by James Naremore (London:

Athlone, 2000), pp. 54-76.

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and performance that create the aura of a villain, yet which leave him or her tantalisingly out

of reach (and hence, reuseable)’ (p. 2). For Poore, (Neo-)Victorian texts therefore tend to

revolve around a performative villain whose villainy is conveyed primarily through the

distance between the audience and this shadowy figure.

Poore starts his investigation by sketching the context of the representations of (Neo-)

Victorian villains, drawing attention to the often-limiting set of associations that modern

audiences tend to attach to the Victorian period. He notes that the common perception of a

unity of supposed Victorian morality and values is more problematic than many assume, a

thread which can be followed into the fiction of the era. While a twenty-first-century reader

may expect black-and-white divisions between hero and villain in Victorian fiction, the

reality was often more complex, and included the introduction of the ‘fallible hero’ and the

‘divided hero-villain’ (p. 3). These conflicted figures can be found throughout Victorian

fiction and across media, particularly within the traditions of gothic plays and melodramas. It

also finds its way into the moral grey areas of many contemporary Neo-Victorian fictions,

which include seemingly sympathetic villains and morally ambiguous antiheroes. Next to this

historical context, Poore explains, exists ‘the long and complex history of the Victorians’

pirating, pastiching, parodying and burlesquing of each other’s work’ (p. 4), which aligns

both with the current trend of reinventing these characters, and the aims of the volume in

examining the adaptations and transformations undergone by various villains and their (Neo-)

Victorian contexts.

It is here that Poore’s essay becomes unmoored: although it offers interesting insights

regarding the different forms the villain has taken across these past centuries, the structure of

the chapter prohibits the construction of the clear framework proposed in its introduction.

Poore covers a range of concerns, signposting current trends of moral ambiguity in both

heroic and villainous characters, the representation of the psychopath and the introduction of

pathology, as well as the stereotypical traits of melodramatic characters, although the order in

which these cases are presented does not aid the clarity of his argument. The apparent

conclusion of his framework appears midway through the chapter, when he links the notion

of villain theory to Jeffrey Cohen’s ‘Monster Culture: Seven Theses’ (1996).

In this context,

the villain is a figure who cannot be categorised, who is an empty vessel into which society

can channel perceptions of wickedness and evil. Poore explains that ‘in twenty-first-century

culture, a narratological model of the villain, where the villain is an archetype fulfilling a

Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, ‘Monster Culture: Seven Theses’, in Monster Theory: Reading Culture, ed. by Jeffrey

Cohen (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), pp. 3-25.

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particular story-function, no longer suffices’ (p. 39), leading to a need for reinventions and

(re)appropriations that highlight other facets of the narrative. However, the villain’s defining

factor remains an issue of categorisation; Poore argues that ‘the villain refuses to know his or

her place’ (p. 40, emphasis in original), a place which can be defined culturally, but also

historically, with classic villains being dragged into new eras and across franchises. What

becomes problematic here is that, in framing the villain as a figure who cannot be captured or

categorised, a definition of both the villain and the villain-effect is all but avoided. Several

examples are offered to illustrate this theory, but their discussion is too brief to be

convincing. Slippage between categories leads to a seemingly endless list of potential villain

types across a variety of media and reimaginings. Although this chapter, and the collection as

a whole, opens up new lines of inquiry into this largely unexplored archetype of the (Neo-)

Victorian villain, there is room for additional work to produce a more robust definition and

theoretical frame.

The volume contains a total of sixteen chapters, covering, among other things,

Orientalist stereotypes; ventriloquists and dummies; spiritualist mediums; ghosts, haunting,

and doubles; X-Men’s Mister Sinister; Edward Hyde reimagined as a superhero (dubbed

‘Super-Hyde’); the intertextuality of Dracula adaptations; and adaptations of transgressive

sexualities. I wish to highlight a couple of chapters, the discussion of which is presented as

they appear within the collection. Mark Jones’ ‘Jack the Representation: The Ripper in

Culture’ provides a compelling overview of the facts and fictions which have surrounded the

Ripper case since 1888, offering useful insights into the variety of representations and

projections that have become attached to the character. This and Richard Hand’s essay ‘“A

Perfect Demon”: Michael Eaton’s Charlie Peace: His Amazing Life and Astounding Legend’

can be seen as a set, exploring concerns of biofiction and fictional representations of (and, in

the case of the Ripper, explanations for) real-life crimes.

A similar connection is present between two chapters, by Helen Davies and Claire

O’Callaghan, in the ‘Neo-Victorian Sex and “Sexsation”’ section. The authors focus on

different texts and different villains as their case studies (Jekyll and Hyde for Davies; Dorian

Gray for O’Callaghan), yet both signal how adaptations of these sources have altered the

sexuality, and indeed the sexual mores, underpinning the original texts, removing the themes

of homosexuality which can be found in the source works by Robert Louis Stevenson and

Oscar Wilde. Davies’s study shows how the villainous Hyde is seemingly domesticated

within a heteronormative frame in Valerie Martin’s 1990 novel Mary Reilly and the 2007

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BBC series Jekyll.

Similarly, O’Callaghan’s reading of the 2009 movie Dorian Gray (dir. by

Oliver Parker) links its representation of the titular character not only to a context of

heterosexuality, but specifically, to so-called ‘lad culture’. A final mention is reserved for

Jonathan Buckmaster’s essay on John Jasper, the villain from Charles Dickens’s The Mystery

of Edwin Drood (1870).

Buckmaster confidently contextualises Dickens’s novel and Jasper’s

role within it, before examining three case studies (the 1935 Universal film (dir. by Stuart

Walker), the 1993 film (dir. by Timothy Forder), and the 2012 BBC series), to discuss how

each recasts and effectively constructs its unfinished villain. Each of the chapters highlighted

here uses its (Neo-) Victorian sources to examine particular readings and incarnations of its

villains. In doing so, the historical mode is used to reflect on modern adaptations and

concerns, thus highlighting the malleability of these figures. This brings full circle Poore’s

observations in the Introduction, and, in part, legitimises Poore’s difficulty in pinning down

the exact nature of these villains, their actions and motivations into a rigorous academic

framework.

Ultimately, the volume is an excellent contribution that taps into a range of fields. The

links with adaptation and Neo-Victorian studies are obvious, but scholars of the Gothic, and

of literature more widely, will surely benefit from the material presented. The range of media

discussed, in particular the chapters on theatre and comics, further extends the appeal of the

collection and provides important contributions to the study of these topics.

Madelon Hoedt

Valerie Martin, Mary Reilly (New York: Doubleday, 1990); and Jekyll, BBC One (16 June-28 July 2007).

Charles Dickens, The Mystery of Edwin Drood (London: Chapman and Hall, 1870). The work is Dickens’s

final novel and was published in unfinished form.

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William Hughes, Key Concepts in the Gothic

(Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2018)

William Hughes’s Key Concepts in the Gothic is a comprehensive glossary that functions as

an introduction to gothic studies and as an indispensable resource for scholars. The work

defines complex concepts in accessible ways, whether one is curious about specific elements

within the mode or more general critical theories. Non-academics and experts alike will find

plenty to explore; unusual terms such as ‘Candygothic’ (a theory which attempts to position

the Gothic in ‘a culture of excess’, by examining the frequent transgression of social and

moral boundaries in a landscape of relatively unmoderated desire and consumption) are listed

alongside more widely recognisable academic terms such as ‘Postcolonial Gothic’, which

addresses the impact of imperialism on the mode, and ‘Sensibility’, an important

characteristic in early gothic literature (p. 42). However, even seemingly straightforward

concepts gain nuance as their literary functionality, as well as their broader existential

implications, are illuminated. Perhaps most notably in terms of the work’s goal and

methodology, the definitions included in this text are, moreover, designed to encourage

deeper exploration and advanced cross referencing. Authoritative definitions fully and

comprehensively outline key terms, while also allowing ‘connections to be made’ between

related critical issues, such as the rise of ecocriticism or the politics of gender, and within a

broader narrative of gothic scholarship (p. 2).

Key Concepts comprises three sections. The first is an A-Z list of terms, starting with

‘Abbey’ and ending with ‘Zombie’, which serves as a vital dictionary of gothic elements.

This quick-access section is both educational and entertaining, and perhaps the most useful

aspect of this glossary is the extensive cross-referencing resource, which Hughes includes via

highlighted key terms within individual entries. For example, the entry for ‘Mirror’

acknowledges the biblical origins of the word and connects it to parallel concepts such as

‘Portraiture’, as well as illustrating the socio-historical, psychological, and metaphysical

implications of the term in a gothic context, such as those connected with the transitory

nature of mirror images. This strategy of emphasising particular words within individual

entries encourages the reader to explore connections between terms that might not otherwise

be obvious, inviting the reader to see, for example, how the elements of Romanticism that are

essential to eco-Gothic intersect with the development of the female Gothic, the use of the

sublime in descriptions of landscapes, and our contemporary appreciation of ecological

disasters and climate change. While substantial and detailed, however, the work is not overly

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dense, and the definitions are as straightforward as they are critically comprehensive and

erudite.

The next section of Key Concepts, titled ‘Theories of Gothic’, takes a slightly

different approach to the topic, and lists major gothic theories and subcategories from

‘Colonial and Postcolonial Gothic’ to ‘Theological and Sectarian Perspectives’. The short

essays in this second section – roughly four or five paragraphs each – are not cross referenced

with the A-Z glossary but do significantly advance the conversation begun in the previous

section. Having established the important terminology in earlier pages, entries in ‘Theories of

the Gothic’ unpack critical approaches to the mode, which form the foundational basis for

most academic engagements and gothic criticisms. For example, one section examines the

application of psychoanalysis (and particularly Sigmund Freud’s and Julia Kristiva’s

theories) to gothic literature, incorporating previously discussed definitions into a more

expansive view of their critical impact. Providing a nuanced overview of the Gothic’s

position as an area of scholarly focus, this section will probably be the most useful for

aspiring researchers, as it breaks down and contextualises foundational arguments, while also

providing avenues for further exploration, including an in-depth bibliography of suggested

secondary readings for each entry.

The final section, ‘Fifteen Key Works of Gothic Fiction’, features the biographical

backgrounds and brief plot summaries of a series of representative gothic authors and texts,

from Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto (1764) to John Ajvide Lindqvist’s Handling

the Undead (2005). These texts are identified as ‘key’ because of their cultural impact and the

comprehensiveness with which they engage the mode, and Hughes undertakes a concise yet

pertinent exploration of the ways in which these works have furthered the development of the

gothic tradition in foundational and innovative ways. Authors such as Stephen King and

Poppy Z. Brite are famous for their myriad contributions to the Gothic, but Hughes analyses

Carrie (1974) and Swamp Foetus (1993) specifically because these texts illuminate key

concepts such as heroinism or regional identity, and they further advance the creative range

of the genre without being derivative. In this section, readers can see the previous definitions

applied in full, and begin their own critical and cultural examination of important gothic

texts.

As is true throughout Key Concepts of the Gothic, the range of works included reflects

the myriad rewards of studying the Gothic. Walpole and Mary Shelley are discussed

alongside Angela Carter and Anne Rice, and the scope and complexity of the gothic mode

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across time and place is clearly demonstrated. Hughes’s Key Concepts of the Gothic offers an

incredibly useful starting point for advanced research projects, and is also an informative

examination of the diverse elements that make up the mode, proving itself a helpful

companion for gothic readers of all backgrounds and interests.

Kathleen Hudson

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Murray Leeder, Horror Film: A Critical Introduction

(New York: Bloomsbury, 2018)

Murray Leeder’s Horror Film: A Critical Introduction is a recent entry in the Bloomsbury

Film Genres Series, a film-studies collection that provides insight into the key works, major

creative movements, and historical and social contexts that inform genres such as film noir,

science fiction, historical fiction, and fantasy. As a critical introduction, Leeder’s work is

designed to be accessible for the non-specialist or beginner researcher in that it provides a

detailed and considered overview of a range of horror films and their cultural relevance.

Moreover, it also includes generous references to advanced critical readings and engages with

complex questions regarding the horror genre.

The most vexing and rewarding of these questions, and the one around which the

book centres itself, explores the definitions of horror as an often subdivided, miscategorised,

and misunderstood film genre. In order to describe ‘horror’ in a logical yet comprehensive

way, Leeder divides the book into three sections, examining, respectively, the historical

progression of the genre, including the cultural contexts of key films and creative

movements, the philosophical and critical theories which shape a cultural understanding of

horror, and finally film’s technological exploration of sound, colour, and format as a means

of adding nuance to our understanding of horror’s fundamental elements.

The first three chapters of Leeder’s book are broken down by blocks of time

encompassing major cultural and historical movements, starting in 1895 and ending in the

last few years. They are further classified by insights into the influences that shaped horror’s

development, for example illustrating the impact of German Expressionism on works such as

The Cat and the Canary (dir. by Paul Leni, 1927), or critiquing how television’s ‘Shock

Theatre’ programme in the 1950s facilitated the rise of exploitation-horror directors and

producers such as Roger Corman. Thus, readers see the historical and creative developments,

both large and small, which contributed to shifting perceptions of horror throughout the last

century, and the resulting ambiguities that continue to exist in a genre that has given

audiences both The Silence of the Lambs (dir. by Ted Tally, 1991) and The Human Centipede

(dir. by Tom Six, 2009). Leeder starts his study with phantasmagoria and the first public

screening of the ‘Cinematographe’ in Paris, a fitting strategy given his later discussion of

contemporary film technologies and digital horror. The narrative then follows horror’s many

golden eras and stretches of time when it was subject to censorship; its influence on a range

of national cinemas, which heavily impacted each other while also developing their own

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unique identities; its deliberate engagements with period-specific anxieties, such as fear of

foreign influences or of failures of national identity during wartime; and its frequent return to

common themes, including those dealing with monstrosity, conformity, sexuality and gender,

bodily and ideological purity, rationality, and more. These chapters acknowledge the

contradictory identity of a genre that, in its central drive both to inspire and examine fear,

encompasses both highbrow, ‘elevated’ films such as Bram Stoker’s Dracula (dir. by Francis

Ford Coppola, 1992) and schlocky, exploitative, low-budget offerings of the Hammer-Horror

or ‘splatter-film’ variety. They also serve as a precursor to later attempts to define the often-

fluid boundaries of horror itself and what it means to a film audience. Through this survey of

movies, movements, and actors, as well as a discussion of historical contexts up to the present

day, Leeder provides a comprehensive look at the overlap between specific socio-political

issues and innovative developments in horror film.

The following section of Horror Film unpacks generic definitions further in its

discussion of critical horror theories. These chapters are subdivided into the ‘what’, ‘why’,

and ‘who’ of the genre: what horror is, why humans chose to experience and create horror,

and who makes up the horror film audience. The initial chapter, ‘What is Horror?’, attempts

to define genre in a more general sense, and once this discussion is applied to specific horror

films, Leeder effectively reclassifies horror’s generic flexibility as an opportunity for

creativity, calling particular attention to the intersection of horror and comedy as a site which

redefines generic boundaries significantly. Not content simply to list different theories, such

as those related to the conventions of film, the connection between horror and comedy, or the

anxieties of gender and sexuality in horror, Leeder also illuminates how these concepts link

to, contradict, and develop through one another. In the chapter ‘Mind and Body: The “Why?”

of Horror’, for example, the complex and sometimes contradictory readings of the Final-Girl

figure in slasher films, such as those presented in well-known studies by Carol Clover and

Barbara Creed, are unpacked in detail, before Leeder ultimately suggests the successful

coexistence of myriad critical interpretations, a nuanced interpretation that both academic and

non-academic readers can accept. Readers of all backgrounds will find something to enjoy in

this central discussion of horror’s generic identity, and of particular personal interest to the

horror aficionado is the chapter ‘Horror’s Audiences, Critics and Censors’. This chapter

provides in-depth insight into audience demographics, especially those divided by gendered

assumptions, and explores why a diverse community of film enthusiasts return repeatedly to

the genre as a source of fun and fascination.

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The final three chapters of Leeder’s work examine technologies and aesthetics – the

layered representation of the complexities of fear and fear-inducing horrors on film – in order

to contextualise and trace the development of what Leeder call ‘the technological uncanny’

(p. 160). The first two chapters in this section deal with cinematic sound and colour,

respectively, and Leeder essentially reduces those elements to their most basic

interpretations, a strategy that enables him to reinterpret films from Nosferatu (dir. by F. W.

Murnau, 1922) to Berberian Sound Studio (dir. by Peter Strickland, 2012), and The Masque

of the Red Death (dir. by Roger Corman, 1964) to Suspiria (dir. by Dario Argento, 1977).

The absence, as well as the presence, of colour and sound receives significant attention within

the context of cinematic representation, as lushly colourful films such as Suspiria contrast

with intentionally black-and-white films such as Martian (dir. by George A. Romero, 1977)

that employ ‘monochromatic chic’ in order to invoke an alternative aesthetic (p. 207). The

technical as well as creative limitations of audio-visually depicting certain things on film are

also acknowledged here, and H. P. Lovecraft fans will perhaps, along with Leeder, grieve the

practical impossibility of filming a truly effective version of his 1927 short story ‘The Colour

Out of Space’, as the original tale features a colour that is literally beyond human

understanding and representation (director Richard Stanley’s 2019 attempt notwithstanding).

The book fittingly ends with an examination of the impact that digital technologies,

including CGI effects, have had on horror cinema, and the ways in which the resulting

anxieties that new technologies inevitably bring, and that have shaped cinema since the

earliest adaptations of Frankenstein, continue to impact horror narratives. Leeder argues that

these developments offer new avenues for creative expression in subcategories such as found-

footage horror, or in those films that utilise and examine technological ‘glitches’. One recent

example is the film Unfriended (dir. by Levan Gabriadze, 2014), in which widely circulated

digital images constitute a new kind of afterlife and invoke a literal, and murderous, ‘ghost in

the machine’, effectively rendering the digital body a site of abjection. Leeder’s examinations

of such films provide important meditations on the ‘unrepresentability’ of certain

fundamental elements of horror, the manipulation of reality and the creation of new digital

realities, and the evolving nature of contagion in the contemporary landscape.

The scope of Leeder’s Horror Film: A Critical Introduction is impressive, and

perhaps most remarkable is the author’s appreciation of the circularity of horror, and indeed

of cinematic expression as a whole. Concerns regarding the so-called ‘end of horror’ due to a

perceived lack of film quality or frequent changes in technology are acknowledged in this

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study, but are ultimately subverted, as Leeder demonstrates the endless renewability of the

genre. Indeed, most evident throughout this work is the consistency with which horror

defines and defies limitations, including those inherent in the suggestion that the genre has

exhausted its creative potential. While methodologies, technologies, critical responses,

audience perspectives, and creative movements have obviously changed since the earliest

films in 1895, horror remains a significant form, in that it is constantly collapsing,

restructuring, and reimagining itself, echoing its past and re-evaluating its future. This

creative process is examined throughout Leeder’s crucial, informative work in both the basic

elements that make up individual films and the social and cultural influences with which such

films engage.

Kathleen Hudson

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Dracula: An International Perspective, ed. by Marius-Mircea Crişan

(London: Palgrave MacMillan, 2017)

Dracula: An International Perspective (2017), edited by Marius-Mircea Crişan, is an

insightful anthology which delves into the world of Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897), the

renowned gothic novel which tells the story of the Transylvanian vampire Count Dracula and

his attempts to colonise England by spreading the undead curse. Throughout this anthology,

the novel’s complex navigation through the ever-evolving gothic genre is skilfully followed

in fourteen captivating interdisciplinary essays. Analysing the novel through the lens of

literature, tourism, and film, Crişan’s anthology demonstrates complex international and

cultural influences rooted deep within the vampire myth. The chapters of this anthology are

organised into three thematical sections. The first six chapters by William Hughes, Donatella

Abbate Badin, Lucian-Vasile Szabo and Marius-Mircea Crişan, Sam George, Hans Corneel

de Roos, and Clive Bloom focus on the connections between Stoker and his predecessors

such as Charles Maturin, Edgar Allan Poe, and J. Sheridan Le Fanu. This is followed by three

chapters by Duncan Light, Marius-Mircea Crişan, and Kristin L. Bone, which explore the

connections between Dracula’s association with nineteenth-century understandings of

tourism, and the effect that the vampire myth has had on current popular culture. The final

five chapters of the anthology by John Edgar Browning, Nancy Schumann, Magdalena

Grabias, Dorota Babilas, and Carol Senf explore how Stoker’s vampire has spawned over a

century of literary and film adaptions. This review will take one chapter from each section

that best introduces new and relevant discussions within the overall theme.

Szabo and Crişan’s ‘Representation of East-Central Europe in Edgar Allan Poe’s

Gothic Short Stories’ in the anthology’s first section convincingly explores the ‘Poesque’

style of Dracula. This is contextualised with The Lost Journal of Bram Stoker (2012), a

journal written between 1871 and 1881, in which Poe’s influence on young Stoker is evident.

Through such links, Szabo and Crişan offer thought-provoking insights into Stoker’s

upbringing. Finding extensive similarities between the Transylvanian setting of Dracula and

Poe’s Hungarian tale ‘Metzengerstein’ (1832), Szabo and Crişan suggest that both writers

portray East-Central Europe as a terrifying and primitive land, a sharp contrast to Western

Europe, a place of refinement. The final section of the chapter analyses how many of Poe’s

tales feature far more positive connections with a number of innovations from across the

globe. For example, Poe’s ‘The Swiss Bell-Ringers’ (1844), references musical inventions by

Johann Nepomuk Mälzel, in addition to predicting humanity’s later dependency on

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electricity. For the most part, Szabo and Crişan’s chapter remains balanced in its exploration

of Poe’s influence on Stoker. However, this closing section focuses primarily on the

inventions referenced solely in Poe. While Szabo and Crişan’s conclusive paragraph does

mention Stoker’s characters’ use of innovative means to fight Count Dracula (taking

advantage of new developments in medicine, transportation, and communication such as

phonographs and telegrams), it could benefit from some expansion. Regardless, this opens up

an interesting line of enquiry for future readings of Dracula that could extend beyond

Stoker’s use of the traditional gothic setting of remote and barren lands to acknowledge his

contrasting incorporation of more advanced technologies.

From the second section, Light’s ‘Tourism and Travel in Bram Stoker’s Dracula’,

offers particularly interesting and new perspectives on how tourism and travel are explored in

the novel. Light reveals that while current research has acknowledged this connection, it has

only touched upon the issue in passing. Tracing tourism to the eighteenth-century upper class

who often visited seaside towns, Light suggests that tourism evolved into a well-established

practice in the late nineteenth century when Stoker was writing. The novel’s exploration of

tourism is organised into four different categories: business, health, political, and dark. He

defines the first two with ease: business tourism encompasses travelling for reasons related to

work, such as Jonathan Harker’s initial journey to Transylvania to meet his client, Count

Dracula; and health tourism involves travelling away from home to improve health, such as

Lucy Westenra’s travels from London to Whitby, ‘one of Britain’s first spa and seaside

resorts, having become popular in the early eighteenth century for its mineral springs and as a

place for sea bathing’ (p. 144). The difficulties that Light has, and acknowledges, are

demonstrated in the discussions on political tourism and dark tourism. In relation to the

former, Light focuses on the novel’s men when they pursue the Count with the intent to

destroy him. Detailing a number of their motives and actions, Light struggles to place them

within a clear category, although he does rightfully recognise that their means of travel differ

from previous standard categorisations of tourism. Turning to dark tourism, Light ponders

why Jonathan and Mina return to Transylvania at the end of the novel, as it is a place

associated with death. While Light expresses his difficulty in defining the latter two

categories, all four are of equal importance in opening the door to new scholarly analysis.

In the final section of the anthology, Schumann’s ‘Vampiric Emotion and Identity in

Dracula and Interview with the Vampire’ compares the expression of emotions and identity

through the characters’ gender in Dracula with those in Anne Rice’s Interview with the

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Vampire (1976) and The Vampire Lestat (1985). For Schumann, Count Dracula embodies the

aristocratic imperialist. He is a self-confident, self-assured, domineering businessman who

expects and demands obedience. While the novel explores many emotions, predominantly

fear, these are never exhibited by the Count himself. Even in death, he displays no emotions.

In contrast, the vampiric women are unpredictable, uncontrollable, and full of emotion. Thus,

despite his own emotionless demeanour, Dracula has the ability to inspire uncontrollable

emotion and sexual desires in the women he turns into vampires. For the novel’s men, these

vampiric women are a dangerous force indeed, a reflection of the Victorian threat of the

‘New Woman’. After a detailed analysis of these issues in relation to Dracula, Schumann

shifts her attention to Rice’s novels, suggesting that, despite clear structural similarities and

the direct influence of Dracula, they reverse the stereotypical gender roles that structure

Stoker’s novel. Focusing primarily on the three main characters, Louis, Lestat and Claudia,

Schumann argues that both male characters are ruled by their emotions – specifically grief,

desperation, and a yearning for companionship. It is the female vampire, Claudia, however,

who most resembles Count Dracula as she is assertive and emotionally guarded. Schumman’s

approach convincingly demonstrates the impact of the vampire myth, a myth which has

transformed over time to reflect the changing world around us. Female characters who once

embodied the fears of Victorian men, while ‘still presented as objects […], have stopped

identifying themselves by their relation to a male (vampire or otherwise) and become self-

assured individuals’ (p. 223), an interesting line of enquiry for future studies.

Delving into the world of Dracula and how the novel and its influence have

transformed literature, tourism, and film, Crişan’s Dracula: An International Perspective

succeeds in meticulously analysing a range of material across multiple disciplines, while

consistently maintaining focus in its exploration of the imagological construction of gothic

place. From William Hughes’ exploration of the hybrid nature of English, German, and other

Continental cultural differences in the Irish Gothic formed by Maturin, Le Fanu, and Stoker,

to Senf’s examination of the traditional concept of the ‘Other’ through remote locations, and

its evolution into a vehicle for familiar fears in modern, urban settings, this anthology brings

to light an array of innovative and thought-provoking topics. Rejuvenating an already-dense

field of Stokerian analysis, Crişan’s anthology provides a stimulating discussion for both

academics and members of the general public with an interest in the vampire myth.

Giorgia Hunt

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Darryl Jones, Sleeping with the Lights On: The Unsettling Story of Horror

(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018)

Darryl Jones’s ambitious book, Sleeping with the Lights On: The Unsettling Story of Horror,

packs an impressively wide breadth of material into this petite and well-designed text. At a

mere 181 pages, including back matter, it traverses many of the horror tradition’s key areas.

Jones disregards the format of a conventional study limited to the most well-known films or

novels, in favour of a more diverse inclusion of topics, texts, and time periods. He boldly

claims that ‘the Western literary tradition is a tradition of horror’, which widens the scope of

his project considerably (p. 5).

Organised thematically rather than chronologically, then, Jones’s chapters

demonstrate his characterisation of horror’s influence as ‘tentacular, spreading everywhere’

(p. 139). Stylistically, it is also ‘tentacular’, straying into divergent areas that at times seem

disparate but, in the process, presenting unexpected approaches to common topics. Though

the historical layering is at first disorienting, its repetition throughout other chapters is helpful

in acclimating the reader to his approach. For example, the text opens with the ‘video nasties’

of the 1980s, before jumping to classical literature from 400 BC, and then back again,

achieving an ‘interweaving of culture, religion, and horror’ (p. 3). While the brevity of some

of these examples may frustrate some academics, its strength is in creating unusual

conversations across time and disciplines, even if the examples themselves are not explored

in depth. Jones avoids making strong arguments, in favour of informative connections that

spark curiosity more than fulfilling it. His approach is akin to an informal lecture by a

knowledgeable professor, with a quick pace steered by frequent digressions that are

interesting, insightful, and valuable.

Jones prefaces the book by asking why people are drawn to horror, what it says about

audiences, and how it fits into their societies. Counter to the common psychological argument

for catharsis, he argues that ‘its real purpose is to force its audiences to confront the limits of

their own tolerance – including, emphatically, their own tolerance for what is or is not art’

(pp. 6-7). This sets the tone for his mixture of high and low culture, big-budget and low-

budget horror, and the types of respect or disrespect they receive from different audiences.

While scholars of horror and the gothic are well acquainted with the rescue and re-evaluation

of ‘trash lit’ and bad movies, this may be refreshing and legitimising to readers new to horror

as an object of serious study. The Introduction also includes a significant discussion of the

history of the Gothic, as well as horror’s engagement with politics and its function as a ritual

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that is ‘based on repetition, on the acting out of predetermined roles, on the precise fulfilment

of expectations’ (p. 16).

The chapters cover six broad topics within horror: ‘Monsters’, ‘The Occult and the

Supernatural’, ‘Horror and the Body’, ‘Horror and the Mind’, ‘Science and Horror’, and

‘Horror Since the Millennium’, which also serves as the Afterword. Because these topics are

so extensive, each chapter helpfully includes subheadings that guide the discussion, though

they do not necessarily limit the range of examples. For instance, under the subheading of

‘Psychos and Slashers: The Serial Killer’ in the ‘Horror and the Mind’ chapter, the content

meanders through true crime; Silence of the Lambs (dir. by Jonathan Demme, 1991) and the

question of the devil; the urban influence on American Psycho (Bret Easton Ellis, 1991) and

Se7en (dir. by David Fincher, 1995); nineteenth-century London’s Sherlock Holmes and Jack

the Ripper; Peeping Tom (dir. by Michael Powell, 1960) and its comment on voyeurism and

film; Roald Dahl and his under-read story about human taxidermy; the influence of the

suburbs on horror; Halloween (dir. by John Carpenter, 1978) and several other slasher films;

and finally, the human and non-human aspects of slashers such as Jason Vorhees. Within this

whirlwind of ideas are threads of light narrative theory that help hold them together, such as

the assertion that ‘[t]he slasher movie is barely peopled by “characters” at all, but rather by

narrative functions and agents, all acting out predetermined roles’ (p. 119). For the most part,

these webs of history, literature, and film are finely constructed and easy to follow.

While the wide scope of the book makes the text unique and applicable to a wide

audience, the downside to including so much tangential material is that other more obvious

ideas and topics are left out. The chapter that seemed farthest outside the scope of the project

is disappointingly the chapter on ‘Science and Horror’. As expected, the chapter describes the

fascinating scientific context of texts like Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818) and H. G.

Wells’s The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896), but it ventures too deeply into science fiction in

the second half, even going so far as to include a few paragraphs on the Marvel Universe.

Certainly, a valid argument could be made for the blurred boundary between horror and

science fiction in a much longer text, and many science-fiction texts include vivid elements

of horror, even if they are not typically classified as such. However, the inclusion of science

fiction that too lightly dabbles in horror in Jones’s short volume takes space away from texts

that demonstrate a stronger relationship between science and horror, such as horror texts

about medicine and medical experimentation, the association between ghosts and technology,

and eco-horror, though the last is included in the Afterword.

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This final section is strikingly different from the other five in tone and organisation.

Whereas the preceding chapters present a pleasant and knowledgeable exploration of diverse

elements of horror, the Afterword becomes sharply critical, even hostile at times. This

unexpected and irregular tone is heightened by the absence of helpful subheadings. Jones

disparages what he calls ‘unhorror’, which ‘resembles horror, and deploys, often in a very

self-conscious and accomplished way, many of horror’s tropes […] it is art which does the

thinking for its audience, and ideally allows no space for even the possibility of opposition’

(p. 141). In this category he includes the Twilight phenomenon (usually categorised as

paranormal teen romance), Paul Tremblay’s A Head Full of Ghosts (2015), Cloverfield (dir.

by Matt Reeves, 2008), and, most stanchly, Paranormal Activity (dir. by. Oren Peli, 2007),

directing most of his ire at the ‘risk-averse, compromised, moribund condition of much

mainstream cinematic American unhorror around the millennium, which seemed incapable of

ever surprising or delighting its audience’ (p. 159). He also dismisses the recent trend in

remakes and the technique of ‘jump-shocks’ or jump scares, which show ‘nothing about the

state of your soul, your place in the universe, the social function of violence, the evils of

political inequality, or any of the other serious questions horror is accustomed to asking’ (pp.

143, 146). These critiques seem to contradict the significance of tolerance for both high and

low art presented in the Introduction. Because he has been so uncritical of the various non-

horror texts in previous chapters, his claims in this Afterword are confusing and disorienting.

It also, however, includes discussions of other important phenomena: eco-horror, polar

horror, race within horror, folk horror, global horror (Asian and Hispanic), horror TV, and the

internet’s impact on horror, all of which return to the inclusive approach of the previous

chapters.

Part of the appeal of Sleeping with the Lights On for both scholars and popular

audiences will be the aesthetics of the book as an attractive object, particularly as it is paired

with the prestige of Oxford University Press. With its black-edged pages, corrugated texture,

and cut-out cover design over a bright red interior, the book’s format is charming. Its

relatively low price will also make it accessible to a wide audience. As such, its form

embodies the prioritisation of audience, as well as an interplay between high and low culture,

which are guiding threads throughout its vast range of topics. One hopes that, for many, it

will function as an enjoyable entryway into complex and rewarding further study of horror.

Laura R. Kremmel

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Kyna B. Morgan, Woke Horror: Sociopolitics, Genre, and Blackness in Get Out

(Bristol: MacBain and Boyd, 2018)

Jordan Peele’s 2017 directorial debut, Get Out, has met with wide acclaim and numerous

accolades, including the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay. As a satirical horror

film addressing the pervasive sense of threat felt by Black male bodies in contemporary

America, even in supposedly colour-blind white liberal neighbourhoods and contexts, the

film struck a chord. Kyna B. Morgan’s short study of the film, for The Future Screen Series

published by MacBain and Boyd, examines Get Out in a larger cinematographic tradition of

‘sociopolitical horror’. An independent scholar working on a forthcoming anthology on

‘post-recession film and television’, Morgan is well suited for examining the nuances of the

film from a political perspective. Morgan’s analysis situates the film in historical context and

within several genre traditions (horror, satire, ‘zeitgeist film’), and argues convincingly that

Get Out contains an ambivalent mix of both progressive and regressive tendencies. In the

course of setting up her argument, Morgan offers readers a range of tools and concepts – such

as a socio-political film tradition, film syntax and semantics, and the question of control in

the production process – that can be useful for political film analysis more generally.

Ultimately, Morgan makes a compelling case for the importance of political readings of

popular-culture products, the benefits of attention to genre, and the cultural power of

contemporary horror’s engagement with social reality.

Woke Horror consists of ten short chapters, the first (after the Introduction) offering a

brief examination of socio-political horror, such as Night of the Living Dead (dir. by George

A. Romero, 1968) and The Stepford Wives (dir. by Bryan Forbes, 1975), as well as of the

term ‘postmodern horror’, which plays an important role in the study. ‘Postmodern’ is

generally contrasted to ‘modern’ in Morgan’s discussion, and this binary is given a key role

to play in the analysis; Get Out is characterised as generally postmodern, while its characters

are ‘modern’. This in turn seems to imply that the overall meaning of the film is ambiguous

and complex (and therefore more progressive), while the characters are portrayed in more

determined, essentialist, and conservative terms (which Morgan identifies as ‘modern’ rather

than ‘postmodern’). In short, Morgan’s principal criticism of the film – which appears near

the end of her study – is that it focuses almost entirely on its male characters, including the

protagonist, and that this protagonist finally extirpates himself from danger through his

physical strength (his male body) rather than his wits. Both points are well taken, though

Morgan could have gone further and explored the profound misogyny of the portrayal of the

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main female character, the white girlfriend who lures the protagonist, and many victims

before him, to their demise. Relying on one of the worst deceits imaginable, the romantic

con, this seemingly colour-blind white liberal woman turns out to be a ruthless predator

helping her parents kidnap, hypnotise, and dispossess her Black lovers of their willpower in

order to implant the minds of aging and ailing white people into their bodies. It is an

unfortunate tendency in political satire that the claims of one cause are often made at the

expense of another. Here, alas, the progressive racial satire depends on a longstanding trope

of misogynist cultural tradition – namely, the woman as femme fatale.

What Morgan does best is position the film in relation to a set of cultural contexts that

explain its genealogy, originality, and impact. For example, an early chapter on zeitgeist

cinema situates Get Out in a history of films reflecting on their socio-cultural moment in a

particularly pointed way, such as Night of the Living Dead, Society (dir. by Brian Yunza,

1989), and Candyman (dir. by Bernard Rose, 1992). A subsequent chapter argues that the

ideological work of Get Out lies in the subtle background dynamics around the African-

American protagonist as he interacts with other characters. Specifically, the main character

endures a range of tacit micro-aggressions on account of his race even though he is ostensibly

welcomed by the ‘liberal’ parents of his white girlfriend. This helps spectators see the racism

at play in what purports to be a colour-blind social milieu. Building upon this analysis,

Morgan argues that the most progressive aspect of the film is in its presentation of the

‘phenomenological experience’ of being Black in white society, which could also be called,

more simply, ‘point of view’. The film allows us to see its white characters through the eyes

of its Black protagonist, and to perceive the almost constant lapses into racial thinking by

supposedly anti-racist white liberals, as well as the more insidious sense of threat created by

their collective privilege and sheer outnumbering of the lone Black body in their midst.

Extending this reading still further, the chapter that analyses the opening scene is

excellent and convincing. It shows how the film deftly evokes the sense of danger for Black

people in what otherwise appear as peaceful and safe white public spaces, in this case a well-

to-do suburb. The unexpected attack on the young Black man taking a walk at night recalls

both the recent murder of Trayvon Martin and the long history of lynching in America.

Morgan examines how the opening sequence effectively establishes a sense of racially

contextualised existential dread and uncanny unease that lingers throughout the early scenes

of seeming normality that follow. The analytical skills demonstrated in this successful, albeit

brief, chapter make it all the more disappointing that the Introduction promises three close

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scene analyses in Woke Horror, but delivers only one. This is the only shortcoming of an

otherwise excellent book, and Morgan’s insightful arguments would have been stronger with

several more such analyses.

Despite a predominance of meta-commentary over specific analysis, the study does

deliver a powerful demonstration of both the potent imbrication of popular culture with

socio-political issues and the complexity of political readings, especially the difficulty of

extracting an unambiguous ‘message’ from a fictional narrative. In the case of Get Out, the

politics of the film are linked to the conditions of its production (as Morgan says, ‘the images

on screen are Black-controlled images’), its various genre affiliations and intertextual

references, as well as its reception (including its release in a historical moment marked by the

Black Lives Matter movement). Navigating confidently through these multiple frameworks,

Morgan convincingly makes her case for the importance of engaging with Get Out, a

landmark text for many reasons but most of all for bringing the powerful generic tools of the

Gothic to bear on the painful and uncanny reality of race in America today.

Agnieszka Soltysik Monnet

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The Cambridge Companion to Dracula, ed. by Roger Luckhurst

(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018)

The enduring appeal of Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897) continues to exert itself in

contemporary society in myriad ways. In Ireland, a number of recent academic and creative

endeavours draw attention to Stoker’s Irish roots while exploring the now mythic status of

Dracula and its iconic vampire-villain. The annual Bram Stoker Festival, for instance, held

on Halloween weekend, is a joyous celebration of Dracula and its legacy, featuring, among

other things, radio and dramatic adaptations, film screenings, and vampire-themed gigs, tours,

talks, and interviews, all captured on social media with the evocative hashtag

#BiteMeDublin. Even in the midst of a global pandemic, the Stoker Festival 2020 promises

fans a satisfying selection of virtual and in-person events, testifying to the cultural

significance invested in Stoker and his most famous novel. Adopting a more academic

perspective, the recent ‘Bram Stoker and the Haunting of Marsh’s Library’ exhibition

attempts to provide a scholarly context for Stoker’s eventual authorship of Dracula,

exploring the works that he read at Marsh’s Library as a teenager. These seventeenth- and

early-eighteenth-century texts, including an eclectic range of atlases, encyclopaedias,

treatises, pamphlets, and literary works, may not have directly inspired Dracula, but, as

curator Jason McElligott argues, they may help explain why the date 5 November plays such

an important role in the novel.

Elsewhere, Dracula’s influence on Irish literature and its

continued exertion of a peculiar fascination for contemporary writers is clear in Joseph

O’Connor’s latest novel, Shadowplay (2019), which reimagines Stoker’s troubled

relationship with Henry Irving; his attempts to manage the Lyceum Theatre effectually while

progressing his own writing career; and the troubled composition process of Dracula.

O’Connor’s novel, like the exhibition at Marsh’s Library and the annual Stoker

Festival, reminds us of Dracula’s unlikely but nevertheless ineluctable ascent, from its

positive if rather lukewarm reception amongst late-nineteenth-century critics, to the stuff of

literary and cultural legend. This journey, and the contexts for it, forms the central focus of

The Cambridge Companion to Dracula, edited by Roger Luckhurst. In the Introduction to the

collection, Luckhurst argues that, to truly appreciate Dracula and its legacy, what is required

is ‘a number of long perspectives, from before and after its publication in 1897’ (p. 3). The

Companion is thus divided into a number of sections that consider Dracula’s place within the

Jason McElligott, ‘Bram Stoker and the Undead History of the Seventeenth Century’, in Bram Stoker and the

Haunting of Marsh’s Library (Dublin: Marsh’s Library, 2019), pp. 55-83. See also the online exhibition:

<https://www.marshlibrary.ie/digi/exhibits/show/haunting> [accessed 29 September 2020].

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gothic literary traditions of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; its relationship to a

number of key contextual issues, including mass migration, Victorian spiritualism, and

gender politics; its place within new critical paradigms, such as transnationalism and ‘New

Horror’; and its post-publication transformations on stage, TV, and film. These groupings and

the individual essays within them aim, in Luckhurst’s terms, ‘to provide a series of routes

through the text’, in the full knowledge that these are only some of the possible contexts and

readings with which to approach the novel (p. 6).

The Companion’s fifteen chapters admirably sketch the critical landscape, pointing to

what the already-considerable body of work on Dracula has previously established, while

also providing a number of useful new ways to look at Stoker’s novel. The first section of the

book does an excellent job of situating Dracula amongst its literary and cultural forebears. Of

special interest is the way in which William Hughes and Alexandra Warwick depict Dracula

as not just a product of its late-Victorian contexts but also of a much longer lineage of gothic

literature. Hughes, for instance, convincingly traces tell-tale similarities between Dracula and

the ‘first-wave’ gothic fictions of Ann Radcliffe. Warwick, for her part, provides a suggestive

glimpse into the fin-de-siècle re-articulation of critical debates surrounding the development

of gothic fiction in the latter half of the eighteenth century. In attending to the differences

between late-nineteenth-century gothic and its earlier incarnations, it can sometimes be

tempting to view Victorian gothic as essentially unique from, rather than a more or less

organic development and extension of, previous forms and practices. However, Warwick

demonstrates the suggestive continuities between gothic fictions at the close of both the

eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, paying particular attention to critical concerns about

these works’ privileging of romance over reason and their conflation of past and present, and

archaic and modern.

Elsewhere in the volume, contributors provide salutary cautions against over-

determined readings of Dracula that see it principally as a product of emerging

psychoanalytic theory or an allegorical expression of Victorian repressed sexuality. In his

chapter on ‘Dracula and Psychology’, for example, Luckhurst pushes back against typical

Freudian interpretations of the text, arguing that ‘it is a mistake to see psychoanalysis

anywhere in the composition of the text itself’ (p. 67). To do so is both ‘inaccurate’ and

misleading, confusing the novel’s enactment of ‘the very clash of distinct psychological

paradigms at the end of the Victorian era’ (p. 68). Later, Xavier Aldana Reyes, in his chapter

on ‘Dracula Queered’, urges an understanding of Count Dracula – and the vampire more

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generally – as more than a symbolic cipher of sexual or erotic energies, claiming that the

insistence on metaphoric analysis risks obscuring the nuances and richness of both the novel

itself and the period’s ‘fluid conceptions of sexuality’ (p. 129).

The probing of received readings of Dracula offered by Luckhurst and Reyes is a

particularly welcome component of the Companion, though it is by no means consistent

throughout the volume. Indeed, in many of its chapters, the collection reads as a useful

undergraduate primer, offering the student new to Dracula – in the form of Stoker’s original

text – a number of tried and tested ways of framing and understanding it. A notable omission

here, of course, is an examination of Dracula as Irish Gothic, a subject that is briefly

mentioned in a handful of essays but that is passed over in the Introduction as the victim of

‘lack of space’ (p. 8). The reader is instead directed to alternative works that have considered

Stoker’s Irish heritage, its influence on Dracula, and the novel’s particular relationship to the

body of work often, if problematically, referred to in Irish literary criticism as ‘the Irish

Gothic’ or ‘Anglo-Irish Gothic’. Given the active and energetic nature of scholarship on

Dracula in the past thirty to forty years, the rationale for excluding a consideration of this

particular aspect of the novel while privileging other topics that have garnered as much, if not

more, previous scholarly attention is unclear. But, as Luckhurst suggests in his Introduction

to the collection, any attempt to be all-inclusive when it comes to Dracula is bound to prove

both frustrating and fruitless, given ‘the seeming inexhaustibility of the contexts it requires

and the readings it might generate’ (p. 8).

Despite the apparent interpretive boundlessness of Stoker’s novel, the Companion

falls curiously flat on a number of occasions. Several of the essays read less as analyses of

Dracula itself than considerations of the broader theme of vampires in literature, film, and

TV. While intriguing in its emphasis on the continued urgency and agency of the vampire as

a cultural icon, and indicative of the Count’s status as ur-vampire, this scholarship

approaches Dracula’s influence on contemporary literature and culture only tangentially. Ken

Gelder’s chapter on ‘Transnational Draculas’, for instance, holds out the promise of a

revealing post-publication history of the novel as it was circulated, adapted, and transformed

by later writers. What the essay actually provides is a more general – if still fascinating –

account of the appearance of vampires in twenty-first century Southern gothic, Japanese

fiction and film, and Swedish writer John Ajvide Lindqvist’s novel, Let the Right One In

(2014).

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The oblique approach adopted by several of the Companion’s considerations of

Dracula simultaneously underlines the rich and abundant scholarship that exists on the novel

and implies that, despite our cultural fascination with Stoker’s text and its famous vampire,

we may have reached satiety. More fruitful ground may have been afforded by readings of

Dracula that contextualised it within Stoker’s larger, varied, and now mostly overlooked

oeuvre, rather than broader cultural and literary paradigms. The Companion, tellingly, is one

of a select handful of Cambridge Companions devoted to a single primary text; others include

The Cambridge Companion to Frankenstein and The Cambridge Companion to Pride and

Prejudice. Notably, both Mary Shelley and Jane Austen are also the subjects of author-

centred Cambridge Companions that offer considerations of the authors’ lives and careers,

and which go beyond the titles for which they may now be most famous. Stoker has yet to

warrant such attention, and the appearance of a Cambridge Companion to Dracula seems to

confirm his status as a literary one-hit wonder, despite his publication of a considerable,

multi-generic body of work, much of which still awaits serious scholarly consideration. A

Companion that re-situates Dracula within the broader framework of Stoker’s literary career

while providing sustained critical engagement with his less well-known works would be most

welcome, yielding fertile new avenues of research and generative lines of enquiry, while also

probing the reduction of Stoker and his output to just one curiously compelling novel.

Christina Morin

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Yael Shapira, Inventing the Gothic Corpse: The Thrill of Human Remains in the

Eighteenth-Century Novel

(Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan, 2018)

The shocking display of dead bodies in various degrees of decay, mouldering skeletons, and

other human remains is a central gothic trope, familiar from the ‘first-wave’ fictions of Ann

Radcliffe and Matthew Lewis, through the nineteenth-century works of Mary Shelley, Edgar

Allan Poe, and Bram Stoker, to more contemporary texts by Shirley Jackson, Clive Barker,

and Stephen King, among many others. Yael Shapira’s Inventing the Gothic Corpse sets out

to provide a compelling and lucid account of the emergence and evolution of this imagery,

beginning, as its title suggests, in a laboratory of sorts: the eighteenth-century literary world,

with its ongoing experimentation in novel writing and the novel form. It is in the various

formal reconfigurations and innovations of prose fiction by early novel writers such as Aphra

Behn, Daniel Defoe, Henry Fielding, and Samuel Richardson that we can begin to see the

appearance of what Shapira identifies as ‘the Gothic corpse’: ‘an image of the dead body

rendered with deliberate graphic bluntness in order to excite and entertain’ (p. 1). Shapira’s

primary argument is thus that by considering the use of the dead body by a variety of long-

eighteenth-century writers – many of them not overtly associated with the gothic literary

mode – we can better conceptualise and understand the corpse’s later primacy to a form

linked to marketised popular entertainment. In particular, Shapira suggests, what becomes

clear in the movement, from the earliest writers she studies to the latest, is a gradual, fraught,

but nevertheless relentless shift from the cadaver as educational tool to the dead body as

entertainment.

Shapira begins her study with an exploration of fictions by Behn and Defoe. Behn’s

Oroonoko, or, the Royal Slave (1688) and Defoe’s A Journal of the Plague Year (1722),

Shapira argues, initiate the steady and inexorable transition in the literary display of the dead

body that marks the eighteenth century as a whole. Whereas the earlier genres from which

these texts draw – including the memento mori, martyrology, plague tracts, and popular

reportage (particularly of executions) – exhibit the dead body for specifically didactic

purposes, Oroonoko and A Journal of the Plague Year represent ‘a vital first step towards the

thrill-oriented representation of human remains that will someday become a regular part of

fictional entertainment’ (p. 49). Oroonoko, for instance, departs from the martyrologies and

execution reports that clearly inform its narrative in its use of the hero’s dead body as a

commodity specifically displayed for the purpose of readerly amusement. A Journal of the

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Plague Year, in turn, adopts ‘different descriptive approaches to the dead body’ as a means of

probing traditional uses of the corpse as an instrument of education (p. 77).

Over the next several chapters, Shapira charts the continued evolution of the literary

representation of the dead body via fictions by well-known authors such as Richardson,

Fielding, Radcliffe, and Lewis, as well as those of lesser-known writers such as Isabella

Kelly and Mrs Carver. Richardson’s Clarissa (1748), Shapira writes, underscores the often

hesitant and discontinuous nature of authors’ adoption of the gothic corpse. Although the

post-mortem display of Clarissa’s body invites, at first glance, prurience, as suggested by

Lovelace’s macabre – and ultimately unfulfilled – desire to embalm it, the narrative

nevertheless invokes an ‘ideal spiritual response’, using Clarissa’s beautified body as a

spectacle, but one that might teach important lessons about piety, virtue, and religion (p.

116). Clarissa might therefore be read, Shapira suggests, as an attempt to balance both the

attraction of the dead body and the aims of the novel, an emergent form lauded by early

practitioners such as Richardson as morally superior to previous forms of prose fiction

precisely because of its commitment to didactic realism.

Richardson casts a long shadow over the gothic corpse’s development later in the

century, as becomes clear in the book’s discussion of Lewis, Radcliffe, Kelly, and Carver.

Shapira turns her attention to and probes the traditional distinctions between Lewis and

Radcliffe – male/female, unexplained/explained supernatural, horror/terror – by thinking in

particular of the ways in which both authors respond, implicitly and explicitly, to

Richardson’s example and to wider debates about the novel’s didactic aims. Although

engaging for the fresh perspective that it provides on the Lewis-Radcliffe divide, this analysis

is perhaps most notable for its inclusion of the much less well-known popular novelists, Kelly

and Carver. Shapira’s consideration of these writers, both of whom published with the

Minerva Press – a popular publishing house that became notorious for its production of

lowbrow fiction of ill-repute – is a welcome probing of writers all too frequently dismissed as

unskilled Radcliffean imitators. The now largely overlooked fictions by Kelly and Carver,

Shapira persuasively claims, demonstrate these authors’ divergence from Radcliffe’s model

and showcase ‘the diversity of approaches’ to the dead body to be found in late-eighteenth-

century gothic by women writers (p. 159). Shapira traces this variety to the literary

marketplace: Kelly and Carver are more radical than Radcliffe in their use of the gothic

corpse because of the liberty provided by marginality. Catering almost exclusively to a

popular audience and lacking Radcliffe’s literary ambitions, Kelly and Carver produced

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fictional versions of the dead body aimed entirely at ‘interested readers rather than approving

critics’ (p. 167).

Although Shapira links the evolving phenomena of the gothic corpse specifically to

developments in the reading, writing, and marketing of fiction, she also includes in her

analysis key context provided by other contemporary genres – drama in particular. In Chapter

Five, for instance, Shapira considers Lewis’s The Monk (1797) alongside The Castle Spectre

(1797) to help substantiate her convincing assertion that the former is as much ‘a conscious

and aggressive reworking of […] the body of Richardson’s Clarissa’ as it is an exasperated

response to Radcliffe’s particular form of explained supernatural (p. 183). Earlier in the

volume, Shapira explores mid-century adaptations of Shakespeare’s Hamlet as evidence of

critical concerns over the potential effects of the inappropriate or indecorous display of dead,

dying, or decaying bodies. Noting the ways in which eighteenth-century productions of

Hamlet on the English stage tended to omit, downplay, or reconceptualise the play’s dead

bodies, making them more obviously ‘an occasion for sympathy rather than thrilling horror or

laughter’ (p. 97), Shapira draws a persuasive link between fiction, drama, and the anxieties

focused on reading and theatre-going audiences. In both Hamlet and the novel, the dead body

and its representation focalise concerns about newly enlarged and diversified reading and

theatre-going publics, as well as the discernment of their members. Are such individuals

capable of ‘“correctly” react[ing] to the cultural product in front of them’ (p. 99), critics

wonder time and again, and what are the potential dangers to society of inevitable

misinterpretations?

Such concerns were famously articulated – and gently ridiculed – in Jane Austen’s

Northanger Abbey (1818), as has been well established in gothic criticism. What makes

Shapira’s study so refreshing and invigorating is its close dissection (excuse the pun) of

imagery that, as scholars, we tend to take for granted in our assessments of the literature we

study. Shapira’s detailed and considered description of the emergence and development of

depictions of the gothic corpse over the course of the long eighteenth century provides a

fascinating and forceful account of the evolution of the literary representation of the dead

body. It will undoubtedly become a vital reference point for scholars of the eighteenth

century and ‘first-wave’ gothic fiction, but it will also be of interest to those studying the

manipulation and portrayal of death and the dead in gothic and horror more widely.

Christina Morin

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Rebecca Duncan, South African Gothic: Anxiety and Creative Dissent in the Post-

Apartheid Imagination and Beyond

(Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2018)

In South African Gothic, Rebecca Duncan explores the appropriation of the gothic genre and

mode by twentieth- and twenty-first-century South-African writers who have obliquely

addressed the critical issues of their country, such as racial politics and the geography of

separate development.

As Duncan convincingly demonstrates, in the works of the writers

under examination, the Gothic is instrumental in the process of truth telling about a history

that resists capture: it facilitates an exploration of the system of ‘apart-ness’ created by the

National Party in 1948, its demise in 1994, and the consequences that emerged in the

subsequent decades. As Duncan specifies, such a system ‘refuse[s] decoding, refuse[s] total

illumination, and thus require[s] ceaseless attention’ (p. 135). The Gothic is thus particularly

well placed to express and explore this need for constant (re)interrogation of the various

forms that the apartheid regime has taken, as it bears witness to its atrocities and provides

readers with a critique of history and society. Indeed, by ‘giv[ing] shape to anxieties that

emerge with force under conditions of change’ (p. 4) – a fundamental characteristic of the

genre since its creation in the eighteenth century – Duncan demonstrates that the Gothic is an

excellent instrument for the representation of a postcolonial reality such as South Africa’s

that was greatly affected by historical changes.

After providing a brief history of the genre of the Gothic, the Introduction succinctly

illustrates the historical, social, legal, linguistic, and economic context of South Africa from

the nineteenth century up to the present age, in which the material inequalities of history still

persist. This provides a very helpful primer for readers who are not familiar with the subject.

Duncan then examines the literary production of different historical periods, beginning in the

first chapter with the ‘interregnum’ – ‘that period when apartheid’s political structures were

incrementally beginning to give way, but when it remained anxiously unclear what shape the

future would take’ (p. 44). During this period (approximately dated from the 1950s to the

1980s), gothic fiction, as exemplified by Nadine Gordimer’s ‘Six Feet of the Country’

(1956), Etienne van Heerden’s Ancestral Voices (1986), and Reza de Wet’s African Gothic

(1985/2005), appropriated and denaturalised the idyllic aesthetics of the earlier plaasroman

(farm-novel) genre. In the plaasroman, the capitalist development deriving from the rise of

The policy of ‘separate development’ was rolled out after the inauguration of the South-African Republic in

1961; it resulted in the revocation of Black citizenship, as well as the formal division of the territory into swaths

of white-owned land and unlivable pockets of land categorised as Black (the ‘bantustans’).

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the gold industry is depicted through white pastoral narratives as a disruptive dispossession,

an ‘uneven’ and not a uniform process of transformation. South-African gothic writers

appropriated the genre and denaturalised its pastoral connotations through the use of the

uncanny and the tropes of exhumation, enclosure/confinement, and narrative fragmentation.

In this way, they depict South Africa’s occluded (but dormant) histories of injustice.

In the third chapter, Duncan examines the backward-looking tendency and spectral

return of the past in post-apartheid texts of the 1990s and 2000s. The analysis of narratives

such as Zoë Wicomb’s David’s Story (2000), Antjie Krog’s Country of my Skull (1998), and

André Brink’s magic-realist novels Imaginings of Sand (1996), Devil’s Valley (1998), and

The Rights of Desire (2000) demonstrates how ‘the retrieving historical impulse [...] registers

a national culture of retrospectiveness’ (p. 90). As it is typical in gothic works, the attempt to

organise traumatic, repressed memories into a coherent, rational pattern becomes also an act

of mourning. The confrontation with supernatural characters and events narrated in the texts

under examination is interpreted by Duncan as the epitome of an act of both physical and

cultural excavation that uncovers what lies hidden in the past of South Africa. The topic of

recovered traumatic memories is further addressed in the final section of the third chapter,

which examines Terry Westby Nunn’s The Sea of Wise Insects (2011) and Achmat Dangor’s

Bitter Fruit (2001), and focuses on these works’ portrayal of sexual violence and physical

wounds. This again metonymises the traumatic (and sometimes impossible) uncovering of the

unspoken past of South Africa, where legislation prescribed strict limits on physical

encounters between white, ‘coloured’, and Black people. Duncan’s analysis thus confirms the

productive functions and expressions of the gothic genre that can be identified in literatures

from countries that have not been studied previously through such a perspective.

The final chapter is dedicated to the literary fictions published after the turn of the

millennium, but also includes the study of (short) films and graphic novels. Post-transitional,

experimental texts such as Lauren Beukes’ novels, Sarah Lotz’s The Three (2014), S. L.

Grey’s Downside trilogy (2011-2013), and the graphic novel Rebirth (2012) by Josh Ryba

and Daniel Browde are examined here for their engagement with the issues of poverty and

unemployment resulting from the transnational, neoliberal economic agenda of the post-

apartheid years. Duncan argues that they do so through the hyperbolic language of

exaggerated violence and the representation of subterranean spaces. The latter is exemplified

by the depiction of the cities of Johannesburg and Cape Town as representative of

contemporary conditions of material precarity, immaterial money, the uneven distribution of

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wealth and privilege, and surplus population. This argument is supported by a wide variety of

sources and Duncan’s astute analysis of them, which also helps those readers who are not

familiar with South Africa to learn about the troubled history of a country through gothic

tropes, an attribute that is undoubtedly one of the main merits of this volume.

South African Gothic is commendable for its rich vocabulary and ample use of

primary and secondary sources (including theorists such as Jacques Lacan and Michel

Foucault, and scholars of the Gothic such as Fred Botting and Dale Townshend) that reveal a

solid and profound knowledge of the subject on the part of the author and an active

engagement with the contemporary critical debate. The discussions of works such as

Gordimer’s The Conservationist (1974) and Angelina N. Sithebe’s Holy Hill (2007), as well

as of literary texts that are only affiliated to the Gothic, such as Olive Schreiner’s Story of an

African Farm (1883), include brief plot summaries and clear, compelling analyses of specific

passages, amply illustrating Duncan’s arguments. Accompanying the main text of the volume

is an extensive list of very instructive endnotes, which add helpful information and point to

alternative critical readings. On the other hand, the use of very long (though flowing)

sentences could sometimes prove difficult for the lay reader who is not familiar with the

subject, although the frequent anticipation of subsequent arguments by Duncan is very

helpful.

On the whole, Duncan’s study is certainly a stimulating reading for all those who are

devoted to the Gothic, and scholars of the Gothic will certainly benefit from this volume,

which inscribes many works by South-African writers into the canon of contemporary gothic

literature. In doing so, South African Gothic further demonstrates how the genre evolves and

mutates through different cultures and historical periods, adapting its forms and contents for

the depiction of the past and present anxieties of our world.

Antonio Sanna

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James Machin, Weird Fiction in Britain 1880-1939

(Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018)

Weird fiction is currently in vogue. Its new popularity has developed out of the ever-

burgeoning schools of gothic studies; the new prominence of English ‘folk horror’ and its

recalibration by Brexit and the rise of nationalism; and the ongoing cultural archaeologies of

various modernisms. Yet the literary weird remains a nebulous concept, difficult to

accommodate in conventional generic categories, closely connected to, yet somehow distinct

from, the literatures of terror and horror.

James Machin’s book explores the period of ‘high weird’, from the fin de siècle to the

1930s in Britain. Machin is suitably circumspect about defining the weird, resisting any

critical assumptions that locate its origins and major expressions firmly and exclusively in the

USA, or invest it with ‘a sheen of modernist respectability’ (p. 1). Instead, his diligent

scholarship maps the shifting applications of the word ‘weird’ in critical and commercial

discourse, noting its evasive, intangible mutations of meaning, its overlapping with

neighbouring genres from which it seems, nevertheless, to require constant distinction. He

posits the weird as a mode, not a genre, and thus distinct from (but connected to) Gothic,

science fiction, the ghost story, fantasy, and other cognate genres. Its roots may be in the

work of Edgar Allan Poe, but weird fiction may be best grasped as something akin to, clearly

influenced by, and bearing many of the stylistic hallmarks of Decadent writing of the 1890s;

indeed, the Oscar Wilde trial of 1895 becomes a watershed moment in Machin’s mapping of

its development. But grasping it at all is, Machin repeatedly concedes, difficult. The mode is

‘generically slippery’ and thus ‘intrinsically problematic for critical discourse’ (p. 13).

Machin’s solution is to shift attention from ‘the nature of the texts themselves’ and draw

instead on Pierre Bourdieu’s analysis of cultural taste, to examine ‘how the mode is used as a

process of distinction’ (p. 13).

This decision has two effects. It leads to a well-researched, detailed, and clearly

useful critical history of the uses of the term ‘weird’ in relation to an expanding canon. For

example, Machin devotes a fifty-eight-page chapter to recuperating John Buchan’s largely

forgotten weird fiction. However, because the literature itself is given minimal space in the

critical history, we emerge from this very detailed discussion with little sense of what weird

writing looks like, or what makes it weird rather than, say, horrific, supernatural, uncanny, or

otherwise disturbing. Those fifty-eight pages on Buchan pay little critical attention to, and

offer few illustrations of, whatever quality of style, language, or content it might be that

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makes his texts weird. Buchan’s weirdness, furthermore, seems for Machin to be predicated

on his evasion of the conveniently ‘neat parameters of the Ghost Story or Gothic

horror/romance’ (p. 165) – generic borders which, in other contexts, might seem far from

neat.

Machin asserts that ‘the issue of the relationship between literariness, artistic

legitimacy, and genre is intrinsic to the function of the term “weird fiction”’ (p. 13), but he

seems reluctant to subject exemplary passages to sustained analysis in order to demonstrate

this relationship. The text of Buchan’s The Dancing Floor (1926) does receive some

attention, eliciting the slightly tautological critical comment that, like the weird mode itself,

the work ‘remains generically slippery: not quite a thriller, certainly not realism in the widely

understood sense, but also lacking a tangible representation of the supernatural’ (p. 201).

Earlier, Machin describes the language of another cited passage as ‘unmistakably that of the

Gothic, and of the traditional ghost story’ (p. 195). Likewise with Buchan’s story, ‘No-

man’s-land’ (1899); Machin cites recent critiques by John Wylie Griffiths and Emily Fergus,

who compare the tale to Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (1898) (in a minor editorial oversight,

Machin’s paragraph occurs twice, on pages 188 and 211). However, he does not quote from

Buchan’s tale, and thus misses the chance to comment on its weirdly suggestive language

(the ‘blurred, formless’ speech of the Pentland hominins; their ‘morbid hideous existence

being preserved for centuries amid a changing world’; the narrator’s Conradian sense of

being ‘precipitated into the heart of the past’).

This recuperation of Buchan as a weird writer is welcome, but it does reinforce the

sense that Machin’s eclectic version of the weird canon is predominantly male. Vernon Lee is

briefly addressed in the Introduction, but there is no room here for writers like, for example,

May Sinclair or Edith Nesbit (or, indeed, any of the authors included in Melissa

Edmundson’s 2019 Handheld Press anthology Women’s Weird – Strange Stories by Women,

1890-1940). Algernon Blackwood is conspicuously absent, but we do read of M. P. Shiel,

whose generic ‘prolificacy has’, Machin suggests, ‘perhaps attenuated his posthumous

regard’ (p. 98). Two pages are devoted to the virtually unknown R. Murray Gilchrist, who

seemingly and disappointingly lived ‘a largely blameless and respectable life’ (p. 101).

Machin also mentions the well-known Arthur Machen, and the magnificent Eric, Count

Stenbock, whose decadent excesses included ‘regularly travelling with a life-sized doll,

John Buchan, ‘No-man’s-land’ (1899), in Collected Supernatural Stories

<http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks06/0603071h.html#04> [accessed 14 August 2020].

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which he claimed was his son and paid a clearly unscrupulous Jesuit priest to educate’ (p.

111).

It is telling that these writers are, in the main, also not English. The Scottish Buchan

was born in Fife, and the Welsh Machen in Caerleon. Shiel was born in Montserrat of mixed-

race parents, while Count Stenbock, born in Basingstoke, was the son of a German woman

and a Swedo-Russian aristocrat with a family seat at Kolga in Estonia, an estate Eric

inherited in 1885. Sheffield-born Gilchrist is an exception, but the general tendency aligns

British weird fiction with cultural identities other than English, suggesting a shadow canon of

works haunting the margins of both generic and national literary categories. This sense is

reinforced by the (uncredited and unidentified) painting featured on the cover of Weird

Fiction in Britain 1880-1939 – Caspar David Friedrich’s 1837 Spaziergang in der

Abenddämmerung (A Walk at Dusk), which implicitly realigns British weird fiction in

relation to a distinctly German and pastoral late Romanticism, rather than the seething

commercial modernity of the early-twentieth-century Anglo-American publishing world.

That modernity is selectively presented here. The Great War, profoundly significant

for the weird writings of Machen, William Hope Hodgson, Rudyard Kipling, and Walter de

la Mare, is markedly absent from Machin’s discussion. Nevertheless, he carefully charts the

weird and its relations to key historical and intellectual critical categories such as Decadence

and Orientalism, with a final chapter that, contra the book’s title, veers across the Atlantic to

discuss H. P. Lovecraft and Weird Tales. Machin’s book will surely be essential reading for

scholars and graduate students interested in weird fiction and the cultural debates surrounding

it.

John Sears

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Bryan Hall, An Ethical Guidebook to the Zombie Apocalypse: How to Keep Your Brain

Without Losing Your Heart

(New York: Bloomsbury, 2020)

Hunkered down in a bunker, distancing myself from other people and the pandemic above, I

read An Ethical Guidebook to the Zombie Apocalypse: How to Keep Your Brain Without

Losing Your Heart. My book collection already contains various survival guides, but none

that teach ‘how to go beyond surviving and begin flourishing in this undead world’ (p. 44). If

you are looking for an answer to the question that haunts us all, namely ‘why continue

living?’, then this is the book for you.

The content of the book is presented from the perspective of an unnamed character

attempting to flourish in a zombie apocalypse (although the ‘Message from the Archivist to

the Reader’ indicates that the fictional author probably did not survive in the end). This

framework allows the reader to digest the philosophical content from the character’s

perspective, thus making the content more accessible, and the horror content makes the book

more enjoyable than a typical ethics primer. The delivery mode also provides the reader with

an opportunity to critique the character’s presentation of the content. We must ask ourselves

whether the author can be trusted, and if they are getting things right. The reader is compelled

to participate in a way not required by other ethics texts. All of this makes the guidebook

valuable not only for the individual reader, but also a useful tool for teachers.

This ethical guidebook has it all. It covers meta-ethics (cultural relativism, divine

command theory, egoism), normative theory (contractarianism, Kant’s ethical theory,

utilitarianism, and Aristotle’s virtue ethics), and a wide range of moral problems

(personhood, suicide, euthanasia). Each chapter includes field exercises, or case studies, in

which ethical theory is put into practice. In the field exercises, we encounter the ‘cracked up’

(infected individuals not quite undead yet) and a variety of zombies (sprinters, shamblers,

moaners, and more). The zombie content, which makes for entertaining zombie fiction in its

own right, is seamlessly incorporated into the philosophical content. Each chapter begins with

fictional quotations from ‘philosophical literature […] highly derivative of pre-apocalyptic

sources’ (p. ix) and each chapter concludes with a ‘Further Study’ section that contains useful

notes by the author about additional resources. The chapters on hordeology (‘the study of the

ethical dilemmas arising from horde diversion,’ pp. 98-99), stronghold ethics, and the moral

status of zombies stand out at the very least for being refreshing takes on trolley problems,

the tragedy of the commons, and personhood.

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By the end of the book, the author has come to understand an important lesson

gleaned from Aristotle – namely that one cannot live the good life merely through theoretical

study; rather, one must become good by practice and with the help of virtuous friends. It may,

therefore, be the case that the good life eludes us during the apocalypse, but we should strive

for it anyway. Why else continue to live? Friendship, however, involves helping one another

to become better. No book is perfect, and no true friend of an author would claim it is. Thus,

in the spirit of true friendship with the author, I offer the following constructive criticism.

The guidebook is relatively heavy on Kant, sometimes uncharitable to utilitarianism, and

comparatively light on virtue ethics. In fact, if I must stress one point of contention with the

author, it is their treatment of virtue ethics. In the ‘Further Study’ section of the chapter on

virtue ethics, the author misleadingly presents Susan Wolf’s ‘Moral Saints’ as a problem

solely for Aristotle’s virtue ethics, when it is equally problematic for Kantian and utilitarian

ethics (p. 209).

Furthermore, the author’s claim that, according to Aristotle, ‘virtues are good since

they allow us to achieve individual goals or satisfy social needs’ (p. 205) implies a less

nuanced conception of virtue than is actually present in Aristotle’s ethics. According to

Aristotle, the good life consists in a life of virtuous activity. Although some virtues are

instrumentally good (the virtues by which I make an effective zombie trap, for example), the

goodness of the virtues that are constitutive of the good life are not instrumental. If they were,

they would be in the same category as the instrumental goods recommended by all the other

survival guides, thus diminishing the value of this guidebook. It is because of the very fact

that a life of virtuous activity constitutes the good life that learning how to live a virtuous life

is of ultimate importance, perhaps especially during the zombie apocalypse. These

interpretive disagreements may be moot, however, because, fortunately for the author, they

come around to a more complete understanding of virtue and the good life in the end (before

ultimately ‘cracking up’). Among their concluding words are these: ‘By consistently striving

to live a life of complete virtue, you pursue the best life you can hope for notwithstanding the

brutal, violent, post-apocalyptic hellscape you find yourself within’ (p. 214).

For an introductory text, An Ethical Guidebook to the Zombie Apocalypse contains a

good mix of depth and breadth, and it maintains a good pace. It covers a lot of ground, but

without ever becoming cumbersome. The book challenges the premise of most zombie-

survival guides – namely that survival is the only thing that matters. Survival guides may help

one merely survive, but ethics makes survival worthwhile. As the author puts it, ‘survival at

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all costs ends up costing each of us so much that surviving loses its value. This is the point at

which the specter of suicide reemerges. As this book has argued, flourishing in the land of the

undead requires acting morally’ (p. 212). To that end, An Ethical Guidebook to the Zombie

Apocalypse is essential reading.

Tait C. Szabo

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Howard David Ingham, We Don’t Go Back: A Watcher’s Guide to Folk Horror

(Swansea: Room 207 Press, 2018)

Howard David Ingham’s collection of essays on folk horror has already been enthusiastically

received, shortlisted for a 2018 Stoker Award, and certain to find further plaudits from the

critical community. The project began on Kickstarter, where the author sought funding for a

series of ominously titled ‘watcher’s guides’ to horror film and television. We Don’t Go Back

is the first – to be followed by books on cults, identity horror, and the urban weird. The

subtitle implies something akin to a viewer’s handbook, a collection of technical details and

behind-the-scenes trivia – what backers have received is a sizeable work of popular criticism:

some eighty-six essays (organised thematically) by Ingham and a small handful of

contributors.

The collection is thematically subjective rather than comprehensive – indeed,

Ingham’s Introduction includes an apology for whatever folk-horror favourites have been

overlooked – but this approach only serves to frame an intensely personal response to the

genre itself. Through sixteen chapters, each exploring a loose grouping of folk-horror films or

episodes (encompassing television plays, fairytales, comedy, the Lovecraftian, and others),

Ingham provides an insightful commentary on both the texts themselves and their place

within the (sub)genre. The author’s prose is conversational and often quirky, but frequently

communicates the sinister atmosphere of the subject matter. The work very quickly shows

itself to be a book that it is fun to spend time with. An obvious enthusiast for the material,

Ingham is generous but robust in their criticism: the author is not afraid to call out

problematic (or simply incompetent) filmmaking where they see it. The work’s greatest

strength, however, is its self-awareness. The author takes care to foreground how their own

experiences have informed their criticism, acknowledging how family, class, and religious

faith have shaped their reading. Ingham has written elsewhere of how writing horror criticism

supported their mental health through tough times; We Don’t Go Back appears to bare the

author’s soul to a degree that sometimes leaves the reader feeling as if they have intruded on

some private meditation. The collective result of these reflections is that rare thing: criticism

with emotional power alongside its analysis.

Not every essay in the collection works as well as it could. The contributions from

other writers are, in themselves, sound, but the occasionally abrupt leaps in tone work against

the collection’s sometimes very private voice. This is not to throw shade on the essays from

other writers: Monique Lacoste’s piece on The Company of Wolves (dir. by Neil Jordan,

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1984) is solid; Daniel Pietersen (on The Turin Horse, dir. by Béla Tarr and Ágnes Hranitzky,

2011) erudite; Jon Dear is always lively; Simeon Smith’s essay on Pan’s Labyrinth (dir. by

Guillermo del Toro, 2006) is succinct and evocative. Yet the work would have been stronger

with either a greater contribution from other writers, or none at all – the former would be a

different book, but the latter would have more effectively distilled our time with the

(primary) author.

At the risk of holding the collection to the wrong standards – We Don’t Go Back is

much more a survey than a monograph – it is disappointing that Ingham does not draw

together a concluding argument about folk horror as a genre. The author’s modesty may be

the enemy here. The book often defers to Adam Scovell as the genre’s authority, but the

breadth and depth of Ingham’s work here have earned the author the right to be taken

seriously as a critic of film and television horror. The lack of a rigorous summative argument

based on the research is keenly felt, as it seems certain that such an essay would be an

affecting and insightful addition to the field. The collection ends instead with an evocative

piece on the persistence of folk horror in both film and television, and in popular culture

more generally. The final essay exemplifies the work’s strengths, drawing on both private

memory and an awareness of developments in film culture. This closing piece perhaps

demonstrates what the collection is trying to be, but the reader may be left wanting more.

Nevertheless, We Don’t Go Back is a success on its own terms. Passionate without

succumbing to fannishness, idiosyncratic but always engaging, Ingham and their contributors

have produced an accessible and intelligent collection. The book trips lightly over the

established classics of folk horror, while exploring and challenging how the genre should be

defined. There is significant attention to European film, from Valerie a týden divů (dir. by

Jaromil Jireš, 1970) to La Cinquième Saison (dir. by Peter Brosens and Jessica Woodworth,

2012), and hard-to-find British television (particularly from the BBC’s Play for Today

strand), with major juxtapositions of American and Australian horror that serve to highlight

as many continuities as contrasts. The essays are, largely, self-contained in a way that allows

the reader to dip in and out of the text without losing any threads (though the book is

rewarding to read as a continuous work) but, as noted above, this is both a strength and a

weakness. In either case, it is the result of a singular vision and one that deserves

commendation.

Books like We Don’t Go Back would not exist without crowdfunding. The distinctive

personal edge of Ingham’s writing would most likely have been dulled by traditional

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publishing. The critical essay, outside of a few august publications, is often held to be a dying

form. The success of Ingham’s project so far suggests that there is still a considerable appetite

for this kind of writing. It deserves to succeed further.

Richard Gough Thomas

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BOOK REVIEWS: FICTION

The Great God Pan and Other Horror Stories, ed. by A. Worth

(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018)

‘Sorcery and sanctity … these are the only realities’ (p. 261).

Aaron Worth’s anthology of works by a master of the weird and ineffable, Arthur Machen, is

suitably draped in the yellow that heralded Machen’s introduction to the literary stage.

Machen’s The Great God Pan (1894) was published when ‘yellow bookery was at its

yellowest’.

This ‘yellow bookery’ refers to John Lane’s publications with The Bodley Head,

which were aligned with the Decadent movement. Machen disavowed any association with

the ‘yellow nineties’ (p. xv

)

, but

the connection continues to resonate to this day.

Nevertheless, Machen is more closely associated with the emergence of ‘weird tales’,

which promote the uneasy sense that reality and sensory experience cannot be trusted.

Worth’s collection focuses on this uneasy world as it appears in Machen’s fiction, by offering

some of the earliest tales written and published in the 1890s, which present the idea that the

world is fragmented and made of many realities. This uncanny reality is amply represented in

Worth’s collection by early, well-known stories such as ‘The Great God Pan’ and ‘The Lost

Club’ (both 1890); however, it also moves on to include later tales that offer a sense of

fragmentation, like ‘The Three Imposters’ (1895), as well as Machen’s more mature work,

with tales such as ‘The Bowmen’ (1914).

A number of Machen’s tales begin with framing narratives set in a parlour, a study, or

drawing room, and include two or more learned men discussing the nature of the world, evil,

goodness, or what a character in ‘The White People’ (1904) calls ‘sorcery and sanctity’ (p.

261). An evidentiary artefact is then revealed and the recipient is encouraged to delve into the

secret truth of the world, after which the story delves directly into this secret world through a

journal or memoir. Machen’s weird tales are therefore framed or encircled by the mundane,

which includes the key to interpreting the inner tale. The nucleus of the story is this inner

tale, based on a found document, which provides the evidence for proposing the theory about

supernatural forces, charmed items, or hidden realities, the reality of which is then affirmed at

the end of the tale.

Arthur Machen, Things Near and Far (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1923), p. 138.

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This narrative style is exemplified in ‘The Great God Pan’, which is possibly

Machen’s best-known story, and contains all the key elements of his work. As science and

occultism pervaded London, Machen’s works dwelt on the interface between the noumenal,

the phenomenal, and the spiritual. In ‘The Great God Pan’, it is science that enables Dr

Raymond to rend the veil between the spiritual and the noumenal, giving birth to a monster

for the new age, whose beauty hides the monstrous primordial essence of spirit and

substance. The story combines this challenge to the foundation of reality with the idea of the

beast hidden within us all, and the role that science might play in rending it asunder, making

‘The Great God Pan’ an enduring and classic work of weird fiction.

In general, the stories are particularly concerned with philosophical, spiritual, and

scientific experimentation, as Worth highlights in his selection. However, one of the failings

of Machen’s tales is that they can be as inaccessible as the very thing he seeks to describe.

Worth attempts to ameliorate this difficulty with a thorough Introduction. He also includes

excellent notations that are, unfortunately, hidden at the back of the book. Worth’s

Introduction is essential to the success of the collection and might have been improved by

including and discussing of some of Machen’s non-fiction in the selection. These non-fiction

works, such as Heiroglyphics (1902), and the autobiographical novels Far Off Things (1922)

and Things Near and Far (1923), can be considered ciphers to his work. Worth does,

however, reference Things Near and Far (p. xxvii), in which Machen refers to the horror of

repetition, a central tenet of his work. Worth also references autobiographical material in the

Introduction and as notes throughout the collection, which aids the reader by demonstrating

that, for Machen, horror comes from the infinite, and from the mind’s inability to

comprehend the whole of reality, instead tending to focus on the fragments that are right

before our eyes. Beyond the idea of infinity or repetition, Machen included other insights in

his non-fiction that would have made this collection stronger. These non-fiction works

explore the nature of reality, ideas around symbolism and the occult, and contextualise the

fiction within Machen’s world where nothing is what it seems, but everything contains a hint

of what lies just beyond sensory experience.

Overall, however, Worth has framed this collection such that the sense of the

ineffable that is central to Machen’s fiction is given centre stage. The collection begins and

ends with short tales; the first, ‘The Lost Club’, is a tale about a hidden cult that seemingly

causes its members to disappear, and itself vanishes in the light of day. As Worth suggests,

embracing the horror of the ineffable, unknown, and unknowable is key to appreciating

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Machen’s works (p. xxvii). ‘The Lost Club’ only hints at the uncertainty of the protagonist’s

experience (and, by extension, at the disquieting tales to come in the rest of the volume), and

implies that there is always something hidden in the world as we know it. ‘The Lost Club’

also shares some thematic elements with the final tale, ‘Ritual’ (1937), which revolves

around magical or spiritually charged places, artefacts, or actions that can reveal and use the

powers of this hidden world.

The next tale that Worth includes is ‘The Great God Pan’, followed by ‘The Inmost

Light’ (considered to be an early version of ‘The Great God Pan’), before offering ‘The Three

Imposters’, which begins with a mystery. Dyson and Phillips – supernatural detectives who

appear in other, unrelated works – search for a man with spectacles. Their investigation draws

them into various sub-narratives that have occasionally been published separately from the

central narrative and treated as stand-alone stories. Worth’s ‘Note on the Text’ directly

addresses the fact that ‘The Three Imposters’ is presented in this collection in its complete

form rather than ‘harvested for individual stories’ (p. xxxi), which is a commendable and

effective decision. For instance, ‘The Adventure of the Gold Tiberius’ and ‘The Adventure of

the Missing Brother’ make sense as individual pieces, but they also work well woven into the

frame narrative, and the revelations that they offer aid Dyson and Phillips in their

investigation. Other tales, such as ‘The Novel of the Dark Valley’, are told to the detectives

and do not directly involve them, nor do they bear directly on the Dyson and Phillip’s

investigation, though they do give a sense of the world that Machen built around the two

men. Indeed, Worth’s collection itself functions in a similar manner to ‘The Three

Imposters’. All of Machen’s short works can be read independently, but taken as a whole and

considered among the scope of his corpus, they flesh out the picture of Machen’s fictional

world – full of mystery, the supernatural, and the uncanny.

Even though the shorter tales stand alone, they are greatly improved by being part of

the frame of Worth’s collection. Worth has succeeded in using these short stories to

complement the longer tales and demonstrate the depth of Machen’s ability to delve into the

unsettling corners of psychology, science, and spiritualism. Of these short stories, a number

were published as part of the Ornaments in Jade (1924) collection, including ‘Midsummer’,

and ‘Psychology’. ‘Midsummer’, a vignette of a midsummer night, follows a man who,

restless and feeling the urge to be outside, ventures on a walk in the countryside, during

which he encounters several maidens appearing as ‘white writhing figures’ (p. 260) moving

toward a glade. Even though the women are then hidden from sight, the narrator hints that

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they are engaged in a long-forgotten ritual, and the story implies that the natural world is a

potent force, actively summoning people to this glade. In similar fashion, ‘Psychology’

suggests that all people have a natural side that is concealed and that can be triggered by such

things as the full moon. The narrator discovers that his untamed thoughts are deranged, and

likens them to having an extra beast living inside him; the implication is that nature draws out

our baser or unsocialised aspects.

The theme of hidden aspects of the soul and psyche is carried through Machen’s work

from ‘The Great God Pan’ to ‘Psychology’, and is firmly linked with the spiritual. However,

there was at least one work that went farther still. Machen’s later writings include a number

of tales inspired by World War One, of which ‘The Bowmen’ (1914) is the most famed, since

it caused quite a stir at the time (p. xxi). According to Worth, the reading public believed that

the account of a ghostly bowman from Agincourt, who rescued a British company from

decimation, was a true account. Despite Machen’s statement to the contrary, the public were

adamant that the event had happened. So, Machen’s weird world in which the supernatural is

infused into reality did in fact come to bear on the reality at the time.

Aaron Worth’s compilation of tales by master horror writer Arthur Machen builds a

world in which the weird and ineffable are all around. Machen’s tales of horror, some of the

earliest in the weird-fiction canon, centre around the other-worldly and deeply buried horrors

that lie in ourselves as well as in the world we inhabit. Regardless of whether those horrors

can be found in the corruption of the soul through scientific occultism, lingering in the maze

of London’s smog-obscured streets, or etched in the stones and woods of Wales, they are no

less disturbing. Worth does well to introduce and position Machen’s work in an accessible

and strongly contextualised collection, which showcases the ongoing appeal of the best-

known tales, while bolstering the lesser-known fragments and short tales into a position in

which they can best be appreciated.

Erin Corderoy

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William Orem, Miss Lucy (Arlington, VA: Gival Press, 2019)

Dacre Stoker and J. D. Barker, Dracul (London: Transworld, 2018)

The eternally fascinating question of what inspired Bram Stoker to create the monstrous

Dracula has provided grist to many a critical mill: was it his childhood sickness and isolation;

his mother’s tales of poverty-stricken Irish peasants suffering from cholera and famine; his

intense relationship with Henry Irving; or a cocktail of all of these? Writers of fiction, too,

have found themselves fascinated by the man behind the beast. Joseph O’Connor’s

Shadowplay (2019) won ‘Best Novel of the Year’ at the Irish Books Awards 2019, was

shortlisted for the 2019 COSTA Novel Award, and widely reviewed; I would like to use my

space here to look at two other recent fictional accounts of Stoker’s life.

Miss Lucy by William Orem (2019), like Shadowplay, takes Stoker’s time at the

Lyceum Theatre in London as its starting point and makes clear that then, as now, there is

enough horror in London for those with eyes to see it to inspire any number of imaginary

beasts. In both Shadowplay and Miss Lucy, the glittering show of the theatre is revealed to be

perilously propped up on exploitation: in the former, a toxic workplace draining Bram and

others of their emotional strength; in the latter, taking advantage of the sweatshop labour of

immigrants. Orem’s late-nineteenth-century London is haunted by war veterans, immigrants,

and social-climbing hypocrites, all passing through – no one is settled in this city, only stuck.

Classic elements of the vampire myth are grounded here in gritty social realism. For example,

the title character, Lucy, who is connected to the Lyceum via her work as a seamstress, sees

her life as a premature burial; living and working for so long in poorly lit conditions has

rendered her photosensitive, so much so that she grimaces when Bram brings her out for

some air. The tentative beginnings of a love affair between Bram and Lucy are tenderly

drawn, but the novel will not allow the reader to forget the imbalance of power inherent in the

relationship.

The precarity of Bram’s hold on ‘respectability’, his vulnerability to the whim of

public opinion, is made clear – he may well lose his job, his house, and his wife if he creates

any kind of scandal. However, the risks are even greater for Lucy – for her, a loss of face

carries a real risk of starving to death. She tells Bram, ‘[s]ometimes I think I belong dead’ (p.

106) – which echoes eerily alongside Bram’s memories of his traumatic experience of serious

childhood illness. Miss Lucy offers a thought-provoking glimpse of how his father’s

experience of his illness inflected the rest of Bram’s life; having already begun to mourn his

son, he then struggled to reconnect with him when Bram unexpectedly survived. This is a

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satisfying work of Neo-Victorian fiction that feels quite timely, not least in a reminder from

Bram, when recalling discussion by Lyceum glitterati of immigrants as plague-bringers, that

the same had been said not so long ago of the Irish (p. 99).

Bram’s childhood illness is also an important element of Dacre Stoker and J. D.

Barker’s 2018 novel Dracul. Presented to the reader as a prequel to Dracula, this

fictionalised version of Stoker’s life jumps between ‘Now’ (scenes written in the present

tense), and extracts from Bram’s journal that present the story of Ellen Crone, a mysterious

and beautiful young woman accepted into the Stoker household just before Bram’s birth.

With each attack of illness, Ellen locks herself away with Bram until he has recovered – she

then emerges looking haggard, disappearing for days at a time. During one serious spell,

Bram seems likely to die until Ellen intervenes; on this occasion, he appears to be

permanently cured, and this time when Ellen goes away, she does not return.

Since its first publication in 1897, Dracula has survived countless adaptations, and

undoubtedly there will be more. It facilitates interpretation by suggesting horrors, leaving

room for the reader to fill in the blanks – for example, what exactly is the vampiric Lucy

Westenra doing to the children who call her the ‘bloofer lady’?

Dracul to some extent tries

to have its cake and eat it, by suggesting threats and then neutralising them. At several points

in the narrative, Bram returns to his ‘cure’ by Ellen, describing it in his journal and in

conversation with his siblings as an attack in which his beloved carer becomes somehow

monstrous, bearing down on a small child unable to escape (p. 89). The adult Bram is

possessed of some powers that appear to stem from his relationship with Ellen – a

supernatural ability to heal, and a psychic link with Ellen – and he is troubled by what Ellen

has done to him, and whether this has left him as something not quite human. It is disturbing

and upsetting. However, towards the end, the narrative attempts to recast Ellen’s actions as

something more benign – and I am not particularly convinced that this works.

This family drama is given an extra nuance by the fact that it is written by a relative of

Stoker. As great-grandnephew of Bram himself and manager of the Stoker estate, Dacre

Stoker has a unique level of access to Stoker family papers, and with it a unique level of

pressure to do justice to the writer’s legacy. Dracul has been co-written with J. D. Barker, an

internationally bestselling author whose previous novels have been optioned for film and

television. Dracul strikes me as a novel written with one eye on its eventual conversion into a

See for example Leslie Ann Minot, ‘Vamping the Children: The “Bloofer Lady”, the “London Minotaur”, and

Child Victimization in Late-Nineteenth-Century England’, in Victorian Crime, Madness, and Sensation, ed. by

Andrew Maunder and Grace Moore (London and New York: Routledge, 2004), pp. 207-18.

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screenplay – indeed, the Internet Movie Database currently lists a project named Dracul as

‘in production’.

In a review of The Glass Hotel by Emily St John Mandel (2020), Claire

Lowdon describes it in terms that could apply equally to Dracul, as ‘a plot- and concept-

driven, highly visual novel that would work just as well on screen. That doesn’t mean it isn’t

enjoyable – but you just might find yourself wondering why you’re reading it rather than

watching it.’

Dracul has many elements that would translate well to the screen, particularly

Ellen’s constantly changing eye colour, and mysterious cycle of ageing and rejuvenating; and

the scenes of Bram fighting an unknown menace behind the locked door in a tower, with only

a dwindling supply of white roses for protection. Whether an adaptation would handle the

Bram/Ellen relationship sensitively, or exploit the queasy potential offered by this novel,

must remain to be seen.

Like the endlessly inventive reincarnations of the vampire trope, it is fascinating to

see how the same source material, Bram Stoker’s life and works, can inspire such different

entertainments. Much excellent work has been done by contributors to this journal, among

others, on the undead appeal of the vampire, and its ability to reinvent itself to suit the times

in which we live. Whatever situation you find yourself in, there’s a vampire for that. With

these books, it’s now clear that the Bram Stoker story is similarly malleable. While Dracul is

full of visual bombast and box-office action, Miss Lucy is an altogether briefer, less showy,

but very moving affair. Its characters are under threat from no supernatural force, but from

the real violence of precarious socio-economic conditions.

Ruth Doherty

See <https://www.imdb.com/title/tt7343810/> [accessed 19 August 2020].

Claire Lowdon, ‘The Glass Hotel by Emily St John Mandel Review – The New Novel by the Station Eleven

Author’, The Sunday Times, 2 August 2020 <https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/the-glass-hotel-by-emily-st-

john-mandel-review-the-new-novel-by-the-station-eleven-author-2xbm706wg> [accessed 17 September 2020].

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Doorway to Dilemma: Bewildering Tales of Dark Fantasy, ed. by Mike Ashley

(London: The British Library, 2019)

If you had asked me in the 1990s what ‘dark fantasy’ meant, I would have pointed you to one

of my Ravenloft paperbacks, possibly Christie Golden’s Vampire of the Mists (1991). Here,

horror archetypes are deployed in a variant on high fantasy’s stock quasi-medieval setting.

There is really only one story in Mike Ashley’s new reprint anthology Doorway to Dilemma:

Bewildering Tales of Dark Fantasy (2019) that generally fits that definition, however – Lord

Dunsany’s ‘The Horde of the Gibbelins’ (1911). It’s perhaps inevitable that such well-known

stories as those by Dunsany and Arthur Machen (here represented with the justly famous and

forever-fascinating ‘The White People’ (1904)) should be included in this anthology, but one

senses that Ashley is more interested in exposing more obscure writers and works. The book

is the stronger for it.

In his Introduction, Ashley demarcates ‘dark fantasy’ as being separate to the J. R. R.

Tolkien or Robert E. Howard style of fantasy (these are, of course, markedly different from

each other, and the label ‘dark fantasy’ has in fact been applied to the latter

) and also from

horror. Tales of the kind included here, says Ashley, ‘don’t include ghosts or vampires or

sorcerers of dragons. They tend to be set in our world, often the here-and-now, but where the

characters experience things they cannot explain and which become unnerving and

frightening’ (p. 8). The term ‘weird’ might also apply, and indeed this book is part of a series

called ‘Tales of the Weird’, but Ashley yolks together this set of stories under the label ‘dark

fantasy’. He reprints nineteen stories from between the 1850s and the 1930s. The earliest is

Fitz-James O’Brien’s ‘What Was It?’ from 1859, which also opens the collection and sets the

tone as a story of strange happenings that are then subjected as best as possible to scientific

scrutiny. It is one of several stories, also including Morley Roberts’ ‘The Anticipator’ (1896)

and Thomas Burke’s ‘Johnson Looked Back’ (1933), with an urban setting, imagining the

inexplicable arising within the dizzying new sights of modern life; dark fantasy as a reaction

to urban modernity is a persistent theme.

The title of the volume refers to Frank R. Stockton’s ‘The Lady or the Tiger?’ (1882),

at this point surely a more familiar phrase than the story itself is. Ashley reprints the classic

tale of a king’s strange brand of justice, as well as its lesser-known sequel, ‘The Discourager

of Hesitancy’ (1885). It establishes two of the major themes of this anthology – puzzle

narratives with indeterminate endings, and their literary sequels. For example, Ashley

See Edo Van Belkom, Writing Horror (North Vancouver: Self Counsel Press, 2000), p. 27.

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includes Cleveland Moffatt’s ‘The Mysterious Card’ (1896), the creepy tale of an American

in Paris who is given a card that he cannot decipher. Every French speaker he shows it to

becomes horrified for reasons that the story never explains, rejecting him with increasing

severity. It’s an effectively nightmarish tale, so it’s perhaps not surprising that, within months

of its publication in February 1896, Moffatt followed up with ‘The Mysterious Card

Unveiled’, which provides some imaginative and disturbing answers to the earlier story’s

mysteries. Ashley’s choices help illuminate the degree to which, even in the nineteenth

century, writers were responsive to their readers, participating in a give-and-take of

expectation and revelation. The collection ends with another imaginative puzzle story, Mary

E. Counselman’s ‘The Three Marked Pennies’ (1934), where the deciphering of a set of

riddles, with both profitable and deadly results, forms the core of the narrative. These puzzle

narratives are fascinating, stimulating the intelligence of their reader in specific ways in spite

– or even because – of the fact that they sometimes fail to provide definitive answers.

Counselman is only one of a number of female writers reprinted here. Mary E.

Wilkins’s ‘The Prism’ (1901) is an especially bittersweet story of innocence lost, and pairing

it with Machen’s ‘The White People’ – both are tales of the ‘little people’ and their uncertain

presence in the modern world – allows some interesting juxtapositions. One of the jewels of

Doorway to Dilemma is Lucy Clifford’s ‘The New Mother’ (1882), an unsettling fairytale

variant in which a harsh punishment is brought down on misbehaving children; it is not at all

surprising to find that Neil Gaiman used it as a source for Coraline (2002). Six of the fifteen

authors represented here are female, and their stories are often about the weird erupting into

rural and domestic settings, providing a contrast with the urban settings of other tales

collected in Doorway to Dilemma.

This is a rich and rewarding anthology. The label ‘dark fantasy’ still gives me trouble;

I wonder if the way that Ashley places it at a distance from both ‘fantasy’ and ‘horror’ seems

more underwritten by taste categories than descriptive usefulness. Certainly, some – maybe

even most – of the stories in Doorway to Dilemma could be categorised as horror. The word

‘Bewildering’ in the title, however, seems perfectly apt, with the experience of mystery,

anxiety, and fascination uniting this diverse set of stories.

Murray Leeder

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The Pit and the Pendulum and Other Tales, ed. by David Van Leer

(Oxford University Press, 2018)

The short stories of Edgar Allan Poe occupy a fluid space in literary studies, crossing

boundaries of the Gothic, mystery, and supernatural. That flexibility allows for a variety of

possibilities when it comes to collecting Poe’s tales for an anthology, and there is no shortage

of Poe anthologies. Beginning with the four-volume The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe

that Rufus Wilmot Griswold edited between 1850 and 1856, more than one hundred

anthologies of Poe’s work have made it to print in the English language alone. Most of these

are smaller volumes that focus on the boundaries noted above, selected and arranged as

studies in a particular genre or narrative form.

This Oxford collection, edited by David Van Leer, breaks from that pre-established

pattern, in an effort to capture the author’s status as cultural commentator. In doing so, Van

Leer turned to Poe himself for their arrangement; the ordering is chronological. As an

opening note points out, ‘[t]he most popular [appear] alongside less well-known travel

narratives, metaphysical essays, and political satires’ (n. p.), encouraging a consideration of

Poe’s tales in dialogue with each other. This removes the entrapment of setting,

characterisation, and genre conventions that can so easily dominate a reading of the tales

when, as is often the case, they are clustered in such a way as to guide an insular reading.

When a Poe collection is focused on a specific genre or a collection favours the familiar

clusters of detection, death of a beautiful woman, or morality, it can be stifling. This

collection circumvents that by its curation and with a clearly mapped path of Poe’s critical

reception from the popular to the academic.

In tracing Poe’s critical reception, Van Leer’s opening essay (a reissue from 1998)

will serve students and new readers well. Like the trajectory of the tales themselves, this

Introduction expands outward. It launches from a discussion of the extent to which Poe’s life

and death impacted his literary legacy, before moving on to document how psychological and

linguistic theorists like Roland Barthes and Jacques Derrida ‘brought about a rebirth of

scholarly interest in Poe’ (p. xi) by focusing instead on the works themselves. In the process,

Van Leer asserts, the tales in particular became ‘safe for grown-ups to think about Poe

without feeling guilty’ (p. xi), since Poe was legitimised in the academy by celebrated

aesthetic theorists. However, Van Leer argues, this defensive posture ultimately stifled a

clear-eyed reading, particularly one incorporating the cultural context of the times in which

they were written and Poe’s contemplation of those times. The Introduction therefore posits

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that readers have been ‘cut off’ from an objective reading of the tales because of the weight

of critical analyses that has encouraged a reading of them ‘as otherworldly’ (p. xxi). As an

antidote to such readings, by stripping out the insularity of theoretical frames and genre

clustering, Van Leer claims that we can ‘read the world back into Poe’ (p. xxi) and get closer

to their cultural commentary.

Some of that ‘guilt’ to which Van Leer alludes rests in the clustering of Poe’s works

that began with those Griswold anthologies. In carrying the tales beyond Volume I: Tales,

Griswold inherently flagged those stories contained in Volume II: Poems and Miscellaneous,

or the ‘Miscellanies’ in Volume IV: Arthur Gordon Pym, &c, as somehow of lesser merit.

With the exception of ‘The Man of the Crowd’ (in Volume II), which found its way out of the

more obscure tales, the Poe tales given the most attention over time have tended to be those

contained in Volume I. Van Leer’s Oxford collection does not reject the most canonical of

these, such as ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ (1841), ‘The Purloined Letter’ (1845), ‘The

Fall of the House of Usher’ (1839), and ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ (1843) (all of which were part

Volume I). His including the less anthologised – ‘A Tale of the Ragged Mountains’ (1844),

‘Hop-Frog’ (1849), and ‘The Man That Was Used Up’ (1839) – creates an interlocking relay

of tales that ‘underscore the importance of place or environment throughout the fiction’ (p.

xviii). The baton passed from one story to the next is the idea of an ‘externalization of mental

states’ (p. xviii). When the stories are connected as a whole, as they are here, this idea comes

to the fore, helping support Van Leer’s assertion that Poe’s tales were intellectually driven, a

consideration obfuscated by the drama and arrangement of those first anthologies edited by

Griswold, and perpetuated by subsequent collections that adhere to the genre boundaries that

this collection requires readers to ignore.

Asking that a writer as familiar as Poe be read differently is no small task, but this

volume succeeds in doing just that. It is fitting that ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’ (1842) sits at

the centre of the twenty-four tales collected here. Like its narrator, who is ceaselessly

reorienting himself, the ordering of these tales – beginning with ‘MS Found in a Bottle’ (first

published in 1833) and ending with ‘Van Kempelen and his Discovery’ (1849) – helps

readers look at even the most familiar tales with a new perspective, through which Van

Leer’s assertion that Poe ‘subordinate[d] people to place’ (p. xvii) becomes clearly evident.

One is left, at the end of reading these tales in the order they are presented, with a sense of

Poe in motion, moving ever forward and engaging with the domestic and international events

of his day.

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The Pit and the Pendulum and Other Tales from Oxford University Press is a

beautifully bound edition, wrapped in purple cloth. Its curation is equally elegant, and this

collection will make even the most familiar tales read as new again.

Elizabeth Mannion

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BOOKS RECEIVED

Darren Arnold, The Devils (Leighton Buzzard: Auteur, 2019).

Mike Ashley (ed.), The Outcast and Other Dark Tales by E. F. Benson (London: The British Library,

2020).

Luke Aspell, Shivers ((Leighton Buzzard: Auteur, 2019).

Eleanor Beal and Jonathan Greenaway, Horror and Religion: New Literary Approaches to Theology,

Race, and Religion (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2019).

Catherine Belsey, Tales of the Troubled Dead: Ghost Stories in Cultural History (Edinburgh:

Edinburgh University Press, 2019).

Niamh Boyce, Her Kind (London: Random House, 2019).

Michele Brittany and Nichaolas Diak (eds), Horror Literature from Gothic to Post-modern (Jefferson,

NC: McFarland, 2020).

Simon Brown, Creepshow (Leighton Buzzard: Auteur, 2019).

Daisy Butcher (ed.), Evil Roots: Killer Tales of the Botanical Gothic (London: British Library, 2019).

Brian Cliff, Irish Crime Fiction (London: Palgrave MacMillan, 2018).

Brian Corvin, The Compendium (Dublin: The Manuscript Publisher, 2019).

Carys Crossen, The Nature of the Beast: Transformations of the Werewolf from the 1970s to the

Twenty-First Century (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2019).

Roberto Curti, Blood and Black Lace (Leighton Buzzard: Auteur, 2019).

Sam Deighan, M (Leighton Buzzard: Auteur, 2019).

Melissa Edmundson (ed.), Women’s Weird: Strange Stories by Women, 1890-1940 (Bath: Handheld

Press, 2019).

Melissa Edmundson (ed.), Women’s Weird 2: More Strange Stories by Women, 1891-1937 (Bath:

Handheld Press, 2020).

Darren Elliott-Smith and John Edgar Browning (eds), New Queer Horror Film and Television

(Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2020).

Jack Fennell, Rough Beasts: The Monstrous in Irish Fiction, 1800-2000 (Liverpool: Liverpool

University Press, 2019).

Basil Glynn, The Mummy’s Screen: Orientalism and Monstrosity in Horror Cinema (London:

Bloomsbury, 2020).

Sam George and Bill Hughes (eds), In the Company of Wolves: Werewolves, Wolves, and Wild

Children (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2020).

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224

Alexandra Heller-Nicholas, Masks in Horror Cinema: Eyes Without Faces (Cardiff: University of

Wales Press, 2019).

Kathleen Hudson, Servants and the Gothic, 1764-1831 (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2019).

Evert Jan Van Leeuwen, House of Usher (Leighton Buzzard: Auteur, 2019).

James Machin (ed.), British Weird: Selected Short Fiction, 1893-1937 (Bath: Handheld Press, 2020).

Jason McElligott, Bram Stoker and the Haunting of Marsh’s Library: An Exhibition in Marsh’s

Library, Dublin (Dublin: Marsh’s Library, 2019).

Cynthia J. Miller and A. Bowdoin Van Riper, Dark Forces at Work: Essays on Social Dynamics and

Cinematic Horrors (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2020).

Sorcha Ni Fhlainn (ed.), Cliver Barker: Dark Imaginer (Manchester: Manchester University Press,

2017).

Joseph Packer and Ethan Stoneman, A Feeling of Wrongness: Pessimistic Rhetoric on the Fringes of

Popular Culture (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2018).

David Punter (ed.), The Edinburgh Companion to Gothic and the Arts (Edinburgh: Edinburgh

University Press, 2019).

Xavier Aldana Reyes, Gothic Cinema (Oxon and New York; Routledge, 2020).

Xavier Aldana Reyes (ed.), Promethean Horrors: Classic Tales of Mad Science (London: British

Library, 2019).

Xavier Aldana Reyes (ed.), The Weird Tales of William Hope Hodgson (London: British Library,

2019).

Julia Round, Gothic for Girls: Misty and British Comics (Jackson, MS: University of Mississippi

Press, 2019).

Dawn Stobbart, Videogames and Horror: From Amnesia to Zombies, Run! (Cardiff: University of

Wales Press, 2019).

Doris V. Sutherland, The Mummy (Leighton Buzzard: Auteur, 2019).

Richard Gough Thomas, William Godwin: A Political Life (London: Pluto Press, 2019).

Evert Jan van Leeuwen, House of Usher (Leighton Buzzard: Auteur, 2019).

Steven West, Scream (Leighton Buzzard: Auteur, 2019).

Sam Wiseman, Locating the Gothic in British Modernity (Liverpool: Clemson University Press,

2019).

Kristopher Karl Woofter and Loran Jowett (eds), Joss Whedon Vs the Horror Tradition (London and

New York: I. B. Tauris, 2019).

PLEASE NOTE: This is a list of books received since the publication of Issue #17 that have not yet been

reviewed in the IJGHS. Some of the books listed may have already been placed with potential reviews. For a

full list of books still available for review, please email: irishjo[email protected].

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TELEVISION AND PODCAST REVIEWS

Dark, Seasons 1-3 (Netflix, 2017-20)

This year saw the finale of the Netflix original, Dark (2017-20), directed by Baran bo Odar.

Dark focuses on a number of missing-child cases in Winden, a fictionalised town in

Germany, and time travel is eventually revealed to be the cause of the disappearances.

However, the simplicity of such a statement ignores the extent to which Dark’s multiplicity

of themes, characters, and looping temporal cycles combine to produce a compellingly bleak

picture of small-town life. Characters become split subjects travelling through time and

confronting their own uncanny ‘Otherness’ when they meet their own doppelgängers. Due to

the complexities of time travel, mothers and sons, fathers and daughters are entangled in a

complex family tree, raising questions such as ‘who are we as a family?’, ‘who are our

ancestors?’, and ‘where did we come from?’. As characters travel and confront their older or

younger selves, they gain maddening glimpses of knowledge; familial roles shift rapidly as

characters unearth their own entangled lines of descendants and ancestors, discovering that

they are actually a part of other families that they once despised or loved.

As the main leads, Jonas (played by Louis Hofmann) and Martha (Lisa Vicari),

encounter and interact with other versions of themselves, the question becomes whether they

should or will support or subvert these entities’ agendas. For example, Jonas encounters a

solitary figure on the road, referred to as ‘The Stranger’, who wields extensive knowledge of

the intricacy of time and certain foreboding events. This fanatical stranger is later revealed to

be Jonas’s own adult self, who has succumbed to his own fears and obsessions as a result of

enduring the apocalypse. Another zealot figure that Jonas meets, who we perceive at first to

be the villain of the show, Adam, is in fact an older version of Jonas again; Adam heralds his

further descent into fatalism and violence. A parallel plotline unfolds in the third season,

tracing Martha’s own journey, as she meets othered versions of herself that point to her own

transition into a manipulative archetypal figure – the Eve to Jonas’s Adam. It is therefore fair

to say that Dark is not about the ‘double’ but the ‘multiple’, as each double become an echo

of othered selves from different worlds. As Martha dies in one world, Jonas meets her

doppelgänger from another in ways that shifts Dark’s essential question from ‘when’ to

‘where’.

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What makes Dark a show that strikes at our sense of terror is, therefore, its insistence

that the postmodernist monstrous ‘Other’ is now inside the home, the body, the skin, and

psyche. The human façade of the normal becomes a place of horror. As Jonas comes to grasp

the futility of his own future, he recognises the monster within, comprehending who Adam is,

by seeing the scars and facial deformities that signal his own reckless experimentations,

risking humanity’s very existence to stop the repetition of time in Winden. Adam’s

monstrosity therefore also references the notion that the aging process is not a peaceful

passage, but a frightening inevitability, as adulthood and old age become inextricable from

zealous fanaticism and stern rigidities.

Dark’s title therefore refers both to the darkness within, and to the picturesque ways

in which the town of Winden is often seen through a gloomy gaze, heralding the approaching

Doomsday, on 27 June 2020. Winden is often described as a ticking time-bomb. However,

the dreary mise-en-scène is contrasted by a thread of visual cues that creep into the space of

the screen. Something struggling against the encroaching dark is often indicated via a yellow

jacket that Jonas and Martha wear when journeying back and forth, trying desperately to

break the looping cycle. The time-travel plotline also allows for a range of visual registers,

including a nostalgic depiction of the 1980s, in contrast to the stern past of the 1960s. The

eras depicted stretch back to the 1930s and forward to the 2050s. In addition, the musical

score encompasses several cover versions and remixed songs that range from 1980s rock to

current pop music. Thematically woven into the show, songs become markers of specific

moments, like the frequent use of ‘You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)’ (1984) by Dead or

Alive, signalling the transition into that timeline in the very first episode, significantly

entitled ‘Secrets’, in which two young boys, Erik Obendorf and Mikkel Nielsen, go missing

because of their transportation to a different timeline. In the ‘present’ of the show, the camera

sweeps through a passage hidden in a local cave under a power plant, while in the ‘past’, we

are shown a bunker decorated as a child’s bedroom containing a spinning chair, a prototype

of a torture device linked to the time-travelling process. In the latter scene, as Eric is spun to

the year 1986, a television plays the aforementioned song, signalling the time shift to the

mid-1980s, as the lyrics interlace with the scene. In both scenes, Dark points to the secrets

that nature and industrialised spaces hold within.

These markers of popular culture – whether songs, gadgets, or figures – take on

further significance when they are displaced from their points of origin. For instance, in 1953,

a child’s body is discovered wearing modern-day headphones that have not yet been

invented, a scene that parallels the discovery in 2019 of another child’s body, this time

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carrying a 1980s Walkman. These markers also include frequent references to the band

Kreators, and the lyrics to their album, Pleasures to Kill (1986). One of the prominent

characters, Ulrich Nielsen (played by Oliver Masucci), suffers the loss of his younger brother,

Mads, thirty-three years before once again losing his own son, Mikkel, to what he eventually

learns is time travel. As he travels to 1953, on what will become a series of futile quests, he

quotes the lyrics from the yet-to-be released 1986 album to a police officer, who uses this as a

proof of Ulrich’s dangerous insanity (allowing the officer to implicate Ulrich in the child

murders), only to connect the dots later in 1987.

As the tagline states, and as each of the characters ultimately comes to understand,

‘the beginning is the end, and the end is the beginning’. The show’s deterministic take on

time travel (it treats time as a synchronous lump rather than a line) is a key aspect of its plot,

which suggests that that the future is as likely to influence the past as the past is to influence

the future. For the characters, realising this offers some hope that things could change for

those trapped in Winden’s time loops. However, Dark also questions whether humanity has

the knowledge, expertise, machinery, or youthful determination to stir such a change. Adding

to the show’s complexity is the depiction of the cycle of time. Whenever characters feel

relatively safe at home, the intrusive awareness that time will repeat itself disrupts the

fleeting moments of security that these families seek. As the show has progressed into Season

3, it reveals an alternate world with portals of connection and confrontation to our own.

Although Dark concluded its run on Netflix after three seasons and twenty-six

episodes, it has left many questions unanswered. Are we capable of breaking free from the

repetitiveness of history and our cyclical time? Do we really know everything about

ourselves? Do we have a chance to be free of our darker selves? This should ensure its re-

watchability; it becomes a particularly layered viewing experience, as audiences understand

the family tree in ways that were impossible upon the first viewing of the earlier seasons in

particular. This open-endedness is what makes the show striking, as it continues to challenge

us.

Taghreed Alotaibi

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Forest 404 (BBC Sounds, 2019)

Forest 404 is a new podcast produced by the BBC and written by Timothy X. Atak. Sold as

an ‘eco-thriller’, it is a multi-fanged piece, which incorporates elements of eco-criticism,

horror, the Gothic, sci-fi, and documentary. Its story is narrated and predominantly performed

by Pearl Mackey (of Doctor Who (2005-present) fame), but the story-telling element is

merely one part of this project. Each of the nine narrative episodes is followed by an

academic talk and a natural soundscape, engaging with some of the show’s central themes.

With the close of each episode, listeners are invited to participate in a mass public

experiment, in which humans’ emotional responses to the sounds of nature are recorded. The

series is part of an Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC)-funded project centred on

the significance of wildlife filmmaking in the last twenty-five years. Created and brought to

life by its writer, actors, BBC Radio 4, BBC Natural History, the University of Bristol, the

University of Exeter, and The Open University, Forest 404 is a collaborative and innovative

achievement.

The story is set in the future, in ‘The Fast Times’, where homo sapiens, as we know

them, have nearly died out. Our replacements are technologically advanced, ‘better’ versions

of ourselves, which hybridise human and artificial intelligence. One of these ‘advancements’

is our protagonist, Pan, a data analyst who specialises in reviewing and deleting ‘useless’

sound recordings from ‘The Old Times’ (our times). The story is set in motion when one day

she discovers, amongst these audio files, a soundscape of a forest. Completely dissociated

from untouched wilderness as she is – even trees, we learn, are a thing of the past – the

sounds are entirely alien to her. Moreover, we learn, these sounds are dangerous. They

represent something called ‘the rupture’ and have the power to release a ‘deadly virus’. Cue a

cat-and-mouse chase, as Pan turns her back on futuristic urbanity, seeking to learn more

about the origins of her aural discovery. Chased by the sinister ‘Hands’ – eerie automaton

guards devoted to the law of progress – she delves underground to discover the last human,

Theia (Pippa Haywood), who is protecting and nurturing an enormous underground tree. It

transpires that ‘the rupture’ is the more-than-human world and that ‘the virus’ is the

unbearable knowledge of this world’s anthropocentric destruction. Most who encounter

evidence of the long-gone wild are so totally overwhelmed by this unconscious revelation

that they die, but Pan, for some reason, is immune. The tale ends with Pan and her former

boss/potential love interest Daria (Tanya Moodie) realising that there is perhaps a way to

share the knowledge of nature – and its loss – for good, and she sets off in the direction of a

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radio tower, with the intention to transmit the titular file ‘Forest 404’ for all the world to

hear…

Though the narrative story itself does not break any significant new ground – at times

it seems to be simply lifting and sampling elements from other well-known dystopian texts –

it is nonetheless engaging within the context of the show’s genuinely interdisciplinary and

intermedial nature. The descriptions of ‘The Fast Times’ are all too uncomfortably familiar:

this dry, chrome world with its searing technology that has largely left us behind seems a

thoroughly feasible, if cautionary outcome of our current actions. The show’s sound design,

though sometimes intrusive, especially in early episodes, is for the most part evocative. The

refrain provided by the ‘Forest 404’ file in particular becomes more hauntingly enchanting

each time we hear it – and does increasingly sound, as Pan describes it, ‘like music’. The

characters are not developed in enormous detail, and are occasionally a little caricatured, but

they serve their purpose in guiding us through this dark, haunting world and its key warnings

against the ‘natureless’ world we would seem to desire. The main strength, in terms of

narrative, lies in the show’s conceit of positing regret and sadness as the underlying terrors of

the infectious rupture. In Andrew Smith and William Hughes’ Introduction to EcoGothic

(2013), they emphasise humankind’s ‘fragmentation’ from the more-than-human as the key

element in the ‘gothicisation’ of ‘nature’.

Forest 404 dramatises the terror that develops

from a disruption of the human/nonhuman relationship; for example, a man who merely

hears the sounds of a forest reacts by walking, screaming, into traffic. The show therefore

provides an interesting commentary on how we see – or should see – ‘ecophobia’.

suggests that our fears of the nonhuman may stem less from a hatred for the unknown, and

more from a sadness and sense of loss for what we don’t know.

What sets Forest 404 apart and makes it memorable is its imbrication of story and

realism. The academic talks that follow the episodes are appealing in their own right, but

somehow engage us more personally when coming immediately after the narrative. It is as if

the story ‘opens us up’ to wanting to understand intellectually our interactions with the world

around us. Each academic talk is introduced by Mackey, who usefully bridges the gap

between fiction and fact, speaking as herself, but making links between her character Pan and

Andrew Smith and William Hughes, ‘Introduction: Defining the EcoGothic’, in EcoGothic, ed. by Andrew

Smith and William Hughes (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2013), pp. 1-14 (p. 2).

This term has been popularised by Simon C. Estok, who writes in detail on our fearful/hateful attitudes to the

more-than-human world. See Simon C. Estok, ‘Theorising in a Space of Ambivalent Openness: Ecocriticism

and Ecophobia’, International Studies in Literature and the Environment (ISLE), 16.4 (Spring 2009), 203-25;

and Estok, The Ecophobia Hypothesis (New York: Routledge, 2018).

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the subject of the talk. A range of thinkers have been brought on board to discuss a variety of

related topics. Standout examples include instrumentalist Cosmo Sheldrake on changing

sounds in the world, natural historian James Aldred on the reasons for the longevity of trees’

lives, and the beautifully poignant ‘Love Letter to the Forest’ from biologist David Haskell.

The majority of the talks are easily accessible, only around ten minutes in length, and

introductory in nature. They pose intriguing questions, many of which carry eco-horror

undertones, such as ‘How Will Humans Die Out?’ and ‘Could I Live in Darkness?’ Listeners

are introduced to a broad range of interesting ideas and discussion points – such as what

‘death’ is in the digital age and how humans, unlike any other species, often ‘shout over’ each

other in cities, diverging from ‘normal’ biophanies, but blend with the sounds of nature when

existing in tribes in wild environments. The soundscapes that follow each episode add to the

immersive effects of Forest 404, providing sounds such as rainforests and whale song.

However, these are unfortunately extremely short, suggesting an underestimation of audience

attention spans, which seems contrary to the series’ overall vibe.

Forest 404, though certainly not seamless, is an ambitious and ultimately impressive

exploit. Most importantly, it brings people from different fields and media – authors,

historians, literary critics, scientists, musicians, and so on – into conversation in an immersive

and inclusive way, which feels fresh and new. In the age of Anthropocene Gothic, it

represents vital new possibilities for storytelling.

Elizabeth Parker

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The Purge

(Blumhouse Television, 2018-19)

The Purge franchise has seen significant box-office success over the course of four feature

films – The Purge (2013), The Purge: Anarchy (2014), The Purge: Election Year (2016), all

of which are directed by James DeMonaco, and The First Purge (dir. by Gerard McMurray,

2018). Following the release of the prequel film, The First Purge, the franchise then

expanded into television, with a ten-episode spin-off miniseries airing later in the same year.

The premise of The Purge is an intriguing thought experiment: what if, for twelve hours a

year, all crime was legal? The series takes place in a totalitarian United States controlled by

the ‘New Founding Fathers of America’ (NFFA), who have established ‘the Purge’ as an

annual holiday, during which all law and order is suspended for a night. Ostensibly, the Purge

has been put in place to reduce criminal activity: citizens indulge in violence ‘for one night

only,’ with the understanding that all bloodlust is consequently exorcised and exonerated for

the rest of the year. However, it slowly becomes increasingly apparent that the Purge is in

fact a deliberate form of social cleansing, designed specifically to cull the population. In

many ways, the Purge resembles Mikhail Bakhtin’s concept of the ‘carnivalesque’ – where

the normal hierarchy and conventions of society are temporarily suspended for a time of

bodily excess and social subversion – but here these ideas are taken to violent extremes.

The films serve as a sort of anthology of different stories, and the TV show adopts a

similar style. The first season is set over one night of the Purge in 2027, with episodes

focusing on an ensemble cast of characters and their experiences during this event, the

narrative cutting back and forth between the different protagonists’ viewpoints within each

episode. The various characters include Miguel (played by Gabriel Chavarria), a soldier

trying to rescue his sister Penelope (Jessica Garza) from a cult; Rick (Colin Woodel) and

Jenna (Hannah Anderson), a couple trying to climb the social ladder at a party for the elite;

Jane (Amanda Warren), a financial worker who decides to kill her boss to get past a glass

ceiling; and Joe (Lee Tergesen), a disenfranchised blue-collar worker who uses Purge Night

as a chance to act as a vigilante. These characters start off largely unconnected, but as the

series progresses, these stories become increasingly intertwined, finally coming together in

the season finale.

See Mikhail Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, trans. by Hélène Iswolsky (Bloomington: Indiana University

Press, 1984).

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The series keeps close visual and thematic ties with the films, drawing on thoroughly

familiar iconography that has become ingrained in the franchise: people panicking before the

Purge, sirens declaring the start of the night, and then scenes of the protagonists being

menaced by masked psychopaths and avoiding danger on the streets until the narrative

climax, when the sun rises, the Purge ends, and normality is restored. The biggest change in

the adaptation from cinema to television is pacing; although set over the course of one night,

the ten hours of runtime, compared to two hours of a film, enables more characterisation and

more exploration of the moral ‘greyness’ of the protagonists. The show uses flashbacks to fill

in character backstories, something normally relegated to the opening scenes of each film,

allowing, in this instance, for deeper character development. Moreover, as the franchise’s

creator, James DeMonaco, explained in an interview, ‘the real estate of TV lets us truly

analyze why anyone would resort to violence on Purge Night’, comparing the ‘slower burn’

of television pacing to the ‘punch in the face’ events of a feature film.

With this increased focus on characterisation, the television version of the franchise

relies less on showing acts of violence simply for shock value. The franchise centres on an

inherently violent premise, but the depiction of violence in the television series is notably

more restrained, which is perhaps surprising, given the fact that violent imagery on television

has become more commonplace, and less prone to censorship in recent years. Though people

are stabbed, shot, and burned alive in The Purge, the violence shown is not overtly graphic,

especially compared to other contemporary horror-themed television shows such as The

Walking Dead (2010-present). Showrunner Thomas Kelly stated that the aim was not to

‘revel in the violence’ but rather to explore ‘[h]ow does violence echo out; how does it

reverberate; how does it change and color these characters’ lives and the story itself?’

Though depictions of murder and torture are part of The Purge, the violence is not

designed to titillate the audience, and is not focused on in an exploitative or fetishised style,

but rather as something repulsive and to be feared. For example, several episodes see Miguel

infiltrating the ‘Carnival of Flesh’, a fair where people can pay to torture and murder innocent

victims in booths themed around various historical atrocities. Like Bakhtin’s carnival, this is

a place of chaos, where normal notions of society and morality are suspended, and indulgence

and excess are celebrated. Rather than linger on these booths, the camera quickly cuts

Clark Collis, ‘The Purge TV Show Will Mostly Take Place on Purge Night After All’, Entertainment Weekly,

4 May 2018 <https://ew.com/tv/2018/05/04/the-purge-tv-show-details/> [accessed 17 April 2019].

Danielle Turchiano, ‘The Purge Boss Breaks Down Series Politics, Violence, and Flashbacks’, Variety, 3

September 2018 <https://variety.com/2018/tv/features/the-purge-thomas-kelly-usa-politics-violence-interview-

1202912453/> [accessed 17 May 2019].

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between them, giving the audience information on what is happening, without allowing them

to revel in the spectacle – there is enough violence shown to titillate the audience, but the lack

of explicit detail allows the show sufficient moral distance to criticise the cruelties being

inflicted, and avoid accusations of exploitation. In one episode, Miguel sees one of his friends

from the army at the Carnival, and finds that his friend expresses no shame or remorse in

paying to torture and murder civilians, nor does he mention a motive for his actions, aside

from the fact that the Purge gives him the chance to. It is in moments like this that the series

is most effective in evoking a sense of horror. By humanising the people who carry out acts

of violence on Purge Night, the audience is shown that the main characters aren’t overcoming

a faceless Other, or inhuman monsters, but that the people under the masks are the people you

know – people like us – who have chosen to give up their humanity and turn on their fellow

citizens for pleasure.

Social commentary and satire have been prominent elements in the films, with

considerable focus on the class divide in America, which shows a world where the gap

between the rich and poor has grown to the point of actual conflict. The TV version of The

Purge uses these elements in a way that is not always subtle, but does serve to ground an

outrageous premise in a wider social context. In the Carnival of Flesh, violence is

commercialised, as abducted victims are forced into cattle pens for people to purchase at

auction, scenes which invoke the imagery of the historical slave trade, contextualising the

franchise’s central premise within the uncomfortable realism of America’s past. The First

Purge, released earlier the same year, commented on the Trump administration by

referencing symbolism used by left-wing protestors in recent years, as the film warns against

public apathy towards politics. Despite the clear human-rights abuses committed by the New

Founding Fathers, America falls into dystopia by the end of the film, in line with the

warnings of the protestors. While The Purge television show doesn’t take aim at a single

political figure or movement overall in quite the same way, then, there is still plenty of social

commentary. The series takes ideas that have become major topics of debate – sexual

harassment, and differences between healthy and toxic masculinity, and so on – and

deconstructs them via the exaggerated world of the Purge.

With the #MeToo movement bringing discussions of sexism into the public sphere,

sexual harassment is a major topic, especially within Jane’s season arc. In one episode, Jane’s

boss Ryker (William Baldwin) is revealed to have kidnapped women and kept them tied up

for his sexual gratification, while ranting nostalgically about the ‘old days’ when sexual

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harassment was normalised as a part of corporate culture. Ryker therefore functions as an

avatar for the recent conservative backlash against progressive ideals. The character of Joe

represents another contemporary fear – the ‘lone-wolf’ terrorist. At first, Joe’s vigilantism

against Purgers seems to be a positive force, as he rescues innocent victims of violence, but

the final episodes reveal that he has become self-radicalised due to his failure to find a

healthy outlet for his economic and social frustrations, and has constructed an elaborate

revenge fantasy, putting the other characters through a mock trial for slights against him, both

real and imagined. Joe’s character therefore references the figure of the mass shooter –

someone who has a psychological break and seeks revenge on society, a problem that

remains a constant source of violence and danger that America has struggled to deal with in

recent years. Indeed, there are clear satirical parallels between the ongoing gun debate and

The Purge: throughout the franchise, supporters of the holiday often justify the violence by

citing that the right to purge is enshrined in the American Constitution, mirroring the ways in

which the Second Amendment has hindered attempts to curb gun violence.

The second season has no direct narrative connections to the first, and moves the

setting to the city of New Orleans in an unspecified year, with a new cast of characters who

again find their stories intersecting over the course of the season. The new protagonists are

Esme (Paola Núñez), a surveillance analyst for the NFFA; Marcus (Derek Luke), a doctor

with a Purge-Night bounty on his head; Ryan (Max Martini), a bank robber planning a Purge-

Night bank heist, and Ben (Joel Allen), a college student who self-radicalises after a

traumatic Purge experience. The biggest departure from the first season is that this one

largely takes place in the year-long gap between two Purges. The first episode opens in the

closing hours of one Purge Night, and then the bulk of the season takes place in the months

leading up to the next annual Purge, with title cards counting down the remaining number of

days, and the final episodes taking place during this anticipated Purge.

One of the themes of this season is corruption, as the characters challenge the NFFA’s

claims that the Purge is good for society. Esme finds that evidence of the Purge’s failings is

being suppressed, and has to go on the run from a system for which she previously worked.

Ryan and his crew are former police officers, who resigned after discovering their Captain’s

criminal activity. Marcus finds himself increasingly crossing moral lines in his search for

who wants him killed. In the most violent of the four storylines, Ben becomes obsessed with

the mask worn by his attacker and escalates to committing murder while wearing it during the

year, undermining the NFFA’s entire rationale for the Purge. The other major theme is

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predatory capitalism, with people using the Purges as money-making opportunities. Each

episode has a ‘cold opening’, using a darkly comedic vignette themed around the Purge as an

extreme extension of American capitalism. For example, in one such opening, the board of a

company that manufactures masks sees media coverage of Ben’s crimes, and decides to

quickly mass produce replicas of his mask before Purge Night to capitalise on the

controversy, regardless of any ethical concern (the fact that Ben’s mask is a reused design

from The Purge: Anarchy may serve here as a jokingly self-referential commentary on the

real-world merchandising that has accompanied the franchise). Moving beyond the other

texts within the franchise, which all take place on Purge night, this series therefore expands

the setting and narrative by finally exploring what this society is like the rest of the year.

Engaging with themes and ideas such as trauma, government surveillance, and revenge, to

name a few, the series further contextualises the dystopia and social commentary established

in earlier instalments.

An anthology series set in the world of The Purge had lots of potential for

deconstructing and satirising current events. As these examples suggest, with the faster

production time that television provides compared to film, the series is able to tap into the

cultural zeitgeist much more deeply than the more generalised approach to issues surrounding

class tensions that the films offered. Although the show was cancelled after two seasons, it

realises the flexible storytelling opportunities of the franchise. While the original 2013 film

functioned as a satire on class division, the expansion of the political commentary into further

fields, such as gender politics, proves to be a seam that the show can mine effectively, if

unsubtlety, to explore new topics.

Thomas Sweet

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Siempre Bruja/Always a Witch, Seasons 1 and 2 (Netflix, 2019-20)

Netflix’s multinational roster of content has grown exponentially in recent years. A valuable

addition to this is the 2019 Colombian series Siempre Bruja (translated as Always a Witch),

now in its second season. Siempre Bruja follows Carmen (Angely Gaviria), a seventeen-year-

old Afro-Colombian slave in seventeenth-century Cartagena. The opening episode kicks off

in medias res, with Carmen being burned at the stake as a witch. She manages to escape this

fate through time travel – leaping forward to the contemporary Cartagena of 2019.

Oscillating as it does between 1649 and the present day, Siempre Bruja creates a dialogue

between colonial and postcolonial Colombia. The show’s cultural specificity is declared

prominently from the outset, not only because it is filmed in the Spanish language but via its

opening frames, which feature massive text declaring explicitly that we are in Cartagena,

1649, situating the viewer in colonial Colombia, which is under the thumb of Catholic Spain,

and in the throes of the Spanish Inquisition. This historical background is utilised to full

effect here, creating a thoroughly gothic landscape in which our disbelief is suspended as

supernatural elements abound, setting the scene for these elements to bleed into the present.

In her discussion of the colonial and postcolonial Gothic, Lizabeth Paravisini-Gebert suggests

that, ‘with the inclusion of the colonial, a new sort of darkness – of race, landscape, erotic

desire and despair’ enters the genre.

She further notes that the Gothic may be invoked to

give voice either to the fears of colonising settlers, to dramatise the ‘horrors and tortures of

enslavement’, or to those of the colonial subject, ‘in order to address the horrors of his/her

own condition’.

The sociopolitical context of colonial Colombia frames Carmen’s relationships and

renders them gothic, as she falls in love with Christobal (Lenard Vanderaa), the son of a

Spanish dynastic family. It must be noted here that Christobal’s family are slave owners, to

whose employ Carmen is in fact bound. The discovery of their romance sets the plot in

motion as Christobal is killed, Carmen is sentenced to death, and while imprisoned makes a

time-travel bargain with a mystical fellow inmate to save her beloved’s life. Some critics

argue that the show’s depiction of an enslaved woman falling in love with the son of the

slave-owning family is problematic and unnecessary,

and some suggest that a romance with

Lizabeth Paravisini-Gebert, ‘Colonial and Postcolonial Gothic: The Caribbean’, in The Cambridge Companion

to Gothic Fiction, ed. by Jerrold E. Hogle (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), pp. 229-58 (p. 229).

Paravisini-Gebert, ‘Colonial and Postcolonial Gothic’, p. 230.

Michelle Jaworski, ‘Always a Witch Can’t Shake the Weight of the Problematic Love Story at its Core’,

DailyDot, 31 March 2019 <https://www.dailydot.com/parsec/netflix-always-a-witch-review/> [accessed 16

September 2020].

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a member of the Spanish gentry who is not actually her ‘owner’ could have been equally

effective.

While raising a valid point, such criticisms fail to recognise that this relationship

dynamic is critical, highlighting the colonial settlers’ fear of the sexuality of the indigenous

Other, here personified by Carmen. As the racial Other to the Spanish coloniser, Carmen

incites anxiety and moral panic as she permeates and disassembles the class and racial

boundaries of Spanish society. In this way, she inverts the colonial invasion dynamic, thus

enacting a central thematic fear of the colonial Gothic, as the subjects of empire provide ‘a

vast source of frightening Others’.

Siempre Bruja again engages with the key features of the colonial Gothic by

positioning an Afro-Colombian female slave as a representational figure not only for the

oppression and torture inflicted upon her by the Spanish settlers, but as a character explicitly

exoticised as a supernatural being. Carmen is accused of witchcraft upon Christobal’s

mother’s discovery of their romance. Carmen’s supernatural identity is therefore associated

with her feminine sexuality as well as her status as a racial Other to Spanish-Catholic society.

Significantly, it is while she is in captivity that Carmen discovers and learns to utilise her

magical powers. This is an intriguing choice; it is specifically Carmen’s colonial oppression

that reconfigures her identity and establishes her as a supernatural, border-transgressing

other. Her burning at the stake and subsequent escape also positions her as a revenant figure,

a resurgent representation of the ‘horrors and tortures’ of colonial enslavement, as theorised

by Paravisini-Gebert, as they return to haunt present-day Colombia.

Interestingly, in addition to the Gothic, Siempre Bruja also relies heavily on the

tradition of telenovelas. We see this in the show’s performative exposition-in-excess and

character eccentricities. Telenovelas, colloquially referred to as Hispanic ‘soap operas’, are

known for their melodramatic narratives and fast-paced, intertwining plots.

On the surface

they appear to be a mode in direct opposition with the fear and melancholia of the traditional

Gothic. However, Siempre Bruja manages to consolidate successfully the complimentary

aspects of both, such as the heightened sense of unreality, the melodramatic character

motivations, and the complex villainous schemes from which the hero or heroine must

escape. The telenovela connection further heightens the specificity of the show as a Latin-

Ariana Romero, ‘Netflix’s Siempre Bruja Failed Black History Month’, Refinery29, 4 February 2019

<https://www.refinery29.com/en-us/2019/02/223413/netflix-siempre-bruja-always-a-witch-carmen-cristobal-

relationship> [accessed 16 September 2020].

Paravisini-Gebert, ‘Colonial and Postcolonial Gothic’, p. 229.

John Hecht, ‘Telenovela Market’, Hollywood Reporter, 26 September 2006

<https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/telenovela-market-138873> [accessed 16 September 2020].

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American production to the empowerment of suppressed cultures that characterises the

postcolonial Gothic. Such cultural specificity reframes the colonial rule that dominated

Carmen’s seventeenth-century origins within a contemporary Latin-American medium, in an

act of postcolonial narrative reclamation. In 2019, Carmen finds empowerment through her

previously latent supernatural gifts; exoticised and punished in 1649, they now offer her a

source of independence. Her witchcraft is learned out of necessity in the seventeenth century,

as it offers her a means of escaping the ultimate colonial suppression of certain death. In the

twenty-first century, her witchcraft offers a portal into forging new friendships, entering

education, and even saving the day as evil magical threats become more prominent. Carmen’s

witchcraft, demonised in colonial Colombia, reconfigures the postcolonial power dynamics in

a manner that allows Carmen to reclaim and indeed rewrite both her personal and cultural

identity narrative.

This foregrounding of national identity and history is one of this show’s greatest

strengths, and classic gothic tropes are employed to emphasise associated ideological

tensions. We see this most clearly with the character of Carmen, who is the personification of

disturbingly blurred boundaries between life and death, past and present, victim and

oppressor, and even, as discussed below, technology and nature. As the series progresses into

the second season, temporal boundaries continue to be blurred, not only by Carmen but by

the secondary characters. In the Season Two, Johnny Ki (Dylan Fuentes), Carmen’s best

friend, guide, and moral compass in contemporary Colombia, finds himself transported to

1649. When he returns, he brings with him a raucous seventeenth-century pirate named Kobo

(Óscar Casas), who causes quite the stir in 2020 and motivates a key romance in the second

series. If Johnny offers an emotional grounding to balance Carmen’s extraordinary presence,

then characters like Kobo insert a valuable sense of playfulness, reminding the viewer that,

although this show contains dark storylines about slavery, witch-hunts, and demons, it

essentially remains an exuberant gothic-telenovela hybrid, with both impulses in constant

creative dialogue. As the show blurs the boundaries of genre, its protagonist also blurs racial

boundaries; her status as a young Afro-Colombian woman is itself the primary indicator of

the gender, racial, and sexual diversity that permeates this show and its prioritisation of

representational inclusivity. Finally, as mentioned, she acts as a revenant figure, an anxiety-

generating reminder of turbulent national history as it continues to pervade and (re)define

contemporary Colombian identity.

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Carmen’s ‘invasion’ of 2019 Cartagena further subverts the colonial-control dynamic

and brings to the fore classic postcolonial-gothic issues of ownership, heritage and, of course,

the return of a violent national history as it permeates and shapes the present.

Carmen’s

place in modern Colombia undermines any false sense of distance and perceived safety from

the country’s problematic history. This uncanny temporal overlap is also formally

incorporated with the soundtrack, which is intelligently employed as a unifying feature

connecting visual juxtapositions between time periods, which may otherwise have been

jarring. Musical interludes often play over cuts from past to present, in order to smooth the

transition. Both seasons highlight local Colombian talent, via artists such as Camilo and the

Afro-Latin hip-hop duo Profetas. This is interposed with music from Spanish artists such as

C. Tangena in a manner that extends the dialogue between the colonised and the coloniser to

all aspects of the diegesis in a subtle but effective manner.

The temporal difference is highlighted again as Carmen is forced to interact with the

contemporary technologies of 2019. This is not overdone; there is no clichéd sequence of

Carmen being frightened by the buzzing sounds and shining screens of twenty-first-century

technology. In a manner that speaks favourably of her feminist characterisation, she is

presented as accepting of these technological advances, and technology quickly becomes a

useful tool in her efforts to return to her own time, in parallel with her ongoing success in

becoming attuned to her own powers. Indeed, the magical and the technological are

interrelated in an impressively natural fashion. Carmen’s relationship with modern

technology and adaptability as a character develop further in the second season as she gains a

large social-media following, when evidence of her powers is disseminated online. Another

effective technique used to filter Carmen’s magical capabilities into her everyday

environment is the reaction of dogs to her presence. Dogs turn to take notice of her, and she

dictates their actions with the nod of her head or flick of her wrist, a device that forestalls the

need for sub-par or quickly dated digital effects. In this way, Siempre Bruja recognises that

little and often can be more effective than big-budget set pieces. This naturalistic approach

offers a sense of spatial and temporal authenticity to the narrative. As well as this, however,

in incorporating Carmen’s magical powers into every aspect of her world, from technology to

nature, the show establishes a kind of lived gothic reality, an everyday Gothic interwoven

into Colombian colonial and postcolonial identity. Siempre Bruja ultimately offers a highly

enjoyable narrative with thoughtfully constructed characters and vibrant production design,

Paravisini-Gebert, ‘Colonial and Postcolonial Gothic’, p. 249-54.

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the combination of which presents an engaging, challenging, and revealing interpretation of

‘the postcolonial Gothic’.

Rebecca Wynne-Walsh

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The Order, Seasons 1 and 2 (Netflix, 2019-present)

The Order is one of Netflix’s most recent additions to the ever-expanding world of

supernatural teen dramas. The television series follows Jack Morton (Jake Manley) as he is

accepted to the prestigious Belgrave University. While we are initially provided with a

classic narrative frame – our young hero eagerly awaiting college acceptance – upon initial

reading of his Belgrave letter, Jack is rejected. The contents of the letter are soon

supernaturally altered, however, and Jack is offered a place, in what is the first of many

instances in which this show plays with expectations. The subversion of the generic ‘Chosen-

One’ trope is refreshing. Jack is not by birthright the key to unlocking an ancient curse, nor is

he so exceptional that flocks of vampires fall madly in love with him. He is a working-class

kid and average student with a strong sense of family loyalty and a task to complete that

necessitates his acceptance to Belgrave.

Jack is fuelled by his desire to avenge his mother’s (Aria DeMaris) death, blaming her

suicide on the departure of his biological father (Max Martini), who is apparently unaware of

his son’s existence. Jack seeks to enter a secret Belgrave society – the ‘Order’ from which the

show takes its name – of which his father is a prominent member. The Order is the means by

which supernatural elements and many of the more obvious gothic tropes are introduced into

the series. As Jack soon discovers, the secret society is devoted to the practice of dark magic,

and much of the central plot involves werewolves, necromancy, and the like. Though the

dark-magic storylines offer opportunities for some highly gothicised aesthetics, such as full-

moon hunting expeditions and reanimated corpses haunting the living, some of the most

successful aspects of the show are the perhaps less flamboyant though no less significant

tropes of gothic fiction.

For example, the issue of class is one of the strongest character-building devices of

the show. In depictions of third-level education, class is often reduced to a flimsy plot device,

a motivation for whimsical financial schemes. Charmed’s (1998-2006) Phoebe Halliwell

(Alyssa Milano), for example, re-enrols in university to gain a degree in psychology. Despite

her apparently sub-par academic history and the fact that she appears to miss more classes

than she attends due to her demon-fighting Wiccan duties, Phoebe goes on to earn a Master’s

degree in the subject. Charmed employs third-level education more as a situational device for

character encounters and narrative exposition than a well-developed theme. Rather than use it

as a means to an over-simplistic end, The Order integrates Jack’s working-class background

into his relationships and wider college journey. Class tensions have permeated gothic fiction

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from the earliest days of the classic gothic novel. Such canonical texts as Horace Walpole’s

The Castle of Otranto (1764), Ann Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794), and Emily

Brontë’s Wuthering Heights (1847) centre on issues of inheritance, ownership, and class as

entangled with identity construction. These themes continue to feature in contemporary

gothic teen dramas, such as The Vampire Diaries (2009-17), in which the town of Mystic

Falls is defined by feuds between so-called ‘founding’ and non-founding families. The

vampire-brother protagonists are decidedly upper class (although this is often arbitrarily

indicated by the little more than the vampires’ penchant for high-quality scotch), while many

of the early victims are from outside the founding-family inner circle. These murders

implicitly establish the expendability of non-founding-family citizens, who are left vulnerable

by their lack of a long-established, wealthy local heritage. In The Order, by contrast, class

and class struggles are dealt with in a far more effective and indeed emotive manner. Access

to university is more than education for Jack; it represents a social mobility that generates

anxiety amongst his wealthier peers, who frequently mock and refer to him as a ‘townie’, out

of place in their world. Jack finds light-hearted empowerment in this label. In one episode,

when a magical escape plan hatched by Jack’s superiors fails, he finds a solution in his self-

described ‘townie magic’ – in other words, he steals a car. Although this act saves the day, it

also draws attention to his lower-class identity and the socio-economic difference between

Jack and his Belgrave peers, as well as the destabilisation of class dynamics that his presence

engenders.

These class dynamics provide Jack with an endearing chip on his shoulder, as he

struggles to worm his way into the upper echelons of college society and its elite Order.

Jack’s characterisation in this manner further introduces several recognisable themes of

classic gothic fiction under the guise of contemporary teen melodrama. In a nod to Walpole’s

Otranto, questions regarding the authenticity of documents are immediately raised by Jack’s

false acceptance letter and the subsequent debates among the leaders of the Order as to

whether his place in the university is legitimate. As the show progresses into the second

season, it is regrettable that these class issues are decentred in favour of focusing on a much

larger, multi-generational feud between the black-magic practitioners of the titular Hermetic

Order of the Blue Rose and the Knights of Saint Christopher (an ancient society of

werewolves based in the university in whose schemes Jack also becomes deeply involved).

This change in focus adds a procedural element to the structure of the show and detracts from

the significance of its original class-based approach.

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There are also issues of family lineage and rightful heritage at stake, as Jack seeks out

his estranged father, a powerful player in Belgrave societal circles, in a manner that disrupts

the Order’s established hierarchical structure. Jack’s tumultuous parental relationships further

highlight the gothic nature of this show, as he struggles between succeeding his villainous

father and avenging his angelic mother, sanctified in death. This underlying revenge narrative

unfortunately lacks the desired expansion to be maintained as a central theme and for the

show to maintain a sense of focus. While avenging the untimely passing of his mother is the

central motivation for Jack and his grandfather at the beginning of the series – the entire

reason Jack wishes to attend Belgrave is to confront his biological father, to blame him for

the mother’s death – this very quickly fades into the background and is referenced

increasingly infrequently as Jack becomes more and more entrenched in the feud between the

Order and the werewolf Knights.

Despite this issue with plotting, The Order’s greatest success is that it does truly feel

like a classic teen show, in that it does not merely repeat over-wrought tropes of constantly

brooding, existential teens (Twilight’s (2008-12) Edward Cullen immediately comes to

mind). These kids do not wile away their days grimly binge-drinking whisky from antique

crystal, an activity that is for some reason incredibly common in programming of this genre.

Supernatural’s (2005-20) Sam Winchester (Jared Padalecki), for example, finds himself

dropping out of Stanford University to embark on a demon-hunting road trip with his

borderline-alcoholic elder brother Dean (Jensen Ackles) in the very first episode, and the

brothers’ self-destructive, melancholic binge drinking increases in correlation with their

demon fighting. The Order’s scenes of drinking (somewhat inevitably, given the youthful

cast and university setting) are, by contrast, social and light hearted. In one episode, the

members of the Knights of Saint Christopher are forced to agree upon whether or not a fellow

student is a threat and must be killed. This life-and-death decision does not play out against

the backdrop of an arcane supernatural ritual, but is worked through over a beer-pong

tournament, a scene that effectively illustrates the playful immaturity of these characters and

their misalignment with the otherworldly responsibilities that have been thrust upon them.

The Order’s grounding in age-appropriate reality makes the supernatural narrative frame far

more accessible – and intriguing – than many other supernatural series to date. Now in its

second season, the show remains at its finest when it showcases light-hearted interactions

between college students (who, refreshingly, look their age) grappling with assignment

deadlines, developing sexualities, and dealing with dark magic that is far out of their league.

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The show is, by extension, at its weakest when it takes itself and the magical feud between

the Order and the Knights a little too seriously. Perhaps it has fallen victim to the demands of

an audience that has become over-saturated with the abundance of life-and-death situations

and world-ending prophecies that have become commonplace in teen TV Gothic.

It is therefore a shame that, despite presenting well-constructed and well-performed

teenage relationships, the show fails to seriously delve further into the prominent class-based

teen conflict that it introduces in the early episodes. It begins by addressing the possibility or,

in many cases, the impossibility of attending a respected university as a working-class

teenager, and the inherent unattainability of the associated prerequisites for elite education,

such as familial standing and inherited wealth. Unfortunately, aside from continued passing

references such as Jack’s peers referring to him as ‘trailer trash’ and so on, the show fails to

capitalise fully on the opportunity to reframe these features of classic gothic fiction in a

context relatable to contemporary teen audiences. All too quickly, Jack becomes consumed

by the ongoing battle between the Order and the Knights, losing some of his individuality as

a protagonist in the process. Ultimately, The Order requires a more in-depth consideration of

the socio-economic issues that affect Jack’s journey, as they could serve this show well and

efficiently differentiate it from the large roster of post-millennial teen supernatural dramas.

Although it is not without its flaws, The Order shows promise and popularity. This is

thanks in large part to its likeable cast. Though charming from the outset, Jake Manley’s

charisma develops in tandem with his character, while the supporting characters, and

particularly his friends within the Knights and the Order, strike an amiable balance between

genre tropes and individual likability. One arena in which The Order consistently improves is

in its balance of teen drama and horror. Gore and violence become more prominent in the

second season, as the show continues to embrace and foreground its horror elements through

scenes of torture and ritual sacrifice. One hopes that the show’s creators will endeavour to dig

a little deeper, as it were, in future seasons and give as much screen time to the characters’

internal ideological conflicts as they give to the exposure of their internal organs.

Rebecca Wynne-Walsh

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FILM REVIEWS

Horror Noire: A History of Black Horror, dir. by Xavier Burgin (Shudder, 2019)

Observing how Black protagonists have finally begun to feature in mainstream horror

cinema, Jordan Peele claims in Xavier Burgin’s documentary, Horror Noire, that ‘white

people will see movies about non-white people. They will. They’ll see. You just have to

make them.’ Indeed, while this assertion is self-evident today due to the success of Peele’s

own filmography, Horror Noire hints, if it never outright states, that white film audiences

have always watched Black horror, just not in the guise they might have expected.

Throughout this innovative and highly informative exploration of the history of Black horror

in cinema, Black directors, actors, and film scholars discuss their own experiences as both

participants and purveyors of the genre, discussing the shift in the representation of Black

characters from spectacles of fear to hero protagonists. It will probably come as little surprise

to either horror aficionados or academics that Peele’s own Get Out (2017) forms the

backbone of this exploration of Black horror on film: still, it is pleasantly surprising to see

just how much of his debut feature does appear to be the culmination of a hundred years of

Black cinema. As Peele himself explains here, the ‘Sunken Place’ – the space to which Get

Out’s protagonist, Chris (Daniel Kaluuya), is banished after being hypnotised – represents the

frustration of Black cinema-goers, who have been left feeling voiceless and ignored, with

little choice but to watch white protagonists onscreen.

Get Out voices this anger: Chris

rejects this status quo by surviving the film’s onslaught and reuniting with his best friend,

Rod (Lil Rel Howery), whose running commentary establishes him as a proxy for the film’s

audience.

Based on research from Robin R. Means Coleman’s book of the same name (Coleman

is also one of the experts who appears within the documentary), and written by Ashlee

Blackwell and Danielle Burrows, Horror Noire looks beyond the typical bounds of the horror

genre to find the beginnings of Black horror cinema. Starting with D. W. Griffith’s

notoriously racist The Birth of a Nation from 1915, the talking heads, comprised of scholars,

actors, and directors, highlight the extent to which early horror in Hollywood was concerned

with white fears of Blackness, a trend that marked much of the first half of the century, as

See Zack Sharf, ‘Get Out: Jordan Peele Reveals the Real Meaning Behind the Sunken Place’, Indie Wire, 30

November 2017 <https://www.indiewire.com/2017/11/get-out-jordan-peele-explains-sunken-place-meaning-

1201902567/> [accessed 11 September 2020].

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seen in blockbusters such as King Kong (dir. by Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack,

1933). Toni Morrison’s academic work Playing in the Dark (1993) springs to mind here. The

film offers what is effectively a reversal of her argument that white authors project their own

subconscious desires and fears onto Black bodies in American literature; Horror Noire

argues that white filmmakers project their fears of Blackness onto cinematic monsters and,

indeed, quite literally, onto white actors in blackface. By drawing attention to this trend, the

talking heads in Horror Noire make a cogent argument for the existence of a white

establishment whose works continued and reinforced the racist world-building projects of the

West.

In presenting this argument, Horror Noire pivots on particular milestones of the

genre, including the casting of Duane Jones as the first Black horror protagonist in George A.

Romero’s The Night of the Living Dead (1968); the rise of Black female characters,

particularly Pam Grier’s Lisa Fortier in the Blacula blaxploitation films (dir. by William

Crain and Bob Kelljan,1972-73), and their association with voodoo; and Jada Pinkett Smith’s

turn as the first Black Final Girl in Demon Knight (dir. by Ernest Dickerson, 1995), from the

horror-comedy anthology Tales from the Crypt. In doing so, as film historian Tananarive Du

observes here, the film highlights the century-long shift that Black representation has

undergone, as African-American characters evolve from being the focus of fear to the hero.

With input from actors such as Tony Todd (Candyman, dir. by Bernard Rose, 1982)

and Ken Foree (Dawn of the Dead, dir. by Romero, 1978), the documentary also highlights

the paucity of opportunities and the restrictive roles offered to Black actors in the genre, as

well as the creative manoeuvres made by actors and directors to challenge such stereotypes. It

is particularly interesting to hear about films in which the casting of Black actors was

coincidental: in the case of both Night of the Living Dead and the recent British zombie film

The Girl with All The Gifts (dir. Colm McCarthy, 2016), the scripts did not specify that the

leads were to be Black before the casting took place (indeed, Gifts was based on a novel with

a white protagonist). Both casting choices lead to a nuanced portrayal of marginalised voices

that undoubtedly could not be achieved with white actors. In something of a contrast, actress

Rachel True discusses the process of being cast in one of the main roles (as Rochelle) in the

supernatural horror The Craft (dir. Andrew Fleming, 1996). When auditioning, the

character’s racial identity was initially unspecified and Rochelle was supposed to be suffering

from anorexia. When True was cast, however, this ‘character issue’ was replaced with that of

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racism. While True observes that there were positives to be taken from addressing the issue,

she also highlights how Black characters are rarely seen as distinct from their race.

If Horror Noire did little more than offer a useful overview of an ever-expanding

genre, it would be a very satisfying venture. Burgin’s feature goes above and beyond that,

placing Black horror in a wider cultural context, providing crucial detail about racism and

white ignorance in the twentieth century. In exploring the horror that Black characters

experience, the contributing voices here discuss the real-life inhuman treatment of Black

bodies by an unfeeling white governance, focusing in particular on the notorious forty-year-

long ‘Tuskegee experiment’. Rather than attempt to cure almost four hundred Black men of

syphilis as it promised, the US government conducted covert unethical experiments on them,

leading to the deaths of a third of them. Suggesting that Black horror functions to unearth the

violent racist history of America, Horror Noire had me ruminating on the likelihood that all

US horror unearths the violent history of America. The extent to which so much of the

fictional horror experienced by white characters in horror films is in fact a reality for Black

individuals suggests that the entire American horror genre may just have sprung from a

displaced unconscious sense of white guilt.

Horror Noire is an extremely timely and illuminating examination of horror cinema.

As a result, one way to understand it is as a celebration of Get Out as a cinematic event that

marks both a culmination and a turning point in its history. Horror Noire highlights how

Peele’s feature explores the frustration of Black filmmakers and audiences who have rarely

had the opportunity to see their own stories on screen. In this way, Burgin’s documentary is

part of an ongoing discussion on the representation of Black experiences in cinema. Indeed,

despite Get Out’s undisputed success, recent discussion of the current ‘golden age’ of Black

horror has had a surprisingly small amount of mainstream Black films to draw on.

Moreover, beyond Peele’s Get Out and Us (2019), and Deon Taylor’s psychological horror

The Intruder (2019), other recent mainstream horror films starring Black actors, Ma (dir. Tate

Taylor, 2019) and Little Monsters (dir. Abe Forsythe, 2019), have had white directors. A

golden age it may be, yet far more support for Black cinema is needed.

This, I strongly hope, will not be taken in any way as a criticism in regard to the

enthusiasm rightly levelled at the phenomenon of Get Out and the milestone it represents:

rather, I bring it up as an admonishment against any back-patting that white viewers may

See Robin R. Means Coleman, ‘We’re in a Golden Age of Black Horror Films’, The Conversation, 29 May

2019 <https://theconversation.com/were-in-a-golden-age-of-black-horror-films-116648> [accessed 11 May

2020].

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believe they are now due. Mainstream celebration of a single Black property signifies little

more than a claim that one ‘would have voted for Obama for a third term’, as liberal villain

Dean Armitage (Bradley Whitford) tells Chris. It is to be hoped that Horror Noire will soon

require a sequel, demonstrating that Get Out was the beginning of something even bigger.

Sarah Cullen

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Overlord, dir. by Julius Avery (Paramount Pictures, 2018)

Hollywood is fascinated by the D-Day landings. From the lauded spectacle of Saving Private

Ryan (1998), offering the boots-on-the-ground thrill of fighting through Omaha Beach, to

Edge of Tomorrow (2014), which situates the invasion of Normandy via Britain within the

context of a future war against an alien enemy, this battle provides a premise that seems

consistently to draw in audiences, and a narrative structure that easily rewards the good and

punishes the bad. 1944 was a successful year for the Allies. Russia pushed forward through

Eastern Europe, re-conquering territory and forcing the Nazis to commit troops and resources

to an inevitable defeat; British and Indian long-range reconnaissance forces (the Chindits)

harassed the Japanese in Burma; the Battle for North Africa won, the Americans liberated

Italy from Nazi occupation; and, most famously, from the point of view of cinematic

representations, Operation ‘Overlord’ saw the invasion of Northern France by American,

Canadian, and British forces. While Overlord is inherently cinematic – its combined

operations (land, sea, and air) give varied scale to the proceedings – aspects of its planning

are often missing from such depictions. There was initial uncertainty over where the landings

would happen. Long months waiting in the UK meant tense soldiers, as diversionary tactics

attempted to persuade the Nazis that the fighting would happen elsewhere. On the German

side, disagreement between Hitler and Gerd von Rundstedt (and between Rundstedt and

General Rommel, who oversaw many of the preparations in the Atlantic) meant a fractured

defensive strategy, resulting in success for the Allies. That said, recent films about D-Day,

like the aforementioned Saving Private Ryan and Edge of Tomorrow, prefer to launch right

into the action, and Julius Avery’s Overlord does precisely this, but with a twist.

The opening section of the film plays like a variation on Saving Private Ryan, and

adheres closely to Jeanine Basinger’s notion of the squad-based combat film.

After an

exciting pep talk aboard their aircraft, in which a squad of the 101

Airborne is told that their

mission is to infiltrate the area behind German lines and blow up a key radio tower housed in

a church, the plane is shot down by anti-aircraft fire, with significant casualties. We follow

protagonist PFC Edward Boyce (Jovan Adepo) as he recovers, witnesses the death of his

superior officer, Sgt Rensin (Bokeem Woodbine), at the hands of Nazis, and is reunited with

the remnants of his squad, including explosives expert and now nominal leader Corporal

Lewis Ford (Wyatt Russell). The group cautiously advances to their destination, in the

See Jeanine Basinger, The World War II Combat Film: Anatomy of a Genre (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan

University Press, 2003).

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process capturing (and then assisting) a French woman, Chloe (Mathilde Olivier) who comes

from the target village, and who also detests the Nazis. So far, the classic World-War-II

combat tropes are in evidence. The squad members are ethnically and geographically diverse

(Boyce and Rensin are both Black American soldiers; given the Nazi sadism and racism in

the film’s subtext, a clever tagline might be ‘Get Out (of Normandy)’). There is initial

bickering in the ranks, which must be overcome in order for the mission to succeed. Finally,

and, most importantly, the film implies that the Americans’ greatest strength is their solemn

willingness to unite around a just cause, in the process overcoming the aforementioned

interpersonal squabbles. All this is, in and of itself, enough for a movie, and if that were it,

this would be something like a lightweight riff on Spike Lee’s Miracle at St Anna (2008),

which shows US Buffalo soldiers fighting back against Nazi atrocities in Italy. But, this being

a Bad Robot film produced and developed by J. J. Abrams, there is more to come.

That twist is that the Nazi atrocities in the region are not simply the war crimes

familiar from history books (such as the shooting of innocent civilians, which we do see

onscreen); instead, their horrific science experiments are aligned with the ‘mad science’ of

the horror genre. This is a supernatural war film, and as such, it joins a motley lineage that

includes everything from The Frozen Dead (1966: frozen Nazis revived to reconquer the

world), through Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981: Nazis unearth and misuse the Ark of the

Covenant), The Keep (1983: occult happenings in a creepy castle), Marching Out of Time

(1983: time-travelling Nazis); and Zone Troopers (1985: Nazis discover and are harassed by

aliens), to BloodRayne: The Third Reich (2011: eponymous videogame anti-hero

BloodRayne battles Nazis). In addition to being very generically a war film, Overlord is, like

these earlier examples, a Nazisploitation film that focuses, not on sexual perversion, but on

the mad-science side on war atrocities.

Like a reversed Captain America: The First Avenger

(2011), the issue here is a super-soldier serum of a sort, a brackish liquid found beneath the

occupied French church that is first tested on dead bodies, so as to allow the reanimated

corpses to fight on. Later, however, in a moment of desperation, Captain Wafner (Pilou

Asbaek) also injects it into himself, demonstrating that the liquid can grotesquely enhance the

strength and endurance of the living.

One of Overlord’s great virtues as a film is that it does not get too caught up in

expositions of the pseudo-science. Boyce’s initial run through the Nazi lab provides the

For a varied overview of Nazisploitation cycles since the 1960s, see Nazisploitation!: The Nazi Image in Low-

Brow Cinema and Culture, ed. by Daniel H. Magilow, Elizabeth Bridges, and Kristin T. Vander Lugt (New

York: Continuum, 2011).

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audience with glimpses of the varied experiments being conducted by the classically creepy

Dr Schmidt (Erich Redman); we see, for example, a woman whose head has been removed

from her body. This being popular American genre cinema, Boyce’s quickly formed

impressions of the Nazi operation are made clear: they are doing Very Bad Things. As a

result, the heroes’ new mission isn’t just to destroy the radio tower, but also, having stumbled

across the lab in the space underneath the tower, to end the experimentation and suppress the

secret liquid weapon before it becomes a threat to the rest of the invading army. Once the

mad-science elements are introduced, Overlord ceases to be a straightforward war film. The

squad-combat aspect remains, exemplified by the group undertaking a multi-location

infiltration of the lab in an attempt at blowing it up, with the group finally working in unison

and playing off each other’s strengths. However, this is also balanced by the horror elements;

a stand-out scene comes with the mutated Wafner squares off with a mutated Ford, who

sacrifices himself so that the explosions can bury the secrets where they belong. There are

some jump scares, as well as memorable images (a mutated soldier set alight by Chloe’s

flamethrower; a triumphant but shell-shocked Boyce walking through the now-liberated

village covered in rubble). By and large, though, the film jettisons style in favour of a swift

narrative and its genre allegiances.

Like Dunkirk (2017), part of the fun is in the ‘thrill-ride’ aesthetic, in following

soldiers through chase scenes, dangerous streets, and uncertain, hostile locales. Also like

Dunkirk, Overlord’s connection to historical minutiae is vague, foregrounding action and

spectacle over contextualising discussions and a full view of the event. We are witnessing a

fictional, supernatural story that takes place alongside a specific battle, and while some

general factual parameters are adhered to (there were paratroopers in Operation Overlord, for

instance), the fun is in the genre conceits.

Kevin M. Flanagan

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Halloween, dir. by David Gordon Green

(Universal Pictures, Miramax, and Blumhouse, 2018)

Both John Carpenter’s Halloween and the figure of Michael Myers are significant landmarks

in horror cinema. The 1978 film, depicting an apparently motiveless spree killer in small-

town America, captured perfectly the unspoken anxieties of a generation apprehensive about

the changes wrought by the social and sexual revolutions of the 1960s, a generation still

recovering from the debacle of Vietnam, and reeling from the senselessness and almost

cinematic brutality of the Sharon Tate-LaBianca killings. The potent characters created by

Carpenter and co-writer/producer Debra Hill have spawned numerous cinematic sequels, re-

interpretations and imitations, not to mention a plethora of paratextual and transtextual

narratives. Mask, figures, and cookie jars introduce Michael Myers as a commodity, a

lifestyle accessory, a procurable bogey-man. Comics have provided a medium both for

adaptations of the films and for original stories that further excavate the character and his

setting. Unfortunately, not all of these works have managed to achieve the quality and

effectiveness of the original and, in many cases, such as Halloween: Resurrection (dir. by

Rock Rosenthal, 2002), they embody the weakest and most predictable aspects of the slasher

genre. In view of these considerations, it might be understandable to approach the eleventh

film in this expansive franchise with somewhat jaundiced expectations. Thankfully, David

Gordon Green’s new offering simply and elegantly sidesteps the problems and pitfalls

engendered by such a cinematic legacy, and presents an intelligent, fresh, and vibrant follow-

up to the 1978 film.

Green has a proven record as director, with a solid portfolio of comedies and

complex, character-driven works such as Undertow (2004), Pineapple Express (2008), and

Prince Avalanche (2013). His focus and skills show in the story and handling of Halloween

(2018). The sharp script, homing in on the characters created by Carpenter and Hill, was

collaboratively written by Jeff Fradley, Danny McBride, and Green, who last worked

together on Your Highness (2011). Wisely, the writers have chosen to reset the story and

adhere very closely to the narrative arc of the original film, essentially enabling them to

disregard practically all the other material accreted in the history of the franchise. This new

film works from the premise that Myers was caught after the Halloween killings in

Haddonfield in 1978, and has been mute and unresponsive in a secure facility since then.

Laurie Strode, powerfully reprised by Jamie Lee Curtis, never fully recovered from the

events of that night, and has lived in state of fear and preparedness since that time, rendering

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her socially dysfunctional, as she alienates friends and family. Shot in South Carolina, the

town of Charleston acts as the fictional Haddonfield; its tree-lined streets effectively replicate

the Californian avenues originally used by Carpenter and Hill, and ground Richard Wright

and Sean White’s production design and art direction firmly in the same believable Middle-

American story-world.

Carpenter has also returned, scoring this film in collaboration with his son Cody and

with Daniel Davies, refreshing and embellishing the simple but driving 5/4-time rhythm,

which provided so much tension and atmosphere for the original film. Michael Simmonds’s

cinematography makes beautifully composed use of the field of view to create tension and

suspense, with many vital events unfolding in the background, around oblivious protagonists.

The photography evokes, and at times references, the cinematography of Dean Cundey from

the 1978 film, including numerous scenes that reward those familiar with the original.

Timothy Alverson’s editing is razor sharp, with every cut pushing the narrative onward,

orchestrating the ebb and flow of fear and anxiety, while concisely conveying the action and

mental states of the characters. Curtis brings a power and anxious agency to her performance

as the older Laurie, her life damaged by the events of her past. Strode’s experience and

survival of that Halloween night have shaped all her actions since then, at a terrible price.

Laurie’s daughter, Karen, played with nuance by Judy Greer, has been raised in fear

of attack, trained from an early age to fight, shoot, and defend herself. Taken by welfare

workers from Laurie when she was twelve, and now a parent herself, she views her mother as

an individual who has fused trauma to her identity and refuses to let it heal. Karen looks back

with resentment on her cloistered childhood and the fortress home she thought of as a cage,

framing her mother within pop-psychology mantras perhaps learned from her carers. Karen’s

own daughter, Allyson, astutely portrayed by Andi Matichak, has a more positive attitude

toward her grandmother, but is still wary. Like the group of friends in the original, these three

women form the core of the story and it is their relationships that give this iteration of

Halloween an emotional centre so often lacking in the slasher film. Curtis has tellingly

referred to these women as the ‘Hallowomen’.

The masked killer provides the counterpoint and catalyst to their story. Ironically, and

perhaps inevitably, Myer’s escape is facilitated by those who want to understand him, to

solve the mystery of why he did what he has done. Where Laurie sees him as ‘the shape’, a

thing of pure evil, those in charge of the mute and apparently inert Michael try to situate his

As stated by Jamie Lee Curtis, ‘The Legacy of Halloween’ Featurette, Halloween (dir. by David Gordon

Green, 2018) [bluray].

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actions against terrible but understandable human motivations. This outlook encapsulates one

of the key flaws in the sequels prior to this, which themselves often ascribe motivations and

rationales to Myers, a strategy that, in the end, does little but diminish his monstrousness.

Green’s handling of the material makes it very clear that it is not possible to understand

Michael. Green takes Myers back to Carpenter’s acknowledged interest in and debt to H. P.

Lovecraft, suggesting that Myers is almost a subtle embodiment of Lovecraftian horror; he is

an unknowable force, indifferent to human life, which destroys without compunction,

pleasure, or purpose.

If we run with this reading, then Myers’s mask and overalls, though

vested with socio-economic overtones, may not after all be a human disguise, but can instead

be interpreted as a cipher-shell within which nothing human exists. Acting randomly and

without motivation, Myers moves through the suburban landscape taking lives arbitrarily.

Hill, co-creator of the original, links Myers with ideas of unstoppable evil recurring at the

festival of Samhain.

In line with this thinking, Green’s Halloween makes it clear that Myers

acts without sexual motive, and isn’t a force of puritanical repression, as Robin Woods has

argued.

Myers is simply the unlooked-for violence of modern life; the tragic accident, the

inexplicable killing of the vulnerable, forces which have implicitly been sexualised by the

eye of the camera.

This film picks up on ideas hinted at in Carpenter’s original, and renders more overtly

the parallels between Myers and Laurie. Their actions at times reflect each other; both are

unstoppable, resilient combatants, Myers a blank, Laurie all psyche. Laurie’s preparedness

enables her and her children to subvert performatively the conventions of the slasher genre,

turning the tables on their antagonist, becoming those who hunt the hunter. Daringly, this also

suggests that acts of violence forge a terrible, unresolved correlation between perpetrator and

victim. The film’s climax sees the three women wrestling with the individual whose violence

has damaged all their lives, and we are reminded, explosively, that cages can become

powerful traps for predators.

The performances of the three female leads, the filial love they display, and their

agency provide a great emotional heart to this work. The narrative, cinematography, and

editing offer recognition of the investments of fans by intelligently and knowingly playing

Jason Zinoman, Shock Value: How a Few Eccentric Outsiders Gave Us Nightmares, Conquered Hollywood,

and Invented Modern Horror (London: Duckworth Overlook, 2012), p. 61.

Mark Salisbury, ‘Done to Death’, The Guardian, 18 October 2002

<https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2002/oct/18/artsfeatures1> [accessed 4 March 2019].

Robin Woods, Hollywood: From Vietnam to Reagan ... and Beyond (New York: Columbia University Press,

2003), p. 172.

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with the conventions of the slasher genre and reinvigorating them, breathing menacing new

life into a series of films that had long lost their way.

Gerard Gibson

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Us, dir. by Jordan Peele

(Universal Pictures, Monkeypaw Productions, and Perfect World Pictures, 2019)

When young Adelaide Wilson gets lost in a hall of mirrors at Santa Cruz Boardwalk in 1986,

she soon encounters a frightening reflection of herself. This reflection, however, is not

trapped behind glass, but is in fact another version of her – a doppelgänger. This chilling

meeting sets in motion a chain of events that culminates in horror many years later, when the

adult Adelaide reluctantly returns to Santa Cruz for a family holiday with her own children.

Once again, she soon finds that her family, her safety, and her very identity are put at risk

when masked strangers invade the Wilson family’s modest holiday home, seeking to take

more than just their possessions.

Us is Jordan Peele’s second horror film. Get Out (2017) established Peele as an

innovative and intelligent writer-director, skilled in the horror genre, with a flair for dynamic

storytelling that is every bit as political as it is horrifying. Us strikes the same pitch-perfect

notes as its predecessor. Despite the emotional power and urgency of his themes, Peele

wisely avoids the easy choice of lecturing the audience. Like Costa-Gavras’ Capital (2012),

or Amos Gitai’s Kadosh (1999), here, Peele uses the unfolding story to draw the audience in,

enabling a strong emotional investment in a tale that has subtle, yet resonant, socio-ethical

political dimensions. With Us, Peele once again focuses his directorial eye on the mores of

modern America and presents an original nightmarish vision.

The cast uniformly deliver compelling performances, made doubly effective by their

portrayal of twinned roles as ‘The Tethered’, a mysterious group of aggressive subterranean

doppelgängers. These living simulacra, at times resembling figural dolls used in ritual magic,

are cast aside to dwell in forgotten tunnels under Middle America. Lupita Nyong’o is

outstanding as the adult Adelaide; Wilson Duke effortlessly portrays the amiable strength but

social awkwardness of Gabe, Adelaide’s husband; Shahadi Wright Joseph and Evan Alex

meanwhile bring authenticity to the subtle differences and similarities between Adelaide’s

children and their ‘Tethered’ counterparts. Elisabeth Moss and Tim Heidecker ably round out

the cast as the competitively materialistic Tyler family – as well as the Tylers’ very own set

of shadowy doubles. Peele’s attention to detail is quickly revealed in his skill and sensitivity

to the complex histories of race, slavery, and privilege that are explored in Us, as exemplified

by his deploying character names with significant metonymic origins, such as Adelaide,

meaning ‘high-born’, implying a contrast and hierarchical relationship with her

doppelgänger, who is (be)low.

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Peele guides the narrative with subtle yet unsettling motifs. One of the most

prominent of these is symmetry, which is, of course, reflective of the horror of the

doppelgänger. This symmetry works in multiple directions: Adelaide’s family are reflected

by both the abnormal ‘Tethered’ and the ‘normal’ Tylers, who further embody uncanny

doubling in their own twin daughters. Additionally, actors sometimes mirror each other’s

movements, and the number eleven – symmetrical in appearance – recurs repeatedly. These

unsettling symmetries and impending sense of dread propel the characters, to the point where

reflections violently threaten individual identity. These motifs contrast with the convincing,

naturalistic acting, conveying an ordinary-looking world where all is not as it should be. A

social unease permeates the film and symmetry, reflections, alignments, and balances are all

used visually and narratively to erode the individuality of the characters and places, implying

a decay deep beneath any surface gloss. As tension builds, the characters are pushed off

kilter, such as when Gabe makes a well-intended but uncharacteristic joke that implies latent

domestic violence.

The cinematography of Mike Gioulakis beautifully frames a very familiar suburban

world that is just slight askew, and the use of light is especially effective in what it reveals

and conceals, visually implying the ambiguity that is increasingly evident in all the characters

throughout the film. Peele eschews any reductionist ‘us-and-them’ treatment, instead

providing a scenario where all the characters and counterparts share equally in sympathetic

and repellent characteristics, as well as a susceptibility to and capacity for violence. Peele

seems to suggest that the divisions between protagonist and antagonist might be as simple as

chance accidents of birth or opportunity. The fact that ‘The Tethered’ seem to have as little a

choice in attacking the Wilsons as the Wilsons do in defending themselves suggests that it is

larger socio-economic circumstances that make them adversaries, an ethical viewpoint that

may have consequences for us all.

The staging is modest but highly effective, relying mainly on story and performance

to create impact and menace. Kym Barrett’s costume design cleverly visualises the discourses

at work in the narrative.

The Wilsons’ costumes have a contemporary cut in softer fabrics,

while the doppelgängers’ crimson utilitarian coveralls give them a rugged proletarian

uniformity, their rough sandals suggesting cultural and economic poverty. There are also

visual references to stage-magician costumes, such as in Gabe’s tuxedo t-shirt, suggesting the

use of mirrors and misdirection to create illusion, while v-shapes are a common motif

Fawnia Soo Hoo, ‘All of the Costume Clues to Spot in Jordan Peele’s Terrifying Film Us’, fashionista.com, 21

March 2019 < https://fashionista.com/2019/03/jordan-peele-us-movie-costumes> [accessed 29 March 2019].

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throughout the production design, creating suggestive visual connections between different

characters and locales. The production design by Ruth DeJong (fresh from Mark Frost and

David Lynch’s 2017 Twin Peaks), along with the art direction by Cara Bower and set

decoration by Florecia Martin, effectively use the space around the actors to provide details

about the inner lives of the characters. For example, where the Wilsons’ holiday home is

bookish and filled with personal bric-a-brac suggesting learning and memory, the Tylers’

more lavish holiday home visually conveys their more materialistic aspirations. Michael

Abel’s score is a mix of polyphonic children’s voices, an adult choir, and percussion. By

turns rhythmic and melodic, it is shot through with skeins of discord, and the repetitive voices

and bell-like chimes of the sub-Saharan Mbira create an unsettling atmosphere, hinting

perhaps at exploitative historical connections between Africa and America. Toward the film’s

climax, the music rises to a relentless, pounding pulse, as if Adelaide’s journey has bared the

wound in the fractious beating heart of American society. Peele’s script is sharp and the

dialogue sounds spontaneous, while Nicholas Monsour’s editing carefully strikes a disturbing

balance between the full-on menace of the home invasion at the centre of the plot, and the

uneasy disarticulation of identity felt by Adelaide when lost in the paranoia-inducing

underground home of ‘The Tethered’.

Peele has spoken openly about the political and religious symbolism of the film.

Original and effective antagonists, ‘The Tethered’ materially embody a spectral underclass,

created as a Frankensteinian experiment in social control. When these neglected individuals

rise up, their resemblance to and connection with those who live in comparative privilege

above embodies the uncanny. Peele here may be suggesting that the ‘land of the free’ must

face the unspoken, buried spectres of its past – specifically genocide and slavery – or face the

consequences. Obliquely referencing the role that Calvinism has played in the construction of

American identity, when the ‘Tethered’ version of Adelaide rises from her underground

home to lead a revolution, we glimpse a scruffy side-walk preacher. He stands clasping a

board that references Jeremiah 11:11. This biblical verse promises that injustice will not go

unpunished, and that retribution is coming. Further cementing the biblical parallels, when

Adelaide defends her family, one of ‘The Tethered’ strikes a cruciform pose as they are

consumed by fire. This striking moment evokes powerful yet contradictory visual references:

the burning cross of the Ku Klux Klan and the Christ-like suffering of the victims of

Charles Barfield, ‘Jordan Peele Breaks Down Religious Themes of Us and Calls His Latest a “Dark Easter”

Film’, playlist.com, 29 March 2019 <https://theplaylist.net/jordan-peele-us-dark-easter-20190329/> [accessed

30 March 2019].

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lynchings and burnings; endemic racism and personal sacrifice; ideas of persecution and

faith, violence and defence. These complex, irreconcilable themes, all-but impossible to

excavate in prose, are effectively suggested in imagery that speaks to America’s racial crisis

on multiple levels simultaneously.

Peele’s narrative implies that American society, and perhaps all Western society, has

evaded its responsibilities – that for every individual who enjoys privilege, another elsewhere

has been penalised to enable this to happen: our inexpensive clothes come from sweatshops;

sold to us by sales advisors on zero-hour contracts; our cheap food is farmed by underpaid

growers at home and abroad; our luxury technology results in the accumulation of toxic-

waste products. Peele, however, avoids the trite Hollywood cliché and presents his tale with a

rounded three-dimensionality, recognising the complexities involved and the repercussions of

such arguments, to point out society’s own complicity, vested interests, ambivalence, and

duality. Whilst ‘The Tethered’ are horrifying, it is clear that their violence stems from their

origins – a governmental experiment in social eugenics. Their existence also suggests that

privilege and exploitation are monstrously interconnected. Whilst race is the most distinct

element of these problems, Peele makes it clear that to view these concerns purely in terms of

colour would be reductionist, and would allow larger global questions to escape our attention.

He is not prepared to let us off the hook. Peele looks at the modern technological world and

implicates us all in these divisive acts of socio-economic, cultural, and environmental

violence; the film suggests that, through our irresponsibility, we each create our own

Tethered nemesis.

The depth and breadth of Peele’s thought on the subject is typified by the film’s

deceptively simple title – Us – which implies identification with and responsibility for the

others of society, while also being the national acronym for what he sees as the context of a

particular set of problems. Harry Tucker observes that cultural explorations of ‘the double’

seem most prevalent when society experiences division or conflict, and that the doppelgänger

figure commonly appears in literature written in periods of social unrest.

This can be seen in

fiction ranging from the works of E. T. A. Hoffman to Philip K. Dick. It is surely no

coincidence that Don Seigel’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956), perhaps the perfect

film manifestation of such anxiety, appeared just as McCarthyism declined in the United

States. Peele too, has used the horror genre to craft a gripping socio-political tale which offers

audiences cinematic thrills, while challenging them to ask themselves, and their peers, some

Harry Tucker, ‘Introduction’, in Otto Rank, The Double: A Psychoanalytic Survey, ed. by Tucker (Chapel Hill,

NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1971), pp. xiii-xxii (p. xix).

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disturbing ethical questions. Us is frightening to watch in the moment and even harder to

forget, leaving a lingering unease long after the film is over.

Gerard Gibson

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Suspiria, dir. by Luca Guadagnino (Amazon Studios, 2018)

It has been clear for quite some time that the age of remakes is upon us. Almost every horror

classic has been remade in the last several years, from the lifeless A Nightmare on Elm Street

(dir. by Samuel Bayer, 2009), the pleasantly surprising The Evil Dead (dir. by Fede Alvarez,

2013), and of course Stephen King’s It: Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 (dir. by Andy Muschietti,

2017 and 2019). It seemed inevitable, then, that Dario Argento’s Suspiria (1977) would

eventually also be remade. Naturally, when the project was announced in 2008, it was met

with much hesitation; Argento’s film is beloved among the horror community, memorable for

its shocking and colourful visuals, violent gore, and the Goblin soundtrack. Many modern

remakes add little to the originals, simply seeking to capitalise on the success of a known

franchise. Thankfully, Luca Guadagnino’s ‘reimagining’, as he has chosen to call it, is

something else entirely. Argento’s original film takes inspiration from Thomas De Quincey’s

Suspiria de Profundis (1845), which introduced the concept of ‘Our Ladies of Sorrow’ or, as

they are known in Argento’s films, the ‘Three Mothers’. In De Quincey’s essay, they are

three witches who rule over their respective dominions on Earth; Mater Lachrymarum (Our

Lady of Tears), Mater Suspiriorum (Our Lady of Sighs), and Mater Tenebrarum (Our Lady

of Darkness), with Suspiria focusing on Suspiriorum. However, where Argento’s Suspiria

simply introduces the concept of the Three Mothers, Luca Guadagnino roots his film in the

mythology and expands it, in turn adapting it into something much grander.

Suspiria (2018) opens with the character of Patricia Hingle attending a session with

her psychotherapist, Josef Klemperer (Tilda Swinton, credited under the name ‘Lutz

Ebersdorf’). Patricia is adamant that the prestigious Markos Dance Company, of which she

was a student, is actually a coven of witches who have dedicated themselves to the Three

Mothers. The coven is headed by Helena Markos (Swinton), who claims to be Mater

Suspiriorum and, according to Patricia, watches her every move and ‘wants to get inside of

[her]’. Meanwhile, aspiring dancer Susie Bannion (Dakota Johnson) auditions for the

Company and is accepted. Madame Blanc (also played by Swinton), the academy’s

choreographer and Markos’s second-in-command, entrusts her with the role of the

Protagonist in her iconic dance, ‘Volk’, bringing a seemingly oblivious Susie under the

influence of Markos. It is revealed to the audience that whoever dances as the Protagonist

will serve as a host body for Markos, whose own body has become aged and decrepit. In

addition, a power struggle rages between Markos and Blanc for control over the coven,

dividing loyalties among the witches. As Susie becomes engrossed in working with Madame

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Blanc and Volk, other dancers become increasingly suspicious of the Company, with the film

culminating in a ritual, conducted with the intention of hollowing out Susie’s body for

Markos. However, Susie reveals herself to be the true Mater Suspiriorum, outing Markos as a

liar and a false god, then summoning Death to dispose of her and her faithful followers.

In Suspiria, Guadagnino explores themes of female domination, what it means to be

complicit, and the lasting consequences of war, all of which flow together seamlessly in a

cinematic event that is uncompromising in its vision. Where Argento’s original is a fairly

straightforward slasher film that incorporates elements of De Quincey’s essay, Guadagnino’s

adaptation takes the mythology one step further, allowing for an almost two-and-a-half-hour

spectacle that culminates in a phantasmagorical explosion. The film follows a wave of

‘elevated’ horror films, with Get Out (dir. by Jordan Peele, 2017), A Quiet Place (dir. by John

Krasinski, 2018), and Hereditary (dir. by Ari Aster, 2018) being standouts. While these films

have little in common, they have been categorised by numerous critics as a horror subgenre

that seeks to go beyond simply evoking fear; instead, they are seen as having ‘something to

say’ and as employing horror in the service of more than a superficial jump scare. One of the

most interesting examples of this is Aster’s Hereditary, which uses typical horror tropes such

as demonic possession and the occult to explore familial trauma and grief. Rather than

relying solely on traditional horror tactics, the horror of these films is felt in their tense

atmosphere and thematic content, and it isn’t surprising that Guadagnino’s film has been

assigned this label. Tyler Aquilina describes Suspiria as ‘mixing a prestige director and

artful filmmaking with some B-movie gore and thrills’, and although screenwriter David

Kajganich rejects the ‘elevated horror’ label, considering it to be ‘a bullshit concept’, the

film’s themes and prioritisation of complex storytelling over jump scares reflect a more

thoughtful approach.

To Guadagnino, ‘cinema is about emotions’ and, in the wake of his tear-jerking Best-

Picture-nominated film Call Me By Your Name (2017), it isn’t hard to see the significance of

emotion in his work.

Suspiria is a deeply emotional film, albeit not in the same way as

Guadagnino’s previous work. Where Call Me By Your Name centres on one relationship, the

Tyler Aquilina, ‘Why Horror Is Having Its Moment’, The Hollywood Reporter, 28 August 2018

<https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/heat-vision/suspiria-why-horror-is-thriving-once-more-1137706>

[accessed 16 September 2020]; and Stacie Ponder and Anthony Hudson, ‘Episode 82 – Suspiria With Luca

Guadagnino And David Kajganich’, Gaylords Of Darkness <https://gaylords-of-

darkness.pinecast.co/episode/561ad4692b3c4f15/episode-82-suspiria-with-luca-guadagnino-and-david-

kajganich> [accessed 24 September 2020].

Luca Guadagnino, ‘Luca Guadagnino on his Visceral, “Slow-Burn” Take on Suspiria’, Dazed, 12 November

2018 <http://www.dazeddigital.com/film-tv/article/42170/1/luca-guadagnino-suspiria-call-me-by-your-name-

interview> [accessed 14 April 2019].

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intense romance between Elio and Oliver, Suspiria is much more of an ensemble piece. The

film focuses on several interpersonal relationships, such as Klemperer’s guilt surrounding his

wife Anke’s (Jessica Harper) disappearance during the Holocaust, which ties in with a larger

thread that is woven throughout the film surrounding World War II. The film is set in 1977

Germany during the Cold War, but the effect of the Second World War is a looming

presence, both over Klemperer and the dance company itself. Madame Blanc shares with

Susie the Company’s struggle to keep afloat during the war, and stresses that the art they

create is a reaction to the oppression of the Nazi regime. It is in this mixture of historical

detail, the gritty backdrop of 1977’s ‘German Autumn’, tensely emotional moments, and

supernatural horror that Guadagnino’s directing style truly shines through. This is especially

evident during Klemperer’s supposed reunion with his wife at their second home. The scene

is a heartbreaking one that sees Klemperer overcome with relief and remorse, but it quickly

turns to terror when it is revealed that Anke is actually one of the matrons in disguise, and he

is viciously dragged into the Company.

When questioned about Swinton’s portrayal of Klemperer (who functions as the male

lead), Kajganich said that ‘both Luca and [himself] were adamant that the male gaze never

intrude’.

As such, Swinton’s portrayal of him ensures that a female presence is central even

when the focus is on a male character. This reasoning is especially evident when we take into

account the lack of male speaking roles in the film; aside from Klemperer, there are only two

– a pair of police officers investigating Patricia’s disappearance, who appear only in a

handful of scenes. Guadagnino utilises these characters to flip the male gaze on its head when

their investigation takes them to the Company, and we witness them being stripped, mocked,

and laughed at by members of the coven. This mirrors the climax of Klemperer’s subplot,

which sees him used as a forced witness to the witches’ ritual. He is berated by Ms Huller,

one of the teachers, who snaps, ‘when women tell you the truth, you don’t pity them. You tell

them they have delusions’, in reference to Patricia, whom he assumed was mentally ill rather

than believing that the Company housed a witches’ coven. In light of the #MeToo movement,

this moment is especially powerful, and highlights the significance of female unity within the

film. However, the themes of war and fascism remain present even within the coven, and

Guadagnino never allows the audience to forget that an abundance of power, in anyone’s

hands, is a dangerous thing. Helena Markos is presented as a fascistic dictator; we see the

David Kajganich, ‘Suspiria: Why Tilda Swinton is Plating a Mysterious Old Man’, Vanity Fair, 25 September

2018 https://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2018/09/tilda-swinton-suspiria-josef-klempere-makeup-lutz-

ebersdorf [accessed 4 August 2019].

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lengths she is willing to go to achieve her own ends, including hollowing out an innocent

girl’s body and eradicating the girl’s soul to make room for herself. The message is clear;

power corrupts. After it is revealed that Susie Bannion as the true Mater Suspiriorum, come

to restore order, the coven’s structure is entirely overthrown, making clear that replacing

Markos with Blanc, another contender for the position of leader and one who was complicit

in Markos’ actions, would not have been enough to end its corrupt practices, and that total

reform was the only way forward.

Among the rich storytelling and prominent themes, another highlight of Suspiria is

undoubtedly the score, crafted by Radiohead frontman Thom Yorke. One of the most

memorable aspects of Argento’s film is the Goblin soundtrack that accompanies it, with its

prog-rock sensibilities and unexpected guitar riffs. Yorke’s score takes nothing from that

original soundtrack, instead opting for a slower, less obvious approach. Where the Goblin

score is abrasive and cuts through every scene in the original film, Yorke’s is piano-led and

hinges on guiding the sense of mood and atmosphere in a more subtle and less intrusive way.

This technique is especially effective during the climax of the film, which sees Susie reveal

herself as Mother Suspiriorum and remove all of Markos’ supporters from the coven. The

music swells as Susie explodes the heads of all those who oppose her, and Yorke’s soft and

haunting vocals make the moment oddly emotional, seamlessly melding horror and beauty.

The mixing of horrific imagery with beauty is something of a theme within the film, and a

standout scene that cannot be overlooked is Susie’s first dance in the academy. As Susie

prepares to dance the lead in Volk, Madame Blanc touches her feet and hands, casting a spell.

Simultaneously, Olga, another dancer, attempts to flee the academy, only to be lured into an

eerie mirrored practice room. As Susie begins to dance, Olga’s body is viciously yanked

around the other room, her movements paralleling Susie’s, as though she is unconsciously

contorting Olga’s body grotesquely. It is one of, if not the most memorable scene in the film

due to its shocking nature, and perfectly encapsulates the tone of the film.

The film has received polarising reviews from critics, with some marvelling at its

accomplishments and others dismissing it entirely. Many cited the film’s length as a problem;

at two hours and twenty-six minutes, it is almost an hour longer than the original film. In

addition, the Klemperer subplot feels slightly out of place upon first viewing, while other

elements, such as the significance of Susie’s Mormon background, remain underdeveloped

(possibly explained by the fact that Guadagnino himself stated that he struggled to edit the

film to under three hours). Nevertheless, Supiria is so beautifully crafted that everything

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comes together remarkably well, and the film is one that benefits from repeat viewings,

which highlight the extent to which it tells a complete story, one which weaves itself

throughout each subplot seamlessly. Each scene, each character, each exchange of dialogue is

essential to the overarching story, which ultimately hinges on the notion that those who abuse

their positions of power must be held accountable for their actions. Through these themes,

Guadagnino hammers home the impact of Susie’s words to Klemperer at the end of the film;

‘we need guilt, Doctor. And shame. But not yours.’

Nicole Hamilton

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Midsommar, dir. by Ari Aster (A24, Nodisk Films, 2019)

Midsommar (2019) is Ari Aster’s second feature film, coming on the heels of his critically

acclaimed Hereditary (2018). As Aster has made clear in interviews, he intentionally shaped

Midsommar as folk horror, although he has also said that it is a break-up movie and ‘a fairy

tale with horror elements’.

Despite Aster’s interest in evading generic categorisation,

however, Midsommar seems a veritable exemplar of the folk-horror narrative, and it is

marked by the unmistakeable influence of two canonical folk-horror films, The Wicker Man

(dir. by Robin Hardy, 1973) and The Blood on Satan’s Claw (dir. by Piers Haggard, 1971).

Midsommar follows four Americans – Josh (William Jackson Harper), Mark (Will

Poulter), Christian (Jack Reynor), and Dani (Florence Pugh) – who are invited by their

Swedish postgraduate friend, Pelle (Vilhelm Blomgren), to visit his small community, Hårga,

during its nine-day midsummer celebration. The motivations of the Americans are varied.

Josh, Mark, and Christian are all Anthropology graduate students, and Josh plans to study the

small community for his thesis on cult rituals. Dani is going because her boyfriend, Christian,

invited her (reluctantly) – and because she is trying to move past the devastating family

tragedy with which the film begins. The five friends arrive at Pelle’s village, which is nestled

in a beautiful natural landscape, and, in short order, the nine-day celebration begins. The

residents of Hårga adhere to an idiosyncratic set of practices and beliefs. They all wear white,

live in communal wooden houses, and eat together at large tables. Stones inscribed with

strange runic characters litter the landscape; there’s a bear in a cage; and a bright yellow

steepled temple, which no one is allowed to enter, stands on the edge of the village. Excitedly

intent on gathering material for his thesis, Josh asks one of the elders how they support

themselves; he answers that they have a water-driven power plant, engage in homeopathy,

weave linen, and grow their own food. They are self-sufficient, in short – intentionally cut off

from the markets, ideologies, and religions of the modern Western world.

If alarm bells aren’t yet ringing for the four Americans (and they aren’t), they

certainly should be, as things start to skew even more toward the strange. One of the elders

explains how their community is organised around the stages of life and aligned with the

seasons. Spring represents the stage from birth to eighteen, during which period children

sleep together in a large communal hut. From the ages of eighteen to thirty-six, the villagers

David Sims, ‘What Kind of Movie Ari Aster Wanted Midsommar To Be’, Atlantic, 3 July 2019

<https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2019/07/ari-aster-midsommar-interview/593194/>

[accessed 13 September 2020].

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(in the ‘summer’ of their lives) go on ‘missions’, as Pelle had done, bringing back his four

newly acquired friends from the US (no one thinks to ask what the ‘mission’ is, exactly); in

the fall of their lives, aged thirty-seven to fifty-four, the villagers presumably work in and for

the sustenance of the community; and lastly, those aged fifty-five to seventy-two – in the

winter of their lives – serve as the elders of the community, advising the young and ensuring

that traditions get passed on. When one of the Americans asks what happens at age seventy-

two, the elder draws his hand across his throat and smiles. He’s not joking, however, and the

first ritual of the midsummer celebration soon makes that shockingly clear. Two of the elders,

who have presumably attained the age of seventy-two, leap from a high cliff onto the rocks

below. In this scene, which reveals exactly what the villagers are capable of, Aster offers up

some of the relatively few grotesquely violent images of the film, as red splinters the film’s

otherwise white, yellow, and green palette.

As the above description makes clear, Midsommar tracks closely to the ‘folk-horror

chain’ described by Adam Scovell. Drawing from the ‘unholy trinity’ of folk-horror films –

Witchfinder General (dir. by Michael Reeves, 1968), The Blood on Satan’s Claw, and The

Wicker Man – Scovell maps out the constituent parts of folk horror. Landscape is the first

link, he writes, in that ‘elements within its topography have adverse effects on the social and

moral identity of its inhabitants’, which then becomes critical to the second element,

isolation: the ‘landscape must in some way isolate a key body of characters’, who become

‘cut off from some established social progress of the diegetic world’. The pressure of the

landscape, and the isolation it shapes for its central community, leads to its members’

‘skewed belief systems and morality’, which then inexorably prompt the conclusion of the

folk-horror plot and the final link in the chain: the ‘happening/summoning’, often a ‘violent

and supernatural’ event such as a sacrifice.

The village in Midsommar is certainly isolated,

its views and practices ‘skewed’, and more than one violent ritual/sacrifice punctuates its

second half.

If Midsommar can be generally understood via Scovell’s ‘folk-horror chain’, it also,

more specifically, follows the narrative arc of Robin Hardy’s The Wicker Man. Indeed,

writing in Variety, Owen Gleiberman claims that Midsommar is a ‘veritable remake’ of The

Wicker Man.

Aster would not be pleased at Gleiberman’s assessment, since he has insisted

Adam Scovell, Folk Horror: Hours Dreadful and Things Strange (Leighton Buzzard: Auteur, 2017), pp. 8, 17-

18.

Owen Gleiberman, ‘Midsommar: Destined to Be Controversial’, Variety, 4 July 2019

<https://variety.com/2019/film/columns/midsommar-destined-to-be-controversial-ari-aster-florence-pugh-

1203259778/> [accessed 8 September 2020].

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in an interview that he strove to evade the shadow of Hardy’s cult film: ‘I tried to avoid it as

much as I could. I think what [Midsommar] tries to do is point to The Wicker Man and set up

expectations native to that film, then take a left-turn from there and go somewhere

surprising.’

That ‘somewhere’ happens to be a culminating sacrificial fire, so it’s hard to

agree with Aster that he actually goes ‘somewhere surprising’.

Indeed, Midsommar evokes not only the plot of The Wicker Man but also its narrative

strategy of planting ‘clues’ that foreshadow what will happen to its protagonist, clues of

which Sergeant Neil Howie (Edward Woodward) is quite oblivious. Hardy has famously said

that the film is constructed as a kind of ‘game’, ‘the hunter leading the hunted’.

Howie goes

to Summerisle thinking that he is searching for a missing girl, that he’s the hunter, but he

doesn’t realise until the very end that he is in fact the ‘hunted’, led to Summerisle precisely

so he can be sacrificed. In Midsommar, similarly, the American students think they are

pursuing data on rituals at the Swedish community, completely unaware that they have been

designated for sacrifice. As he did in Hereditary, where he littered the film’s landscape with

evidence of the cult’s presence, Aster plants clues that the Americans have been chosen as

victims from very early on. There is even the suggestion that the deaths at the beginning of

the film of Dani’s parents and sister – an apparent suicide/homicide – were the work of Pelle

and the villagers.

Midsommar also contains some striking resemblances to other folk-horror films from

the late 1960s and 70s. Late in the film, for instance, Christian is given some mind-altering

substance and raped in a ritual that resembles the ritual rape of Cathy (Wendy Padbury) in an

abandoned church in Blood on Satan’s Claw; just as the onlookers in that film seem to

undergo a kind of sympathetic ecstasy, so too do the women that surround Christian and

Maja (Isabelle Grill). Midsommar also echoes Peter Sasdy’s 1972 hybrid folk-horror/sci-fi

film Doomwatch. Both films focus on a small, closed community (in Doomwatch, it’s the

fictional Cornish island of Balfe), and both communities struggle to manage the

consequences of inbreeding. In Hårga, the occasional inbred child becomes a kind of oracle,

embodied by Ruben (Levente Puczkó). Doomwatch’s suggestion of inbreeding, however, is

Ben Travis, ‘Midsommar Director Ari Aster on Avoiding the Influence of The Wicker Man’, Empire, 3 July

2019 <https://www.empireonline.com/movies/news/midsommar-director-ari-aster-on-avoiding-the-influence-

of-the-wicker-man/> [accessed 8 September 2020].

Robin Hardy, ‘The Genesis of The Wicker Man’, in The Quest for The Wicker Man: History, Folklore, and

Pagan Perspectives, ed. by Benjamin Franks, Jonathan Murray, and Stephen Harper (Edinburgh: Luath, 2006),

pp. 17-25 (p. 19).

Chris Snyder and Meredith Geaghan-Breiner, ‘All the Hidden Meanings You May Have Missed in the

Midsommar Ending’, Business Insider, 8 July 2019 <https://www.businessinsider.com/midsommar-ending-

explained-hidden-meanings-symbols-clues-2019-7> [accessed 7 September 2020].

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ultimately turned back by a plot that indicts the dumping of dangerous experimental growth

hormones in the waters off the island.

Indeed, the connections between Midsommar and earlier folk-horror films do more

than simply emphasise the shaping power of the folk-horror plot, the narrative ‘chain’, in the

present moment. Midsommar, I argue, picks up on and elucidates a strong thread of

environmental politics that has run through the folk-horror tradition – evident not least in The

Wicker Man and Doomwatch. At a crucial moment in Midsommar, one of the elders of Hårga

notes that this year’s solstice celebration, including a banquet that only takes place every

ninety years, is occurring on ‘the hottest and brightest summer on record’.

At least one

reviewer, Keith Phipps, has positioned Midsommar as a climate-change film, writing that

both Hereditary and Midsommar serve as ‘previews of what could emerge after a political or

climatic breakdown’; they gesture, among other things, to how ‘the damage visited on the

Earth reaches a tipping point that threatens to drive the ground beneath our feet and the air we

breathe into revolt’.

Is Midsommar indeed a commentary on global warming and ecological

destruction? Is it an environmentalist film? Aster’s film, like The Wicker Man before it,

seems to depict a community living in apparent harmony with nature. Both of these cinematic

celebrations of a pagan community wedded to the cycles of nature can, however, actually be

seen as offering a scathing critique.

As William Hughes has brilliantly argued, the pagan cult of The Wicker Man is

actually a fabrication by an aspiring capitalist, intent on getting as much work as possible

from the inhabitants of Summerisle, and squeezing equally as much from the natural

resources of the island.

In Midsommar, the cult appears to be an authentic community, with

an organic set of beliefs that emerge from the ‘folk’ rather than being imposed by an

(aristocratic) outsider, as is the case with the succession of lords of Summerisle. Midsommar

is, nonetheless, offering up this community, I suggest, as a satirical commentary on

environmentalism, not as itself an exemplar of a more ‘green’ way of living. Indeed, it is

Jake Wilson asks without answering, ‘[i]s there an environmentalist subtext, as we might gather from a

throwaway comment about global warming?’ See ‘Horror Comes out of the Shadows in Midsommar’, Sydney

Morning Herald, 9 August 2019 <https://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/movies/horror-comes-out-of-the-

shadows-in-midsommar-20190806-p52edw.html> [accessed 8 September 2020].

Keith Phipps, ‘Midsommar Offers a Vision of What Awaits Us after Society Collapses’, Pacific Standard, 24

July 2019 <https://psmag.com/ideas/midsommar-by-ari-aster-offers-a-vision-of-what-awaits-us-after-society-

collapses> [accessed 8 September 2020].

William Hughes, ‘“A Strange Kind of Evil”: Superficial Paganism and False Ecology in The Wicker Man’, in

EcoGothic, ed. by Andrew Smith and William Hughes (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2013), pp.

58-71.

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difficult to watch how Midsommar plays out without grasping its darkly comic satire of

environmentalism’s excesses.

The inhabitants of Hårga live by the tenet that humans are fundamentally entwined

with nature, not the dominant species or even particularly exceptional. They kill Mark for

urinating on the ‘ancestral tree’ they worship, for instance, establishing a hierarchy that

certainly doesn’t privilege the human. What this ecological vision translates to, however, is a

conclusion in which a petulant and vengeful Dani-as-May-Queen, covered with flowers,

enacts vengeance on her faithless boyfriend. And the community’s enactment of living in

harmony with nature involves stuffing vegetation in the eyes of their murdered visitors,

attaching branches to bodies, and burning Christian in the skin of a bear. In one particularly

notable scene, we see Josh’s leg sticking out of a garden plot. Such moments beg to be seen

as satirising ideas about the mutual imbrication of human and nonhuman – claims like Donna

Haraway’s, for instance, that humans are compost: ‘We are humus, not homo, not anthropos;

we are compost, not posthuman.’

The villagers of Hårga seem not merely to accept this

tenet but actively to pursue it. ‘We are compost’ becomes here less an assertion that humans

are part of nature, not at all exceptional, than it is a rallying cry, a call to render humans

compost. The so-called ‘deity of reciprocity’ worshipped by the people of Hårga demands the

routine sacrifice of the village’s elders when they attain the age of seventy-two, as well as the

sacrifice of an equal number of people to those who are born that year. Humans are forcibly

returned to the earth, in short, as a means of sustaining the community. Living in harmony

with nature, including making sure the community can sustain itself, feed itself, comes with a

heavy cost.

Rögnvaldur Hannesson provocatively claims in Ecofundamentalism that

‘[e]nvironmentalism is not an ideology justifying the struggle of the poor for a better lot, it is

a malaise among those who have more than enough’.

Midsommar can be read through this

lens: it centres a homogenous, white community that seemingly wants for nothing; lush

banquets punctuate the narrative. To propitiate their ‘gods’, moreover, the villagers lure in

outsiders who are more vulnerable both emotionally (as in Dani’s case) and racially (as in the

case of Josh, Connie, and Simon). Midsommar’s environmentalist critique seems to be

directed, then, not at the usual suspects (urban westerners with their smart phones, chronic

Donna J. Haraway, ‘Staying with the Trouble: Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Chthulucene’, in Anthropocene

or Capitalocene? Nature, History, and the Crisis of Capitalism, ed. by Jason W. Moore (Oakland, CA: Kairos,

2016), pp. 34-77 (p. 59).

Rögnvaldur Hannesson, Ecofundamentalism: A Critique of Extreme Environmentalism (Lexington Books,

2014), p. 2.

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over-consumption, and frequent plane travel) but at those who live an extreme version of a

‘green’ life and who are here, not coincidentally, depicted as uniformly white). Midsommar,

in other words, seems to be critiquing, not the conspicuous consumers vilified by

environmentalists, but extreme environmentalists themselves.

Dawn Keetley

This reading intersects with a couple of analyses of Midsommar as a film about white supremacy. ‘Is this, in

some fashion, a movie about whiteness?’ asks Wilson (n. p.). See also Xine Yao, ‘Midsommar: The Horrors of

White Sympathy’, Avidly: The LA Review of Books, 13 August 2019.

http://avidly.lareviewofbooks.org/2019/08/13/midsommar-the-horrors-of-white-sympathy/ [accessed 8

September 2020].

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Pet Sematary (dir. by Kevin Kölsch and Dennis Widmyer, 2019)

Pet Sematary (2019) directly addresses an audience familiar with The Conjuring (dir. by

James Wan, 2013). Audiences in today’s horror-saturated film market can be expected to

have achieved a level of genre-literacy perhaps only rivalled by that created by the American

mainstream horror boom of the 1970s. The Conjuring marked a pivotal return to the stylistic

and narrative techniques of this era, making use of such familiar tropes as the young family

moving to a new house in need of refurbishment, underlying familial tensions, strange things

going bump in the night, and the family pets somehow being the only ones to notice. Wan’s

Conjuring franchise returns flamboyantly to this golden era of 70s American horror,

constructing worlds blatantly designed to frighten and sequences in which the jump scares are

all but signposted for the viewer. It is similarly by continuing to evoke the structures and

classic tropes of 70s American horror cinema that Pet Sematary succeeds.

The first five minutes of Pet Sematary are a masterclass of exposition. First, we are

introduced to our central family, for the benefit of anyone who has managed to avoid Stephen

King’s ubiquitous source material (Pet Sematary, 1983) and its previous film adaptation (dir.

by Mary Lambert, 1989). Louis and Rachel Creed (Jason Clarke and Amy Seimetz) are

parents to nine-year-old Ellie (Jeté Laurence) and two-year-old Gage (Hugo and Lucas

Lavoie), and the family cat. We see them moving in to their new home, uneasily settling in,

and introducing themselves to the slightly off-kilter locals in rural Maine. Without further

ado, Ellie finds her way into the eponymous ‘Pet Sematary’, following an eerie procession of

children through the expansive forest behind her new home to the eponymous make-shift

burial ground. Elderly neighbour Jud (John Lithgow) later warns Ellie and her parents away

from the graveyard and the danger beyond, thus completing the ‘ready-steady-go’ expository

opening sequence. While this technique is economical in its use of time, there are resultant

narrative and atmospheric problems generated by such efficient filmmaking, which sacrifices

depth and complexity in favour of immediate gratification. On the one hand, the directors

avoid patronising their horror-literate viewers with an unnecessary guessing game as to

whether or not sinister events are about to transpire. On the other hand, there is a loss in

atmospheric crescendo, leading unfortunately to the creation of a diegetic world that feels as

if it is still being formed as the plot relentlessly builds around it. The film as a whole is left

scrambling to catch up with its own fast-paced plot.

For example, in the rush to get Ellie to the graveyard, the filmmakers miss a crucial

mood-building opportunity, and focus only briefly on the eerily alluring aesthetic of the

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children’s procession to the ‘Pet Sematary’. Each child dons an uncanny animal mask, and

they march through the darkened woods in time with the slow, lulling rhythm of their drums.

This highly effective and affective composition is under-utilised in the film, the atmospheric

build up of which would have benefitted greatly from further exploitation of the tension and

stylistic excess offered by this spectacle. The procession is only included in two scenes and

the camera never lingers on it; it appears that Kölsch and Widmyer’s desire to maintain the

inexorable forward motion to the plot takes precedence over diegetic mood and style. The

decision to limit the incorporation of stylistic excess such as the children’s funeral procession

seems out of place in a film that otherwise celebrates the horror genre’s flair for the dramatic,

as is seen with the mist that sweeps through each graveyard scene, or the devilishly indulgent

scenes of gore and violence.

The latter are certainly impressive. Once Ellie has been killed, buried, and resurrected

by the mysterious powers of the ancient gravesite that is hidden beyond its pet-centred

counterpart, she embarks on particularly visceral sprees of violence. Lithgow’s part-

character, part-exposition machine connects it to the spirit of the Wendigo when explaining

Ellie’s transformation to Louis. This evil, hyper-violent, and necromantic creature stems from

the folklore of the Algonquin tribes of Northern America. The concept of the Wendigo is not

given extensive screen time in this film, which seems to be reluctant to expose itself to

critiques of cultural appropriation or problematic fetishisation of native mythology. The

legend of the Wendigo nonetheless pervades the events of the film; specifically, the

creature’s influence is said to incite ‘grotesque’ violent behaviour and severe cannibalistic

tendencies in its victims.

This mythology in mind, if given the choice to eat before or after

this film, I would advise the more delicate-stomached among us to choose the latter. It is a

credit to Kölsch and Widmyer that such brutal scenes are incorporated in a controlled

manner, maintaining a respectable distance from the gore-horror sub-genre. Story and

violence are here interrelated, rather than the former being dictated by a preoccupation with

bloodlust.

Nevertheless, the rapid-fire storytelling mentioned above is also to the detriment of

character development. This is a pity, as the glimpses of character back-story that we are

given are the most emotive and intriguing moments of the film. The most intellectually

engaging scenes appear during a flashback sequence to Rachel’s childhood trauma. We learn

that, as a child, Rachel was left home alone, forced to care for her chronically ill sister, Zelda

Robert A. Brightman, ‘The Windigo in the Material World’, Ethnohistory, 35.4 (1988), 337-79.

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(Alyssa Brooke Levine). In this flashback, Zelda, who suffers from the crippling effects of

spinal meningitis, seems to taunt Rachel spitefully. The able-bodied Rachel has access to all

the life experiences from which Zelda’s illness excludes her. The child Rachel, so tormented

by her sister, resorts to sending her meals through the house’s dumb-waiter. In a tension-

laden sequence, Rachel witnesses her sister’s death, as Zelda falls into the contraption.

Rachel is haunted by the clamorous sounds of her sister’s demise and the unsettling image of

her corpse twisted and tangled in the constricting space. This is a dramatic departure from

King’s book, in which Zelda dies due to complications associated with her disease. Kölsch

and Widmyer’s decision to deviate from the novel is incredibly well executed and thought

provoking. This change from King’s original text allows the film to explore more deeply the

film’s overarching theme of young children dealing with the loss of a sibling, and indeed the

trauma of grieving parents raising the child left behind. The jarring imagery in this sequence

has the ability to haunt the viewer long after the final credits roll.

This same praise cannot be directed at the instant-gratification-orientated jump scares

that characterise the rest of the film. Although these fulfil their immediate goal, they lack the

emotional intensity and longevity of unease offered by the Rachel-Zelda sequence in

particular. Ultimately, Pet Sematary is a decent (if somewhat too conservative) film. The

jump scares hit their marks, the gory violent scenes are well integrated, the performances –

particularly those of Clarke and Lithgow – are strong, and there are flickers of engaging

characterisation that make one hope that Kölsch and Widmyer’s rumoured sequel to Mama

(dir. by Andrés Muschietti, 2013) reaches cinemas sooner rather than later. Nevertheless, the

over-privileging of plot pace does a disservice to the film’s glimpses at character complexity

and atmospheric build-up. The commitment to the fast-paced, constant forward motion of the

plot is a narrative technique also frequently observed in the work of Wan, particularly in

relation to the Insidious (2010-18) and Conjuring (2013-present) franchises. In contrast to

Wan’s work, which consistently incorporates character- and atmosphere-building asides,

Kölsch and Widmyer limit such asides to select, almost stand-alone sequences, such as the

children’s funeral procession to the Pet Sematary or the Rachel-Zelda backstory. This hinders

audience identification with Pet Sematary’s characters, who, on paper, remain engaging. A

natural result of this limited identification is the short-term quality of the scares, many of

which cause a momentary jump but are soon forgotten.

The contemporary popularity of mainstream horror franchises risks lending a cynical

‘production-line’ quality to the large body of films produced. What must not be lost is the

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sense of stylistic over-indulgence and excess that so compliments the horror genre,

demanding as it does a balance of style, substance, and scares, in order most effectively to

haunt its audience.

Rebecca Wynne-Walsh

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EVENT REVIEWS

Folk Horror in the Twenty-First Century

(Falmouth University, 4-6 September 2019)

The Folk Horror in the Twenty-First Century conference at Falmouth University was a two-

day multidisciplinary exploration and interconnected discussion of this new and vibrant facet

of Horror Studies. As Dawn Keetley remarked in her opening address, the term ‘folk horror’

is a rather new one in academic discourse, but the self-conscious use of the term dates back

almost fifty years, to director Piers Haggard’s description of his own The Blood on Satan’s

Claw (1971). Keetley’s address correctly anticipated much of the primary discussions for the

two days, including the use of Adam Scovell’s concept of ‘the folk-horror chain’, a list of

tropes and conventions typical of folk horror that was widely cited, developed upon, and

challenged throughout the conference.

Within Scovell’s conception of folk horror, the landscape, and in particular the rural,

is depicted as having an adverse effect on the social and moral identity of its inhabitants,

coinciding with a social, political, and infrastructural isolation that chokes the social progress

of the rural community within the diegesis of the narrative. The final link in the chain is a

‘summoning’ or ‘happening’ – a cultural or supernatural ritual or practice that threatens

normality or the normative protagonists.

Some of the conference papers, as well as Keetley’s

address, utilised but also problematised some of these defining characteristics. There was

particular interest in discussing the nuances of representation of the ‘folk’ in folk horror, the

unfortunate potential for othering and essentialising communities, and also the politically

progressive potential for destabilising hegemony. As Keetley pointed out, in both The Wicker

Man (dir. by Robin Hardy, 1973) in the first wave, and Midsommar (dir. by Ari Aster, 2019)

in the contemporary cycle, we have no real ‘monstrous’ Other. Instead, we have a conflation

of monstrosity and normality in dramas that merely represent two deeply conflicting

communities and sets of values, with our sympathies often lying more comfortably with the

isolated fictional community. However, it is worth noting that the ‘folk’ community remains

the more ‘obviously’ horrific group in such depictions, and genre expectations and marketing

cue them as such. Although the violence of the trespassing, hegemonically dominant group is

Adam Scovell, Folk Horror: Hours Dreadful and Things Strange (Leighton Buzzard: Auteur, 2017) pp. 17-18.

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clear, they are aligned with the audience’s everyday experiences and are therefore the initial

point of audience identification and reference.

These issues of normalcy and Otherness, the re-examination and re-evaluation of

national identity, and humanity’s relationship with the environment, were common threads

throughout the two-day conference. The call for papers had an abundant and enthusiastic

response from international scholars and creative practitioners, and was divided into parallel

panels packed with diverse content. This conference report therefore reflects only the portion

of panels and papers that this reviewer opted to attend.

The first panel was on ‘Witchcraft, Feminism, and Folk Horror’, with Sarah Cave,

who is writing a practice-based thesis on poetry and prayer. Her fascinating paper, ‘Divine

Heresy: Revelation, Sexuality and Dissent’, described the lives of holy women or lay

preachers who started their own religions, and were stigmatised as heretics and witches. Cave

noted how the symptoms of divine revelation and rapture can resemble demonic possession.

This was used to other the esoteric practices of these notably feminine outsiders. Margery

Kemp, for example, survived a large rock dropping on her during Mass, resulting in two

contradictory narratives: was her survival the result of a divine miracle or the Devil looking

out for his own? Cave illustrated how contemporary poets such as Rebecca Támas, in her

collection WITCH (2019), reclaim and reappropriate the witch as a potentially holy figure.

Rather than being seen as a relic of the past, Cave argued that heresy haunts us in everyday

politics, and is employed as a tool to splinter, consolidate, and excommunicate voices of

dissent. Next, Deborah Bridle presented a close reading of ‘Säcken’ (2015), a short story by

the New-Weird writer China Miéville. The story is about a lesbian couple on holiday in

Germany by a lake, where one of the women experiences a supernatural event and the other

does not. Bridle described the investigating young woman as a combination of Final Girl and

a detective, who researches the supernatural monster but also uses her embodied knowledge

and perception to discover that the ghost is that of a young woman who was subjected to the

ritual execution of poena culli, where the person found guilty of a transgression is forced into

a sack with various animals and then thrown into a body of water. According to Bridle’s

reading, the story questions where we acquire knowledge, and what types of knowledge are

privileged and believed.

My own paper explored the American horror film Starry Eyes (dir. by Dennis

Widmyer and Kevin Kolsch, 2014) as a post-feminist folk-horror text. This demonic-

possession film is about an aspiring actress who inadvertently contracts her physical body to

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become a vessel for a demonic entity that works on behalf of a Hollywood cult/production

company. Tanya Krzywinska contends that pre-existing landscapes, ruins, and the

iconography of the past are used in British cinema to create alternative histories, and to re-

think national and cultural identity.

Building on this, I argued that some recent urban occult

films use the pre-existing legacy of classic Hollywood to a similar end. I discussed how the

main character’s possession dramatises the effects of exploitative emotional labour on the

individual, but that the film itself perpetuates a devaluation of that feminised labour. The

papers on the panel complemented each other nicely, with topics ranging across the media of

poetry, short story, and film, each picking up themes of community and exclusion, trauma

and isolation, and the systemic devaluation of female labour.

In the next panel, ‘Encountering Nature in Folk Horror’, Katy Soar talked about stone

circles in the UK as a nexus for storytelling. She discussed a range of folkloric origin stories,

including those that posited stone circles as the homes of supernatural beings or the petrified

remains of unfaithful husbands turned to stone. However, she noted that the folklore changed

with the onset of archaeological excavations in the nineteenth century, which provided

evidence of the longevity of the earth and of human habitation. These newly discovered

ancient ancestors were enfolded into national narratives of colonialism and social Darwinism,

and folkloric figures such as fairies and goblins were subsequently reimagined as resembling

the indigenous people colonised by the British Empire. Continuing the exploration of British

national identity, David Sweeny presented a paper on ‘The Spirit of the Green’ in Marvel

UK’s The Knights of Pendragon, a ‘quasi-mythic Arthurian comic’ that dealt with the

consequences of Empire and globalisation. First appearing in 1990, The Knights of

Pendragon imagines a post-human world involving both the natural and supernatural.

Sweeney described how the spirit of nature presented itself in the comic as having to become

human-like in its violence in order to combat humanity’s brutality against the environment.

The comic experienced a short run, ending in 1993 but, like folk-horror films, The Knights of

Pendragon is enjoying a contemporary second wave, as in 2014 the Knights were reactivated

through fracking. Sweeney’s paper led to an interesting question regarding the use of

animism to resist eco-fascism, given fascism’s fascination with national mysticism and the

occult. The texts that Sweeney described seem wilfully to ignore the prevalence of such

readings of myth and mythicism, and reimagine them for anti-colonial, anti-racist purposes.

See Tanya Krzywinska, ‘Lurking Beneath the Skin: British Pagan Landscapes in Popular Cinema’, in

Cinematic Countrysides, ed. by Robert Fish (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2007), pp. 75-90.

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The third panel I attended was titled ‘Folk Horror’s Eerie Geographies’, in which

James Thurgill’s paper ‘Locating the Eerie’ expanded on Mark Fisher’s variation of ‘the

uncanny’, by locating ‘the eerie’ in the spatial relations and rurality of folk horror. Fisher

described ‘the eerie’ as an experience of presence where there should be absence, as with the

presence of the malicious consciousness and intent of the birds in Daphne Du Maurier’s ‘The

Birds’ (1952), and Alfred Hitchcock’s 1963 film version of the same name.

Thurgill

contended that the eerie is about more than a projection of malice onto the rural geography.

Instead, he argued, the folk-horror eerie offers an embodied feeling of ‘out of placeness’.

Complementing this was Kerry Dodd’s paper ‘Zones of Alienation’, which opened by

discussing the current popularity of Chernobyl as a tourist destination for people who like the

aesthetics of dereliction and wish to encounter a non-human environmental experience. Dodd

provided an analysis of Andrei Tarkovsky’s 1979 Stalker, a film that predates the Chernobyl

disaster by seven years but has an eerily prescient aesthetic. The ‘Zone’ in the film is an

evacuated area much like the ‘Exclusion Zone’ of Chernobyl, and it was filmed primarily in

and near abandoned hydro-electric plants. In Stalker’s three-hour running time, three men go

on a quest to find a room that is fabled to grant visitors their deepest desires. Dodd noted the

alienation and ennui felt by both the viewer and the characters as, while they do indeed find a

magical room, it is uncertain if this is the room or just a room, leading the viewer to question

if they would even recognise if their deepest desires were fulfilled. This thematic uncertainty

and the film’s decentralising of the human is supported by an object-oriented mise-en-scène,

where human characters walk into pre-existing frames as figures that are part of the rural

landscape but far from its central or meaning-making component.

In the same panel, David Evans-Powell’s paper illustrated how folk horror can be

disconnected from the rural, in his exploration of folk horror set in the London Underground,

and specifically in Death Line (dir. by Gary Sherman, 1972). He historicised the London

Underground as a system and an infrastructure that initially and continually triggered a sense

of class consciousness and class unease. Evans-Powell explained that, before the line was

electrified, the Victorians experienced it as unpleasant, crowded, and smelling of sulphur,

with commuters fearing exposure to contagions such as tuberculosis, and to diseases borne by

rats. In this setting, the ‘folk’ threat in Death Line comes in the form of the descendants of

For example ‘[a] bird’s cry is eerie if there is a feeling that there is something more in (or behind) the cry than

a mere animal reflex or biological mechanism – that there is some kind of intent at work, a form of intent that

we do not usually associate with a bird’ (Mark Fisher, The Weird and the Eerie, 3

edn (London: Repeater

Books, 2016), p. 62).

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railway labourers who survived a cave-in, but were left trapped under the rubble and had to

resort to cannibalism to remain alive. The landscape of the cannibals’ underground lair is

shown in a seven-minute-long take in the film, with the camera panning over material waste,

debris, and mutilated human bodies – the collateral of London’s progress. Evans-Powell’s

paper shared a common thread with other papers of the day, arguing that those used and

discarded by capitalism’s urbanisation and globalisation return to haunt and harm the

blissfully ignorant subjects of postmodernity.

The final panel I attended on Day One was on ‘Folk Horror in the US’. Folklorist Ian

Brodie gave an engaging paper on Scooby-Doo, Where Are You! (1969-70) and its relation to

folk horror. Widely understood to be most American children’s introduction to the

supernatural in fictional television content at the time, the adventures of Daphne, Velma,

Fred, Shaggy, and their loyal canine companion, Brodie argued, dramatise the American

young-adult hobby of ‘legend-tripping’ – the intentional attempt to encounter a legend

directly. Brodie described the youths as typical of white, suburban, heteronormative

hegemony. They pay aesthetic lip service to the counterculture through fashion, facial hair,

and slang, while their faith in institutions such as the police remains intact. He also posited a

potential queer reading of the cartoon. Brodie’s queer reading did not present the cartoon as a

challenge to heteronormativity but to rationalism and the presumed status quo. Brodie argued

that, even though a rational explanation resolves the narrative by each episode’s end and the

threat turns out to be real-estate scammers in disguise as monsters and ghosts, the

supernatural is not excluded as a realm of possibility. Moreover, the quest itself, and its

concomitant depiction of the car as a personal, mobile territory where the gang are free to

make their own rules, is situated as an anticipated part of adolescent culture for the

presumably pre-adolescent audience. In this way, the collective pursuit of the supernatural

and the gentle troubling of the rational works as a means by which young people can navigate

their identities and develop values independent of their communities of origin.

This panel also featured three timely papers on contemporary American horror. Linda

Sheppard discussed the clash between arcana and modernity in the most recent adaptation of

Pet Sematary (dir. by Kevin Kölsch and Dennis Widmyer, 2019); this was followed by

Alexandra Hauke’s analysis of Jordan Peele’s Us (2019) and its engagement with race in a

post-Obama, neoliberally ‘post-racial’ age. Hauke made the interesting point that American

folk horror could be traced back to the captivity narratives of American slaves, and that the

narrative of Us is a repetition and reversal of the coloniser/colonised narrative. The final

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paper on the panel was Frances Auld’s examination of Hold the Dark (dir. by Jeremy

Saulnier, 2018), which connected American folk horror to psychogeography and

ecocriticism. The wolves within the film, and the novel upon which it is based, resort to

hunting humans and eating their own pups because their natural prey has become scarce. The

consequences of human consumption and expansion lead to dark, unsustainable appetites

and, as Auld eloquently described it, the prospect of our own extinction can be seen on the

horizon.

Day One ended with the first keynote speaker, Tanya Krzywinska, who presented a

survey of folk horror as it appears in computer games. At first glance, she argued, the

mechanics of games would seem to be antithetical to the experience of folk horror, as the

ludic medium tends to be about mastery and agency, whereas folk horror tries to evoke

feelings of disorientation, loss of agency, aphasia, and inertia. Krzywinska proposed the

walking simulation game as a subgenre suited to folk horror, because these games are slow

paced and melancholic in nature, and gave the examples of Dear Esther by The Chinese

Room (2008) and its spiritual successor, Everybody’s Gone to the Rapture (2012). These

games provide non-linear storytelling and no agency to the player whatsoever, as the player is

only a witness. Instead, they evoke a sense of elegiac nostalgia for a landscape and a pastoral

ideal that will one day be lost. Similarly, she cited games such as YEAR WALK (Simogo,

2013) that are readerly in their execution, challenging the player to engage in their own

imaginative engagement with the landscape; Krzywinska described this as ‘serious fiction in

game form’. Conference attendees could also avail of the free art exhibition titled ‘Strange

Folk’ connected with the conference and curated by Krzywinska. The experience of walking

through the exhibition space and interpreting the multimedia pieces provided attendees with a

similar role to the players outlined in her talk.

Day Two began with the second keynote address, ‘Whose Folk? Locating the

Lancashire Witches in Twenty-First Century Culture’ by Catherine Spooner, who asked ‘who

does folklore belong to?’ Spooner anecdotally mentioned how nearly everyone from

Lancashire claims to be descended from the famous Pendle witches who were tried in 1612.

The Pendle witches occupy polarising positions, depicted either as folk devils or folk heroes

in popular culture. Spooner drew attention to popular historical novels directed at female

audiences and young adults, such as The Malkin Child by Livi Michael (2012), which are

often excluded from popular recognition as folk horror, and asked what this implies about the

gendering of the genre. These novels tend to hold back from the final link in Scovell’s

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aforementioned ‘folk-horror chain’. Instead of Scovell’s ‘summoning’ or ‘happening’ (which

seems to mean a supernatural or horrific fallout for unfortunate characters), popular historical

folk horror aimed at female readers tends to convey social messages relating to powerlessness

and scapegoating. As Spooner demonstrated, the question of folk horror and folk histories is

not a concern belonging to the past, but part of the construction of the present and the

imaginary of national identity. She argued for a redefinition of folk horror to accommodate

similar contributions from a feminine perspective.

‘Magic and the Occult in Folk Horror’ was one of the panels I was looking most

forward to and it did not disappoint. Timothy Jones’ paper ‘“Just Like Witches at Black

Masses”: Occulture, Black Magic Stories, and the Idea of Folk Horror’ talked about how folk

horror is used wilfully to re-enchant national perceptions of place. He made the point that,

just because esoteric knowledge was discredited, that does not mean it was not engaged with

and believed in. He noted that books such as Alfred Watkins’s 1925 book on ley lines

enjoyed popular success in paperback reprints, alongside Gerald Gardner’s non-fiction book

Witchcraft Today (1954). However, Jones perceived, within horror fiction and film

influenced by these studies of esoteric beliefs, a disillusionment with academic accounts of

magic, evident in texts that pre-date what is generally understood to be the first cycle of folk

horror in the 1970s. These horror reimaginings therefore had cultural stock in heritage and

locality, and presented a paranoid view of ‘the crowd’ that is classist, racist, misogynist, and

homophobic. For this paper, Jones presented Denis Wheatley’s To the Devil a Daughter

(1953) as a case study. In the novel, a group of teens band together to organise a gang rape

and murder in the woods to open a gateway to hell. Like most narratives featuring sexual

violence, rape is used as means of othering one generation or demographic of men; the book

is therefore more of a nationalist statement on ‘who belongs in Britain’ than a serious

exploration of the violated subject’s trauma. As such, Jones pointed out that sexual violence

in folk horror has yet to be discussed at length and is a gap in existing knowledge in horror

studies.

Angeline Morrison’s paper was a personal highlight; the paper drew parallels between

the rural in folk horror and the representation of the Black female lead, and specifically the

character Sarah (played by Angela Bruce) in ‘Charlie Boy’, an episode of the anthology

series Hammer House of Horror (1980). Where the urban is associated with the civilised and

safe, Morrison argued, the rural is met with a complex longing for an imagined ‘simpler’

past, but also feelings of fear and repulsion directed at the ‘primitive’, which is associated

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with sparsely populated and silent spaces. Morrison asked whether the Black body is

similarly presented as a space and place of magic, liminality, and the primitive. The

protagonist, Sarah, acquires an African fetish carving from her boyfriend’s white colonialist

uncle and names him ‘Charlie Boy’. Her role is described as complex and multiple; she is

glamorous, witty, and in love with her job but it is her sexuality that activates Charlie Boy’s

curse, and murders occur nearby as a result. The effects of her sexuality are represented by an

interracial sex scene, cross-cut with a victim being stabbed. Morrison noted that, despite the

complexity of her character, the fear of Black female sexuality remains tacit. Morrison

concluded that, in this narrative, the Black female body possesses the same function as ‘the

land’ as the site of magic in this urban-set folk horror; it is simultaneously desired and feared,

simplified and reduced for the sake of articulating white anxiety. As she described it, Black

bodies are conspicuous in horror by their absence; her approach critiqued this conspicuous

absence with innovation, rigour, and nuance. In the same panel, Barbara Chamberlain’s

practice-based PhD, on which her paper was based, showed how the witch herself acts as a

haunted space in comic books; moving from the role of maiden, through mother, to that of

crone, the witch expresses multiplicity in a single space. Chamberlain concluded by

discussing the life and afterlife of a local Cornish witch, Joan Wytte (aka The Fighting Fairy

Woman of Bodmin), whose skeleton was on display in The Witchcraft Museum, until she

was buried in 1998, and who has inspired Chamberlain’s collaborative-practice comic,

‘Joan’s Bones’.

The final keynote of the conference was Bernice M. Murphy’s ‘Black Boxes:

Backwoods Horror and Human Sacrifice in American Folk Horror’. Murphy examined class

and regionality, and how a personal relationship with the land, often in the form of manual

farm work, is important in folk horror. Murphy referred to a number of texts such as Harvest

Home by Thomas Tryon (1973), Joyce Carol Oates’s ecogothic novella, The Corn Maiden

(2012), and of course Stephen King’s ‘The Children of the Corn’ (1977), all of which feature

America’s versatile and over-used crop. Murphy also analysed the 2013 film Jug Face (dir.

by Chad Crawford Kinkle) as a text that she described as a fascinating meditation on the

suffocating grip of tradition. In the film, an evil psychic pit demands that a backwoods

community sacrifice one of their own even as their population dwindles. Human sacrifice in

folk horror, Murphy argued, demonstrates how insiders in communities can suddenly become

outsiders and are therefore ripe for scapegoating, and stressed that these insider-outsiders

very often happen to be women. She looked in particular at the human sacrifice in Shirley

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Jackson’s most famous and anthologised short story, ‘The Lottery’ (1948), and how this and

other folk-horror texts dramatise a slavish adherence to tradition. ‘The Lottery’ is set in an

notably undefined time period; it could be the recent past, the present, or a dystopian future,

yet the villagers refer to scarcity, and the need for a good harvest seems anachronistic and

vestigial. The initial ritual was obviously first practiced in an earlier time with different

circumstances. Murphy therefore highlighted the pessimism and fatalism that lies at the heart

of much folk horror; the human sacrifices in these texts are ultimately meaningless and

indefensible, but continue almost automatically and inevitably. In the question-and-answer

session, Murphy expanded upon the tendency of folk horror to essentialise rural communities

in a way that is dangerously close to eugenics. While people of colour are excluded from

most of these narratives completely, backwoods horror is, she noted, sometimes used as a

way for articulating or mapping unacceptable forms of whiteness.

The last remaining panels of the day included one focusing exclusively on Robert

Eggers’s 2015 film The VVitch. Miranda Corcoran and Andrea di Carlo looked at Eggers’s

mise en scène as an expression of the sublime American landscape, and the contradictory awe

and terror it struck into the hearts of early American settlers. Against the vastness and

(projected) emptiness of the New-England landscape, the family of exiles are tiny vulnerable

figures dwarfed by the twilight forest. By contrast, the assembled witches do not fear nature

because they are part it. In the next paper, musicologist Shauna Louise Caffrey explored

Mark Korven’s soundtrack to the film, and described how music is used in the film to

embody the character of the witch, even as her physical form remains elusive and ephemeral.

Caffrey described how Korven’s use of drones and unresolved dissonances induce a sense of

claustrophobia. The description of asynchrony in sound and image complemented Corcoran

and di Carlo’s paper, and their emphasis on how, even though we see a vast expanse of

landscape, this settler family are trapped. The panel concluded with Amelia Crowther’s

paper, which looked at The VVitch in terms of the construction of the reproductive body.

Historically, women whose bodies defy the capitalist function of reproducing a labour force

(such as infertile and post-menopausal women, as well as lesbian, trans, and asexual women)

have been attacked as witches. In Eggers’s film, we see a similar and connected anxiety about

spaces that are ‘barren’ and ‘unruly’. Crowther explored the subversive potential of the figure

of the witch, citing the WITCH (Women’s International Terrorist Conspiracy from Hell)

protest in the 1969, and Bakhtin’s conception of the pregnant hag, but expressed scepticism

that the witch can ever be fully recuperated from her patriarchal constructions. The panel

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offered rich arguments and avenues for thought, and raised the question of whether the

ending of The VVitch presents a solution to living outside the system, or merely another

failure. Although Thomasin, the film’s protagonist, does get to levitate with the assembled

band of women in the woods, materially, this is far from the Devil’s promise that she will

‘live deliciously’.

The final panel, ‘Global Folk Horror’, featured Greek folk horror in a paper by Maria

Vara, who told us about vampires in the Epirus region of Greece and how their cultural

residue can be seen in vernacular speech, particularly the phrase ‘may the ground not reject

thee’; and explained how this folkloric history is erased in the ‘classicising’ of Greece. Frazer

Lee then discussed shamanism in horror films from South Korea. Lee argued that, unlike

Catholic and Christian possession and haunting, shamanism does not stigmatise intuition and

embodied trauma. Valeria Villegas Lindvall’s paper conceptualised folk horror as a vehicle to

work through colonial trauma, in Mexican cinematic iterations of the figure of La Llorona.

With the release of the new film The Curse of La Llorona (dir. by Michael Chaves, 2019) by

Blumhouse, as Villegas Lindvall argued, this is an ideal moment to call for a critical re-

evaluation of this mythic figure from a de-colonialising perspective. The latest film (much

like The Conjuring franchise (2013-present) that it is associated with in viral marketing

campaigns) reinforces the status and power of the Christian patriarchal order. Marketing for

the Blumhouse film claimed that this was La Llorona’s first incarnation onscreen; Villegas

Lindvall challenged this with evidence of La Llorona’s rich history in Mexican film since

1933 and her recent revival by female directors, in films such as Las Lloronas (dir. by Lorena

Villarreal, 2004), Madre de Dios (dir. by Gigi Saul Guerrero, 2015), and Tigers Are Not

Afraid (dir. by Issa Lopez, 2018). Working against a North-American gaze that denies the

racialised body its humanity and sensitivity, Villegas Lindvall argued, La Llorona’s cry is

recuperative, a political expression of grief and resistance.

In conclusion, Folk Horror in the Twenty-First Century proved to be a timely and

invigorating exploration of horror’s representation (and anticipation) of contemporary social

fears. Just as the original 1970s cycle expressed growing concerns with environmental issues

and the tensions between the counterculture and authoritarianism, this second wave appears

to connect with renewed ecological concern and grassroots demonstration. With escalating

natural disasters, the mass extinctions reported by the WWF in 2018, and the demoralising

visual images of beached whales with stomachs full of plastic, the perceivable impact of

climate change might find its natural narrative home in horror. One of the noted common

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features of folk horror throughout the two days were the markedly pessimistic and ambivalent

endings found in the respective texts. Even when the landscape is not openly hostile to its

human inhabitants, even when it could be described as a beautiful pastoral idyll, the tone to

the text is mournful and elegiac. These texts could be said to depict tentative if fearful

imaginings of counter-hegemony, of a future beyond the horizon of globalisation and

capitalism, one that valorises the collectivised experiences of small, self-sustaining

communities, while still registering traumatic encounters with the effects of what we have

inherited.

Máiréad Casey

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Theorizing Zombiism

(University College Dublin, 25-27 July 2019)

Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of the zombie is its intriguing blankness, the dead eyes

and lifeless visage that appear to signify – simultaneously – both everything and nothing. As

Leo Braudy has argued in his recent study of fearful creatures and mythic monsters, the

zombie, unlike more articulate horror icons – Dr Jekyll/Mr Hyde or Dracula, for instance –

has no voice, no mind, no selfhood.

The zombie as animate corpse is an identificatory void

into which we can pour our own fears and anxieties. The blankness of the zombie is an

enticingly empty screen onto which an abundance of diverse meanings can be projected. It is

this multivalent potential that has resulted in the zombie emerging, and re-emerging, as an

icon of twentieth- and early twenty-first-century horror. Over the course of the past hundred

years or so, the fictive zombie has embodied a host of different ideas about race, identity,

nationhood, consumerism, and even sexuality. Yet, beyond the imaginative space of film and

fiction, the zombie has also infiltrated the realms of biology, the social sciences, and finance.

Zombiism has been used to describe everything from the behaviour of parasite-infected

Leo Braudy, Haunted: On Ghosts, Witches, Vampires, Zombies, and Other Monsters of the Natural and

Supernatural Worlds (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2016), p. 105.

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animals to insolvent financial institutions that continue to trudge along, artificially re-

animated long after their natural death, with the aid of government support.

The linguistic, textual, and conceptual ubiquity of the zombie is an inescapable facet

of contemporary culture, and, as such, it now seems like an opportune moment to bring

together a diverse group of researchers under the thematic banner of ‘theorising zombiism’.

Taking place in University College Dublin, from 25 to 27 July 2019, Theorizing Zombiism

explored the cultural evolution of the zombie and its meaning across various disciplinary

sites. In doing so, the conference engaged with a range of conceptual frameworks for

articulating and analysing the multivalence of the zombie, figuring its resonance through

theoretical paradigms derived from critical theory, philosophy, African-American studies,

gender studies, queer studies, ecocriticism, and linguistics. That so many potential readings

can accrue around these decaying, animate cadavers suggests that the zombie is the

emblematic figure for our times, an imaginative point of investigation whose excavation

uncovers a plethora of meanings and readings. With the inherent multiplicity of the living

dead firmly in mind, Theorizing Zombiism aimed to explore and expand the potential of

Zombie Studies as a field of enquiry. Moreover, this conference served to establish a

scholarly community within which the zombie could feature as a serious and fertile subject

for future study.

The first day of the conference began enthusiastically with a brief introductory

address by conference co-organiser Scott Eric Hamilton, who reminded delegates of the

mutability of the zombie and its capacity to infect and transform different disciplinary

structures. The inaugural panel began with an exploration of multinational zombiism, with

Miranda Corcoran (myself!) discussing Italian director Lucio Fulci’s appropriation of

American gothic conventions; Amy Bride analysing the connections between Robert

Kirkman’s The Walking Dead (2003-19) and the 2008 financial crisis; and Konstantinos

Kerasovitis framing Greece as a ‘zombie colony’. This traditional panel was followed by a

decidedly more unconventional, essentially interactive project led by the group

#Zombiesinhe. Conceived as a means to interrogate the growing corporatisation of the

modern university (‘Higher Education’), the group asked participants to split into teams and

draw their vision of a ‘zombie leader’. Prizes were awarded for the zombie leader who best

exemplified the bureaucratic, goal-orientated mindset that plagues the contemporary HE

sector. Although humorous, and a lot of fun, this exercise raised important questions as to

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how the zombie metaphor might be employed to express the concerns of third-level teachers

and researchers.

1996 VHS copy of George A. Romero’s Dawn of the Dead (1978) (image courtesy of

speaker Harvey O’Brien).

The third panel of the day saw a return to a more traditional format, featuring three speakers

whose papers explored some contemporary zombie media. The first speaker, Ailise Bulfin,

initiated her discussion of Colson Whitehead’s Zone One (2011) by drawing attention to the

semiotic fluidity of the zombie. Bulfin expounded on how this text functions as a critique of

the neoliberal economy through its focus on the consumption habits of an over-resourced,

over-leisured, educated urban class. At the same time, Bulfin noted that it is possible to

uncover a submerged ecological commentary within the novel, as Whitehead engages with

the apocalyptic potential of global warming through his characterisation of zombies in

decidedly meteorological terms: a drizzle or blizzard, depending on their number. Dara

Downey’s paper followed with an analysis of zombie television shows Z-Nation (2014-18)

and iZombie (2015-19), which employed René Girard’s Violence and the Sacred (1972) in

order to disentangle the various complex ways in which these shows collapse – and attempt

to reaffirm – the boundary between the sacred and the profane, the pure and the polluted. The

panel concluded with Sarah Cleary’s eco-critical analysis of The Girl with All the Gifts

(2014), entitled ‘Mother Nature Bites Back’. Here, Cleary discussed how the zombie could

be viewed as an eco-critical entity, an anthropomorphic representation of nature reclaiming

the earth.

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The next session was a two-person panel centred around the subject of televisual

zombies. Stacey Abbott spoke about the popular series iZombie, emphasising how the show

was defined by notions of hybridity. As Abbott observed, not only does the series present the

zombie as a hybrid figure – both dead and alive, human and non-human – but is, in itself, a

hybrid entity, being at an example of both horror and police procedural. Abbott’s paper was

followed by Lorna Jowett’s presentation, ‘I Got a New Kill Poncho: Santa Clarita Diet and

the Pleasures of Zombie Embodiment’. Analysing the Netflix series Santa Clarita Diet

(2017-19), Jowett argued that the depiction of zombiism present within the show is unique in

its decision to celebrate the abject rather than representing it as monstrous. The day’s

discussions concluded with a screening of David Freyne’s 2017 film The Cured, a recent

release, the inclusion of which in the programme highlighted the relevance of zombie fiction

as an ever-evolving genre as well as showing, through its Dublin setting, a distinctly Irish

interpretation of this genre.

The second day of the conference opened with Rain Chen’s analysis of father figures

in recent ‘blockbuster’ zombie films like I am Legend (2007) and World War Z (2013). In

contrast to the earlier films of George A. Romero, in which zombified children serve to queer

the American family, Chen argued that post-9/11 zombie texts posit a more heteronormative,

even conservative, understanding of the family dynamic. While avoiding the establishment of

a binary between these texts, Chen traced some of the ways in which representations of

family have evolved over a half century of zombie cinema. This was followed by a

fascinatingly original paper by Caroline West on the subject of sexuality, zombies, and

pornography. While looking at some of the ways in which the zombie archetype has been

adapted for erotic entertainment, West focused primarily on the manner in which discourses

about zombies often parallel discourses on pornography. In particular, West noted that both

were defined by anxieties about bodily fluids, excess, and contagion. Finally, Deirdre Flynn

explored zombiism as a metaphor for Ireland’s post-Celtic-Tiger economic crash. Flynn

analysed Sarah Davis-Goff’s dystopic novel Last Ones Left Alive (2019) and traced how the

novel’s evocation of a post-apocalyptic Ireland chimed with the post-Celtic-Tiger

iconography of abandoned houses and ghost estates, ambitious developments left to rot in the

wake of economic catastrophe.

The next panel investigated the symbolic and linguistic significance of the zombie.

The first paper, a high original analysis by Johnathan Jacob Moore, framed the zombie in

terms of Afro-pessimism, and discussed Whitehead’s Zone One as a representation of social

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death. Moore argued that, rather than being merely an incubator of white guilt, the zombie

speaks to how the maintenance of so-called ‘civil society’ depends on anti-Black violence.

The second speaker, Andrew Ferguson, also engaged with Whitehead’s novel, while

simultaneously incorporating texts and iconography as diverse, and seemingly incongruous,

as the Mavis Beacon typing programme. This game taught players to disassociate words from

meaning in a manner analogous to how the multivalent, meaning-laden zombie can be seen to

consume metaphors. For Ferguson, the zombie – and its myriad cultural manifestations – are

unique in large part due its refusal to signify. The final paper on this panel took a wholly

linguistic approach to the zombie, as Linda Flores Ohlson examined the use of the third-

person pronoun in zombie fiction. Flores Ohlson noted how pronominal vacillation when

referring to zombies reflects the ambiguous nature of the creature. In many zombie texts,

terms such as ‘he’ or ‘she’ are used to describe humans, suggesting closeness and attachment,

while the designation ‘it’ is commonly applied to the zombie as a signifier of detachment and

dehumanisation. Consequently, this linguistic othering renders the zombie entirely inhuman,

a body that can be destroyed without compunction.

One of the many zombie Lego figurines given out to delegates.

Panel Seven constructed the zombie as a multimedia or transmedial phenomenon whose form

is scattered across a host of expressive media, from film and television to video games and

music. The first speaker, Conor Jackson, explored the popular video-game series Dead Rising

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(2006-17), looking specifically at how the game’s corpulent zombies and conspicuous fast-

food advertisements satirise topics such as consumption, over-consumption, and obesity in

contemporary America. In addition to framing obese and overweight bodies problematically

as grotesque spectacles, the game – Jackson contended – also presents us with the prospect of

a food apocalypse as a means of satirising the postmillennial ubiquity of fast food. In

particular, the game posits a zombie outbreak which is the result of experimental livestock-

breeding techniques undertaken with the aim of increasing supply to the fast-food industry.

The second paper, by Alexander Carpenter, centred around music, politics, and ideology in

Romero’s Land of the Dead (2005). Carpenter’s talk analysed the role of music in suggesting

the possibility of a growing class consciousness in the wake of a zombie apocalypse.

However, rather than stimulating a revolutionary ideology amongst the remaining humans,

Carpenter argues that, by unpacking the film’s musical cues, we uncover the germ of a class

consciousness taking root within the decidedly working-class zombie Big Daddy. In the final

paper of this panel, Jamie A. Thomas discussed the politics of representation in Resident Evil

(1996-2020) and Jordan Peele’s Get Out (2017). Comparing the use of Swahili in the music

of Get Out – where it is used to reflect the struggles of the African diaspora – with the often-

inaccurate use of African dialects in Resident Evil 5 (2009), Thomas highlights how the latter

appropriated African languages to create a sense of geographically ambiguous, exoticised

Otherness.

The eighth panel featured Scott Eric Hamilton’s excellent analysis of Mike Carey’s

The Boy on the Bridge (2017), which explored how the narrative of survival in zombie texts

serves as a fictive mode of self-de-extinction, an imaginative apology for humanity’s

destruction of the planet. Hamilton’s paper was followed by Catherine Pugh’s discussion of

zombies and combat. Pugh utilised Adam Lowenstein’s conception of the allegorical moment

to explore how zombie texts often allow history and horror to collide in their portrayal of the

military. The last paper on this panel was Poppy Wilde’s immensely engaging discussion of

zombies, deviants, and the right to non-human life. Wilde discussed the possibility that

neoliberalism has entered a zombie phase, trudging along as it continues to decompose. The

day ended with a social event at a local pub, which featured a ukulele band playing zombie-

themed covers of popular songs.

The fist panel of Day Three began with Emma Tonkin’s highly innovative exploration

of the zombie flash-mob phenomenon, and it continued with Peter Wright’s discussion of the

relationship between zombie narratives and technological development. Wright’s insightful

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paper was centred around his belief that the visual style of the 1980s Zombie Cycle (films

like Day of the Dead (dir. by Romero, 1985) and Return of the Living Dead (dir. by Don

O’Bannon, 1985)) was uniquely suited to the incapacity of VHS and analogue television to

reproduce high-resolution images. For Wright, the rotting zombie body aligns both materially

and conceptually with the process of VHS-tape degradation. The panel concluded with Lucie

Groetzinger’s fascinating discussion of eco-zombies in French comics. Groetzinger

convincingly demonstrated that French graphic narratives imagined a vegetal post-humanity

as a means of commenting upon French politics and environmental policies.

Conference poster art

Karma Waltonen opened Panel Ten with a discussion of Shaun of the Dead (dir. by Edgar

Wright, 2004) and apocalyptic change. She explored the concept of change on numerous

levels and analysed how the film employs a host of repeated characters and phrases, which

emerge again and again, associated with different meanings or contexts. The second paper,

presented by Conor Heffernan, was a highly original exploration of the relationship between

the fitness industry and zombie fiction. Heffernan noted how texts like Zombieland (dir. by

Ruben Fleischer, 2009) stress the importance of physical fitness as a means of securing

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survival during a zombie apocalypse. As such, Heffernan maintained that zombies are often

used as a motivating force to promote rigid conceptions of masculinity and femininity. This

intersection of zombiism and fitness also extends to the real world, beyond the screen, where

zombie apocalypse-themed workouts have become surprisingly popular. The final paper on

this panel was presented by Sandra Aline Wagner and explored the recent phenomenon of the

zombie mashup novel. Beginning with well-known postmodern zombie novels like Pride and

Prejudice and Zombies (dir. by Seth Grahame-Smith, 2009), Wagner then moved on to

evaluate a distinctly German manifestation of the zombie mashup, a parody of Goethe’s The

Sorrows of Young Werther (1774) that figures Werther as a Romantic, or romantic, zombie.

Panel Eleven featured an innovative paper by Jack Fennell that excavated the zombie

presence in Irish weird fiction. In these texts, Fennell claimed, the distinction between

corporeal and non-corporeal fails to take place, and the Irish undead are at once spectres and

reanimated corpses. The second paper, by Mia Harrison, explored the concept of the chimera

zombie. Linking biomedical science and literary criticism, Harrison argued that texts such as

The Rocky Horror Picture Show (dir. by Jim Sharman, 1975) challenge conventional

constructions of birth and gestation, and link to real-world cases of foetal maternal

micorchimerism, in which cells are transferred in pregnancy. Harrison claimed that such

cases force us to rethink the function of the maternal body and its relationship to the infant it

carries. The last paper on this panel was Andrea Adhara Gaytán Cuesta’s wonderful

discussion of the role of zombies in Mexican culture. From zombie walks to Day-of-the-Dead

celebrations and the popular El Santo films (1958-82), Cuesta argued most convincingly that

Mexican zombies are allegorical figures embodying the nation’s social decomposition. The

final panel closed off the conference with Harvey O’Brien’s insightful analysis of Sang-ho

Yeon’s Trian to Busan (2016), and Chera Kee’s exploration of comics censorship and

Marvel’s ‘not-quite-zombie’ Zuvembies. The conference ended with a wonderful discussion

by novelists Scott Kenemore – author of Zombie Ohio (2011) and Zombie-in-Chief (2020) –

and Sarah Davis-Goff, whose incredible novel Last Ones Left Alive featured heavily in panel

discussions of zombies in literature over the course of the three-day conference.

In sum, the zombie is a fundamentally dynamic creature. In ever-shifting guises, it

appears in horror, comedy, romance, and even erotica. It is a metaphor for capitalism,

neoliberalism, racial inequality, economic disaster, and environmental catastrophe.

Theorizing Zombiism succeeded as a conference because of the many creative ways its

participants drew on the conceptual multivalence of the zombie. The conference created a

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space in which the multiplicity of meanings that have attached themselves to the living dead

could coalesce, interact, and form new paradigms through which the zombie, as a cultural

archetype, could be located. Theorizing Zombiism was an extremely productive event,

stimulating dialogue and debate, as well as promising new avenues for scholarly enquiry.

Miranda Corcoran

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HAuNTcon

(New Orleans, 2019 and 2020)

The location is the Ernest N. Morial Convention Centre in New Orleans, a building which

only stands out for its size. The exhibition halls and carpeted pathways can easily hold

thousands of people, its green-blazered staff on hand to inform and advise. Yet this weekend,

something is different. As soon as you enter Hall F, you find yourself slowly approaching a

dilapidated little shack, shrouded in fog. Somewhere, electricity crackles, and off to your

right, you hear the mad cackling of what can only be an insane clown. During a weekend in

January 2019 and 2020, this space has been the home of HAuNTcon.

‘HAuNTcon’ is a partial acronym of the event’s full name, The Haunted Attraction

National Tradeshow and Convention, which caters to haunt operators and owners around the

US, where the term ‘haunt’ (or ‘haunted attraction’) refers to a form of Halloween

entertainment. It is used to describe a form of walk-through theatrical performance in which

guests move from room to room, from scene to scary scene, with the majority of attractions

operating around the Halloween season. Haunts may offer detailed stories and recurring

characters, or they may simply present a collection of scenes and an opportunity for actors to

scare and for audiences to be scared. Gaining prominence in the 1970s in the US and in the

early 2000s in the UK and Europe, the scare industry encompasses everything from big

theme parks to private home haunts, with an annual turnover of close to half a million dollars

in the US. Scares are big business and conventions such as these are an opportunity for the

so-called ‘haunters’ (those involved in the creation and running of these attractions) to meet

and swap knowledge, stories, and ideas.

HAuNTcon, which was founded in 2004 by Leonard Pickel, one of the key figures in

the US scare industry, is now in its sixteenth year, and run by Liz Irving and Urban Expo.

The event exists alongside Transworld, Midwest Haunters Convention, and Midsummer

Scream as one of the key dates on the haunters calendar (outside of Halloween, anyway). The

majority of these events, including HAuNTcon, are aimed only at industry professionals and

are not open to the general public, functioning as a combination of showcase, tradeshow, and

networking event. One of the key elements that sets HAuNTcon apart from these other

events, however, is its emphasis on education, offering an extensive programme of over

seventy hours of talks, seminars, and roundtables, alongside a tradeshow, workshops, and

product sales. These presentations are wide ranging in their topics and cover anything from

demonstrations of specific techniques for staging and set building, to practical advice on

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marketing and ticket sales, to sessions that are almost academic in nature. Admittedly, the

quality of these sessions can be as varied as the topics they cover, as all speakers are industry

professionals, who may not necessarily be used to presenting in the format required.

However, each presentation generally offers some new bit of information and, perhaps more

importantly, a jumping-off point for further discussions.

What follows are some personal highlights from across the 2019 and 2020 education

programme. Many of these sessions deal with topics that are perhaps expected, often focusing

on elements of design and audience experience. Of greater interest to me personally,

however, were panels on subject matter that is under-explored, especially outside of the haunt

world. Across both years, sessions dealing with scare acting in particular had my interest.

Although actor training and the different techniques available for doing so are one of the

cornerstones for the field of performance studies, such explorations do not extend to the

specific demands of genre performance. Notably, scare acting does not just require the actor’s

skills in portraying a particular character, but often sees performers having to navigate the

challenges of large and cumbersome costumes, makeup and masks, as well as no small

amount of audience management. Particularly informative were the sessions from staff at A

Petrified Forest on training exercises used with actors; by Caroline Wells of Legends of Fear

on the demands of queue-line acting (entertaining audiences as they wait to enter an

attraction); and by Amy Hollaman (now of 13

Floor Haunted House) on actor training and

management.

Another interesting aspect of HAuNTcon is that it invites presentations that are not

merely practical, but extend into a more theoretical approach to haunt design. Discussions by

Plague Productions on the connections between design and guest experience highlighted the

role of the framing of an attraction and its potential impact on haunt visitors. An excellent

presentation in 2020 from David D. Jones looked at the cultural context for monsters and our

understanding of the Other, and how this can be utilised in haunt design, character creation,

and actor training. Finally, the sessions by Margee Kerr on the science of scares deserve a

mention. Her 2019 and 2020 talks offer haunters some insights into the psychology of

perception, framing, and experience, and how these can be used to help enhance the impact

of a haunt. Primarily, Kerr is very skilled at bridging the gap between academic research and

popular impact, making relevant and often complex concepts accessible to creatives.

Finally, I applaud HAuNTcon’s commitment to increasing visibility and diversity.

Haunting is traditionally a male-dominated industry, often right-wing in its politics and still

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wrestling with established tropes of, for example, negative portrayals of mental health as

entertainment. Many of the haunters present offer alternative approaches to such questions,

and Liz Irving and her all-female team behind HAuNTcon actively seek out and welcome

such perspectives. An excellent example of this is the Breaking the Boundaries panel, staged

in both 2019 and 2020, which showcases the efforts of women in haunting. Consisting of

Alexis Abare, co-owner of Haunted Farms of America; Amy Hollaman, general manager 13

Floor Haunted House in Denver; Margee Kerr, sociologist and author; Alisa Kleckner, owner

of Scared of My Shadow LLC; and Jennifer Loman, co-owner of Reindeer Manor Haunted

House (2020 panel only), the session sheds some light on their experiences within the scare

industry. Opening up discussions about prejudice, but also the importance of representation,

diversity; and mentorship, and how to structure a business in order to support these, Breaking

the Boundaries allows some insight into an often-forgotten aspect of haunting. Although both

organisers and panel members acknowledge that a lot more work is needed, both at

HAuNTcon and within the industry (for example, there is only a small presence of BIPOC

haunters at the event), it is encouraging to see a big convention actively engaging with these

concerns. In addition to the programme on the show floor, HAuNTcon offers a number of

extra-curricular events and tours. Access to the Costume Ball is included with the ticket, and

attendees could also take part in a guided trip around a number of New Orleans sights and

sounds: for instance, attendees are invited to visit the largest haunted house on the US south

coast and participate in a walking ghost-and-cemetery tour along the city’s famously haunted

streets. This, then, presents a well-rounded programme with elements of interest for those

researching the scare industry as well as the professionals working within it.

As a first-time visitor in 2019 with a research agenda, I was particularly struck by the

love which underpins HAuNTcon – a love for haunting, and for horror, and for scares, that

goes beyond making money. In many ways, the tradeshows offer a place for industry

professionals to come together to share and to validate this love, and the effort that goes into

these Halloween creations. Although the theme-park events are most widely known, many

US haunts are quite small and based around a certain locality, drawing talent and craftspeople

from their immediate surroundings, with money being put back into charities or the local

community. Often employing a mixture of professionals and those who are new to haunt

work (including high-school kids), the industry is home to many so-called haunt families, the

collective of creatives behind each haunt, who provide a safe haven for all who take part. A

lot of stigma surrounds horror fandom, as well as the efforts of creatives within horror-related

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industries. This is exemplified by narratives in wider media, and even by academics working

within horror studies: in the Preface to his 1989 study Monsters and Mad Scientists, Andrew

Tudor assures his readers that he has ‘no desire to kick kittens, drink blood, or disembowel

members of the moral majority’.

Noel Carroll, in his seminal work The Philosophy of

Horror (1990), takes aim at his parents, who tried to keep him away from horror media, only

to now prove that he has ‘been gainfully employed all along’.

These discourses have

endured and it is easy enough for a horror fan to be singled out as the ‘weird kid’. By

contrast, both the individual haunts and tradeshows such as HAuNTcon offer a place for

many to share their sheer love for the genre, and for what they do.

Lacking a formal history, a major component of haunt culture is based around oral

storytelling, sharing best and worst scares, discussing the building of a prop or a makeup

effect, with both small and mid-size events putting a lot of effort into the creation of their

own theatrical sets and set pieces. Conversations about actors rising from fog, audience

members too scared to continue, and lines such as ‘my wife makes great dead bodies’ form a

huge part of this shared fabric. Yes, haunts are scary, but they are supposed to be scary-fun,

where the best scare is the one where a guest will scream, and then burst out laughing. This

passion for horror, but above all for entertainment, can be seen in this wish to share these

experiences, to be proud of one’s haunt, but also to be willing to share knowledge in order to

become better still.

Undeniably, the landscape of the scare industry is different as I am writing this in

October 2020, amidst the impact of COVID-19. Although many attractions will not be

running this year, others are opening with social-distancing measures in place or in new

forms, such as drive-in scare attractions. HAuNTcon 2021 has already been announced as

taking place online, and has been organising educational sessions about creative responses to

the pandemic and advice on safety measures. ‘Save Halloween 2020’ efforts have been

quietly trending, and haunters and horror fans alike continue to show solidarity to attractions,

conventions, and each other. Like the rest of the world, it is unlikely that the scare industry

will ever be the same again, yet I have no doubt that with the passion and commitment of so

many individuals, haunts will endure. They may be haunting, but they are far from dead.

Madelon Hoedt

Andrew Tudor, Monsters and Mad Scientists: A Cultural History of the Horror Movie (Oxford: Basil

Blackwell, 1989), p. vii.

Noel Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror: Or, Paradoxes of the Heart (New York: Routledge, 1990), p. ix.

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INTERVIEW

Interview with Aislinn Clarke, 2019

Northern-Irish filmmaker Aislinn Clarke is an award-winning director and a lecturer in

scriptwriting at the Seamus Heaney Centre in Queen’s University Belfast. Her debut feature,

The Devil’s Doorway (IFC Midnight, 2018) injected a shot of adrenalin into the subgenres of

demon-possession and found-footage horror. Clarke’s film is set in a Magdalene Laundry in

1960, when the Catholic Church was at the height of its influence and power in the Irish state.

The footage is shot ostensibly by Fr John (Ciaran Flynn) to document an investigation by Fr

Thomas (Lalor Roddy) into a reported miracle within the convent. Shot in era-appropriate

16mm, the film utilises the aesthetics of authenticity that the found-footage mode commands

to tell a story of corruption and cover-up in the Catholic institutions of recent Irish history.

I first met with Aislinn Clarke at the Galway Film Fleadh screening of The Devil’s

Doorway in July 2018. My own PhD project focuses on demon-possession horror films

produced in the 2010s, and I was particularly fascinated with her treatment of the subgenre.

This interview took place over Skype in March of 2019. Demon possession has been a

recurring trope in horror cinema since the silent era, arguably beginning with the Swedish

documentary-film Häxan (dir. by Benjamin Christensen, 1922). A notable cluster of

possession films appeared in the 1970s, with Ken Russell’s The Devils (1971), William

Friedkin’s Oscar-winning The Exorcist (1973), and the blaxploitation film Abby (dir. by

William Girdler, 1974). The subgenre has experienced something of a resurgence in the last

two decades, with over one-hundred films in the subgenre produced since 2000. I began by

asking whether there is any particular reason why Clarke thinks it has returned to popularity,

to which she replied,

I feel like demonic possession has been popular for a long time. Even on horror’s low

ebb where it’s not getting the kind of positive publicity it is now, people were always

making films about demonic possession. It’s something that people are just fascinated

by. There was always an audience for that and there are a lot of people who are very

committed to that subgenre.

Clarke noted the subgenre’s problematic preoccupation with the female body and female

sexuality, stating

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Personally, for me, it’s not one of my favourite subgenres, actually at all. I think it’s

because very often it has very consistent tropes that I find offensive at worst and

boring and unimaginative at best. You see so many films that have demonic

possession in them and it’s a young girl on the cusp of discovering sexuality. They

say things that are very judgemental of female sexuality; they contrast it against

innocence and virginity. It’s the virgin/whore dichotomy and for some reason there

are a lot of people who are into seeing those two come up against each other. You’ve

got this young virginal girl and then she becomes possessed by a demon and very

often she becomes hyper-sexualised. For me, I don’t like what they have to say about

female sexuality, particularly about young women. They can be misogynistic, right?

I’m not the first person to have said this.

Given that The Devil’s Doorway was Clarke’s first feature-length film, it was interesting to

hear that she chose to work in a subgenre that was not necessarily her favourite. Her

comments on the choices and decision making that go into changing the meaning and tropes

within a genre film were equally revealing:

The producer came to me, Northern Ireland Screen told him to come to me. He had

an idea but he didn’t have a script. He just said, ‘I want to make a horror film set in a

Magdalene Laundry’. And I thought, ‘well that sounds interesting’. But then he told

me what he wanted to do. He wanted it to be a modern-day found-footage film, where

you could basically get a bunch of young people and stick them in a haunted

Magdalene Laundry and then, you know, spooks and stuff. Central to that was a girl

who was possessed and who was still in there, a girl who had been trapped for a long

time. I told him straight-up, I said, ‘I think this could be really problematic. What are

you saying about the women who were actually kept in these institutions? There are

women now who are forty years old who were in Magdalene Laundries.’ I don’t think

at the forefront of his mind he was thinking about social issues at all; he was just

thinking about what would be a cool film. But my position is: you can’t extract

yourself. It doesn’t exist in a vacuum. If you make a film like that, even if you think

you’re saying nothing, you are saying something. What you’re saying is ‘I don’t

care’.

Clarke suggested that they go another way:

There’s so many demonic-possession films and you need to do something new with

that. That’s why I suggested we put it in 1960, really put it in the heart of the human

drama where the best horror is and be very careful not to make the women who were

in there, the women who were the victims, the source of the evil. Clearly a very

problematic thing to do. And he could have said ‘no. Go away’ because he was

talking to other directors, but he liked that I was setting it in 1960 and he liked all the

other things I was saying.

The Devil’s Doorway would have been a very different beast altogether without Clarke at the

helm:

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The funding was already kind of there. The film was happening, but it would have

been a very different script, it would have been a very different story. It would have

been a different director. And it would have annoyed me dreadfully to have seen it

come out and be a horror film set in a Magdalene Laundry, coming from Ireland and

say that these women were inherently evil and therefore deserved all their

punishment. Luckily that’s not what happened.

The producer still wanted to have a possessed girl, ‘so I had to figure out a way to have

possession without falling for those tropes, without buying into the established language of

those films’. Clarke wanted the possessed girl, Kathleen (Lauren Coe) to be more complex:

Whether or not she’s possessed is slightly ambiguous. She herself is a decent person,

a good person, even a religious person. She’s not sexualised and I had to fight pretty

hard not to have her sexualised. Really, there were a lot of conversations about what

people wanted to see. There were talks about nudity and all that kind of thing. It was

important to me if I was having a girl and she was possessed that she wasn’t there for

those reasons.

Within The Devil’s Doorway, I suggested, the possessed girl is not so much the object of fear

as she is its subject. The possession is presented as something that is very much happening to

her:

Exactly, and even when we first meet her and she attacks the nun, we don’t feel that

it’s her fault. She is a victim in this situation as well, rather than becoming an evil

target. Because I watch a lot of horror films, good ones and bad ones and all kinds of

ones. In some of these films, the girls, because they are behaving in an evil and

demonic way, it is acceptable to use violence against them.

Clarke didn’t want to depict this possessed girl as an acceptable target for violence, so when

writing the character, she ‘didn’t want her to lose her humanity’. The ritual of exorcism in

horror is presented as a scenario with great potential for violence, particularly against the

possessed person. ‘Does religious horror’, I asked her, ‘need to be set in the past for

audiences to believe that rational people would behave and react that way?’ She replied,

For me, I set it in 1960 because this was, forgive my clumsy turn of phrase, the high-

point of these institutions, when they existed in plain sight. There were literally

adverts in the newspapers targeted at housewives, saying ‘Christmas is coming up.

You’re probably really busy. Send all your sheets to us.’ And that would be for such-

and-such a convent. People knew that they existed. My mother had a friend who was

taken to one. My dad was a breadman in Dundalk and he delivered bread to a

Magdalene Laundry for years and years and walked through the actual laundry and

saw the girls. I thought that that was the most interesting time to deal with that

subject.

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Catholicism has historically been central to how Ireland constructed its national identity and

told stories about itself at home and abroad. Previously, Irish cinema completely shied away

from genre and horror filmmaking, displaying instead a propensity for realist drama. ‘Why do

you think’, I asked, ‘it is only now we are producing internationally recognised horror

cinema?’

I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit lately. I was in Spain for the European

Fantastic Film Festival in Murcia and we were having a panel discussion about this.

Irish people have always been interested in the darker side of things; in our stories

and our music and in the general way that we see the world. Irish fairies and fairy

tales are very dark, I’m sure you’re aware yourself. They’re not like Tinkerbell with

wings. The sí are evil, evil creatures. In childhood and in school you’d hear these

stories about some boy who did something bad to a fairy tree and then there was

thorns in his bed for the rest of his life and he was driven insane. We’ve always been

interested in those kinds of things and I don’t know why we haven’t produced so

many horror films. The films that come out of Ireland, not all of them but most tend

to be drama and there is sort of a maudlin air to them as well.

The Northern-Irish film and television industry is enjoying its own specific moment right

now:

I know for the North, we didn’t really have an industry. We had a civil war for 30

years. Things were obviously very bad up here in general. There was a lot of poverty

and we just didn’t have the infrastructure. There were people making films but they

were making documentaries and they made some really excellent documentaries

made in that time. But it’s only in the last ten years that we’ve had any kind of

industry and that’s because of Game of Thrones [HBO, 2011-19]. People malign it,

but it completely revitalised the film industry in Northern Ireland. Because you would

have people who would study film like I did and they would become

cinematographers and they would move to London. They’d go elsewhere because

there was no work here. Suddenly there was work here and there needed to be studios

and post-production houses to facilitate the massive machine that was Game of

Thrones. Suddenly had on the ground world-class post-production facilities and

world-class crew, living here, that we could use to make our short films. That’s why

we have seen Northern Ireland, which is a small place with a small population,

making its mark on the world stage.

Clarke has made a short horror film called Childer (2016), which was also filmed in Northern

Ireland. It tells the story of a neurotic mother who kills her children when they get to the age

where they start playing outside and getting messy. ‘What is most important’, I asked, ‘when

writing these kinds of character studies?’

Even in childhood I was very interested in Greek mythology, fairy tales, and read

Stephen King when I was far too young. I suppose I was very introspective. I was

kind of a weird child and I remember not being satisfied with the archetypes that

were being presented. You know, you’d hear of so-and-so down the road who went

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and did this terrible thing and I wanted to understand. Every human being has some

human motivation for what they do even if what they do is unimaginable to us, it’s

still human. I think we have this tendency to distance from what we might call evil

behaviour from humanity by saying it’s inhuman. It is, by definition, human if a

human being has done it. There was a lot of conversation when The Ted Bundy Tapes

[Netflix, 2019] came out with people saying you know, ‘don’t watch that’. I don’t

think that helps us as human beings, to pretend that there aren’t other human beings

who do this kind of thing. I think we need to stop with this good guy/bad guy

archetypal mentality that we have. We want to see a villain in a cloak cackling in the

sunset after murdering a village of children. Those types of people don’t exist.

Everyone has a motivation for what they do. Everyone is the protagonist of their own

story. They have a rationale for what they do, even if that rationale is abhorrent.

Clarke takes inspiration for her writing and her characterisation from true-crime

documentary:

The BBC had a documentary on the Yorkshire Ripper, in that case, basically

something like thirteen women were killed unnecessarily. This is how the BBC lays it

out and it’s very compelling. Essentially the police constructed a narrative that

centred themselves as the heroes versus this kind of villain in black clothes. It ended

up that they were disregarding evidence that didn’t fit into that. They were looking

for a different man with a different accent and who lived in a different part of

England, which meant that Peter Sutcliff got away again, and again, and again. That’s

why I think it’s not just about stories. I do think it makes better stories to present

people who are complicated and human in uncomfortable ways but also because our

narratives, and the stories we tell ourselves, do inform our culture and inform our real

world. That’s why I like to use characters, male and female that I can understand as

people, not just as tools for my narrative.

Speaking of character representation, stories of demons possessing women are often accused

of being really about the men who exorcise them. The Devil’s Doorway does indeed have

male exorcists and demonic female figures, but the men are not so much representative of

patriarchal authority as they are witnesses in a world of women:

I think you can see that in the Mother Superior (Helena Bereen). Clearly, she is very

evil, but she needed to have a justification for all the stuff that she does. That’s why

she has this speech where she says, ‘you leave all the dirty work to the women’. I

mean she’s right about that and you want the audience to be a bit conflicted. You

want them to say ‘well, I kind of get where she’s coming from, to be fair’. But with

The Devil’s Doorway I think that it’s not just about making complex female

characters. We talk about the best representations of characters to challenge kind of

gender norms and stuff like that. It’s not just about making complicated female

characters, though that’s a massive part of it. We also need to look at male characters.

Because we have so many male characters that if they were in the situation that Fr

Thomas is in, they would just come in and they would kick ass left, right, and centre

and they would leave with the baby and everything would be cool. First of all, that

didn’t happen. These places existed and those women’s lives were ruined and there

was no hero who came in to save the day. Second of all, you know what, that’s okay

because he still behaves with moral courage the whole way and I think that we don’t

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just need to change representations of women for women’s sake. We need to change

representations of men for men and women’s sake. We don’t fix toxic masculinity

just by having complicated female characters; we need to show young men that you

don’t have to feel like a complete shit if you’re not this über-masculine hero.

Describing her interactions with fans at screenings and in social media, Clarke reports the

impact that this vulnerable male characterisation seems to have had on her audience:

At almost every screening I have some young man come up to me and say ‘I really

liked Fr Thomas, he reminded me of my dad’ and then he’ll tell me a story about his

dad. I have some people on Twitter who really love The Devil’s Doorway, and they

are all men, they are all young men who have vulnerability and who saw that

reflected back in The Devil’s Doorway and who really appreciate that. I think that it’s

important to do that.

Clarke has also been criticised for choosing two male leads for the film:

I have had two occasions with feminists, one in the US and one in England who just

completely misread the film. But they read it from their perspective, and I think the

audience are entitled to read films the way that they read them. Once I put it on the

screen, it’s up to you what you take from it. But they don’t see what I’m saying, they

don’t think it’s important to have those kinds of representations of men. I think we

need to fix our representations of men and I think that’s part of feminism.

The critiques could perhaps be part of the increased public investment in and cultural

attention paid to horror narratives and horror representation in recent years, as horror is going

through a period of mainstream appreciation. I asked, ‘what does this mean for you as a

lifelong horror fan and active contributor to the genre?’

It’s exciting as a creator. The more good publicity there is for horror films, the more

people are talking about it, the more there is a wave of horror filmmaking, which

means I get to make more films. It’s good that people are engaging with horror that

have never really engaged with it before. Because that’s what we’re talking about

here when people say things like ‘Oh Us [dir. by Jordan Peele, 2019] has saved

horror’, what they’re really saying is ‘I didn’t really like horror, I thought horror was

terrible’. It’s a good thing that there are people coming to the genre who weren’t

previously engaged with it.

While she does express concern that terms like ‘elevated horror’ malign the genre and erase

past contributions of horror filmmaking, she believes it is a net gain:

It used to be quite hard (and still is to some extent) to get any kind of credible, high-

brow recognition for a horror film and I think that dam has burst. With Get Out

[2017] being nominated and Jordan Peele winning the Oscar for best screenplay, then

you have created a precedent where these kinds of things can happen. Of course, the

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instant response was ‘elevated horror’ but I mean, it’s still horror, we know that.

That’s a good thing and for new people coming to the genre, well, they are just going

to have so much fun.

Speaking of her own ideal creative situation and people she would like to collaborate with,

she says,

My ideal is always to write my own stuff, even though there are of course other

directors that I admire. I wouldn’t particularly have an ambition to write something

for them, I’d rather make it myself. There are writers that I would like to work with.

The first person that comes to mind would be Adam Nevill who wrote The Ritual

[2011], who I have met recently to talk about a project which probably isn’t the one

that’s going to go forward for complex reasons but I had a really interesting

conversation with him. He’s interested of course in writing more scripts and we are

potentially interested on working on something together going forward. I think he’s a

really great writer. He writes beautifully in prose but also his scripts are beautiful

because he is a prose writer. I’d like to work with him. My ideal is always going to be

directing the stuff that I come up with. Writer-director is my natural home.

Clarke describes her own current writing project:

I have another script that I am writing now that’s just at the very early stage. It’s a

post-apocalyptic story called Rainy Days. It’s being produced by Fantastic Films in

Dublin who did The Hallow [dir. by Corin Hardy, 2015] and Wake Wood [dir. by

David Keating, 2009] and it’s funded in development by Screen Ireland. It is a post-

apocalyptic story of an epidemic of grave sadness. I’m interested in established,

tropey subgenres and I’m interested in taking just a different slant on it. I don’t know

why I do this to myself. It’s not my favourite subgenre but I feel that so many of them

have a central thesis: if we were in an extreme survival situation, if humanity at large

was in an extreme survival situation, what would survive of us is the sociopath. The

person who is going to isolate themselves and their families and get a gun and be like

‘I don’t care about all of you, I’m okay’. Where actually I don’t think that stands up

to human history. Neolithic man was in a kind of comparable situation of survival

and how we are here now is because they learned to create a community and develop

empathy and altruism. I think that’s how we would survive. The race would die out

pretty quick if it was just survivalists by themselves. I’ve had enough of the horror in

horror films be about masculine aggression. I think it can be a lot more complicated

than that.

In my story, we have an epidemic of sadness, and people either just waste

away because they are not taking care of themselves, like extreme depression. They

don’t feed themselves, they don’t drink water. Or else they commit suicide to escape

this terrible sadness. The ones that are left when my story begins are called ‘The

Stragglers’ and they are not zombies because they are not dead but they are just

consumed by a need for comfort. They are just dreadfully sad and they need human

contact and comfort but the people who are not infected can’t give them that because

then they will get infected. The threat comes from their desire for human contact. It’s

not motivated by evil or aggression, it’s motivated by the very human need to be

loved and to be close to people.

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It’s an interesting idea and it sounds as if those who are not infected need to shut down a part

of their own humanity or empathy:

Yes, they don’t look scary, they look just pitiful. Like if there’s a little three-year-old

child and it’s weeping and it wants you to pick it up, you can’t because it has the

disease. I don’t know if you are familiar with Schopenhauer? He had this thought

experiment about hedgehogs who are very cold at night. They want to huddle

together so they can keep each other warm but they can’t because their spikes prick

each other so they have to actually find a happy medium where they can keep each

other kind of warm but not hurt each other. I think that’s kind of like the human

condition. I think we’re all a bit like that.

Máiréad Casey

308

CONTRIBUTORS

Jessica Ruth Austin is an associate lecturer in Film and Media Studies at Anglia Ruskin

University, UK. Her PhD focused on identity construction in fan groups, which is being

released as a monograph with Bloomsbury in 2021 entitled Fan Identities in the Furry

Fandom. She has broad research interests in analysing media texts, and has published on

ethical narratives and effects of nostalgia in video games, conducted audience research on

Star Wars fans, and offers advice on dealing with the eventual robot/AI uprising.

Reema Barlaskar completed her PhD in British Literature of the long nineteenth century at

Wayne State University. She is author of ‘The ‘Contagion’ of “Ridiculous Superstition”:

Representations of Lower-Class Voices in Ann Radcliffe’s Novels’ (Gothic Studies, 20). Her

research interests include print culture, women’s writing and reading practices, and new-

media studies.

Michael Brown holds a MA in Media and Communications from the University of New

England. He is a member of the Gothic Association of New Zealand and Australia, and his

primary research focus is on the intersection of horror, philosophy, and pessimism in film and

literature. His other interests include art-house cinema, technology, sound studies, weird

ecology, and experimental literature. His chapter on Lars von Trier’s and horror is

forthcoming in Grief in Contemporary Horror Cinema: Screening Loss.

Marguerite Helmers is Professor Emerita, Department of English, University of Wisconsin

Oshkosh. Her research focuses on cultural history and visual communication from the First

World War era in England and Ireland. Recent publications include the book Harry Clarke’s

War: Illustrations for Ireland’s Memorial Records, 1914-1918 and the edited collection

Harry Clarke and Artistic Visions of the New Irish State. Helmers is a past research fellow at

the Centre for Twentieth Century Studies (UW Milwaukee), the Institute for Research in the

Humanities (UW Madison), and the Humanities Institute at University College Dublin.

Sebastian Schuller received his doctorate from Ludwig Maximilian University, Germany,

for a thesis on Marxist Literary Theory in the Age of Globalisation in 2020. Schuller, who is

currently preparing a postdoctoral project, has published in the fields of Marxist literary

theory, hip-hop-studies, popular culture, and Bertold-Brecht studies. Schuller has edited an

anthology on the rise of the Alt-Right in Germany, Die Zeit der Monster (2018) and is co-

author of an anthology on the cultural and political implications on the current Covid-19-

pandemic (Social Analysis and the COVID-19 Crisis: A Collective Journal, 2020).

Virginie Sélavy is a film scholar, writer, and editor. She has written and lectured widely on

horror, fantastique, and exploitation cinema. She is the editor of The End: An Electric Sheep

Anthology and has contributed chapters to Lost Girls: The Phantasmagorical Cinema of Jean

Rollin and Sixties British Cinema Reconsidered. She was the founder and editor of Electric

Sheep Magazine and was co-director of the Miskatonic Institute of Horror Studies, London.

She runs an annual course on surrealism in film and is currently working on a book on sado-

masochism in 1960s-70s cinema.