海角大神

Stephen King may be right about the allure of horror movies 鈥� but how sick is that?
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King opens his provocative 1981 essay, 鈥淲hy We Crave Horror Movies," with the diagnosis that all of us are mentally ill. 听At the outset, he 鈥渃lears鈥� the millions of us 鈥渙utside asylums,鈥� explaining that we avoid institutionalization by figuring out how to masquerade as sane. According to the modern master of the macabre, while we pass ourselves off as normal, we crave the abnormal and relish testing our respective capacities to be frightened, shocked, and repulsed. If I read him accurately, those who crave horror movies are consciously (even enthusiastically) 鈥渄aring the nightmare.鈥�
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I wonder if those who have seen carnage or actually suffered potentially grave (and I do mean grave) illness are as disposed to court cinematic shocks and nightmares? Are those who have witnessed atrocities or experienced uncontrived, unasked-for devastation inclined to be tested by on-screen ghouls and gore? Are such films targeting the young who have yet to be sufficiently unsettled, unnerved? Are fright films becoming more graphically horrific to captivate the unscathed, who are captives of shape-shifting images and 鈥渏ump-cuts鈥� and hand-held gaming mayhem? Do fright films succeed financially (even with double-digit admission prices) because many teens do not have the vocabulary, the patience and attention span, or the comprehension to read and savor a plot that develops over pages and pages?

Civility: 15 quotes to remind us why it matters

In 鈥淲hy We Crave Horror Movies鈥� (which is still included in countless English Comp anthologies and basic-composition courses 鈥� including mine at several community colleges) 鈥� King explains that the genre allows horror seekers to gauge their respective capacities to endure the gore and to have fun in what might be thought of as amusement parks for the psyche.
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To his credit, after explaining the kind of entertainment and satisfaction afforded by the genre, King offered this perspective: 鈥淸T]his is a very peculiar sort of fun, indeed. The fun comes from seeing others menaced 鈥� 听sometimes killed. One critic has suggested that if pro football has become the voyeur鈥檚 version of combat, then the horror film has become the modern version of the public lynching.鈥� He鈥檚 probably right 鈥� but how sad.

Was it Alfred Hitchcock who said or wrote something about horror as a hobby 鈥� something about the "deliciousness" of being able to dip one鈥檚 toe into the ocean of fear?
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Do 鈥淕oosebumps鈥� stories and illustrations equate to baby steps into the ocean of fear?
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Do the transporting Harry Potter tales allow for a scamper into the ocean of fear?
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Do the transforming Twilight 鈥渘octurnals鈥� allow for furtive wading into the eddies of what would normally be an ocean of fear?
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Does Mary Shelley鈥檚 lumbering Frankenstein walk us into that ocean?
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Do the Edgar Allan Poe samplers that impale school kids鈥� psyches every October amount to riptides or knock-over waves in the ocean of fear?
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In recent years, reality TV scripts, in addition to setting up dating competitions and dare (gross-out) competitions, have taken voyeurs inside prisons, where there are, understandably, palpable tides of menace and waves of fear. Many inmates have dipped a toe into the ocean of fear. Many have waded into that ocean. And some, recklessly, and some, ruthlessly, have jumped (headlong and headstrong) into that ocean. They had acquired expertise in imposing fear, and had become accomplished in forcing others to cower and shudder in oceans of fear. Prison guards (excuse me, corrections officers) apprehend and have to suppress the menacings in the facility 鈥� and in themselves.
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In my experience as an English Composition instructor (on loan from community college systems), some inmates, the more thoughtful and reflective (there are a few), were curious to read about right and wrong, about revenge and retribution, about evil.
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In a previous Chapter & Verse column, I set out a list of some of the books I considered for the courses I devised and delivered over four years for select inmates.
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Suspense and danger 鈥� and fear 鈥� are very much a part of 鈥淐ry, the Beloved Country鈥� and 鈥淭he Green Mile,鈥� but there are descriptions in those novels that capture and stir; they create and conjure up scenes that were easy for the inmates to imagine, and very hard to forget. Alan Paton and Stephen King conceived and crafted people who had to deal with difficult circumstances and poignant tragedies that the inmates could relate to readily and cared about mightily.
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For many inmates, words (for most of their troubled lives) had been in limited supply and variety and were used to bluff, rebuff, intimidate, threaten. Paton鈥檚 and King鈥檚 descriptions 鈥� of a room, a dwelling, a neighborhood, a confrontation, a desperate moment 听鈥� created pictures that were 鈥渞ewound鈥� and 鈥渞eplayed.鈥� The predicaments were relatable. In print (in hand, thanks to used-book shops and public library book sales), the descriptions of good guys and bad guys did not dissolve, there was no fade-out, no 鈥渏ump-cuts.鈥� The descriptions of what made some good or bad, or a little of one and then a little of the other, were 鈥渋nked鈥� to the good.
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Can nonfiction compete? 听Surely, 鈥淭he Other Wes Moore: One Name, Two Fates鈥� and John Edgar Wideman鈥檚 鈥淏rothers and Keepers鈥� resonate for inmates. But with so much truth, so much reality, such works (assuming funding) would have to be worked through with care in many prison classrooms. Nonfiction chronicles can, in their way, be more scary than the obviously preposterous, because faithful recollections and reflections cannot be dismissed as products of some bizarre imagination or sick mind.
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It may be that fiction is more 鈥渕alleable,鈥� for the injustices and terrors, while vivid and affecting, and (to prison inmates) somewhat relatable, are not as pointedly condemning. Their unreality provides an escape mechanism 鈥� a pivot from reality. Maybe fiction can be 鈥減layed with鈥� more comfortably in a Composition class, or even in a Psychology or Civics class. But from an institutional standpoint, from an oversight and management standpoint, fiction is suspect. And, with some justification, departments of corrections (DOCs) classify crime and horror movies as contraband, per se.
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Even putting aside a DOC perspective, how many horror films (those blatant, made-to-up-the-ante-on-awfulness species) can seriously claim to have socially redeeming value? 听How many can claim to offer life-affirming lessons? 听How many connect to actualities that can be genuinely relatable and instructive?

Perhaps that鈥檚 the point: that the most ghoulish, the goriest, are so removed from humanity that they are readily perceived as entertainment, rather than as didactic.
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Maybe the 鈥渢est鈥� and vicarious fun King cites and the 鈥渄eliciousness鈥� described by Hitchcock are why millions flock to be shocked and relish swapping recollections of gross-out moments.
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Is the distance 鈥� the unreality 鈥� afforded by such films the reason why so few of my community college students are willing to read about and discuss actual horrors? 听Are the ultra-graphic depictions so heart-stopping that mere words on a page hold no wonder? Are the depictions so insinuating that there鈥檚 no incentive to become intimate with words?
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To his credit, again, King acknowledged that horror films 鈥渄eliberately appeal to all that is worst in us.鈥� He sees these films as releases; they unchain morbidity, let loose 鈥渙ur most base instincts鈥� and allow the voyeurs to realize 鈥渙ur nastiest fantasies.鈥� Astutely, he observes that all this happens, 鈥渇ittingly enough, in the dark.鈥�
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Given the reading 鈥渋naptitudes鈥� of many students currently in middle school and high school, millions of new horror movie fans will remain in the dark.
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Joseph H. Cooper was editorial counsel at The New Yorker from 1976 to 1996. In addition to his work for community colleges, he teaches ethics and media law courses at Quinnipiac University.