Nate Intolubbe

Have a bloody – I mean, blessed – Ides of March. Do not forget to stab a bowl of Caesar Salad for the good of Rome.

Continuing on from previous posts, I will address various means of beginnings in literature. This time, focusing on the novel, given the recent publication of my own work.

The order in which I wrote The Cases of Inspector Marshall, Vol. I is well outside their chronological presentation. The first Marshall story I ever wrote was not the prologue. In fact, that was one of the last parts I put down on paper. Or, word processor, if I’m being literal. The epilogue was not even the last one I typed. The cases I started for Volume II are already scattered across the timeline.

“The Creature of Kettle Hall” was the story I had written before all the others. Even though it was a fair introduction to the detective, his capabilities, and background, I elected to put a prologue in front. I will delve into why shortly.

Starting a novel consists of two parts: the opening sequence, and the motivation to begin. It can be daunting, to have nothing written yet so much to write; it is possible to get hung up on how the book should commence.

Which is why my best advice to start a novel is to write a chapter other than the very beginning. An author does not have to write every chapter or story in the order they appear in the book. The sections to prioritize are the ones richest in the mind of the creator, typing out the ideas while they are fresh. That way, there is something written down that you can springboard off into other parts.

Wading one step at a time into the pool can take too long to immerse yourself, and it is too easy to leave. Cannonballing into the center, however, gets it over with faster. It allows you to get deep enough in, and you can swim around to any part of the pool from there. The stairs can wait until you need to use them.

And if the very beginning is the richest scene in mind, go for it. And if you are stuck on a certain step, you can always launch further into the water until you are ready to go back to it.

Writing later sections of the novel can help you out when you return to the true start. You can set up foreshadowing, raise questions that other chapters answer, create a base for how characters were prior to change – and so many more possibilities.

And most importantly, you are familiar enough with what the novel is, so that you understand more about how it should begin.

All of this adds into why I wrote the prologue after finishing most of the other stories: I realized it was a stronger opening than “Kettle Hall.” For action and narrative purposes. Recurring characters introduced, the world setting established, more gripping and immediate events – I learned enough about the book to know that these were what needed to come first.

If any of you readers are aspiring writers yourself, keep all of this in mind. Solve the pieces of the puzzle that you can, and soon you will see more of the picture and where it snaps together.

Best of luck.

I will be making a post today and tomorrow, to account for not doing one last week.

In the spirit of beginnings, March’s posts will focus on the ways to start various parts of literature. Zooming in from last week, we know look at scenes.

Kicking off a scene functions differently from opening a short story or novel, as the latter two involve creating a first impression of a literary work. For this reason, this post will focus more on beginning a scene independently of whether it is the first one of the narrative.

Thus, this advice is more for after you have determined where in the story it occurs.

The initial step is understanding what type of scene it is. Like novels and movies, scenes have genres. There are action scenes, comedy scenes, romantic scenes, horror scenes, dramatic scenes – and these can occur regardless of the genre of the work in which it takes place.

For instance, Shakespeare’s Macbeth is a dark tragedy, but it still has comedic moments like the drunken porter (who I remember), and Lady Macduff arguing with her son. Monty Python and the Holy Grail is a satire, but has actions scenes such as the Black Knight and Lancelot vs. Swamp Castle.

Once the type of scene is determined, you can answer the journalistic questions about it. Each one of these add to the stakes.

For example, an argument scene can have a multitude of effects on the reader based on these facts. An argument between strangers has different risks compared to one between a boss and an employee, or to a newlywed couple. If it takes place in a house with just them, it creates different environmental factors than happening in the middle of a restaurant, and even presents a physical threat if it occurs on a balcony high above the ground.

Establishing the stakes gives the readers a reason to engage with the scene.

With all of this in mind, here are some of the more common ways to begin a scene:

1. Describe the setting. Detailing the unique aspects of the ‘where,’ especially with rich sensory imagery, can create interest. This usually applies to the first time a scene occurs at this place, not repeated for the same location unless it undergoes change between scenes.
   1. Example: much of Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
2. Dialogue. This helps if the scene is more conversational, and can set the rhythm of the communication. Others details of the where can be unfolded at whatever pace is necessary.
   1. Example: the interrogation room in The Dark Knight.
3. In media res. An oldy but a goody. A character is taking action, and the narration drops in as it occurs. The reader is often thrown abruptly into the change of pace, creating wonder to what has happened and what will.
   1. Example: the guard chase (“One Jump Ahead”) in Disney’s Aladdin.
4. Direct hook. An opening line, sentence, or passage that grips the reader’s attention. This immediately sets up the stakes, dropping the severity of the situation right on the reader.
   1. Example: the first line of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
5. Anecdote. Narration or storytelling to add context or set the tone.
   1. Example: the text openings in the Star Wars films.

Each of these are descriptions, with plenty of bleeding through between them. This is more to help give structure to one’s thought process, as there are too many possible scene openings to list.

Ultimately, every scene should have a purpose. The beginning should help show what some of that purpose is, and let the rest of it fulfill that reason. And like all good writing, not every question should be answered too early. Knowing what not to put right at the start is as valuable as knowing what to put.

The first impression of many scenes does not have to equal that of larger works, though each one adds up for a better experience for the reader. For the scenes are the bricks that build the story, and a house made of bricks is better than a brick the size of a house.

Unless you need to load a trebuchet. Or if you’re Quentin Tarantino.

What are some of your favorite scenes, and what about them draws you in from their beginnings?

Note: all works and characters are the property of their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, research, commentary, and or parody. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.

It is good to be blog-writing again, readers. March is upon us, bringing with it spring and revival from winter. Some cultures (like the Romans) had their calendar begin in March for this reason, and the vernal equinox is also New Year’s Day in the world of my recently published novel, The Cases of Inspector Marshall, Vol. I.

The month symbolizes rebirth; with my book finally available and my getting back to blog-writing, plenty of beginnings have happened. So, the theme I am using for March’s posts revolve around beginnings in literature.

This week will focus on starting short stories.

There are general rules for an effective opening that apply to all sizes of literature – scene, chapter, story, novel – and methods that adapt to each of these categories. In most cases, the start should answer the journalistic questions of what, who, where, when, how, and why – but not all of them.

The reason is to catch the attention of the readers, and give them a reason to keep going. If a story begins with a murder, that answers the ‘what’; giving a victim answers some of the ‘who’ (pauses – “Ever since I was a young boy, I played the silver ball…”); and details like ‘where’ and ‘when’ paint a picture that grounds the audience. A murder immediately establishes the stakes as well, and creates investment in what has occurred.

Meanwhile, delaying the answer on ‘why’ it was done and ‘who’ did it makes the reader want to learn these facts. With the conflict demonstrated, people want to see it play out and for the characters to resolve it.

A short story benefits having this initial spark earlier than other mediums, due to its length. A five-act play like Shakespeare’s Macbeth can wait some time before the conflict-driving murder happens, though a short story has less wiggle room. Not to say that every story should dive right into the problem either, as it oftentimes is better to introduce some of the characters and what they are doing. This makes them more relatable to the audience, so that when you do drop the main conflict, people are more invested in it.

Like introducing a kindly old woodcarver, selling his handmade wares on the curb; learning about how he has almost made enough money to take his grandkids to Disneyland; he snorts when he laughs; he keeps a photo of his wife in his pocket-watch, and as he starts telling you about how great her cookies are…

…a truck speeds by, and a masked man in the back clubs the woodcarver in the head with a baseball bat.

Smaller-stakes narratives benefit from the same principle. For instance, if a story is about a wedding gone wrong, it helps to establish who is getting hitched and some details about the big day – just to find out that the rings have been lost, or that the bride or groom used to sleep with one of the bridesmaids.

For my own stories, I have found that an effective way to start is to describe the setting, then introduce characters with the conflict afterwards. The order of this changes to add variety and to adapt to the particular story.

And that boils down the idea to its core: a skilled writer does not memorize one formula and haphazardly apply it to every story, rather understands what the narrative needs, and has the insight on bringing it out with the proper timing.

If you are writing a short story, here are some questions to ask yourself if you are stuck on the opening:

What is the goal of the story, and what has happened before its events? Where does it start, and which features of the location can lead into the conflict? Who does the story focus on, and how do they tie into what occurs? Are there any themes or central premises that the story is meant to explore, and how should the beginning demonstrate them? Why is the story happening, and what are some ways to keep the audience interested and guessing? What impression do you want the reader to have in the first few pages?

Starting something is often the part that requires the most willpower. I struggled for a week to write the opening for “The Drowned Tomb,” and once that was done, I wrote twenty-plus pages in three days. I deleted the first seven pages of “Inspector Marshall Versus the Headless Horseman” because I did not like how it went, and knew that I needed to start over.

Understand your story and what you want it to accomplish, to give an idea on how you want it to begin; then proofread it to bits to make sure you are satisfied with it. That is one way to write well in general, and is especially applicable to kicking off what you want your short story to be.

What are some of your favorite opening scenes? What is it about certain works that immediately grip your attention?

Note: all works and characters are the property of their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, research, commentary, and or parody. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.

As we crest over the middle of November, so too does the investigation into satire continue.

Other genres follow the familiar story progression (exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, conclusion), while satire takes the episodic approach. There are some that include the buildup of tension into a climactic event as usual, yet the primary model is a buildup of comedic effect. The scenes and episodes create humorous elements that leads to the equivalent to a climax: the punchline. The reason for the satirizing, and the point it leaves.

Throughout Douglas Adams’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the characters contribute to the philosophical search for meaning. Understanding Life, the Universe, and Everything is the goal, from regular to cosmic beings. The most recognizable joke from the novel is the computer’s calculation to the meaning of it all: the number 42. Which, in code, stands for an asterisk (*), which also in turn stands for the phrase “whatever you want it to be.” A programming joke makes a simple point–that life is best when you decide what to do with it–that goes over the heads of the Magratheans.

In short, they ask a computer (named Deep Thought) to decipher meaning, it gives a computer’s response, and they do not understand the implications. Upset at not being told what they want to hear, they strive to build a machine that does. Making the most of life is not enough for them.

A snarky yet astute commentary on close-minded philosophers.

Voltaire’s Candide follows a similar pattern. The true “climax” or “punchline” of Hitchhiker’s Guide was when the above capstone information was received. For the Frenchman’s work, the ultimate pinnacle of its satire is when the titular character abandons his optimism for a more pragmatic mindset. “We must tend our garden,” he tells Pangloss, a statement about taking responsibility instead of expecting everything to turn out for the best. The ultimate evisceration of Leibniz’s philosophy, where the horrid reality reveals the naivete behind zealous positivity.

Martin (akin in many respects to the android Marvin) provides the pessimistic antithesis, creating humor as the caricature of negativity is more aware and sensible about the atrocities of the world. Only after hearing Pangloss’ foolish excuses, attempts to force the events to fit his outlook, does Martin’s influence on Candide become fully apparent.

In this case, the punchline takes the form of character growth, fair to the episodic story by sticking to the person that is always there.

The philosophical works pull off this culmination of meaningful humor, yet parodies express this in their own unique ways.

Monty Python and the Holy Grail may have a plot climax at the bridge scene, yet the comedic payoff plays out across the ending. The swallow, French Knights, and police all play the built up role for humorous plays. The ultimate joke, however, is that King Arthur and his knights fail just as they do in the legends. While the final moments leave an unsatisfying conclusion at the very end, it still gives the parallel to the source material: serious Arthur loses for serious reasons, silly Arthur loses for silly reasons.

And when a fictional king is subjected to ridicule, this typically represents a joke on leadership. Arthur’s lack of expected kingly qualities (fairness, justice, and dignity) has us consider how few actual monarchs in history espoused these traits. Lancelot’s bloodlust show us why knights existed in the first place, warfare, and reveals why romanticizing these times does a disservice to its victims. This parody of medieval idolization is more realistic than other portrayals of the period, and the flaws of the comedic characters are fitting.

Mel Brooks’s Spaceballs does not have an exact punchline, following the traditional story structure (with Mega Maid the climax). Its goal is to make fun of sci-fi movies, not even to provide criticism of the genre. Yet it is too on the nose on that, imitating the source material too much, for there to be any commentary on the genre it targets.

This lack of a punchline makes it a weaker satire, where all the effort from the buildup amounts to very little. Using slightly different character names and events does not lend enough to be clever, and the dumb jokes only make the movie bearable when intoxicated. It sets a low goal for itself (be a comedic version of beloved sci-fi films), and does not fully accomplish even that.

Compare to South Park, an animated show that surpasses the aforementioned parodies in terms of ridiculousness, yet ends up being the smartest in its own way. The episodes always contribute to the same punchline: people. The nonsensical way that characters in the show act, or the bizarre consequences from the chain of events, pale in comparison to the decisions of real people.

In “The Coon” trilogy, they satirize the BP Oil Company’s response to them spilling in bodies of water. In “Informative Murder Porn,” they make fun of parents’ concerns for the media their children interact with, by putting the parents in the position of kids’ monitored activity. In “With Apologies to Jesse Jackson,” they mock people who gain publicity for racially inflammatory behavior. And while the events seem exaggerated at first, the real joke is the mindset behind what they are targeting. Lack of responsibility, parents judging their kids while they themselves view worse things, and careless/casual discriminatory actions so brazenly displayed.

The episodes change every year, but the spirit of the comedy remains unchanged. It knows how people work, and creates strong allegories for the points it wants to get across.

Most of these examples showcase how reality is more strange and contradictory than fiction, and have us consider the ridiculousness of our own world. Brilliant satire leaves the reader/audience with these considerations.

Not so much the particular plot style of up and down a hill, the constant rise of the satirical staircase story arrives at the punchline at the top. The most effective ones weave it in so well, it speaks for itself.

What are some of your favorite moments in satire? Which parodies succeed or fail, in your experience?

Note: all works and characters are the property of their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, research, commentary, and or parody. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.

For November, I am continuing my look into the satire genre and the parts of it that make it work. I am also using the same handful of examples from last week.

For the purpose of this, I will be using the definition of satire from dictionary.com: “a literary composition, in verse or prose, in which human vice or folly are held up to scorn, derision, and ridicule.”

This also includes parody: “a humorous or satirical imitation of a serious piece of literature or writing” (dictionary.com).

This week, I will discuss how satires can use their story structure/events as part of their jokes and social commentary.

Stories of this genre often take a style of adventure and picaresque, where each stop and segment of the journey derides and mocks something different. Each scene or chapter usually becomes a mini satire, culminating themes as the characters travel. Episodic in nature, the changing setting reflects the way these stories agitate the concepts they target.

For instance, Monty Python and the Holy Grail satirizes Arthurian legend and the romanticization of medieval times through the silliness of its scenes. The anarcho-syndicalist commoners mock peasant revolts like the Jacquerie, and portrays Arthur doing what actual kings did: he attacks people who challenge his authority. It also makes fun of divine right monarchy, showing the practical ramifications of him being a king.

The French knights hark back to the Hundred Year’s War, while demonstrating a comical version of siege warfare. The plague scene portrays the middle ages as filthy and full of pestilence, as opposed to the glamorization of the time period in media, with the humorous comparison of body carts with garbage trucks. Sir Robin being cowardly, the murderous Three-Headed Knight, the territorial Black Knight, and the cruel Knights of Ni portray an inversion of the brave, protective, generous, and kindly cavaliers of fiction.

The film mocks tales that romanticize the medieval world, and uses the best engine for this task: King Arthur, the one that started it all.

Spaceballs, on the other hand, does not use scenes to satirize concepts, but scenes to parody specific scenes. The characters meeting Yogurt and the Schwartz training matches Luke Skywalker meeting Yoda. Rescuing Princess Vespa, just like rescuing Princess Leia. Destroying Spaceball I and battling Dark Helmet, like destroying the Death Star and battling Darth Vader.

Evidently, this gives less room for creativity and makes it a less effective parody. It does not even go far enough to mock that many tropes of the sci-fi genre, sticking only to specific films and shows. The lack of original storylines detracts from its cleverness, and does not add much to the dialogue on the subject.

Not that it was ever meant to be a super meaningful work, or in depth commentary on sci-fi.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, meanwhile, accomplishes this in spades. Though it does rib its home genre, Douglas Adams primarily uses sci-fi to ridicule humanity and philosophy. Zaphod Beeblebrox is the President of the Galaxy, yet his Earthling citizens like Arthur Dent did not even know such a role existed. This comments on irresponsible leadership, painting scenes in a new light: the entire time, Zaphod is supposed to be doing his job, but is not.

The scene of Earth’s destruction pokes fun at bureaucracy, as well as eminent domain in Britain. Arthur Dent ending up on Zaphod’s ship adds salt to the wound, as the planet could have been saved if he had been fulfilling his elected duty. The Earthman talking with the robot Marvin, particularly on Magrathea, creates banter that makes the eventual climactic moment hilarious. And the constant search for the meaning of “Life, the Universe, and Everything” shown as a space journey plays on philosophy, having the entire cosmos to explore, but searching for meaning instead.

Candide mirrors this, where each major event whittles at the protagonist’s long-ingrained optimism. Since Voltaire wanted to mock Leibniz’s philosophy (that this is the best of all possible worlds and everything turns out for the best), he caricatures his rival as Dr. Pangloss, juxtaposing the incidents of the novel with the idealistic mindset. Candide is instructed that everything is awesome (cue The Lego Movie song), right before being kicked out of his home and conscripted into an army that commits atrocities. When our hero’s friend Jacques drowns in Lisbon, Pangloss tells him that the port was created for him to die in, and feeds into his foolish positivism when the earthquake strikes.

Traversing Europe, the Americas, and the Ottoman Empire, Candide witnesses all kinds of horrors. War, rape, religious persecution, natural disasters, slavery, and others. If this were a simple adventure, these plot events primarily apply to the character’s own disillusionment; but knowing it as a satire, it becomes a scathing rebuke of Leibniz’s optimism. If such wanton violence and injustice occurs, than this cannot be the best of all possible worlds, and Pangloss’s commentary on each evil reveals the naivete behind the outlook.

While Hitchhiker’s Guide takes a Horatian (light-hearted) look at general philosophy, how people (and machines) search for meaning (and ultimately find none), Candide retorts and satirizes a specific attitude, more Juvenalian (dark-humored).

South Park mixes Horatian and Juvenalian styles depending on the message, occurring in the same town yet still traversing all corners of the universe. As the only television show in these examples, it takes the episodic approach quite literally, homing in on a specific target and utterly destroying it in twenty two minutes. “Crack Baby Athletic Association” (a phrase you thought you would not read today) satirizes how colleges do not compensate their student athletes, a more hard-hitting Juvenalian lampoon. In “Make Love, Not Warcraft,” the episode engages in Horatian humor to spoof the video game and people who excessively play it. The series parodies Game of Thrones with the “Black Friday Trilogy,” using the show to mock the holiday and vice versa, bouncing between both types.

The situations created in South Park are utterly ridiculous, even more absurd at times than Holy Grail and Spaceballs, yet there is still an internal logic. It makes sense in the framework of the episode, and the show can get away with it because of the brand it has established. And, it accomplishes what excellent satire sets out to do: create bizarre situations that seem unrealistic, and nonetheless reveal how strange reality is. “Child Abduction is Not Funny” portrays the parents as idiotic (a common theme in the series), an exaggeration that really is not so exaggerated considering the mistakes grown adults make in real life. The focus that episodes bring allow such in-depth approaches.

Like any joke, part of the humor is in the telling. A good one can make people laugh before the punchline is even uttered, whereas one that does not properly set up and build up will fail even with a good punchline.

While there is no singular formula to create satire, the key is to understand where the story is supposed to go, and take the best route to arrive there. The readers and audience are along for the ride, and a road trip that is all about the destination is less enjoyable if the journey is boring.

What are some of your favorite satires (or even South Park episodes)? Do you prefer Horatian or Juvenalian methods?

Note: all works and characters are the property of their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, research, commentary, and or parody. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.

For November, I am looking at the satire genre and the parts of it that make it work. I have also picked a handful of examples that I will use in each post.

For the purpose of this, I will be using the definition of satire from dictionary.com: “a literary composition, in verse or prose, in which human vice or folly are held up to scorn, derision, and ridicule.”

In other words, it is like horror in that it exposes people’s flaws, yet does so using our sense of humor as opposed to primal fear.

This also includes parody: “a humorous or satirical imitation of a serious piece of literature or writing” (dictionary.com).

The first major aspect of satire is the subject matter: WHAT or WHO is being ridiculed. Events, ideas, people, and stories are the most common targets.

For instance, Mel Brooks’s Spaceballs parodies the sci-fi genre (Star Wars, Star Trek, Alien), while Voltaire’s Candide lampoons Leibniz’s philosophy of optimism. Douglas Adams uses The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy to satirize wider human society, akin to Matt Stone and Trey Parker’s South Park mocking anything that gives them an opening. And then there is Monty Python and the Holy Grail, creating a humorous reimagining of Arthurian legend.

Already, we see a variety of targets and methods of making fun of them.

Comparing Spaceballs and Holy Grail, both satirize genres and stories in silly ways, yet go separate angles with them. The former imitates specific movies, with a plot and characters that are overt copies of the originals. Lone Star being like Han Solo, Dark Helmet as Darth Vader, blowing up the big space station, and so on. The latter takes the King Arthur legend, but uses it to create its own story and character interpretation. The intent is not to mock specific plot devices within the original, but to be its own comedic version of it.

However, these stories are more well known in modern culture, and thus jokes about them are more funny. If one is not familiar with Leibniz’s philosophy and/or European history, a novel like Candide is significantly less impactful. At the time, Voltaire mocking foolish optimism and religious wars was incredibly scathing and risky to pull off. But without that context, Candide is little more than a naïve man Forrest Gumping his way through a wartorn world, the true humor lost.

And all of these instances of specific subjects satirized are stark differences to Hitchhiker’s Guide and South Park, which have more broad views. The former mocks society as a whole, with chapters and passages mocking certain things in less depth (ex bureaucracy, poor leadership, nihilism). The latter, as a TV show with over twenty seasons, can dedicate an entire episode to a particular point, while the series in total makes fun of whatever it can. And since human folly and current events are ever present and changing, it would be hard pressed to run out of source material.

Relevance is key to a satire’s success, and the more specific the subject matter, the more difficult it is to stay relevant as time passes.

One does not have to be a major King Arthur reader to understand and appreciate Holy Grail, yet if one has not seen Star Wars, then Spaceballs will make a lot less sense. Someone may not watch all of South Park, but still like certain episodes. And even though Candide and Hitchhiker’s Guide are equally clever and astute in mocking their respective time periods, the latter is far more accessible to modern audiences.

Satire is nothing without something to make fun of, and a strong foundation plays as critical a role here as any other genre. But here, being the premise should not go to one’s head, nor inspire the heart; for in this style, it means one is the butt of the joke.

What are your favorite satires? What subject matters do you believe are mocked too much, or not given enough attention?

Note: all works and characters are the property of their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, research, commentary, and or parody. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.

In the past two weeks, I have gone over certain types of menaces/fears portrayed in the horror genre, and gone into what makes these stories scary, appealing, and/or unpalatable to some. Those posts have covered monsters and the mysterious, examples of external threats; one that is frightening because what we know what it is and what it can do, the other because we do not know what it is or can do.

This third week in October, I will discuss the final type of horror, different from the previous. An internal threat, one that is too familiar and yet hard to understand: other humans.

You are home alone at night, relaxing, maybe snagging a late evening snack. Outside your window, you had heard joggers, dog walkers, and families pass by on the sidewalk, yet it is quiet out now. The still night air hangs around you. You reach for another bite, when the lights go out. Your heart freezes, scrambling for your cellphone, as a breaking window jars you. You switch the phone’s flashlight on, picking up a large kitchen knife. You call out, but no one answers. You dial 911, looking up into a mirror as the operator speaks. And in the reflection, you see a masked person behind you, who swings a bat at your head. All goes dark, as you hear laughing.

Some humans like to believe we are separate from other animals not only through our intelligence and the strength of our weapons, but also by a sense of moral high ground. Our social bonds and restraint keeps us above the savage beasts, or so is commonly thought.

Even if one ignores the millions killed in wars and genocides, crimes like stalking, sexual predation, abduction, and murder still exist. Sciencealert.com has made a list of the Top 15 Deadliest Animals (to people), using multiple sources for the raw body count. Humans were #2, beaten only by mosquitoes.

The only animal that people can claim moral superiority over is the tiny plague-spreading vampire bug. Not a good sign. Most animals kill out of necessity of survival–hunting to avoid starvation, or protecting territory, resources, mates, offspring, and self. People can kill for any or no reason, motives that baffle psychologists to this day.

Horror with human villains combines elements from the previous ones. It puts people in the position of prey, as with monsters; and it makes it difficult for the characters and viewers to know who to trust, similar to how the unknown often tricks victims into not knowing what is real. However, in other types, the victims can take solace and refuge in each other, playing on the primal instinct of strength in numbers.

The reason why humans make frightening horror villains is because it reduces the character’s access to social protection, leaving a particular remoteness beyond regular isolation. Rather than not having your species support system at all, one of your own kind is actively trying to kill you. A complete inversion.

To say nothing of the psychological aspect, how close people actually are to throwing out social cohesion and tearing each other apart. What humans are capable of doing, as serial killers, torturers, and predators.

Many examples exist; Scream, Saw, Psycho, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Halloween, and A Clockwork Orange are all recognizable. Slasher flicks compose a great number of these, often fueled by a rather unhealthy obsession some people have with serial killers.

Given the raw number of unsolved homicides, or even inconclusive missing persons cases, this presents a scary reality. Some people likely do not want to face that, and that could turn them off from horror, whereas others may enjoy seeing the ways that writers can test the human psyche. How far can someone go, what motivates this fragment of the mind that leads to this, how credible the villain is, how the victim is tormented, or creative ways to express the dark side of humanity; all of these could be part of the appeal.

Alternately, these could be the factors that people do not want to scare themselves with, thereby killing their interest in the genre. Not naiveté per se, rather not wanting to always stay in a state of worry and pessimism. While many may not like the stress from jump scares or freaky imagery, others may not want the lingering dread such stories leave behind.

Horror, at its core, reminds people of our place in the universe. And it carries a cynical view, at that. We are helpless pickings without our technology, our intelligence is not as profound and strong-minded as we believe, our morals and social cohesion are on a precarious slope. It demonstrates that we are only human, and lays out why that is not a good thing, all the while tapping into our fight-or-flight response to hammer the lesson in.

Good horror raises questions like this, that could frighten more than in-the-moment scares ever could. Which is why I like it, in the right hands.

What are some of your favorite works of this sort? Out of the three subgenres discussed (monsters, the unknown, and humans), which do you like/dislike the most?

Tune in next week, where I will pick my favorite movies from each category and review them side-by-side.

Note: all works and characters are the property of their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, research, commentary, and or parody. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.

Last week, I introduced the October series on why horror has become a popular genre, and why people may strongly love or hate it. I described how monster movies subvert our perceived physical superiority by taking away our weapons and security, putting us in the position of prey, and demonstrating how weak we really are.

This week, I will delve into a different threat in horror that plays on another dread: fear of the unknown, and the limits of the mind.

Alone, your footsteps scrape against the carpet floor. Wind whistles through the abandoned hallway, eliciting a rusty creak from a door. But as you move further down the corridor, pulling out cobwebs as they stick to your hair, the breeze sharpens in tone. Like speaking, a wispy language you cannot understand; but your body feels it beckoning to you. Afraid, you turn to bolt down the hall, only to find metal bars behind you. Looking around, you are no longer in the corridor, but a cage. The voice echoes louder, surrounding and piercing you, until your mind burns and loses consciousness.

Humans are the most advanced known species on the planet, and our knowledge has increased exponentially with modern science and the Internet. Intelligence is our most valuable asset, without which weapons cannot be, and our problem solving abilities cease.  What we do not know, research and experimentation works to fill the gap.

However, doing a simple browser search for “Florida Man” demonstrates that intelligence has its limits, and that people are not as smart as we would care to believe. Our lack of knowledge about our own planet, from the jungles to the oceans, shows how far we have to go.

So, when we are confronted with something we cannot understand, it places pressure on us to find out. Realizing how little we actually know can be humbling and even harrowing, intensified by the presence of a threat tied to the ignorance.

Ghost stories play on this fear, as do those of demonic possession, H. P. Lovecraft, cursed objects, and madness. Something outside or even beyond our comprehesion adds a level of hopelessness.

Ghosts and other spirits play off our speculation of the afterlife; fear not only of dying, but of a miserable and stagnant existence after passing, and not knowing our fate. Demonic possession (and similar themed) provides situations where our mind is subverted and no longer our own, where our intelligence is of no help against an otherworldly force. The same applies to the godlike beings from Lovecraftian works.

Examples include The Shining, Haunting of Hill House, Bedeviled, Paranormal Activity, The Exorcist, and countless others.

Horror stories that distort the victim’s perception, where it is difficult to determine reality, serve the same purpose. They render our willpower and mental ability useless, and explore the effects of madness. Oculus and Edgar Allen Poe’s works are other excellent examples.

This type of horror shows how insignificant we are in the grand scheme of the universe, and/or how little we really know about the world. It knocks us off our pedestal by pitting us against forces greater than we are, beings we cannot fully understand. So much so, that confronting them or attempting to comprehend them induce insanity

More than mere jump scares, films of this variety play on our smallness and powerlessness. Thereby, some people may be offput by such jarring themes, detracting the genre by not wanting a reminder of our limits. Existential dread can linger in ways that immediate terror do not, as it opens the door to how easily the mind can be outdone and crushed.

Meanwhile, connoisseurs can appreciate the creative ways artists create and portray these themes and forces. A fascination with death or what lies beyond our knowledge can intrigue viewers in ways that monsters cannot. People may enjoy the reversal, as understanding the limits of the mind is the first step in improving it.

Regardless, this type of horror raises philosophical questions about our place in the world – and rarely in a positive light.

What are some of your favorite movies about the unknown? Do you like or dislike horror, and why?

Note: all works and characters are the property of their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, research, commentary, and or parody. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.