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DC recently ran a series of interviews with the creators working on titles with supernatural and/or horror themes on the official blog, the Source. Since Batwoman is dealing with the ghostly Weeping Woman in the first arc, and we’ve often described the book as a “vigilante comic with supernatural overtones,” Jim and I were fortunate enough to be included in the interviews. You can check out Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 by clicking the links.

The image reposted here is a quick preview of Issue 3, just before things get really weird. Click to enlarge.

This is one of a series of posts looking at various “monsters” in different media in an attempt to understand the monster’s role in fiction. I started by trying to establish a list of criteria for what defines a monster, and then began running various iconic monsters through that checklist. I originally posted this look at Halloween‘s Michael Myers a while back, but it was one of the posts that vanished when I updated the site last year. Given the date, I decided it should finally be resurrected. 

Just one quick note: this is based on the original Halloween rather than the Rob Zombie remake, which adds more backstory to the character and (in my opinion) defuses some of the fears listed below.

So here it goes:

1. Does Michael represent a primal or universal fear?

I’d argue that he represents several. Ultimately, Halloween is a classic cautionary tale, not far distant from stories like “Hansel and Gretel,” with Michael serving as the ultimate amorphous bogeyman (or “Shape” as he’s called in the credits). Among the fears he commands:

• Fear of Pure Evil. The personification of “pure evil” is an ancient concept found in numerous religions and mythologies, suggesting that this might be the most powerful and long-lived of all the fears that Michael represents. Through Doctor Loomis, the film is very clear on the point that Michael isn’t “damaged goods” or a product of a dysfunctional upbringing. Instead, he was simply “born evil,” a remorseless force of nature without the capacity for emotion or empathy. The fear of pure evil resonates because if anyone can be “born evil,” the audience is forced to ask: “Where am I safe? Who can be trusted? Am I innately evil? Is my neighbor? Are my kids?” These are unsettling questions, especially when we’re inundated with reports of detached and emotionless real-life sociopaths. Michael might be even more frightening for parents who both worry about their children falling victim to someone like Michael, but must also consider the possibilityof raising a child of “pure evil” who will never learn right from wrong and will always be compelled to hurt others no matter how much nurturing he receives.
• Fear of “Divine” Retribution. Nearly everyone can identify with the fear of getting caught and punished for doing something “bad.” In an America founded on Puritanical ideals, Michael and other slashers are the agents by which irresponsible teenagers are punished for committing various “sins,” with pre-marital sex being at the top of the list. Taking this reading to the extreme, Michaelcould be an incarnation of the archangel Michael, a “good” but still-terrifying Angel of Death who defeats Satan. (I’m not really arguing that director John Carpenter and co-writer Debra Hill consciously modeled Michael after an archangel; in fact, they’ve stated that thecharacteris named after and inspired by a distributor who worked with them on Assault on Precint 13. But it’s a nice coincidence, especially given that Tony Moran was allegedly cast as the “face” of The Shape because Carpenter and Hill wanted someone with an “angelic” appearance; see the wikipedia entry on Michael Myers).
• Fear of Strangers or Outcasts. Although Michael is technically “coming home” to Haddonfield, he is the ultimate stranger thanks to his inscrutable nature and lack of obvious connections to the people he menaces (at least until Halloween II establishes that Laurie is Michael’s sister). His psychological defects also make him an outcast among the “normal” people of Haddonfield. This fear is heightened because the film takes place on the one night each year when we are encouraged to visit strangers’ houses and open the door for strangers in masks.
• Fear of Human Nature. In contrast to being “born evil,” Michael could also represent a universal fear that we all possess the capacity to do evil: that something inside us will become so dark and twisted, or some event will make us snap and lose touch with any “good” inside of us, and we will do something horrific.
• Fear of the Opposite Sex. Halloween can be read as a twisted, abusive love story (see my previous post), with Michael representing a fear of teenage male sexualityand the emotional and physical dangers of a first crush.

2. Does Michael threaten, harm, or kill us?

In the original film, killing seems to be Michael’s only motivation. But, like real-life serial killers, he is not indiscriminate. His first murder victim is his sexually-active teenage sister Judith, whom he kills in an intimate way (stabbing) when she is extremely vulnerable (alone and half-naked). Years later, as an adult, all of Michael’s violent actions are in pursuit of emulating or reliving his initial murder again and again. His primary victims are young women who mirror Judith in some way. Those who don’t fit this profile are killed out of necessity: the truck driver’s murder provides Michael with a pair of coveralls to replace his hospital gown; the death of the Wallace’s family dog ensures that Michael will go undiscovered as he menaces the teenagers in the Wallace’s house; and Bob’s knifing allows Michael to impersonate the boy in order to sneak up on the nude Lynda and strangle her. Later, he basically ignores the two children Laurie is babysitting in order to pursue her instead.

3. Does Michael require heroic measures to contain, control, defeat, overcome, and/or escape?

Phyiscally, Michael seems impossible to contain. The first time we encounter the adult Michael, he is escaping from an insane asylum, and there’s the sense that he was just biding his time there until he felt compelled to kill again. Loomis has spent fifteen years trying to understand and “control” Michael through therapy, but has failed to make any progress.

Throughout the film, Michael is portrayed as essentially an unstoppable force of nature. Though he never runs, he is inescapable. He is strong enough to lift and carry his sister’s headstone and he seems oblivious to pain and immune to exhaustion. At the film’s conclusion, he is stabbed with a knitting needle, a clothes hanger, and his own knife. He is then shot six times, and falls from a second-story balcony. And still this doesn’t stop him: Michael simply gets up and walks away.

Later installments tried to provide Michael with “magical” powers and a confusing link to some sort of druidic cult, but the original Halloween constantly makes the audience question whether Michael is actually superhuman or simply so insane and driven that he has transcended normal human limitations.

 4. Is Michael uncanny in appearance or behavior?

The first time we see Michael as a child, he has a blank, emotionless stare despite the fact that he’s just committed a terrible murder. Loomis later describes him as having a “blank, pale, emotionless face and the blackest eyes; the Devil’s eyes… What was living behind that boy’s eyes was purely and simply evil.”

Michael’s mask has become a horror icon. It is simple, yet unforgettable; featureless but still totally terrifying. The mask is an extension of Michael’s human face: emotionless, inscrutable, and pale. As others have written, it is a blank slate upon which we can project any fear. Finally, it prevents any basic human interactions: we have no way to “read” Michael or glean any insight into his emotions or thoughts. When we briefly see Michael’s adult face, it is only striking in its similarities to the mask – pale, blank, emotionless. The fact that Michael is mute further increases his sense of detachment and impenetrability.

Michael’s body language is also unsettling and childlike. Most memorable is the moment after he stabs Bob, pinning the teenager to a wall: Michael cocks his head and stares at the dying boy long enough for the audience to wonder what’s going through his mind. In other scenes – notably when he sits up after being stabbed by Laurie – his movements have a mechanical, almost robotic quality.

“Challenge, Unsettle, Warn, Inspire”

As portrayed in the original Halloween, Michael Myers is one of the most memorable film monsters of the past fifty years. He has inspired a stream of imitators, including Jason Voorhees from the Friday the 13th series and to the killers in The Strangers. He is without a doubt incredibly successful as a monster (based on my criteria, anyway).

Unfortunately, the convoluted and often silly mythology created by the sequels and the backstory explored in the Rob Zombie remakes reduce Michael to a mildly frightening instrument of divine punishment, stripping away many of the other fears he originally engendered. Attempts to humanize him and the introduction of the “Cult of Thorns” as the source of his powers have diluted his characterization as”pure evil.” The forced connections between Michael and his victims, and the detailed origin provided in the remake, make him far less of a stranger to us than the people he kills and destroy any notion that he’s a twisted romantic. One could argue that the more we understand him, the more we can see how easy it is to “snap” and give in to the dark side of human nature, intensifying that fear. But few people can relate to being manipulated into killing their families by an ancient cult of druids, and this very notion takes away any sense of agency on Michael’s part. I’d also argue that the more specific Michael’s backstory, the easier it is for us to say “Oh, he’s not like me; I could never become that.”

But none of this undermines the power of the original film. So, if Michael is a “successful” monster and has fulfilled his role, how does he challenge, unsettle, warn, or inspire us? I’d argue that Michael is most successful at being “unsettling” — at the end of the first film, he’s simply gone, leaving audiences to wonder when and where he’ll strike next. But if we face the fears he represents, we do leave with a greater understanding of ourselves and the human condition:

• Michael Myers and other monsters like him are meant to warn us about the dangers of “reckless behavior,” strangers, and the opposite sex. He reminds us that the world is a dangerous place, and some things and some people are bad for us. Internalizing these fears might make us safer; but ultimately overcoming them might make life more satisfying and open us up to new experiences and people.
• Michael challenges us to think about the concept of “pure evil” and whether or not it actually exists. This might make us question our religious beliefs or take a hard look at the ways in which a society deals with its worst criminals.
• As an embodiment of the dark side of human nature, Michael forces us to look within ourselves in search of our own failings and breaking points. Doing this yields a greater understanding of ourselves, and hopefully we’re stronger from the experience.

I’m working on several pitches right now and (surprise!) more than a few deal with “monsters” in one form or another. So, with Halloween fast approaching and monsters on my mind, I thought it was a good time to revive the “What Makes a Monster” essays. This post just serves as a recap of my personal “monster criteria,” and will be followed by soon by a look at the Bride of Frankenstein (who is 75 this year!), the Iron Giant, and reposts of some essays that were lost when I updated the site last year.

A Monster…

1. Embodies Fear. A Monster is a manifestation of a primal or universal fear (and in many cases, multiple fears). This doesn’t mean that the Monster needs to be inherently evil, but the sum of all its parts digs deep into our psyches to draw out fears that can challenge, unsettle,warn, or inpsire us
2. Hurts Us. More specifically, a Monster threatens, harms, or kills us in some way. Again, this doesn’t mean that the Monster is evil, or even aware of its impact on humans, but it nonetheless has the capacity and tendency to hurt us.
3. Forces Heroics. A Monster initially seems to be beyond our ability to control or contain, and ultimately requires heroic measures to defeat, overcome, or escape.
4. Is Uncanny. Even if a naturally-occuring creature, a Monster is generally unique in appearance or behavior, setting it apart from humans and/or others of its kind. 

See Parts I, II, and III for more.

I love monsters, especially the lost, lovelorn, and lonely kind — the afflicted Wolf Man; the misguided Creature from the Black Lagoon; Frankenstein’s tragic monster; even Jeff Goldblum’s suffering Brundle-Fly… Always on the lookout for new monsters, or new takes on existing archetypes and characters, I was delighted to stumble across “The Mad Scientist’s Daughter” by Theodora Goss. Concerning a group of women with infamous fathers, it’s dark but funny, grim and sweet all at once.

(Originally posted February 10, 2009)

I’m prepping a new project and have been spending a lot of time brushing up on the Hero’s Journey — re-reading Hero with a Thousand Faces and Story, and blasting through Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey and Blake Snyder’s Save the Cat! It all got me thinking about the Monster’s role in the traditional analysis of mythic story structure and the archetypes found therein.

This post deals with arguably the most important of these archetypes: The Hero, a story’s central protagonist; a character who displays courage and the capacity for self-sacrifice; and/or the character who “changes the most” in a story. A traditional hero begins with a fatal flaw (pride, envy, immaturity, etc.), but goes on some sort of journey that leads to self-awareness, inner transformation (i.e. overcoming his flaw), and the willingness to make a meaningful sacrifice on behalf of others. Blake Snyder also stresses the importance of synthesis: the melding of the new persona with the old to overcome a story’s final obstacles.

So, are there characters in film or literature who meet the criteria for being a monster and a hero? Can a character who ”threatens, harms, or kills us” also be capable of self-sacrifice and real transformation? Here are a few possible candidates:

King Kong

I believe Kong satisfies all the monster criteria. He represents a number of Fears, including Fear of Nature, Fear of Others, and Fear of Getting Eaten Alive. And he definitely harms humans, can’t be easily contained, and is uncanny in appearance. Yet, in all three versions of the film, he risks his life to protect the heroine. His final moments can be read as both a defiant last stand and a desperate attempt to defend the girl.

But can a character with animal intelligence really transform? Can he realize that he has a fatal flaw and overcome it? You could argue that Kong falls in love, which transforms him from murderer (presumably he ate all the other girls who were sacrificed to him) into hero. But I think that’s a stretch.  

I’d argue instead that Kong is really a “catalyst hero” – a character who doesn’t change very much during the course of the story, but whose presence and sacrifice allows others to transform. I think this is best-realized in the 1976 version, which might have the most powerful ending (gasp!): When Kong puts down Dwan (Jessica Lange), she realizes that she was the only thing keeping him alive. Without her in his grip, the planes are free to open fire. She pleads with him to pick her back up, to use her to defend himself. It’s wrenching because you know that his gorilla brain just can’t comprehend that in her world, she could actually protect him. Through Kong’s tragic fate, Dwan and her lover Jack (Jeff Bridges) realize but overcome the worst in humanity – greed, ignorance, lack of respect for Mother Nature – and survive to be together.   

Brundle-Fly

Cronenberg’s remake of The Fly is simultaneously one of the most disturbing and horrific movies ever made, and a poignant love story between two incomplete people. The love story is key: it allows us to connect with Jeff Goldblum’s Seth Brundle and revel in his transformation from awkward geek to confident superhero, and then share his terror as he becomes “Brundle-Fly.” Because we recognize Brundle’s need to be loved, to impress the girl, to be right, we spend huge swaths of the moving convincing ourselves that he’ll eventually find a way to reverse his hideous metamorphosis, even after he becomes something truly monstrous. And a Monster he is: He represents Fears of Science Gone Wrong, the Body, Disease and Infection, even Aging. By the end of the film, he is intent on “merging” with Veronica (Geena Davis), even if it will kill her and the baby she carries. And he uses his acidic vomit to cripple Stathis Borans (John Getz). He’s definitely uncanny in appearance, and his superhuman strength and agility make him difficult to contain.

Outwardly, Brundle is certainly the character who transforms the most during the film, from neurotic scientist to tireless lover to decaying hunchback to giant slime-coated fly monster. But, does he exhibit a meaningful internal transformation? And does he show a capacity for sacrifice? I’d suggest that Brundle doesn’t qualify as a “hero” in the pure sense of the word because, although he does try to turn Veronica away near the mid-point of the film, he eventually goes insane and comes after her anyway. His final act – gripping Vernoica’s shotgun and pointing it as his skull – isn’t done to protect her, but is instead a plea for release. In a moment of clarity, the monster realizes that he is dying and will never become human again, so he essentially asks for assisted suicide.

Brundle may be a “tragic hero,” a hero who teaches us by his failure to change. But, I think the real heroes are actually Vernoica and her sleazy ex-boyfriend Stathis. In fact, it is Stathis who changes the most: he transforms from an inconsiderate letch to a guy willing to sacrifice himself for a woman he cares about deeply, even though he knows she doesn’t love him. While Brundle’s last act of “sacrifice” is mostly selfish, Stathis selflessly endures tremendous suffering in his attempt to protect Veronica.   

I’m still brainstorming a few other options, but what do you think? Are there characters out there – from cinema, literature, comics, whatever – that are both “monsters” and “heroes”?

(Originally Posted April 10, 2009)

I finally caught The Ruins a few weeks ago and didn’t find it particularly scary. I’ve heard the film described as “psychological horror,” but it’s really just a “Monster in the House movie.” The “house” is the titular Mayan ruin hidden in the jungle. The “monster” is a semi-sentient carnivorous vine that can mimic sounds (including a cell phone ringing and human voices) through its bizarre red flowers. The twenty-something tourists who visit the ruin are trapped atop the “house” by a group of angry locals who fear the spread of the vine.

It’s not actuallyas silly as it sounds, but still the film fails to create any suspense or fear (for me, anyway). So, what’s the problem? I don’t think it’s the protagonists, who are actually fairly engaging and even sometimes smart. The primary hero even undergoes a small bit of transformation by the film’s finale. The story structure, presumably borrowed from the novel, is competent. So, that leaves the monster. The film fails because “the Vine” doesn’t seem very monstrous.

I tried to run the Vine through the “What Makes a Monster” rules to diagnose where the film falls apart, and then use that data to suggest some changes that might have made the monster (and the movie) scarier (note that this focuses only on the film and not the novel, which I haven’t read yet).

So, here’s my blueprint for repairing The Ruins:

Focus on the Fear of Infection

The Vine could represent Fear of Mother Nature, Fear of Infection, Fear of Suffocation, or Fear of Insanity. But the most disturbing moments in the film are those that show the Vine crawling beneath a young woman’s skin. We cringe at the thought of anything “alien” getting into our bodies, and when we know something is in there, we just want it out… So we believe that the young woman would endure being cut open so that the bloody foliage can be ripped from her body, and we aren’t surprised when she begins to fear that the Vine is still inside her, perhaps even worming its way into her brain. Unfortunately, these brief moments of terror are totally diluted by sidetracks into the other fears, none of which are very well developed and take screen time away from what could have been a very insidious, skin-crawling movie. Ditching the plant’s (seeming) attempts to drive the tourists insane with its “voice,” and getting the Vine into one of the tourists earlier, having it infect more of them, and increasing the outward effects of the infection would have all made the Vine seem more focused and monstrous.

Increase the Vine’s Body Count

A monster should “threaten, harm or kill” us, but the Vine is actually the least dangerous of the film’s characters: The angry villagers and the tourists themselves do far more damage than the “monster,” who is just waiting for the trapped visitors to get hurt, die of thirst, go crazy and injure themselves and each other, or get themselves shot by the local sentries. The vine is just a scavenger — an opportunistic feeder, wrapping itself around the dead or dying, and somehow consuming them – rather than an active killer. The vine’s most aggressive act is to suffocate one of the character’s by climbing down his throat, but this victim is already at death’s door from a previous accident.

If the Vine is the Monster, it should be responsible for the majority of deaths in the film. Just adding characters probably isn’t the right move — the main characters seem compelling because they each get enough screen time — but the short prologue could have been expanded to show more (already undeveloped) characters fall victim to the monster. At one point in the film, one of the tourists throws a piece of foliage at the locals and hits a young boy, who is then gunned down by his own people when he refuses to quarantine himself on the ruin alongside the Americans. I’d suggest that the boy, fearing certain death, retreats onto the ruin and becomes another potential victim. And maybe he thinks he knows a way to safety, through the ruins…

Deliver on the Promise of the Title

If a Monster should require heroic measures to escape, defeat, or contain, then the lethargic Vine doesn’t qualify because it’s largely contained to the heart of the ruins. Unfortunately, the tourists spend the bulk of their time on the flat, barren surface of the temple, in broad daylight, where they (and we) can see the Vine coming. If the story had forced the tourists into the cramped, dark interior of the ruins – where the Vine actually lives – the creature would have seemed much more difficult to escape. In effect, this is a “Monster in the House” movie with no house – you never really buy that the heroes are trapped with the monster.

Downplay the Villagers

It’s the locals, armed with guns and bows, who keep the tourists trapped on the ruin for most of the movie. By the end of the film, we see them kill more people than the Vine itself. One of the tourists, pointing out that the villagers have salted the earth around the temple, theorizes that they are being quarantined for fear of the “infection” spreading. But, this doesn’t make any sense… If the villagers think that the tourists are infected the moment they step on the temple grounds, why not just kill them all right away? Why allow them to retreat up to the top of the ruin, where they’ll suffer for days and possibly even escape (as one eventually does)? Are they really making some sort of sacrifice to the Vine? I don’t know, because their motives are so unclear. We do know they aren’t totally evil because, at the end of the film, they put one character out of his misery before the Vine can consume him alive, so I don’t buy that they would rather let the tourists suffer atop the ruin for days rather than just kill them all outright. And if they are so afraid of the Vine, why not just torch it, burn it out of the ruin?

Removing or downplaying the role of the villagers would have made the Vine the focus and eliminated some of these questions. The Vine itself could have trapped the heroes atop or, better yet, inside the ruin. If the villagers were truly necessary to force the tourists onto the ruin in the first place, then they should have also been included to make the heroes more desperate. Take potshots, drive them inside the ruin, force them to try to find a way to escape despite the threat of the Vine…

Redesign the Vine

The Vine does not seem uncanny in appearance, nor does its appearance help to sell the primal fear of infection. The bright red flowers are an interesting feature, but when they begin “talking” at the end of the film one can’t help but think this is Audrey II’s distant relative. I would have given the Vine larged, hooked thorns — which nearly everyone can identify. Thorns can be shiver-inducing because they don’t just poke — they grab hold and dig in deeper the more you thrash about. They would hav ealso added to the “infection” theme, breaking the skin and “injecting” themselves and God’s knows what else into the heroes. Alternately (or in addition to), I would have played up the notion that the Vine actually secretes some sort of acid, which allows it to burrow into flesh (I believe this is something established in the novel, but never explored in the film).

(Originally posted September 30, 2008)

I’ve spent the last few days reviewing some of my old essays from college with the hopes of re-purposing some of them for this site. With October almost upon us, I thought it fitting to start with one on the original Halloween…

My central thesis here is that John Carpenter’s 1978 film Halloween uses cinematic techniques to portray the interaction between the repressed Laurie Strode and the psychotic Michael Myers as both a murderous stalking and an archetypal “bad boy / good girl” romance. Through use of point of view, choice dialogue, the primary concerns of the characters, and careful framing, the relationship between these two often takes on bizarre romantic overtones, while still maintaining a high level of physical threat and violence.

Let’s start with the clearly-disturbed Michael. The most common reading of Halloween argues that Michael is compelled to recreate the murder of his sister (Judith), which is carried out in the first scene of the film:

Michael kills his sister when she is half-naked, creating the sense that he is “punishing” her for her sexual activity (a theme that recurs in pretty much every other slasher movie to follows). Why he murders his sister is not entirely clear, but stabbing murders are often considered (by FBI profilers at least…) to be intimate and personal, and often crimes of passion. Perhaps the already-unstable Michael harbors incestuous (or, at least confusing) feelings towards his sister, and he is driven to kill out of jealousy or frustration. Later, Michael carves the word “sister” on his door, suggesting that his feelings towards Judith are still unresolved and he is intent on reenacting his previous crime by seeking out a surrogate victim – a new “sister” to covet and kill.

Early in the film, it seems that Michael targets Laurie as this next “sister”: he spies on her through windows while wearing a mask, as he did his real sister years before; and he first encounters her at his own house, the most logical place for any “sister” to be found. But this is where the standard reading of Halloween begins to falter. Michael has the opportunity to kill Laurie early on, but he doesn’t. Why? Perhaps because Laurie remains virginal and fully clothed throughout the film; she even wears a full length, pointedly unrevealing bathrobe after her off-screen shower. Because Laurie does not present any sexual overtones that remind him of his sister, he’s fascinated with her, but is still compelled to seek out another”sister” to kill. In this case, he chooses the more promiscuous Annie as his new “sister;” he watches her undress, and murders her before she can have sex. Later, Annie “becomes” Judith Myers when Annie’s body and Judith’s headstone are shown together.

Although Michael has seemingly murdered his “sister” again, he continues to kill. The murders of Linda and Bob can be read as: (most commonly) a continuation of the “punishment for sexual activity” theme; proof that Michael sees all half-naked women as his sister; or (perhaps most interestingly) as Michael’s first attempts at a relationship other than the warped sister-brother interaction he had with Judith, perhaps even as awkward “practice” for his eventual relationship with Laurie. In this last reading, Michael actually kills Bob in order to supplant him. Michael disguises himself as Bob, but is spurned when she turns her back on him and focuses on her phone conversation. Frustrated, Michael kills Linda, again in a very intimate fashion (this time by strangling his victim).

Immediately after strangling Linda, an emboldened Michael finally sets out after Laurie. From the outset of the film, Laurie is portrayed as lonely. In all of her relationships, Laurie is the “third wheel,” or the facilitator who enables the other characters to fulfill their desires: within the trio of friends, she is the only one without a boyfriend; and she takes on the care of the children to enable the other couples privacy for sex. References to the homecoming dance, the shame she expresses at being a virgin, and her self-deprecating humor all reinforce her loneliness.

And then, Laurie’s life is forever changed by the arrival of a mysterious stranger. Michael spies Laurie early in the film, and his fascination begins then; but the feelings become mutual the moment Laurie, the “good” school girl in class, sees Michael framed through a window, standing by his car. Although we know Michael’s past, Laurie has no idea that he is really a psychotic killer. This scene therefore becomes an ironic but powerful allusion to countless romance films (especially those of the 1950s), in which the “good girl” is drawn towards the “bad boy.” His framing and pose are all designed to suggest the standard high school dropout or rebel archetype:

• His mechanic’s jumpsuit associates him with the working class and auto shop kids (the “greasers”);
• He has his own vehicle, and a stolen one at that;
• He defies social conventions by wearing his Halloween costume during the day;
• He might be a dropout or a truant, but he’s not afraid to loiter on school grounds during school hours;
• He is strong, silent, cool, aloof, and mysterious;
• And he has an air of danger about him thanks to that creepy mask.

The “courtship” continues soon after when Laurie, Annie, and the audience see Michael standing near a large hedge, seemingly following the girls. They assume that he is a local boy trying to scare them, a form of flirting. The bold and experienced Annie playfully runs to confront the “stalker”, and while the audience feels fear and anticipation because we know that Michael is a violent murderer, Laurie only hesitates because interaction with the opposite sex makes her uncomfortable. Annie jokes that the masked man wants to ask Laurie out, and Laurie is compelled to approach the hedge, dragging us with her. When the audience and Laurie discover that no one is lurking behind the hedge, there is a sense of relief for us (because we know that a bloody encounter has been avoided) and Laurie (who believes she’s been spared an awkward social interaction with a member of the opposite sex).

The relationship intensifies when Michael seeks out Laurie later, at night, while she is baby-sitting. Now Laurie – once the third wheel – is the sole object of affection. Michael pursues her, relentlessly, while all other women are discarded, compartmentalized (as shown in his choice of hiding places for Linda’s body: a cubby-hole in a closet), or redefined (Annie becomes Judith). When he enters Tommy’s house, he completely ignores the children in his single-minded pursuit of Laurie, and he defies death and injury to be united with her.

The romantic relationship between Michael and Laurie is further developed through their cinematic similarities:

• Both are active voyeurs, paying special attention to the sexual exploits of Annie and Linda. Laurie looks out Tommy’s window repeatedly to “update” herself (and the audience) as to which lights are on, whose car is out front, etc; while Michael’s acts of voyeurism are lead-ins to murder.
• Both Michael and Laurie are continually framed in, near, and through windows. The windows become a shared forum for these two characters when Laurie sings in her bathrobe: She is positioned directly in front of a long, narrow window, but the camera does not allow the audience to see through this portal. Laurie frequently casts her eyes away from the window, heightening the sense that Michael could come through it at any moment, without warning. She croons “I wish I had you all alone,” lyrics that invite a “Just the two of us” love sentiment (another romantic cliche, in which the good girl yearns to ally with her misunderstood bad boy in order to escape from or fight against an unforgiving society). Michael does not come through at this invitation; but, when he finally does enter Tommy’s house in search of Laurie later, it is through an open window.
• During the final scene, both are seriously wounded, but neither kills the other. The fact that Laurie repeatedly turns her back on the murderer seems idiotic; but, perhaps it’s simply a reluctance to kill the only suitor she has ever known.
• One of the most striking sequences during the finale sets Michael and Laurie into mirror motions of one another: After Michael has been wounded with a hanger, Laurie collapses on the floor, emulating his prone position. Immediately after her conversation with the children, the camera frames Laurie leaning against the door frame in a sitting position; and, in the background, an out-of-focus Michael robotically rises to the same position. The mirror imaging is made complete when Laurie stands and begins to walk into the hallway, and Michael becomes her shadow as he stands and follows her. This sequence ties the two inexorably.
• The film culminates in Michael’s final attack, a weaponless assault that is shot in a tight close-up, framing their faces together. This shot is reminiscent of the standard framing commonly used to portray a passionate kiss, in which the couple is tightly bound by the frame as the man descends upon the woman, his hands usually visible on her shoulders or face. The level of violence between Michael and Laurie emulates the “bad boy/good girl” romance myths perpetuated by films of the 1950s and 60s, in which the bad boy man-handles the woman in order to achieve the kiss that they both (allegedly) desire. Here, Laurie’s reaction is, at first, violent struggle; but, towards the final moments of the shot, she flails for Michael’s mask, revealing him. Both are momentarily stunned by his sudden vulnerability – another moment reminiscent of “bad boy/good girl” romance films. But before Michael can replace his emotionless false face, he is separated from Laurie by Doctor Loomis — a mad father figure.

There is no doubt that Halloween is, first and foremost, the mother of all slasher movies, a cautionary tale about teenage freedom and sexuality. Michael Myers easily becomes an avatar for our “Fear of Divine Retribution” and “Fear of Strangers,” but the romantic undertones in the film also suggest Michael is an embodiment of our Fear of the Opposite Sex, abusive relationships, or even Fear of Being Seduced by that first crush: someone we hardly know, but whose magnetism makes us vulnerable, and who therefore has the potential to do irreparable harm.

(And yes, I know that the later films and the Rob Zombie remake all suggest that Laurie Strode is actually Michael’s sister, but the arguments here only relate to the portrayal of their relationship in the first film, before that bit of the mythology was added.)

(Originally posted July 12, 2008)

First, I want to clarify one thing: When I’m talking about “monster” here, I’m talking about the fictional archetype appearing in literature, cinema, video games, comic books, television, fairy tales and myths, works of art, etc. I am definitely not trying to define a”real-life monster.” Ted Bundy was definitely a”monster” in the generic since – he was certainly more terrifying, depraved, and destructive than many fictional monsters – but he’s not the kind I’m interested in writing about. This is important for my next line of thought, which was inspired by comments that made me start thinking about the difference between a “villain” and a “monster” (again,the fictional archetypes…). Though I believe that a monster can (and often is) a villain, and villains can sometimes be monsters, I think there is a distinction between the two and being one doesn’t ensure the other…

Because it’s easier than opening a book, I returned to Wikipedia, which defines “monster” as “any of a large number of legendary creatures which usually appear in mythology, legend, and horror fiction…” and as “a gross exception to the norms of some ecosystem… Usually characterized by an ability to destroy human life or humanity…” Wikipedia defines a “villain” as: “an ‘evil‘ character in a story, whether an historical narrative or, especially, a work of fiction. The villain usually is the bad guy, the character who fights against the hero…”

Even the most basic Freshman lit courses teach us that a villain has a very specific role infiction: to oppose the hero. A beginning screenwriting course will teach you that you need conflict to tell a good story, and the most recognizable form of conflict occurs when you have two “characters” with opposing goals – a hero and his villain. Through this conflict, we learn something about ourselves and the human condition. Given this definition, many monsters are also “villains”: Ripley’s goal is survival, but the alien wants to eat her (though I’d point out that The Company and Ash are much more sinister villains…); Reese wants to protect Sarah Connor, but the Terminator wants to kill her; Chief Brody wants to make the beaches safe, and the shark wants to eat anyone swimming in the ocean (the mayor is also a villain standing in the way of Chief Brody’s goal).

So, if a “villain” has a specific role, what is the monster’s role in fiction and art? How does it teach us something about ourselves and the human condition? Again, I’d suggest that the monster’s role is to confront us with primal and universal fears (Criteria #1 in previous posts). The most successful monster stories dig deep into our psyches to draw out fears that can challenge, unsettle,warn, or inpsire us. We are confronted by things we didn’t even know we feared (the fear that one day our kids will turn on us like they do in The Brood and Frankenstein); hard and sad truths that we will hopefully strive to overcome (we fear other races as much as the flesh-eating zombies in Night of the Living Dead); and things we should fear but don’t actually respect enough (science in Frankenstein and The Fly, or atomic power in Them!).

In this last incarnation, monsters continue to serve as powerful cautionary figures, just as they do in folk tales: don’t go into the woods alone; don’t play god; take care of the planet and don’t piss off Mother Nature; keep your hubris in check; be responsible and don’t let that Jason kid drown in the lake while you’re off having a good time; and just don’t be a jackass to your fellow man because, although bad things can happen to good people, the jackasses always get it worse in the end.

In reviewing the criteria oultined previously, I had thought to adda #4 dealing with presentation and/or appearance, something along the lines of: “Monsters are generally uncanny in appearance or behavior, setting them apart from humans and/or others of their kind.” Some of the most memorable monsters have physical traits that remind us of the fears they embody: the stitches on Frankenstein’s Monster remind us that he was pieced together from dead bodies; the Alien seems to wear his bones on the outside, resembling a skeleton and reminding us that it’s a walking death machine; Leatherface wears a bloody apron and a skin mask to remind us that we are just prey to be butchered and bled like animals, eaten, and even worn (plus, he’s deformed underthe mask). I can think of very few monsters who don’t have this trait.Even Hannibal Lecter has his creepy stare.

But, the longer these lists get, the more there is to parse… Thoughts?

(Originally posted June 9, 2008)

Adding and revising some “rules” based on comments/additional discussion:

• A Monster is a manifestation or embodiment of a primal or universal fear (or fears). See post below for more. This doesn’t mean that the monster is inherently evil.
• A Monster threatens, harms, or kills us. Again, doesn’t mean the monster is inherently evil, or even aware of their impact on humans, but has the capacity and tendency to hurt us.
• A Monster requires heroic measures to defeat, overcome, or escape. A monster initiallyseems to be beyond our ability to control or contain easily (thanks Vik!).