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“They make it look effortless.” It’s how we describe the best athletes and actors. Reading anything by Pete Dexter is at once disheartening and inspiring because he makes writing seem effortless. I first read Paris Trout nearly 20 years ago, and tonight I just finished Spooner, having read everything else Dexter in-between, and in the process becoming convinced that he’s the greatest living American novelist,  perhaps Mark Twain reincarnated somewhere in Philadelphia. Spooner feels like a continuation of Deadwood (Dexter’s Wild Bill novel) in that both are studies of complicated but understated relationships between men, poignant without being sentimental, and incredibly funny without ever becoming mean-spirited. An early passage, describing the title character’s difficult birth, which coincides with a fire at an old folks’ home across the street:

“It’s a stalemate, then, the first of thousands Spooner will negotiate with the outside world, yet even as visions of stillborn livestock and dead mares percolate like a growling stomach through the tiny band of spectators, and Dr. Woods discreetly leaves the room to refortify from the locked middle drawer of his office desk, and Lily’s sisters, who, sniffing tragedy, have assembled from as far off as Omaha, Nebraska, but are at this moment huddled together at the hallway window to have a smoke and watch for jumpers across the street, Spooner’s mother rolls out of the bed on her own and gains her feet, and in those first vertical moments, with one of her hands clutching a visitor’s chair for balance and the other covering her mouth against the possibility of unpleasant morning breath, she issues Spooner, feet first and the color of an eggplant, the umbilical cord looped around his neck, like a bare little man dropped through the gallows on his way to the next world.” 

A few months ago, I did an interview with X360 Magazine about the experience writing Star Wars: The Force Unleashed, and storytelling in games in general. The material is being used for two separate articles on scriptwriting and storytelling, but the full transcript of the interview has been posted in two parts on the X360 site. Follow the links for Part One and Part Two. Thanks to Sam Roberts for providing some great questions! 

The "goodbye kiss" between Juno and the Apprentice was one of the most difficult to write and produce.

I recently had the privilege of writing a short ”Ask the Expert” <looks over shoulder> piece for Storylink. While you’re there, be sure to read the more insightful Q&A with Simon Kinberg, screenwriter for X-Men: Last Stand, Jumper, Mr. & Mrs. Smith, and the upcoming Sherlock Holmes flick. His writing process is especially interesting, but my favorite quote covers the heart of story:

I really believe all good stories start from the same place: interesting characters in an emotionally charged situation. For me, the difference between drama and genre is this: in dramas, you have relatable characters in a relatable situation, whereas in genre films you have relatable characters in an unrelatable situation (fighting ghosts or robots or giant sharks, etc…). But you have to relate to the characters.

And then read the interview with non-stop Jimmy Palmiotti!

“It’s as simple as having a planet of fire … and you want to keep the characters from burning.”

(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 an dangerous romance and a murderous stalking. 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. A common “reading” of Halloween would argue 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 that follows). Why he murders his sister is not entirely clear, but profilers commonly theorize that a stabbing is a very intimate and personal form of murder. 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 “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 and then attempts to “court” Linda, but he is almost immediately spurned when she is framed with the phone, ignoring him. 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, in a plot development common to many romances, along comes the mysterious stranger. Michael spies Laurie early on 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 Michael 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;
• 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 common 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 onlyhesitates 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 (who know that a bloody encounter has been avoided) and Laurie (who believes she’sbeen 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, if the film is read with a dark romantic current, then her reluctance to really kill the only suitor she has known seems plausible.
• One of the most striking sequences duringthe 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 mysteriously 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 slightly 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 represents a “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.)

There’s an interview with Alex Kurtzman and Roberto Orci,  who wrote Transformers and the recent Star Trek reboot (along with a ton of other stuff), over at Storylink. One bit of advice I’d pull out and add to the techniques for unwrapping the dead fish:

Here’s one trick we use sometimes with writers block. You can get so critical of yourself, thinking you have to write the scene perfectly the first time, but actually you don’t. You are going to write it many times… Sometimes it’s a fun mental exercise when you are stuck to actually try and write the worst version of a scene you can think of. That way, it takes the critic off your shoulder and … you get something down on paper. Then you can go back and make it better and better.

(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?