By Jasper Oliver, 08-08-09

Hollywood in general, and horror in particular, have long been indicted by cultural analysts and civil activists for a voracious un-originality in execution. The former diagnose a narcoleptic inability on the part of the story weavers to awaken from recycled plot structures, and the latter call foul on any damnable stereotype lazily iterated for the umpteenth instance in the crafting of characters. Both points are valid to a degree. The truly original horror house is no sooner built than it’s blueprint is stolen. And the occurrences of typecasting and (just as insidious) typewriting still occur all the time. Just ask any Middle Eastern actor in the business today trying to get a part other than the evil terrorist, or any dwarf who landed a big role recently that didn’t somehow ridicule their stature (You can’t fool me Hollywood, I saw both Watchmen and Star Trek this summer). The evidence of both cases is infinite in our genre, so let’s look at one example in particular: the homicidal hillbilly film (or, as we lovers of stupid puns like it, the killbilly film [You are a genius, Oliver!]).

Stories of carnal country kin folk go all the way back to ancient tales & folk lore, rooted as they are in our residual fears of isolation, nature, and a paranoid mistrust of the citizens who dwell in such lonesome terrains. And truth be told, film has relayed the plight of decent “civilized” persons whose sanity, lives, and bodily vessels are torn asunder by the “backwards” inhabitants of the rural south since it’s beginning. However, this unique brand of terror did not find it’s full expression until Tobe Hooper arrived onto the scene with The Texas Chainsaw Massacre in 1974. The political climate was right, the world was so immersed in the “moral schizophrenia” described by scribe Kim Henkel that it was ripe for satire of the blackest variety. The ingredients were deftly poured together: take the mistrust of an older generation dwelling in Midwestern Americana who could endorse such heinous conflicts as the Vietnam War while be-moaning the loss of family values, add some brutal (though mostly suggestive) violence, throw in some Lovecraftian cosmic terror, three cups comedy, and a heaping helping of the cruelty of fairy tales, mix well, and savor when done. The result of course being that one of the most frighteningly original (and most frightening) pictures of all time was created. So, it follows that in no time ‘t’all the film had spawned three sequels, a remake, a prequel for the remake and countless other chainsaw imitators whose potency was progressively weakened by repetition. Or worse, like the drug addict’s subsequent hits of heroin, the dosage increased to dangerous proportions until the horror was all but stripped and what remained was nothing but disturbing, pathetic, self-aware, post-modern cruelty. i.e. The dream life of Rob Zombie. And all in the name of turning a buck.

And yet…

And yet more so than any other genre of film, horror exists as it always has on the fringes of popular culture. The majority of indie films made every year seem to be horror pictures, and horror is the most represented genre to achieve cult classic status. So why is it then that we are not seeing more progressive indie horror films flooding the market? I expect nothing from the likes of Orphan, the latest killer kid krapfest from Warner Bros., however I cringe a bit each time a studio like Troma, that touts it’s banner of independence as often as it can and calls its films “the wave of the future” resorts to shit humor, and misogyny. (I like projectile feces and bare titties as much as the next guy, I’m just sayin’). If, as Martin Esslin claims in “Theatre of the Absurd” (and I’m paraphrasing here) that the avant garde always informs the popular, why is it that the roles seem reversed in contemporary horror? Why does the popular inform the fringe? As in the case of Shaun of the Dead, and the tidal wave of painful zombie comedies (zombidies) that followed in its wake. Is it endemic to our times? Or is the expectation for more frequent originality an unfair one?

Perhaps horror, wrought as it is with our fears of the unknown, unfamiliar and alien, will always be somewhat formulaic? Perhaps the intended effect is so visceral that it can’t help but stray into stereotype? This may be so in practice, but seems not to be the case ideally, and there are clear examples of successful horror films that stray from convention (the work of David Lynch comes to mind). Maybe the case is that film itself is the popular entertainment, and even the most shot in your backyard, independent, shoe-string movie reflects this popular aesthetic and is therefore inherently resistant to experimentation and novelty. No matter what the reason is, horror seems to be most imaginative (if at all) in its content, and least imaginative in terms of its form. Politically, and culturally, it also seems to be conservative to the point of tedium. Yet there exist certain B-movies that make up for this lack of originality, at least in their ridiculousnes.

And I suppose that’s precisely what fascinates us about B-movies. They don’t work, and in their striving to follow both a novelty in content and a conventionality in old notions of entertainment they create something that, if not wholly new, at least resembles newness. They become perfect party films, and capsules of flawed humanity. Ed Wood therefore is championed almost as much as his hero Orson Wells, despite his near total lack of talent. And it’s fun, but is it enough? Is it art? Is it even entertainment? Or are we simply lured into an entertained frame of mind due to the opiates and potables we ingest to compliment the films? Of course, I’d still encourage any filmmaker or artist of any sort to push for new conventions, to have a point and try it out. But at the end of the day I know I’ll settle for whatever’s the most ludicrous. Maybe it all goes back to our attraction to the train wreck. Horror, my beloved genre, this is what you have become.