“If we say “art” is any piece of creative work from which an audience receives more than it gives (a liberal definition of art[...]), then I believe the artistic value the horror movie most frequently offers is its ability to form a liaison between our fantasy fears and our real fears.” - Stephen King, “Danse Macabre”

Art is, at least in part, subjective, as is one’s definition of art. At the time of publication of King’s collection of essays on the subject (Danse Macabre), horror cinema was still fairly two-sided. There were the “cheesy” old Hammer-styled films (that later developed into B-movies of the big budgeted sort) and there were the quieter films with deeper meaning or social commentary, such as George A. Romero’s “Night of the Living Dead” or John Badham’s “Deliverance”(What’s that, you say? “Deliverance” isn’t truly a horror movie? Wait for it; I shall return to this later.). Note that I’m discounting such cult classics as “I Spit On Your Grave (which may have been the first dis-member-ment shown on film),” “Maniac,” “The Toolbox Murders,” and “I Dismember Mama (a bizarre variation on Alice in Wonderland).” Although all have their place, the main objective of these films is not to horrify, but to simply shock and repulse the viewer with incredible amounts of gore; thus, these belong in their own separate category as “splatter” films. Anyway, back to art.

King’s definition may be loose, but I also believe it to be accurate, at least in part. I interpret King’s definition to mean that we consume film (and music, museums and art galleries, etc.) in order to feel something different, out of the ordinary (this, too, will be revisited later). The problem is that, by this definition alone, an argument can be made in favor of any film as being art. To keep “Buried Alive” from becoming someone’s cinematic “Mona Lisa,” an addendum is needed to our definition. (Note: “Buried Alive” is an Italian film (“Buio Omega” in its native tongue), in which several people are cut into chunks and then dissolved in a bathtub of acid. It was so gory that, upon its initial release in 1979, many people thought it was a snuff film. It remains just as convincing to this day.)

I was fortunate enough in high school to have a Regent’s English instructor who would spend time with me several times a month after class to review pieces I had written on the side. He had been a member of the Special Forces in the military (and he both looked and acted the part); thus, he was the one teacher no one would dispute. He didn’t dispense advice easily or gratuitously and so we tended to take his word as The Truth. It was at one of these meetings that I asked him about his definition of art. He had just finished reading an essay of mine entitled “Adrenaline: the Rush,” which was about a shoplifter, and was written in the first person. He held it up and answered, “This is art.” When I asked him why, he told me it had immersed him in the world I had created and made him feel uncomfortable for being there. I relay this not to seem self-important, but because I can think of no better definition for a successful horror film.

Horror, true horror, gets under our skin. It makes us wish we were somewhere else, even as we peek through our fingers so as not to miss anything. It builds slowly from a simmer to a full boil. The difference between this and splatter is that the former is all about creating a mood of fear and a sense of foreboding, while the other just wants a reason to show creative gore. Enough about splatter; let’s return to the time of Danse Macabre.

As we have already established, there was one constant about cinematic horror of the day: that each new film would be either creepy or campy. In King’s book, there is no reference to any single film that encompasses both elements. It wasn’t until after publication in 1981 that John Landis released his genre-breaking film, “An American Werewolf In London” and changed the rules for everyone.

“...Werewolf...” featured groundbreaking effects by Academy Award winner Rick Baker but, more importantly, reinvented the modern horror movie by injecting humor and a hip, classic soundtrack. For better or for worse, it directly influenced most major studio-released horror films of the 1980s. Witness several horror series as examples of this phenomenon: the “Howling,” “Friday the 13th,” and “Nightmare On Elm Street” films all started out with initial films that were creatively fresh and had thick, tense atmospheres. By the end of the decade, each series had dived fearlessly into the deep end of the comedy pool (the “Friday the 13th ” series, while not utilizing outright humor as did the “Nightmare” series, brought deeper levels of campiness (or, as I like to call it, “cheese”) with each new entry. In 1986's “Friday...Part VI” Ron Palilo, Horshack on television’s “Welcome Back Kotter,” shamelessly re-embodied his previous role; all that was missing was the raspy, donkey braying laugh.). This, I believe, had a great deal to do with the fade of horror over the next several years; there simply was nothing left to be afraid of. All the bad guys were telling jokes.

Everything Old Is New Again

So it went for the next several years. Horror films no longer made money at the box office, although the recent popularity of home video kept horror fans sated on a steady stream of direct-to-video cheese like the 400 or so “sequels” to King’s “Children of the Corn.” Then Wes Craven came along in 1996 and, as he had with “A Nightmare on Elm Street,” breathed fresh air into a long stale genre with his semi-satirical film “Scream.”

“Scream” worked because it was presented with a nod and a wink to viewers. It boldly announced all of the stereotypical rules that 1980's horror films had lived by, then cleverly had its own characters unwittingly follow those same rules in tense situations. At one point in the film, the stereotypical masked killer asks the female protagonist being stalked what she thinks of horror movies. Her answer: “What’s the point? They’re all the same, some stupid killer stalking some big-breasted girl who can’t act and is always running up the stairs when she should be running out the front door. It’s insulting.” Hey, it may be just a movie, Craven seems to be saying, but we’d all react pretty thoughtlessly if our lives were suddenly in peril.

Unfortunately, “Scream” was successful enough that two sequels were ushered into theaters, and the series sealed itself into the same cliched box with the other films it had originally satirized. Such is the mindless machina of cinematic horror: If it works once, it gets remade several times over until audiences no longer care. Thus, the 1990's became overrun with more teenagers-in-peril films such as the “I Know What You Did Last Summer” and “Urban Legend” series that were neither clever or scary. Movie-goers, once again, grew bored. Until...

NEXT: Ohmygawd...it’s...it’s...A PILE OF STONES...RUN!!!!