Wednesday, 13 August 2014

Couching at the Door

by D.K. Broster
(1942)

Liverpool-born Dorothy Kathleen Broster (1877-1950) is perhaps best known for her ‘Jacobite Trilogy’ of historical novels, The Flight of the Heron (1925), The Gleam in the North (1927) and The Dark Mile (1929). Much like Ediths Wharton and Nesbit though (more famous for works such as The Age of Innocence [1920] and The Railway Children [1905], respectively), Broster also turned her hand to writing fiction of a much darker nature, producing the bizarre collection of tales gathered together in Couching at the Door. Obscure, atmospheric, elegantly penned and seriously odd, this batch of little chillers ranges from ghost stories boasting undeniably supernatural intrusions upon vulnerable characters, to subtle, Shirley Jackson-esque studies of obsession and fraying mindsets.

Suffusing her stories with the everyday and the mundane makes them all the more effective, and at times Broster approaches what can only be described as ‘kitchen-sink Gothic.’ Her protagonists are usually artists, or spinsters with an appreciation for fine art. Time and again she reveals her characters to have fallen on hard times, whether this be financially or through ill health. This renders them more vulnerable to experiencing the supernatural, or, as the case is certainly hinted at more than once, to believe they are experiencing something supernatural because of the psychological strain they are under. Sometimes the horror is so suggestive and grounded in the psychologies of Broster’s protagonists, it eludes classification, or indeed, explanation.

One of the weirder tales is the title story, which concerns Augustine Marchant, a writer of decadent and macabre literature which calls to mind works by M. P. Shiel and Arthur Machen, who is plagued by a black-furred serpent after he dabbles in mysterious and debauched activities in a house in Prague. The title is derived from an obscure passage in Genesis within which Marchant believes he has found an answer to his plight… “And if thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? And if thou doest not well, sin coucheth (lies, waits, crouches) at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him.” When Marchant discovers how he can be free of this pest, he loses any sympathy the reader may have had for him… The sheer oddness of this story is enhanced by moments of flesh-crawling creepiness: “Wide awake in an instant, with an unspeakable anguish of premonition tearing through him, he felt, next moment, a light thud on the coverlet about the level of his knees. Something had arrived on the bed…”

The tales feature little to no violence, but when things do turn bloody, as they do in Clairvoyance, they are all the more effective because of Broster’s subtle approach. Clairvoyance tells of several well-to-do friends who gather for a séance tea-party one sunny afternoon. When a particularly sensitive member of the party becomes possessed by a former occupant of the house, the presence of an antique samurai sword in the drawing room where the séance is taking place, should leave you in no doubt as to the bloody fate of all involved… The Window, which is at times similarly gruesome, tells of a soldier who breaks into the long abandoned home of a woman he is obsessed with, in order to paint the view from the window. He becomes trapped and witnesses spectral bloodshed when the upper sash of the large window drops down on his arms. Broster works themes of destiny and sinister genealogical elements into the mix, with haunting results.

The Taste of Pomegranates is a highly unusual reworking of the myth of Persephone, featuring ‘growling, bloody-muzzled monsters’ that could be bears or troglodytes, menacing two archaeology-obsessed sisters trapped in a secluded cave. Here Broster taps into primitive fears such as the dark, or of being eaten alive, to weave a taut tale, moments of which evoke memories of The Descent, with their claustrophobic tension and subterranean terrors menacing untypical female characters.

Obsession is the main theme of The Promised Land and The Pavement – which has vague shades of the work of Arthur Machen, with its telling of an exhumed Roman villa, complete with highly curious mosaics depicting bucolic scenes and haunted maidens, and the effect they have on the elderly woman whose property they're discovered upon. The Promised Land, with its pitiful protagonist who is harassed into insanity and murder by an overbearing cousin while holidaying in Italy, recalls the obsessive and repressed female characters that walk (alone) throughout the chilling tales of Shirley Jackson. The denouement of this story is downright shocking in its simplicity.

Guilt and obsession also fuel the haunting in Juggernaut, a story that also demonstrates Broster's ability to have a little fun. The protagonist is a kindly, elderly spinster who writes macabre fiction under a pseudonym “fearing that if the vicar or some member of the Mother’s Union came upon her real name displayed upon the cover of 'The Murder Swamp', he or she might be scandalised.” Humour is also derived from her perpetual despair at the incompetency of her editor, who keeps making errors in the serialisation of her latest chiller, The Death Stairs – “the scoundrel has turned ‘the dreadful bond which linked them’ into ‘the dreadful bone which licked them.’” She may be mild-mannered, but her love of the morbid and her "chronicling of deeds of terror had never affected her appetite, nor did the ‘Things’ which in her stories walked behind her heroes on lonely moors, or waited, gorilla-like, to strangle her heroines in underground passages, ever sit beside her bed or deprive her of a single night’s rest.” She’s a strong-willed and practical character, whose encounter with a seaside haunting (which calls to mind the work of MR James) is rendered all the more creepy because of her refusal to believe it is caused by anything other than guilt and obsession. Which it might be; Broster once again wraps things up with a healthy dose of ambiguity. The way she hints at the contents of the bath-chair is highly engrossing and quietly chilling. While the ending is clearly signposted, it is no less shocking because of Broster’s matter of fact and blunt execution.

One of the most peculiar and gripping stories is The Abyss. Here, Broster really mines lore and then-popular reports of doppelgangers, to eerie effect. The dark and light aspects of a single personality appear to be separated and take physical form after a horrific car crash. One of the passengers, Daphne, is “miraculously thrown clear” as the car plunges over a ravine. So where is she? When a young woman shows up claiming to be Daphne, why are there still reported sightings of her wandering along lonely roads? Is this a ghost? By suggesting that the self is not always housed within the body or the mind, and that it can sometimes detach itself and wander off as another being or entity, Broster explores some rather haunting notions and conjures truly creepy imagery; the two women waiting on the road by the mountain ravine, for example. Is something diabolical at play? Have the minds of the characters been shattered by grief? Broster offers no comfort.

For those who like their horror ambiguous and without satisfactory resolve, this collection of short stories will really be of interest.

Saturday, 9 August 2014

Funny Games

1997/2007
Dir. Michael Haneke

A middle class family are taken hostage in their holiday home by two young men who force them to play sadistic games for their own amusement.

Throughout Funny Games, director Michael Haneke strives to reawaken and stimulate audiences who have become accustomed to stylised cinematic violence and graphic imagery. The film not only assumes the form of a devastatingly cruel home-invasion narrative, but a scathing and darkly humorous critique on violence in modern cinema. Haneke explores, in typically cold and unrelenting fashion, contemporary audiences’ craving for violence and sadistic imagery, and the role we play when watching such films, forcing us think about how we interact with screen violence. It’s an isolating yet utterly involving film.

Working as a reflexive commentary on audience expectations and violence in cinema, and an exercise in unrelenting suspense, it exhibits an acute self awareness as it keenly subverts conventional notions of film-viewing. The constant interruption of the narrative – the antagonists frequently address the audience directly - ensures that we are always aware of our role as spectators and are forced to acknowledge and ponder our desire for violence. We’re frequently jerked out of the reality of the film to ponder, as objective observers, what is unfolding on screen. Given the plight of the family at the heart of this gruesome tale though, and how we inevitably side with them, remaining objective isn’t easy. We become accomplices to these brutal crimes and are reminded that the reason the young men are torturing the family is for our entertainment. During one instance we are even asked if we have ‘had enough?’

Funny Games 1997

Funny Games 2007

Relentless in its vision of brutality, the film questions the sensibility and motive of an audience who would pay to sit through such a display of human brutality and debasement. The two captors have a seemingly altruistic urge to provide the audience with everything we have come to expect from such a film - violence - as they directly address us as active spectators throughout. This implicates and renders us complicit in the crimes depicted in the film simply because we are watching it. As sophisticated as contemporary audiences believe themselves to be, it would be easy for us to predict how this particular grisly tale will play out; we’ve become so accustomed to watching violence on screen and have even become part of the very machinery that victimises the characters that populate horror films. It is as though we were helping to orchestrate their suffering instead of just anticipating it.

Through the ‘games’ the two men subject the family to in order to ‘entertain’ the audience, Haneke sets about awakening us to the senselessness of the increasing blood-lust that audiences display. He builds tension carefully and then completely obliterates it. Everything is filmed in long, static shots that not only serve to heighten the tension, but to create a clinical detachment. By seemingly giving us what we want, he just as suddenly takes it away – highlighted in one particularly manipulative scene involving a TV and a remote control... Interestingly, some of the aspects of reflexivity evident in Funny Games not only serve to remind us of our role as detached spectators, but also act as a tool with which to actively involve us in events, making it increasingly harder to remain objective. We are reminded that the plot is structured around the intention to entertain us and that the violence inflicted upon the family in the film is therefore our fault and carried out in our name.

Funny Games 1997

Funny Games 2007

Haneke acknowledges that voyeurism is an integral aspect of watching a film, but he then undercuts what he is acknowledging by not actually showing any acts of violence. Everything is left to the imagination of the audience, again forcing us to remain active within the events depicted in the film. Consistently subverting the conventions of the genre, Haneke provides no comforting answers. This is not a film where the villains’ backgrounds become a factor. Indeed, we learn nothing about them; not even their real names. They sometimes call each other Tom and Jerry - acceptable icons of violence - and when asked why they are humiliating and abusing the family, one of them offers various reasons which could have been plucked from any other psycho-thriller flick or media headline - ‘Is this virtual Neo-Nazi the sad product of divorce? An impoverished drug addict, perhaps?’ Haneke, a former student of psychology and philosophy at the university of Vienna, likens the villains’ behaviour and methods to those of a horror film director. ‘Why don’t you just kill us right away?’ the bruised and tear-stained woman asks her tormentors. ‘Don’t forget the entertainment value’ is the cold response. Audiences today have built up an overwhelming level of tolerance for screen violence. This was one of Haneke’s prime reasons for producing the film, and indeed directing its US shot for shot remake which lost none of its intensity or intentions in the process.

Funny Games 1997

Funny Games 2007

Haneke’s film simultaneously makes us aware of our role as a film audience, whilst forcing us to analyse why we watch violent films and what that may mean. However it also, rather contrarily, forces us to accept responsibility and provocatively points a finger at our desire to watch violent imagery and the part we play in its production. This results in a highly stimulating piece of cinema that is, while thought provoking and engaging, also extraordinarily challenging, accusatory, and daunting. Funny Games gives us space to contemplate our immunity to cinematic violence and degradation, and to perhaps reflect further what this bloodlust reveals about ourselves and the society in which we live.

The Silence of Spiders

Now that I’ve reached the upload limit on my photography blog, Camera Obscure, from time to time I’ll be posting some of my photos here, beginning with these…

I crawled out, batting spiders into the shadows. I could hear a thud as they hit the floor joists, then a scuttling sound, then, worst of all, the silence of spiders. Bailey White

The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
And I have many curious things to show when you are there.

Saturday, 19 July 2014

Livid

2011
Dirs. Julien Maury and Alexandre Bustillo

With Livid, the makers of Inside, one of the most intense and shocking of a recent slew of New Wave Gallic horror films, venture down a more fantastical, though no less traumatic route for their sophomore offering.

When Lucy (Chloé Coulloud) begins training as a care worker for the elderly, she visits the imposing and isolated home of an ancient, barely alive former ballet teacher called Madame Jessel. The young woman hears rumours of forbidden treasures hidden within the house, and when she tells her boyfriend and his brother, the three decide to break in, steal the treasure, and leave town to begin anew somewhere else. Needless to say when they enter Madame Jessel’s vast and eerie abode, things don’t go according to plan, and the three find themselves at the mercy of a powerful witch with vampiric tendencies…

Maury and Bustillo’s screenplay takes time to introduce and establish the three friends. They’re from a small fishing town where young people don’t have many prospects; Lucy’s boyfriend Will (Félix Moati) reluctantly works on the fishing boats, while his brother Ben (Jérémy Kapone) works in their mother’s tavern, The Slaughtered Lamb; the first of several interesting references to other horror titles. They are bored, restless and slightly rebellious. Lucy has a strained relationship with her father, and still grieves for her mother (the ever captivating Béatrice Dalle), who took her own life, while the boys try their mother’s patience in the absence of a father-figure. The family dynamics recall various fairytales in which parents are absent or uncaring, highlighting the sense of abandonment the three friends feel, as well as enriching the film’s strange fairytale aura.



Livid is one of the most striking looking horror titles of recent years. Its commanding imagery evokes a dark, fairytale-like atmosphere, particularly the beautiful old house in a state of decay in the middle of nowhere. The images of ballerinas, graceful and haunting, not only recall the witch-infested dance academy of Dario Argento’s Suspiria, but also speak of the fragility of the body. Later, when the characters are stalked through the house by mysterious figures unknown, several are pulled inside mirrors to glimpse grotesque wonderlands before being brutally slain. Another aspect of Livid’s unique look stems from its blending of the ancient with the modern – the old hag on her deathbed using an unusual breathing apparatus; the creepy, clockwork ballerinas on pedestals in darkened rooms. As soon as the characters enter the house its like they’ve stepped back in time. Indeed, even their journey to it in the middle of the night conveys a sense of entering an otherworldly place. The Gothic imagery, such as the large cross looming up from the mist-enshrouded crossroads, and the appearance of odd ghostly lights in the forest, and the conversation about how chasing will-o'-the-wisps awakens the grim reaper, harks back to old Gothic horror films, specifically Dracula.



Like Neil Jordan’s Byzantium, Livid offers a thoroughly unique interpretation of the figure of the vampire. Jessel is revealed to be a vampiric witch who feeds on the young who intrude upon her domain. She has minions collecting blood for her; indeed, the various posters of missing children seen around town hints at just how long this has been going on. Her ballerina daughter is also a creature of the night, though a strangely tragic one, who in life was unable to understand or quell her blood-thirst. In death she is immortalised in the form of a music-box ballerina, doomed to forever turn on her pedestal when wound-up. The image of Jessel lying comatose upon her bed is an unnerving one, and Maury and Bustillo dip into Freudian notions of the uncanny as they wring out every drop of tension from these moments. It seems that at any moment the old hag will open piercing eyes and set about shedding blood.

One of the most exciting moments comes when Livid references Dario Argento’s Suspiria, not only with the central presence of an ancient evil witch (who in life was a ballet teacher) preying upon the young who venture into her domain, but with a glimpse of a certificate indicating Madame Jessel attended the Tanzakademie in Freiburg – the dance school in which Suspiria was set. Livid can arguably be viewed as a spin-off of Argento’s Three Mothers films, enriching that series’ particular mythology. With its profane and dark occult practices, the staff at Tanzakademie could have revealed dark secrets and powers to many of its students, including Madame Jessel, who after graduating, continued to practice wicked and bloody principles. Maybe Jessel was even taught by Mater Suspiriorum herself. Jessel was a formidable ballet teacher in her younger days and her home, like the abodes of the Three Mothers, conceals macabre secrets.


The cheeky reference to Halloween III may initially appear as a mere tribute to a favourite film of the directors, but it’s actually quite a precise reference that enhances the themes of Livid. Halloween III may be the odd man out when it comes to that particular film series, with its plot involving a crazed toymaker who, using ancient druidic magic, attempts to restore the original sacrificial aspects of the season – long ago called Samhain – but with its creepy mysticism and central theme of the destruction of youth, it shares more in common with Livid than you’d initially think. An American Werewolf in London is also referenced, first through a glimpse of a pub sign, then with its ideas of straying from the path and into primal and chaotic places, and later through several characters’ painful transformations into bestial, primal things with a ravenous thirst for blood.



These references to other horror titles not only betray the directors’ love of the genre, and widen the self-contained mythology – particularly the references to Suspiria – but also help bolster the subtext. One of the most prominent themes of Livid is the corruption and destruction of youth, with the old feeding off the young, figuratively and indeed literally. This is aptly conveyed through Lucy’s profession as a care worker and the character of Mrs. Wilson (Catherine Jacob), who has spent much of her life in the charge of Madame Jessel and the other elderly patients she must sacrifice her time for. She has grown jaded and detached, bitter even. When Lucy sees her she catches a glimpse of what her own future in this tiring, thankless profession might bring.

Livid’s ambiguous ending, with its images of butterflies and ideas of rebirth and reincarnation, may be a little fanciful for some, but it wields power with its tragic reveal. Lucy’s uncanny understanding of Jessel’s daughter’s plight, mirroring her own in many ways, informs her bid to escape this world with its responsibilities and burdens. She witnesses untold beauty and wonder before death, and indeed, in death.


As a side note, should the oft-touted remake of Suspiria ever get off the ground, Maury et Bustillo should really be in the running to direct it. With its astonishingly beautiful imagery, plethora of unusual ideas and concepts, ferocious violence, dark fairytale atmosphere, and its knack for twisting and doing interesting and unexpected things with the vampire genre, Livid is a truly unique and fascinating horror film that, while sometimes feeling fragmented and never the sum of its many wonderful parts, is a truly unforgettable film.

Wednesday, 2 July 2014

Inch Abbey

While staying with friends in Ballykinler, County Down, last weekend, I paid a visit to the ruins of Inch Abbey outside Downpatrick. Looming out of a hollow betwixt two drumlins (from the Irish 'droimnín', meaning 'little ridge') on the north bank of the River Quoile, Inch Abbey was founded by John de Courcy in 1180. De Courcy was an Anglo-Norman knight who invaded Ireland in 1176. During his conquest he destroyed Erenagah Abbey, and in an attempt to atone for this act, he established Inch Abbey on the same site. The site on which Erenagah Abbey stood, and where the ruins of Inch Abbey still stand, was originally an island in the Quoile marshes, and was plundered by the Vikings in 1002 and 1149. Inch is the Anglicised word for 'inish', meaning 'island.'

The layout of Inch Abbey is in the shape of a cruciform and the east wing, still standing today, features striking examples of early Gothic architecture - particularly the arched windows. Inch Abbey was inhabited by monks who came to Ireland from Furness Abbey in Lancashire, and they enforced strict laws that actually forbade the Irish from entering the abbey; in 1318 the monks were allegedly accused of hunting local people with spears in an attempt to keep them from straying too close to the Abbey.

Throughout the years there have been stories of odd occurrences around the Abbey, and many locals believe it is haunted. Spectral monks have been glimpsed in the mist as it rises over the banks of the river. It is thought there was once a causeway across the river, linking Inch Abbey to the Mound of Down, and there are various accounts from locals of shadowy figures seen moving in the mists offshore, as though walking on the surface of the dark water…















A View from a Hill: Down Cathedral as seen from Inch Abbey

The Parish Graveyard by Inch Abbey

In more recent times the Abbey and parts of the surrounding area have been featured as locations in Game of Thrones; most notably in series one and two when it provided the backdrop for ‘The Twins’, Walder Frey’s castles in the Riverlands. It is here that Lady Catelyn Stark learns of the execution of her husband Eddard and vows revenge...



While exploring the ruins, my friends and I encountered a local man walking his dog. He took pleasure in telling us about the time he was walking around the ruins in the ‘wee hours’ (very early morning, just after midnight) and came upon a child’s doll. As a joke he hid it in one of the windows of the tower but was chilled to the bone when, returning to the ruins the following night, he noticed the doll had moved and was now peering out of the window at him… He added that while he didn’t believe in spirits, spectres, fairies or 'little men', the place holds something of a creepy reputation amongst those who live nearby, and people avoid it after dark.

Tuesday, 24 June 2014

Camp Dread

In a desperate attempt to reboot his flailing slasher movie franchise, a shady film director gathers a group of troubled young adults to participate in a reality TV show at an isolated and long abandoned summer camp.

Inane dialogue, tensionless murders and convoluted plot twists ensue...

Head over to Exquisite Terror to read my full review.

While you're there, why not pre-order a copy of Exquisite Terror issue 4? Inside you'll find essays and articles on the likes of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, Jim Van Bebber, Berlin’s newest horror production outfit, The Silence of the Lambs, and my own essay on the folkloric and literary heritage of Count Dracula.

All for only £1.50. 

Saturday, 21 June 2014

Exquisite Terror 4

Exquisite Terror is an independently produced periodical, the intention of which is to take a more academic, analytical approach to the genre of horror. Exquisite Terror 4 has been quite a while in the making, thanks mainly to the burglars who broke into our editor’s home and, amongst other things, made off with the laptop that contained a pretty much ready-to-go issue 4. This meant that the issue had to be completely started from scratch. A true labour of love, indeed.

The saying that all good things come to those who wait must be true, because lo, Exquisite Terror 4 is finally in the bag and available to pre-order. And it’s really been worth the wait…

Now featuring even more content than before, inside you'll find in-depth essays and articles on the likes of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, Jim Van Bebber, Berlin’s newest horror production outfit, an examination of The Silence of the Lambs from page to screen, my own essay on the folkloric, literary, and cinematic representations of Count Dracula, exclusive hand-drawn artwork by the likes of Caroline Ryder and Leonardo Gonzalez, and much, much more. All for only £1.50. Click here to pre-order your copy today. 

Print isn't dead – please support independent publishing.

For international sales, please contact info@exquisiteterror.com prior to order.

"Exquisite Terror is something rather different… genre fans looking for interesting, sometimes provocative features on the fringe elements of the genre will find much to enjoy here." Strange Things Are Happening

"An academic look at the filmic horror genre incorporating unique artwork and photography alongside often thought-provoking writing. They say the best things come in small packages… Exquisite Terror proves that rule. If you haven't yet dipped your toe into Exquisite Terror's murky waters then I advise you to do so today." Cyberschizoid

Meanwhile, to whet your appetite, here's a sneak peek at some of the beautiful artwork lurking within this issue's pages...

"Buffalo Bill" by Caroline Ryder

"Nosferatu III" by Leonardo Gonzalez

Saturday, 14 June 2014

Audiodrome #22: Ravenous

Released in 1999, Antonia Bird’s gruesome, satirical horror-comedy Ravenous tells of a group of soldiers descending into a nightmare of murder and cannibalism while snowed in at an isolated fort in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Referencing the plight of the infamous Donner party, aspects of Native American folklore, specifically the figure of the Wendigo, and the weird tales of Algernon Blackwood, Ravenous was initially criticised for its ‘uneven’ tone, but has since garnered a cult following. Owing to its reputation as a horror oddity is its rich and unusual score, born from the inspired pairing of minimalist classical composer and ethnomusicologist Michael Nyman, and Damon Albarn, front-man of experimental British indie bands Blur and Gorillaz.

To celebrate Scream Factory’s recent release of the film on Blu-ray, and because it’s just an incredible score, Matthew Monagle and I have written separate pieces on it; Matthew ponders Damon Albarn’s contributions and how the score can be seen as a bridge between Blur and the later experimental sounds of Gorillaz, while I contemplate Nyman’s more classical contributions, which draw inspiration from American composers such as Aaron Copland and John Cage.

Head over to Paracinema to read ‘em. Matthew's is here, and mine is here.

You can read Matthew’s other Paracinema articles and reviews here. Follow him on Twitter, too. He tweets about cool stuff.