PREFACE: As with most things I will post on this blog, I began writing this piece without truly knowing where my thoughts would lead me. Thus, the occasional incoherence is symptomatic of this more or less free-form essay.

There is a new cycle of horror cinema that deserves critical attention: what I have decided to unimaginatively call the New American Horror Film. This statement is at least partially ironic. I share little love for this trend, as it has systematically assaulted the American horror film with a suspicious stylistic convergence that blends various articulations of realism with what I suppose we could call ‘traditional formalism’. In other words, although the ambiguous rationale of this new trend may not pass this writer’s contention of what constitutes an effective or even serviceable horror film, there is nonetheless many fascinating aspects about this new, ostensibly undefined trend in horror cinema.

By the “New American Horror Film,” I am of course referring to films such as Sinister, Insidious (and its sequel) and The Conjuring. I would also like subsume last year’s Silent House in this category, although contextually the premise of that bizarre and mostly unsuccessful experiment in cinematic realism was conceived outside of the American film industry.[1] Regardless, these four films typify this new trend of realism and explicit fiction that, for me, seems to establish itself outside of the postmodern horror cycle by recycling its primary feature – the first person narrative. Despite this, the New American Horror Film is not at all anti-postmodern, but in fact re-articulates the same ideological stance that the postmodern horror cycle took on the issue of spectatorship. But perhaps the biggest difference between the postmodern cycle and this new as-of-yet unspecified cycle seems to be the use of realism not as artifice but as something...different.

Allow me to unpack what I have just stated. The postmodern horror cycle irrupted on screens in the 1990s. Most scholars on the subject corroborate that Scream serves as the genesis of the postmodern trend. However, I would like to emphasize the role that films such as The Blair Witch Project played in this cycle, particularly how its aesthetical and industrial declaration of realism engendered a precarious anxiety as to the project’s ontological status. The realism suggested by the conceptual contours of the found footage form was destabilizing enough; the use of ancillary texts like websites proved to be even more provocative.[2] Regardless, I discuss The Blair Witch Project here because it essentially popularised the found footage form of horror cinema.[3] Thus, we can posit the horror-mock-documentary (my preferable term for this subgenre) as exemplifying the late period of the postmodern horror cycle.

For this writer, the defining characteristic of the late postmodern horror cycle is the use of realism as artifice. While other ‘found footage’ horror films have unsuccessfully emulated the style that made The Blair Witch Project such a great piece of horror filmmaking, they nonetheless demonstrate the postmodern horror film’s endless flirtation with the eulogy. In this sense, the horror film’s trajectory was ending. The horror genre reached an apex, and that apex was this eulogistic realism.[4]

This new American horror cycle emerges at this juncture. I cannot specify the exact film where this trend (or ‘blend’, I should say) first emerged, but it is clear at the very least that we are now entering – or have already entered – a new phase of the horror genre.

Three of the films I mentioned earlier when I attempted to define this trend were directed by James Wan. Wan has become something of an auteur-de-force (pardon the pun) in horror cinema. His Saw epitomized and perhaps even popularised the torture porn subgenre in North America. His next two films, one of which I have not seen, was significantly weaker and more or less forgettable.[5] His next three films after that are of particular interest. I do not recall much about Insidious. I recall it being a rather goofy take. At the very least, it was nice to receive some insight on what Carol Anne Freeling might have seen when she was sucked into the possessed television set in Poltergeist. I will however discuss its sequel, which I have just seen, as I feel it merits significant critical attention.

Perhaps more relevant is Sinister, a film that shares a similar atmospheric build-up to James Wan’s more paranormally-inclined films. In this film, Ethan Hawke finds a box of old Super8 films that evince gruesome murders.[6] The first person ‘shot’ only articulates realism within the diegesis. The footage, then, does not necessarily constitute artifice to the audience. Sinister nonetheless relies on the ‘realism’ of this footage to elicit the internal horror of its contents. As a spectator, I was drawn to the Super8 footage, despite its fictional proclivity, because of this sense of realism. One might argue that the Ethan Hawke character’s fascination with the footage emulates our own obsession with violent, disturbing imagery. In this sense, the subtext of the film is not entirely different than that of The Blair Witch Project or Grave Encounters. It’s a strange of mutation of postmodernism that nonetheless proves that the early eulogy was unsolicited.

If Sinister’s blending of realism and explicit fiction is too noticeable, than the more recent films The Conjuring and Insidious: Chapter 2 propose a more experimental vacillation between the two. The Conjuring is anachronistic in this sense. The film takes place in 1971, and thus the documentary footage shown at the beginning of the film (which is situated diegetically) should appear imperfect. However, the ‘film footage’ is indistinguishable from the average digital shot. This speaks to the clumsiness of the blending of realism and fiction in The Conjuring. Again, the footage here operates as a commentary on the passive, uncritical viewer.[7] Following the fascinating film of the Warrens’ paranormal investigations, the entire audience raises their hands. My memory of this scene is hazy, but I do not recall any questions regarding the film’s authenticity. I invite you to correct me if I’m mistaken here.

I would now like to move on to the most fascinating text I’ve encountered in this cycle thus far: Insidious Chapter 2. This film perhaps most explicitly blends realism with traditional formalism. It so frequently oscillates between the two styles that, even in scenes where there are digital cameras present, it is difficult to determine which of the two it is trying to emulate.[8] For the record, there are shots that are clearly produced from the diegetic cameras. However, when all characters are in view, the cinematography retains the frantic, uncontrolled style that is often associated with cinema verité.

Indeed, the film’s editing also reflects a kind of realism, although it is much different than what is evoked through cinematography. The editing is also frantic and often discontinuous. Discontinuity editing is positioned as the counter-hegemony of editing practices, often used by the likes of Jean-Luc Godard. This is where my admittedly preliminary argument takes a turn on the subjective – or subjectively experiential – side of things. In conjunction with the cinema verité style shots, the discontinuity editing seems to imply or evoke symmetry with documentary aesthetic. In other words (and this occurred to me while watching this film only a few hours ago), the film is trying to emulate the paranormal investigation show. It remains to be seen whether or not this experiment in oscillating between composed, statically framed shots and frantic, uncontrollable pseudo-documentary shots suggests anything profound beyond inaugurating a new trend in horror cinema. At this juncture, I’m not so sure it is a new trend inasmuch as it is a mutation of the already established postmodern horror cycle.

I suppose that’s an entirely different kind of ‘anxiety’.

Postscript: I have not discussed “Silent House,” but I feel that its industrial context complicates what I’ve written here and also universalizes this trend outside of the North American horror film. As you can see, I’m already moving away from what I’ve written here. Ah well, food for thought!

---

[1] The film is a remake of a Uruguayan horror film released in 2010. The original was also falsely marketed under the single shot novelty.

[2] My current research has brought to light the simultaneous independence and unification of the so-called paratexts that make up The Blair Witch Project. Paradoxically, these ‘paratexts’ – such as the website, the book A Dossier, or the televised mock-documentary The Curse of the Blair Witch – may operate under the guise of paratexts, but rather than merely supplying information about the film (i.e. plot synopses, etc.), these texts exist to expand and further the narrative. In this sense, these texts that supply information can act independent of the central film but are also crucial to the overall experience of The Blair Witch Project.

[3] The term ‘found footage’ is problematic in this context. The underlying assumption of this term necessitates that the exhibited footage would have to have been lost at some point. Despite this nomenclatural issue, the ‘found footage’ term has crept its way into the cinematic vernacular. No amount of my academic diarrhoea can mitigate that.

[4] In this sense, not only did the postmodern horror film eulogize the horror genre, it also eulogized itself! The meager efforts of no-trick-pony Oren Peli particularized the industry’s cynecism. The studio behind Paranormal Activity removed the crucial experiential aspect of The Blair Witch Project.  But I suppose you can’t emulate the same hoax twice.

[5] I’m referring to Dead Silence.

[6] As opposed to the non-gruesome variety of murder.

[7] This is the films’ position; not mine.

[8] I would like to argue that this is implicitly remarking on the anxieties stemming from the digitalized image’s disruption of photography’s perceived indexicality. But I would like to cogitate on this notion a bit more.

Blue is the Warmest Color, some notes

Fatigue prohibits a structured and coherent piece. This goes nowhere and says nothing.

• Over the course of its three languid hours, Blue is the Warmest Color traces its main personage from emotional isolation to the comfort of carnality, and then back to emotional isolation. At first, Adèle finds comfort in the company of Emma, and as a result, the colour blue is associated with happiness and love – warmth, if you will. By the end, and as in most modern romances of Blue’s variety (Take This Waltz, Blue Valentine), the relationship quickly dematerializes and suddenly, blue takes on a completely different meaning; it normalizes and returns back to its usual – if arbitrary – melancholic signification. As Adèle’s materially appropriates this colour (clothes, surroundings, etc.), she becomes entrenched in this watery shade of sadness and self-pity.
• It is curious to me that Blue is the Warmest Color, in a welcomed paradigm shift from the salient politics of queer cinema, attempts – and succeeds – to interrogate the anxieties facing the homosexual on a individual level rather than attempting to politicize them. Films such asWeekend (Andrew Haigh, 2011) exist as a form of the manifesto. Forwarding the politics of homosexuality through verbal arguments is, for me, extrinsic to what should be the inherent nature of the queer cinema – to evince and naturalize homosexuality. Blue is the Warmest Color, with a few minor exceptions, avoids politics. Carnality is central to the film, and queer sex is formalized with a desirous aggression that elicits an animalistic performance that naturalizes homosexuality through this primitive act.. 
• These sexual acts of aggression seem to be cathartic for the homosexual in cinema. In other words, loneliness is the impetus for sexual aggression. The queer film invariably opens with a character that is lonely, distraught, closeted, and occasionally asocial. They seek an end to sexual repression. In this sense, Russell from Weekend and Adèle only differ ideologically; Russell’s inertia requires privacy, while Adèle necessitates emotional dependency. 
• These feelings of isolation are perhaps the greatest visual tool at queer cinema’s disposal. Blue’s evocative sense of isolation underscores the character’s subjectivity. In fairness, we have all been in a situation where romance contours us, only for it to reaffirm its absence from our own lives. I sympathize with Adèle, but she is hardly alone in her struggle. Loneliness is ubiquitous. 

E. Elias Merhige’s Begotten (1990) opens with a preface that evokes the absence of meaning of past discourse in the immediacy of the present.[1] These words, however esoteric, express the aesthetical theme of reincarnation. Primarily, this theme is evinced through the decayed and ambiguous ontological status of the image. Indeed, Merhige’s Begotten is notable for its challenging cinematography that obscures the events on-screen. Through this ambiguous ontology, and in conjunction with its own implicit theme of reincarnation, Begotten formally reproduces the physical and cultural effects of time on discourse. Furthermore, due to the ambiguous nature of the text, phenomenological responses to the film are conducive towards understanding the effects of its ontology on spectators.

Aesthetically, Merhige has described Begotten as a “Rorschach test for the eyes.”[2] Such a statement elicits a preference for subjective responses over a single meaning. As such, a recurring attribute in the film is ambiguity, a tendency that permeates the cinematic avant-garde. David Bordwell, in particular, argues that ambiguity is one of the principle elements that differentiate the art film from other types of cinema.[3] He argues that ambiguity in the art film typically involves a lack of character or narrative motivation, which can be read as either an appeal to realism (in Bordwell’s terms, “things happen that way in real life”) or as symbolism.[4] Problematically, Bordwell’s argument involves purely structural and narrative ambiguity.[5] While the ambiguity present in Begotten can be interpreted from a structural and/or narrative viewpoint, it is important to consider the ambiguous implications of its aesthetic.

In particular, the diluted black and white cinematography is inimical to the spectator. Rather than developing a clear and indiscreet image, the look of the film obfuscates the gory details of the mise-en-scene. For instance, Julie Hindman writes:

“The stark black and white forms that are often unclear give the film an abstract quality. … [T]he viewer can’t clearly make out what is going on visually but can still get a basic sense of what is happening. Many of the images that flash before your eyes are depictions of torture and suffering with periods of rest and peace that create a heightened sense of contrast.”[6]

Therefore, because the film exists at the generic and stylistic intersection of experimental and horror, it presumably intends to provoke and engender fear and confusion amongst spectators. In the first sequence, an unnamed deity[7] commits suicide in a disturbingly violent manner. The viewer is aware that violence is occurring and disturbing imagery is present on-screen.[8] However, the decayed appearance of the image obfuscates, to a degree, the event evinced on-screen. Overall, Merhige’s description of the film as a “Rorschach test for the eyes” elicits the subjective construction and comprehension of the film text. In other words, the exact symbolic meaning ofBegotten is not homogeneous, but is rather the product of various subjective responses constructed by individual psychological parameters.

Concomitant with this phenomenology is the use of obfuscated image quality to visualize the disintegration of meaning over time. As suggested by the preface, the original purpose of an image or text or photograph is ephemeral: its original meaning is lost in the present. Decayed by time and trivialized by the context of the present, these records are no longer mere visualizations or personal memories; they are now archival in nature. Inasmuch as they serve new purposes, their original function is no longer immediately apparent. Subsequently, they are given new purpose and meaning in the present. Such is the case in Begotten, where the death of Gods generates new life in several acts of reincarnation.

In the film, the interrelation of temporality and image is discursive. Particularly, the internal theme of reincarnation and the external quality of the image have filmic functions that are related to the effect of time on discourse. This presence of the theme is two-fold: firstly, it is present in the cyclical narrative structure. Each successive act follows a pattern that is similar to the one inaugurated by the “God Killing Himself.” That is, each act uses the death of deities as the impetus for the creation of new life. In the first act, the “God Killing Himself” gives birth to Mother Earth, who then uses the dead God’s semen to impregnate herself. In the second act, following his death at the hands of the nomads, the Son of Earth is reincarnated as “Flesh on Bone.” In the third act, the dying bodies of Mother Earth and Flesh on Bone produce new life in the form of flowers. Therefore, each act transfigures an instance (or instances) of death into an instance of new life.

Secondly, the image quality formally reproduces the effects of time on past discourse. In particular, Merhige achieved the distinct appearance of Begotten through a process of re-photographing the film numerous times. In correspondence with the theme of reincarnation, this process suggests a filmic reincarnation. Alternatively, to appropriate Merhige’s own terms, albeit in a different context, “the film is giving birth to itself, constantly metamorphosing.”[9] [10] The experimental process of re-photographing the image is, then, a direct formalistic reproduction of the film’s implicit themes.

However, this aesthetic also has important cultural and phenomenological implications. Importantly, Merhige has also discussed the temporal implications of the film’s processing, suggesting that:

“I wanted Begotten to look, not as if it were from the twenties, not even as if it were from the nineteenth century, but as if it were from the time of Christ, as if it were a cinematic Dead Sea Scroll that had been buried in the sands, a remnant of a culture with customs and rites that no longer apply to this culture, yet are somewhere underneath it, under the surface of what we call ‘reality’.”[11]

The appearance of the image as a cinematic artifact resonates with the culture and the audience, in ambiguous terms. Evidently, Begotten is a text from its present (1990) intending to appear as a text from the distant past. Thus, the film is not only a “Rorschach test for the eyes,” but is also a Rorschach test for present culture. For instance, the diversity of spectatorial reactions reflects the cultural inability to understand the original meaning of images. The cultural inability to decipher its codes, meaning, and context suggest the film’s experimental tendency reaches further than that of a mere text. It expands beyond the text, commenting on the absence of our ability to access its original meaning in the present culture.

Therefore, the film is a textual emulation of the ravages of time. Subsequently, it also demonstrates the effects of time on archaic discourse. As an experimental film, Begotten transcends the usual properties of cinematic codes and narratives. The nebulous quality of the film’s ontological status is a result of the ambiguous proclivities in art cinema and the avant-garde. As such, the film engenders a variety of different subjective responses that are determined by personal psychological parameters and cultural norms. In conjunction with its aesthetic, Begottenpresumably seeks to reproduce how the present reacts to the past. The ambiguity present in the austere appearance of the image in Begotten is, then, a deliberate reflection on the temporal mitigation of meaning on past discourse.

---

[1] “Language bearers. Photographers. Diary makers. You with your memory are dead, frozen. Lost in a present that never stops passing. Here lives the incantation of matter. A language forever. Like a flame burning away the darkness. Life is flesh and bone convulsing above the ground.”

[2] Julie Lynn Hindman, “Shadows of a Memory” (Master’s Thesis, Louisiana State University, 2007).

[3] David Bordwell, “The Art Cinema as a Mode of Practice,” in Film Theory & Criticism, eds. Leo Braudy & Marshall Cohen (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009): 654-655

[4] Ibid.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Ibid.

[7] The character is listed in the end credits as “God Killing Himself.”

[8] Ibid.

[9] Scott MacDonald, “Elias Merhige,” in A Critical Cinema 3: Interviews with Independent Filmmakers (California: University of California Press, 1998), 291

[10] “I’ve always felt very strongly that the film is alive, organic. I’ve seen it over and over again, and discover different things all the time. It’s as if the film is constantly giving birth to itself, constantly metamorphosing.”

[11] MacDonald, A Critical Cinema 3: Interviews with Independent Filmmakers, 288.