Defying the King

I respect Stephen King. Really I do. His On Writing is a miracle of modern composition. He is witty and has excellent taste in pop culture. I look forward to his columns in Entertainment Weekly as much as Diablo Cody's.

And yet. King is a horror writer. His latest column was about horror movies. I have never liked horror movies. I've only seen three—Gothika when I was about twelve, which wasn't too bad; The Ring when I was thirteen, which was absolutely positively the worst experience of my life; and last Friday, The Birds, which scared me more than I thought possible.

Of Hitchcock's films I'd seen only four: North by Northwest, Rope (the best), Rear Window, and Strangers on a Train, all of which were excellent. I knew The Birds had scary potential. But I thought it'd be a more overt metaphor. Clearly Hitchcock is so subtle as to be nearly subliminal. Sure, I'm now paranoid of birds, but I'm not paranoid of... whatever it was he wanted me to be paranoid of. Other than birds. I hate birds. A lot. I used to like them. Now going outside freaks me out. You think I'm exaggerating? I probably would have been fine if it weren't for the dead bodies. I can even deal with shots of pecked, bloody legs (like Anne's). But when they panned out, that first time, and showed that body propped up against the wall with empty, bleeding sockets—well, I was gone. I was no longer at all pleased with the film I had been watching.

It had started out quite well. Witty banter. Pretty characters. A rather overt tone of looming disaster. The paranoia was going well until Lydia found the damn farmer. Now, I understand that the corpse was Hitchcock's way of saying, "Playtime's over: this is real." But that's it exactly. That is what I don't like about horror movies. There's always (as far as I know, which admittedly isn't far) a moment when they show you the consequences. Generally it's just once. The other bodies are obscured, or the affects are too gruesome to be shown without getting an R or NC-17. But my point is this: why even make a movie in which this shot is necessary? What need is there to detail a story in which a man in a masks kills people with knives? What purpose does it serve? To warn the viewers against—what?—men in masks? I know. I know. I should acknowledge the metaphor of it all. But I don't like violence. Saving Private Ryan, Apocalypse Now, even Schindler's List--those films I find acceptable. War is one thing. But serial killers are another. Do you know a veteran? Probably. Do you know a serial killer? Probably not. Yes, serial killers often lurk creepily in suburbia and may not be overtly identifiable. But if you see a mutilated corpse on the ground outside of your house, you're probably going to think "SERIAL KILLER" even if the movies haven't trained you to do so. I don't watch horror movies because I know the dangers I face living in modern society. So do all of the people who watch horror movies. They watch those films to be afraid. Which leads me to a rather obvious question: why the hell are you volunteering yourself for these movies? I don't like having the shit scared out of me. I don't like not being able to sleep without lights on. I don't like second-glancing every dark-haired, hooded man who stalks by me on campus. Yet those fears are the fears that modern media instills within us.

M. Night Shyamalan said, during a recent NPR interview, that An Inconvenient Truth was the scariest movie ever made. He has a point. But did he have to reinforce it with The Happening? According to him. Alright. I suppose horror films can sometimes get across messages to an audience that wouldn't get them otherwise. But you know what King said in his latest column? I'm paraphrasing: A masked figure stalks a young woman. The woman pleads, "Why are you doing this to us?" The figure replies, "Because you were home."

King's commentary: That's all the explanation a good horror movie needs.

No reason. No plot. No humanity. Just a rising tide of gore and terror. Just a knife caressing your soul for no reason you can see. Just fear, pain, and death, made into an art form.

I do not approve.