Mark of Cain

I am far from impressed with this deal that we've been handed in the 21st century. Sure, I could wear a silver jumpsuit and coif my hair high into a cotton candy coloured beehive whilst wearing mirrored, bug eyed goggles, and most of the other people in the po-dunk town I live in would probably not blink all that hard. What does bring me grief is that fact that I still haven't been given a meal replacement pill or a personal jetpack that actually works for longer than five minutes without blowing up or there isn't actually a reliable teleportation device that won't scramble my molecules into oblivion or I don't live in a bubble high in the ozone to be waited on hand and foot by a voluptuous robot slave and, like where in the hell is the uprising of intelligent great apes, aliens or robots? Okay, maybe those are just minor grievances in comparison to the body bag packed to bursting point with the rotting parts of my real beefs with life in the 21st century. I could bust out all of my personal politics, but in all seriousness, who would really want to read that on a blog that's only purpose is to indulge my life long obsession with one of the most looked down upon genres of ...well...anything....ever?



Current teleportation still has a few wrinkles to iron out.... (The Fly, 1986)

The horror genre has long been regarded with a massive amount of disdain. With the major exception of the Giallo subgenre, it has been viewed as a playground for the semi-literate and uneducated, for teenage boys and rednecks, for those who are "smart enough" or just the socially awkward. Now, don't get me wrong, there are MILLIONS of horror fans that fall into one, if not all of those categories, but there is also a whole army of horrorphiles that exist that, regardless of their adoration for guts and gore, are highly intelligent individuals. It is entirely possible to be a forward thinking individual with a university degree, that also enjoys huddling in the dark to bear witness to the latest gorefest that went straight to DVD.

With my devotion to horror being worn on my sleeve like a fresh-from-the-chest-cavity, still beating heart surging with undead life, I have had many "normal" people confess their secret love to genre in clandestine whispers, as if it were some filthy little exchange between two kindred souls of darkness. I always end up being "That girl to talk to about horror", because I have no shame of my love and I can conduct a conversation about that passion with a multi-syllabic fluency.....and this is what I believe has caused the vast majority of the prejudice against horror fans, let me just ramble through an example here...

Before I sat down to write a new post, I thought I would thinly veil my procrastination by surfing some of my usual sources of horror information. Check out what was happening out there and what was generating an excited buzz, maybe procrastinate further by watching a few trailers or clips and justify that procrastination as "research", after "researching" for a few hours and have my husband giving me a typically raised eyebrow that voices "you're full of shit" more than mere words could. My first port of call is www.upcominghorrormovies.com, which is perfect for all of my dodging doing any real work needs. There are articles, trailers and updates galore that I can immerse myself in for hours, and actually give the impression that I am actually information gathering at the same time. As soon as that first page pops up, there is something that instantly forces a groan out of my chest.....yet another sequel to a film that had no possible opening for a sequel. I push forward, my morbid curiosity demanding I check out the details even though I have decided it's going to be a steaming pile of turd. I check out the posters, read the cast list and the snatches of comments made by the makers to tease the loyal fans, I watch the teaser and the teaser trailer ...and shock horror...it looks like it might just be alright, like seriously...it looks like it might even be, dare I say it...FUN. I couldn't stop there though, I mean, I would actually have to write something if I stopped there, right? So, I went on to read through the comments left by my fellow horror fans......and there, right there in the two pages of comments, it was revealed to me why those who look down upon us, do so.

The first few comments are typical fanboy responses with a whole glut of emoticons thrown in by members with typically inspiring names such as "FreddyKrueger13", fair enough, right? I keep scanning and SHAZAM!!! There it is, the point at which I bark an obscenity loud enough to stir my beloved from his third run through of Silent Hill: Homecoming. I swear on a stack of Father Damien Karras' finest exorcising bibles that this is lifted directly from the comments, "If Chrome Skull were to have a one on one fight with The Collector who would win? "

Notice the totally AWESOME use of the "coolguy" emoticon there to add an extra amount of je ne sais quoi to the question? The bile rose in my throat, my head hung....then I read the replies and my ire only grew. A volley between Freddy and another poster began as they went on to discuss the finer points of the battle between two fictional killers with such literacy gems as "I'm just saying cowards kill people that way. if you want to take someone out, there's but one proper way - stab them in the neck. real upclose and personal.
and the Collector, pft, without his little traps he's nothing. hell, I'm about twice as big as him, and would have no difficulty dismembering him with my bare hands. after a dozen or so beers, of course. sober, I'm violent. drunk, I'm a fucking berserker! *roar* "

...and also "Mabye in the sequal The Collector will be explained a little more making him more known, or they could give him a weapon to be known for like Jason and his machete or Krueger and his glove. What weapon do you think they should give The Collector that would make him better in your eyes? "

You see that grimace on my face? That's what a tiny piece of me dying looks like.


Oh goody!! Horror fans falling into embarrassing dorky stereotypes!! (The Ring, 2002)

I'm sure the two guys locked in the conversation are top notch fellas, honestly, but it's this kind of thing that makes your standard movie goer look down on us horror lovers with a look akin to finding a particularly fragrant sludge of dog crap on their brand new pair of Nikes. To make the matter even worse, there is the new trend of branding something as an "elevated genre" to make it okay to like certain new horror films.

What IS that? Seriously, what EXACTLY does "elevated genre" mean? I've seen it used in reference to a handful of movies that have come out in the past year. Films that, without a doubt fall into the category of horror, but have a slightly political or cerebral flavour. Monsters was the last film I saw with this horrific label applied to it. Sure, it had a mild political flavour to it but, IT WAS A FRIGGEN MONSTER MOVIE PEOPLE!! Gojira, the original Godzilla movie was a political comment on nuclear weapons, in it's original form before us westerners got our hands on it and added a dubbed voice track that completely took it out of context. So, does Godzilla fall into the elevated genre slot? NO!!! ITS A FRIGGEN MONSTER MOVIE!!! It's like those who want to hide their dirty, little horror movie secret shame are making it alright for themselves by giving it this entirely wanky new name, making it sound like some kind of pretentious art house movement. It's not, it's just another horror movie, folks.


Sorry fella, no "elevated genre" status for you. (Gojira, 1954)

So back to my original gripe before I went off on multiple enraged tangents. What is so wrong with being a devotee to all things dark and gruesome? Why is it that I am looked at with the same expression as I would be if I just told a person I have a highly infectious venereal disease when I voice my preference for horror? Why is it automatically assumed that my I.Q. is at the same level as Cro-Magnon man when I declare my passion for darkness? Why are people so horrified to find that I would rather snuggle up at night and watch Tobe Hooper's Texas Chainsaw Massacre rather than the next fetid installment in the Sex in The City franchise? Is it really that difficult to imagine a highly articulate and intelligent woman genuinely enjoying the finer points of a multinational banned, video nasty mocumentary filled to gushing brim with severed body parts, cussing and cannibalism?


Intellectuals LOVE love a good, old fashioned impaling! (Cannibal Holocaust, 1980)

I am socially outgoing woman, with a university education and level of intelligence to match and I am a horror fan, so I will never be able to answer any of these questions without a heavy bias. I just hope that one day in the not so distant future, this beloved genre of mine, is accepted as more than a novelty that most people grow out of once they stop using Clearasil, because I can't see me getting that pink spaceship fitted out with shag carpeting happening in the near future.

But, there is just so much blood. . .

There are so many bad jokes that start with the words “You know you’re getting older when:” and I battled hard not to use that as my opener for this new post, I succeeded obviously, but only in the most lamest of ways imaginable. It is odd the things you begin to notice as you grow older and mature, how your views on certain things change, how you become more accepting of some things and yet at the same time, your tolerance for others recedes with the same unforgiving rate as the hair of a man with male pattern balding. One of these losses for me has been my ability to sit back and blithely watch scenes of ultra violence and intense gore, which is not something you want to happen being a life long devotee of the horror genre, indeed, it is like being a vampire and discovering the sight of blood makes you squeamish or being a zombie and realizing that you don’t actually enjoy the taste of fresh from the cranium grey matter.

Let me put some perspective on this for you. For as long as I can remember, I have been a fan of horror in its many guises; from the excitement that Halloween brings every year since I was old enough to realize what it was , to actively seeking out new and improved ways to scare myself absolutely shitless. Some of my fondest childhood memories are imbedded in this life long passion. I remember curling up on the dark brown corduroy couch in a living room in Alberta, Canada, with both parents and an abundance of popcorn, watching Poltergeist on cable as a family. I couldn’t have been any older than six or seven and I also remember after the movie was finished, freaking out when the television continued to play the audio after I had switched it off, because it was played through the stereo, which I had neglected to turn off in my spooked haste.


Chunky strawberry jam and a lamb's tongue, yummy, no? (Blood Feast 1963)

As I grew older and my parents deemed films with more adult themes suitable for my precocious mind to be able to differentiate from reality, I began to find that I had a thirst for splatter and gore. By the time I was thirteen I was a full on and hardened, self proclaimed gorehound. I would actively search out the most extreme and visceral film at the video store and then of course insist that my poor Mother sit through whatever blood drenched piece of trash I had chosen. She would sit on the couch with her legs curled tight into her body, her hand half covering her eyes and the odd expletive or cry of “Oh ew!!” would sound from her side of the room. I found this highly amusing and would usually use her reaction as a gauge of the movie’s worth. I would laugh and usually console her with the worldly wise words of, “Come on Mum, it’s only a movie, jeeeese, stop being such a big wuss.” I still have no idea why that poor woman continued to agree on watching every single offensive piece of crap I bought into the house, perhaps it was some sort of masochistic Mother/daughter bonding ceremony on her part.

If I were to calculate the amount of blood I have seen spilled, limbs torn from bodies, deaths via stabbings, blunt force trauma, exploding heads, gauged out eyeballs. . . .you get the idea, I am more than certain that via the wonders of celluloid I have witnessed more human suffering than both World Wars, Vietnam, Korea, both Gulf Wars and an entire season of Friends combined produced. So, with this in mind you would think that a few more splashes of the old red stuff, the odd death or three of fully deserving stupid teens or even the flaying of some poor unfortunate would be breakfast viewing over a nice hot bowl of shreddies, by now right? In fact the exact opposite is true, for the shame and no doubt eternal mocking of my thirteen year old self.


Peter Jackson was far more fun before he started fooling around with hobbits (Dead Alive AKA Brain Dead 1992)

This isn’t a gradual thing either; this new intolerance is something that has sneaked up on me with the stealth of my beloved stalk and slashers, and struck with the same fearless and unyielding tenacity of a chain saw brandishing psycho. This is something that has happened within the last three years. The last thing I can remember watching that was considered gory and horrific to the average Joe public and actually being able to roll my eyes and feel genuinely unaffected by was Hostel. Okay, I was able to shake my head in the plot holes the size of Luxemburg and shrug off all of the gore and blatant sensationalism. . .apart from the slicing of the Achilles tendon moment, but that’s allowed, because that has always made me have that “rodent writhing in my stomach” feeling, even back in the days of Pet Sematary, where poor old Fred Gwynne suffered that particular fate.

Since this discovery I have been wracking my brain to figure out how this has come about. I had always had a problem watching real violence and suffering, I’ve never been able to watch the nightly news or any of those reality TV shows based in hospitals that showcase human suffering as cheap entertainment. That thick scarlet line between reality and fantasy has continuously shone brightly and unlike many of my friends that were fellow gorehounds, I never searched out the legendary Faces of Death. For those who are not in the know, Faces of Death is a mondo style movie with realistic scenes of (yes, you guessed you, you clever things!) death, interspersed with genuine footage of murder, deaths both of our fellow human beings and other creatures we share the planet with and grainy shots of human suffering, from wartime footage of Hitler inspiring the masses to the napalming of Vietnam. This never seemed like a form of entertainment to me, even though I knew a good forty percent of the movie was faked. The pain, suffering, death and destruction just wasn’t fun if someone was really getting hurt and it was no longer “safe”.


Oh noes!! Michael Ironside made mai hed splode!!! (Scanners 1981)

Is it my own fragile mortality that forces me to half turn away from the gallons of Karo flavoured blood and slabs of latex lovingly created in the image of human flesh? Is it perhaps the strong voice of my inner maternal instinct that causes me shrink away from scenes of beautifully choreographed torture and violence? Is it perhaps some sort of awoken with age social conscious of the real atrocities that my fellow human beings are more than capable and possibly somewhere out there carrying out that causes my heart rate to increase to the point I feel close to vomiting when the chorus of screams from the beautiful young actress on the screen is mutilated by the hand of her on screen villain and a whole team of CGI wizards? What is it that is turning me into the very vision of my Mother on the couch, her hand obscuring her eyes and her feet pulled in tight to her body to avoid the grasp of cold hands clutching at her from under the furniture? What the hell is it that is turning me into a big pussy?!

It has gotten to the point that despite, glowing reviews and stills saturated with absolutely glorious and gory beauty are not enough to take that leap into watching certain films. There are a handful of new movies that are critically acclaimed for their brutal new vision, the veritable new breath that the genre has so desperately needed, especially in a time where remakes are running rampant. Films such as Frontiere(s), Inside and Martyrs have all been side stepped at every given opportunity to watch them and instead I have made do with something else I know for a fact pales in comparison, in both quality and intelligence. My fingers have dangled teasingly on the slick plastic of the DVD cases and that thirteen year old voice rings out in my head, daring me to take it to the counter and rent it, but I am a grown up and am impervious to the taunts, even if they are coming from myself.


The food is always the best at the Captain's table! Zombies say "OM NOM NOM NOM !!!" (Day of the Dead 1985)

The good news is that I can still endure supernatural or just out and out stupid gore as was recently proven by sitting through Laid to Rest. (Keep your peepers peeled for an upcoming review) There was plenty of the claret stuff splashed around and even some disgustingly enjoyable kills which rekindled the love of those silent prowling maniacs that seemed to inhabit the brightly lit shelves of the video store in the eighties. So at least I now know that so long as the entrails are being used like bunting for a small child’s party or the plasma is being sprayed by the hands of some gribbly creature or even if the killer that is hacking the upper portion of his victim’s head off with a rusty axe is doing so in jovial manner; I am still okay and my inner gorehound can be sated and not have to mock me for being old and wussy. . much like my poor Mum was all those years ago. . .sorry Mum, I guess karma did rear up and bite me in the ass in the long run.