ON HORROR: Noel Carroll - A Summary and Analysis



Since the first storyteller told of what lay beyond the safety of the campfire, human beings have been obsessed with the threat of the unknown. So much so that it is hardly surprising that when flickering shadows upon the wall gave way to the iridescence of celluloid, horror movies would be among the most popular. The reason for this appeal, however, has puzzled scholars, critics and filmmakers alike. What compels us to make and study films so rife with abhorrent themes, conventions and imagery?

To many, confronting images of gruesome violence and the macabre may serve as a sort of “exposure therapy.” Whether it comes at the end of a killer’s knife, or warm in bed at the ripe old age of one-hundred, death serves as the ultimate boogeyman. Unlike most monsters in the closet, mortality is not only real, but unavoidable. Thematically, horror deals with death more than any other genre of fiction (save, perhaps, war films and true crime), and it is perhaps through viewing such depictions, we embolden ourselves to face it. This most primal of fears is equalled, perhaps, only by one other; or, more appropriately, the other. What Freud referred to as “the uncanny” evokes the same dangers that village shamans would decry to their tribesmen: “Beware the people from outside the village. They are like us, and yet not like us, and thus they are to be feared.” While viewed as paranoid xenophobia in a modern, civilized society, to early mankind this served as a survival skill. It is no surprise then, that many horror films take on the surrogate role of “cautionary tale.” Halloween teaches us to lock our doors at night. It Follows warns of the stigma of intimacy -- reducing sex as a valuable sacrifice at best, or a curse (or even a weapon) at worst.

Another possibility for humanity’s fascination with horror is far more introspective: just as we are thrilled as we watch Captain America punch the bad guy, and wish we were him, to many, the horror film appeals to a sort of wish-fulfilment on the part of the audience. Michael Myers, undoubtedly, wields power, not only over life and death, but the power to instill fear, long after he has left the screen and his trademark theme has faded out. Dracula, himself, has all of the powers of seduction and confidence that many men wish they had, and many women wish they could be privy to. Additionally, other films explore perhaps a fusion of the previous two. A blending of the “cautionary tale” and the “power fantasy.”

Carroll posits that audience’s ability to empathize and connect with the monster speaks to a withheld sense of passion and animalistic instinct. Indulging in baser, more atavistic instincts -- it effects the monster of all stripes, whether they are the lumbering, growling creation of Dr. Frankenstein, or the charming if timid Norman Bates.

    While also a paragon of vice, the monster may also act as a sort of champion of virtue -- punishing those who break societal norms. Lustful teenagers are butchered by the hockey-mask wearing killing-machine. The rude and the crass are devoured by the elegant cannibal. Many horror films seem to denounce sex while still indulging in spectacles of flesh and the male gaze. Perhaps it merely seems to say that the longer we try to deny our own impulses, the more powerful they will become. It is perhaps conceivable then that, to many, the audience of horror films are barely restrained monsters, in their own way. Indulging in a primordial human desire for violent catharsis, or even sympathetic suffering. Exposing ourselves to such terrorizing scenarios in a safe and controlled environment, in lieu of creating them ourselves. 

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