Archive for Film and Media

How to Figure Out THE PROBLEM

You know something isn’t right. A nagging feeling, an itch, a funny smell, a sour stickiness on your tongue, a lurking in the corner of your eye, a high-pitched whine that refuses to fade—it’s there, it’s real, but you don’t know what it is. It does more than haunt you. It bugs the living shit out of you. What the hell can you do about it if you don’t know what it even is? Here are some tips for figuring out THE PROBLEM.

  • Ask the bodies. You’ve collected and stored a few by now. Sure, some may be in the back yard, and some may be in the basement freezer, but why leave them tucked away all the time? During the dark hours, pull the shades, close the blinds, or just hang sheets over the windows, for goodness’s sake (don’t use duct tape—I learned that the hard way). Make sure you’re private, then gather the bodies, sit them up around your biggest table, and have a nice chat. Don’t ask right away; that would be rude. Start with the standard how’ve-you-been talk. Dead bodies appreciate that. Don’t assume that a body who didn’t like small talk during life doesn’t like it now. All dead bodies like small talk. After the small talk, pop the question. What’s the problem? If they know, they’ll probably tell you. Bodies are perceptive, but they don’t know everything, so give them a few chances before you start hacking.

Happy Birthday to Me (1981)


  • Change your meds. Chances are you don’t take your meds anyway, because, sheesh, how are you supposed to function when you can’t hear what anybody’s saying, just some kind of muffled sleepy crap? Anyway, the thing to do is to change up the doses. Some people describe psychosis and dementia as disorders, but others know that they’re windows to Truth. If you take an SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor: many drugs for depression and the like) or anxiolytic (like diazepam, clonazepam, or another chill-out anti-anxiety pill in the Valium tradition), you might find that taking too much or suddenly taking too little makes you a visionary. We’re not talking high here. We’re talking the eighth fucking dimension, and if someone there doesn’t know what the problem is, the problem is worse than you thought.

Jacob’s Ladder (1990)


  • Eat something. Maybe you’re just hungry. You’ll see.

Naked Blood (1996)


  • Find a fellow who feels the same way. People in such situations tend to be loners, but friends and lovers are especially important when you have problems to deal with, and who better to help you find out what the problem is than your bosom buddy? The person with whom you travel the road of life? Nowadays, we all define family in different ways, so don’t let me or anyone else tell you who the person is. The connection could be platonic, paternal, pederastic, preternatural, or otherwise perverse—no matter. Only connect!

Natural Born Killers (1994)


  • Hire power. Money can’t solve all problems, but it can bring in the top experts from just about anywhere in the world, who can at least tell you that you have any kind of problem you can imagine. Therefore save up so you can invest when the time is right! Spending on the right expert can make the difference between being THE PROBLEM’s victim and kicking THE PROBLEM’s ass.

Dead Alive (1992)

Nine Cat-Themed Horror Films Worth a Purr

Every now and then I succumb to cuteness. Samara, however, has requested that I base a character on her, one that slaughters all the “insects,” whatever that means.

Samara, ruler of my household, begrudgingly poses for this blog

9. Cat O’ Nine Tails (1971): Dario Argento’s second feature lacks the crazy cat moments memorable in Bird with the Crystal Plumage (1970), which has a character who eats cats, and Inferno (1980), which has a character randomly mauled by cats who fly at her from the sides of the screen. A cat makes the title, however, because our furry Internet-ruling friend provides a metaphor for the entire film, the mystery behind which is like the titular fetish device, so twisted that following its nine suspects/possibilities is like a kind of tickle-clawing torture.

CatintheBrain8. Cat in the Brain (1990): Lucio Fulci and Dario Argento supposedly had trouble getting along for years because Fulci piggybacked on Argento’s early success with animal-themed giallo films (Italian crime thrillers) such as Fulci’s derivative-but-good Lizard in a Woman’s Skin (1971). Cat in the Brain, a late Fulci effort, follows Argento in having a mainly metaphorical connection to our furry friends, who are tearing up the brain of Fulci himself, who stars as himself, a director whose past films (shown amply in flashbacks) are manifesting in present-day murders. This cat won’t likely please you if you’re not a Fulci fan, but if you like the Godfather of Gore, it’s postmodern catnip.

Kuroneko7. Kuroneko (1968): Stylish Italian films and stylish Japanese films have been trading ideas for decades (more on that in a moment), and this classic Japanese kaidan (wronged women with long black hair out for revenge, most familiar to Americans from the remake of The Ring, 1998 / 2002) hybrid features awesome cat-woman ghost dueling, glorious use of black and white tonality, and some samurai for good measure. Not the best Japanese horror from the 60s, but in my top five, and my favorite one focused on cats. The title means black cat.

catseye6. Cat’s Eye (1985): The frame story focuses on a cat erring on a sort of quest to rescue young Drew Barrymore, whom he reaches in time for the third and final story in the anthology. The third story, about the girl’s (and cat’s) battle with a breath-stealing mini-monster, sort of sucks now that I’m grown up. However, the first two, about quitting smoking corporate-style and going out on a ledge for a married woman (literally), are based on classic Stephen King shorts and hold up due to dark humor, massive tension, and great performances from leads James Woods and Robert Hays. The cat gets important moments in both the grown-up stories, too.

pet-sematary-blu-ray-cover-025. Pet Sematary (1989): Everybody thinks about Gage, who played with Mommy and is now going to play with you, but really, Church, the cat, is the star villain of the piece, especially if you think about the Stephen King novel along with the film. Church snuffs it, and that’s going to make the kids sad, so why not see if that supernatural pet cemetery resurrects him like the neighbor says it will? And if it works on the cat…? What’s good for the cat ain’t good for the kiddies. A cat would be the first to tell you not to follow a cat’s example, and my cat Samara would be the first to tell you that people don’t listen to her advice often enough.

catpeople19424. Cat People (1942): This Lewton/Tourneur collaboration makes some lists of greatest horror films of all time, and with good reason: it’s one of the best films to replicate the effect I forever associate with Turn of the Screw, i.e., leaving in suspension questions of whether the horror is primarily psychological or supernatural. So is this a werecat movie or isn’t it? It’s beautifully shot, with beautiful people and beautiful cats, and the reflections on the psychology and beliefs of the times are so compelling that suspension and suspense become delightfully relentless.

CatPeopleShoutFactoryCover3. Cat People (1982): More a fantasy about the first film than a remake, this is my favorite werecat movie. The transformation sequences are good but not great (appearing not long after American Werewolf in London (1981), they seem uninspired). What is great is the music, famously David Bowie’s “Theme from Cat People (Putting Out Fire),” but really the entire synth-filled soundtrack, eighties dreamy at its best. What is greater are the sex-infused storyline and eye-popping presences of Nastassja Kinski and Malcolm McDowell. The first film’s premise gets dilated: certain people get turned on and become black leopards, and to become human again, they must kill. Oh. My. Violent estrus.

twoevileyesblackcat2. “The Black Cat” from Two Evil Eyes (1990): Yes, I wrote a book about Argento, and yes, he gets to have two on this list, because although many have worked with Poe’s “Black Cat,” and many other films have that title (including one by Fulci), this one—half of Argento’s collaboration with George A. Romero, Two Evil Eyes—is my favorite. It ranges across Poe, featuring Harvey Keitel as Roderick Usher, a photographer who captures crime scenes (including one right out of “Pit and the Pendulum”). The ending makes kitties even more horrific than Poe does. Ah, Dario.

House_1977_poster1. Hausu (1977): Ruled by the wild colors and non-rational narrative structure of the Italian films that were becoming popular in Japan at the time, Hausu (House) is one of my favorite films of all time, and since a white cat presides over the house that gobbles up schoolgirls, it’s one of Samara’s, too. Flying severed heads, carnivorous pianos, dancing skeletons, and more await you inside this brilliant little film, colorful, hallucinogenic, funny, scary, must-see.

Repulsion at the End of the World (a Polanski Masterpiece Turns 50)



Look on the Internet Movie Database, and you’ll see a tagline for Roman Polanski’s 1965 film Repulsion that almost preempts interpretation: “A classic chiller of the ‘Psycho’ school!” Marketing-wise, the claim hits its target because Repulsion clothes “higher” art-house sensibilities in lower production values and in horror-genre conventions, just as Hitchcock decided to do with the film that he brought to Universal (home of the horror monsters). Like Hitch, Polanski uses black-and-white grit to showcase a story of a woman in distress that takes an unexpected turn involving two grisly murders in a space distorted by her psycho-logical state. Polanski even uses a beautiful lead whose sweetness misleads with innocence—and although Tony Perkins’s defiance of Robert Bloch’s vision of Norman Bates as an awkward and homely killer is unforgettable in Psycho, I don’t think many would deny Catherine Deneuve as Carol in Repulsion (or as anyone at any point in her career) rivals Perkins with talent and circles him with her stunning screen presence. Her largely nonverbal performance, combined with her environment’s responses to her, conveys the psychological depth that Perkins and “mother” communicate by doing the police in different voices, creating misdirection and ambiguity until a solution may or may not appear at the end. (Beware continuing—here there be spoilers!)RepulsionCap2


Like much else in Hitchcock’s oeuvre, Psycho’s ending has received a great deal of commentary and debate, so to claim that the ending—the psychoanalytic revelation of the shared mind/body of Norma/Norman Bates resulting from a psychotic solution to an Oedipal struggle gone terribly awry—is unequivocally sincere would require proof and argument I am uninterested in providing here. However, the psychiatrist who shows up at the end provides this explanation, and taking it at face value is possible.



Repulsion, like Psycho, has a twist involving its main character’s mind, but its central psycho, Carol, doesn’t go out on a frenzy to claim any victims. She stays home, mostly having conflicts with herself; although Norma/Norman’s victims come to her/his motel and house like flies to a web, she/he still ends up coming after them, whereas Carol’s victims, both men, have to throw themselves at her, the first breaking into her apartment and the second attempting rape, before she attacks. Prior to these attacks, the film demonstrates that Carol is very reticent around men. She refuses a date; she reacts badly when her sister engages in a sexual relationship and brings a man into their shared space; she shows disgust when a man kisses her. Her initial demonstration of the film’s title, repulsion, seems to be a reaction to men, an allergy to heterosexual sex. Ergo, the pathology she exhibits in the film’s second half, as she lets her surroundings decay (she leaves out food and eventually corpses to rot, neglects her own hygiene, etc.), links to her aversion to sex, adding up in the end to what seems to be a sexual pathology, psychoanalysis’s specialty. A psychiatrist doesn’t show up with an explanatory key as he does at the end of Psycho, but, as Carol does emerge as a psychopath, the film adds up in a way that forms a lock that seems the perfect shape.



Two shots in particular support reading Carol as a psychopath. The first shows her walking past a car wreck on the London streets. Everyone stops to look but her. Her lack of interest and empathy suggests social disconnection, a disconnection echoed in the film’s final image, which shows her as a child in a family photo. Here, she looks in a direction opposite her family group, first seeming perhaps to look at a man who might be the source of her androphobia, but then, as the frame tightens around her, she appears just to gaze away, again disconnected from all around her. This reinforcement of her social disconnection suggests it has little to do with any traumas she may have experienced, little to do with the men who keep forcing themselves on her, and everything to do with a pathology that has followed her since childhood. Psychoanalysis often traces disorders back to developmental interruptions, and this film, made during a peak of pop psychoanalytic dominance, embeds psychoanalytic causality for Carol’s behavior. Ambiguity persists, so the explanation is not totalizing or necessary, but it oozes from the film’s celluloid pores.



It also appears in a tagline from the film’s poster-turned-DVD-cover: “The nightmare world of a Virgin’s dreams becomes the screen’s shocking reality!” Dreams, the province of psychoanalysis—check. Virginal-frigid-sex-phobic-possibly-queer-woman, the “problem” woman of psychoanalysis—check. Carol makes psychoanalytic interpretive “sense” in 1965.



Of course, she also makes “sense” as a critique of psychoanalysis from a feminist perspective. After all, the men she kills are both attackers. The first stalks her and breaks into her apartment when she refuses his advances, and the second, her landlord, returns her rent and expects payment in sex instead, which he tries to take against her will. In 2015, if not 1965, watching this film, I suspect she might be able to plead self-defense if she didn’t present herself as batshit crazy, which, unfortunately, she likely would, as, by the end of the film, she is seeing hands reach out of her apartment wall at her, which the film gives us no reason to believe is not happening… other than the bits of context I’ve provided that suggest an otherwise realist context in which she is crazy (in 1968, however, Polanski would use Rosemary’s Baby to show the dangers of not believing the woman everyone believes is paranoid and losing her mind in a confined urban space).


Before I close, however, I want to offer a third, more obvious interpretation for what Repulsion is about, and that is, simply, repulsion. To be more precise, it might be what Jean-Paul Sartre calls nausea. I will not allow myself to travel too far into the philosophy in Carol’s mother tongue, though, and will stick, with one exception, to a riff on Polanski’s title and say that Carol doesn’t have to be disgusted and repelled by men in particular. Indeed, while she does have a bigger problem with her sister’s new boyfriend because he’s the reason for her sister leaving her alone for days, she also has a problem with her sister leaving a rabbit in the refrigerator for her to have for dinner later, a rabbit that, like men and other items, she leaves out to rot. What do the rabbit and the men have in common? They are potential objects of appetite. If Carol is rejecting appetite, her rejection and the repulsion that drives it run deeper than sex.



The only place it might be for psychoanalysis is the place that Freud describes as beyond the pleasure principle, but even his heady concept of the “death drive” doesn’t get at Carol’s repulsion. Although she re-pulses, or reverses the drives of hunger and sex, she is not self-destructive. She begs her sister, a lifeline, to stay; she defends herself against attacks, vigorously. Her homicidal acts are not externalizations of a suicidal impulse. The re-pulse is not reducible to an im-pulse at all.


Alone, depressed, and alienated, Carol, a French woman in London, doesn’t want to let the outside in. After her sister leaves, she retreats to her apartment and tries to shut everyone and everything out. She has to eat but doesn’t want to. Her acts of resistance result in the decay of both her food and her body. She doesn’t have to have sex, but men try to force the issue. Her acts of resistance result in the decay of their bodies. Resistance ultimately appears—figuratively or literally, the film stops making distinctions—as cracks in her closed-off apartment’s walls, then hands reaching for her through the walls. The harder she tries to repel the outside world she wishes to reject, the more it presses in on her. As Sartre writes in the play No Exit, “Hell is other people.” Hell, a subject informing Rosemary’s Baby as well as Polanski’s The Ninth Gate (1999), is also a description of Repulsion, or maybe repulsion as that which Carol fails to accomplish.



What she wants is emotional autonomy. The desire may be impossible to fulfill, but that rock is where her dreams crash. If she is actually a virgin (the film, as opposed to the tagline, does not say as much definitively), sex may be a realm she defends more successfully than others, but that success may result from sex’s relative expendability among humans’ hierarchy of needs (an expendability psychoanalysts would loathe to admit). The madness of social isolation and repulsion may not be the center of Repulsion—the madness of company, the madness of ending up back in the world, may be the most repellent thing of all.


The Imaginarium and Dr. Cooper; or, Magic Movies and Myself

This weekend! Louisville, the Crowne Plaza!! Enter the Imaginarium!


Imaginarium has a magic formula unlike any convention where I’ve appeared… and though I’ve only worked the circuit since 2011, I’ve already lost count of the cons. Many blur together, but not this one, because the baseline assumption is that if you’re there, you’re an artist, or you might as well be.

Last year, about half the attendees seemed to be practicing (publishing writers, producing filmmakers, exhibiting painters and photographers, etc.) in some form or other, and everyone else was either wondering how to start practicing or just interested in learning more about where the arts to which they felt personal connections started. Fans were and are welcome, of course, but the convention takes attendees and their interests seriously: if you’re there, you’re a participant, not a window shopper.

In other words–and I know this is saccharine, but it’s also kinda true, so cut the sweetness with a gangster double entendre–if you’re there, you’re either family or you will be.

In addition to working behind the scenes on the film festival and lurking in the vendor hall trying to scare people with my books, I’ll be sharing horrific reflections during panels. Here’s my schedule:

Friday, 9pm (Perry): Good Reviews
Our authors and Reviewers speak out about book reviews and the proper way to execute one so readers and authors alike can use them constructively.

Saturday, 3pm (Oldham): The Art of Mystery

Mystery is a pretty predictable genre – major conflict, plot twists, good guys turned bad… but sometimes the tropes can be a little too trope-ish. Join the discussion on the best way to write a good mystery without being silly.

Saturday, 7pm (Madison): Publishing Nightmares

From editorial mishaps to publisher scams, the literary world isn’t always a bed of roses. Our panelists share some cautionary tales of the dark underbelly of publishing.

Saturday, 9pm (Oldham): Subgenre Spotlight: Horror

A roundtable discussion of definitive horror elements, best practices for guts and gore, and how to make and market old tropes in new and interesting ways.

I’m way more excited about these other artists than I am about me:

Guest of Honor: Lori Wilde

Imaginators: Michael Knost, Tim Waggoner

Toastmaster: Tony Acree

A. Christopher Drown

AD Roland

Adrienne Wilder

Alexander S. Brown

Alexx Momcat

Alicia Justice

Amanda Hard

Amy McCorkle

Angelia Sparrow

Anthony Antonino Jr.

Armand Rosamilia

Atty Eve

Barbara Ehrentreu

Becky Kelley

Bethlynne Prellwitz

Bobbye Terry

Bradley ‘Corpse’ Walker

Brent Abell

Brick Marlin

Bryan Baker

Bryan Brown

C.E. Martin

C.M Michaels

C.S. Marks

Carol Preflatish

Charlie Kenmore

Cyrus Keith

Dave Creek

Chris Garrison

Elizabeth Bevarly

Elizabeth Donald

Ellen C. Maze

Eric Beebe

Eric F. James

Eric Jude

Gabriel Belthir

Georgia Jones

Gina Danna

Glenn Porzig

David Blalock

Herika R. Raymer

J L Mulvihill

J.H. Glaze

J.M. Madden

JC Wardon

Jack Wallen

James O. Barnes

Jamie Lee Scott

Jan Scarbrough

Janie Franz

Jason Sizemore

Jay Wilburn

Jennifer Anderson

Jeremy Hanke

Jerry Benns

Jesse V. Coffey

Jessica McHugh

Jettie Necole

Jill Ranney-Campbell

John F. Allen

Jonathan Linton

JP Chapleau

Julie Anne Lindsey

Julie Flanders

K. F. Ridley

Kate Chaplin

Katherine Wynter

Katheryn Ragle

Kathryn Sullivan

Katina French

Kenneth Daniels

Kim Jacobs

Kim Smith

Kirk Dougal

Linda Goin

Linda Rettstatt

Lisa Jackson

Magdalena Scott

Margaret L. Colton

Margie Colton

Marian Allen

Melissa Goodman

Michael D’Ambrosio

Michael West

Mysti Parker

Nicole Kurtz

P. Anastasia

Pamela Turner

Peter Prellwitz

Peter Welmerink

R. J. Sullivan

Rebekah McAuliffe

Rob E. Boley

Rochelle Weber

Rose Streif

S.A. Price

S.C. Houff

S.E. Lucas

Sara Marian

Sarah Hans

Scott M. Sandridge

Sean Jackson

Selah Janel

Seraphina Donovan

Sharon Stogner

Stacey Turner

Steven Saus

Stuart Thaman

T. Lee Harris

TammyJo Eckhart

Tara Tyler

Teresa Reasor

Terri-Lynne Smiles

Thomas Lamkin Jr

Tim McWhorter

Todd Houff

Tommy B. Smith

Tony Acree

Violet Patterson

Wes Craven, Last Horror Genius On the Left

I never even knew the guy, so I should focus on how Wes Craven changed American cinema, pretty much leading the post (or rather concurrent with) Vietnam horror-film response with Last House on the Left (1972), which puts the counter-culture in parallel with the dominant culture and finds them equally violent and disgusting, all while reworking Ingmar Bergman’s The Virgin Spring (1960) to demonstrate that the idioms of art film and exploitation horror both have political (leftist) efficacy.













Thank goodness that while Mr. Craven still lived, Kendall Phillips perhaps best, but other scholars, among whom I might count myself, noticed that this man had made intellectual and artistic contributions to film and art history more generally that merit the thought of multiple generations.


However, my purpose here is not to offer a critical appraisal of how films such as The Hills Have Eyes (1977, the year I was born) and A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) defined modern horror, or how Scream (1996) resurrected it as a mainstream phenomenon, but to talk about ME ME ME, because I am really sad right now about the fact that MY Wes Craven is dead and I never even got to meet him.

It has a little something to do with my memory of taping popsicle sticks to my fingers and pretending to be Freddy Krueger when I was a kid (hi, Bruce!). I explain why Freddy became a hero of sorts at the beginning of my first published book, Gothic Realities, the early pages of which are free on Google Books:



In a way this book, which officially started when I was a graduate student, really began at age nine, when I stole an opportunity to watch one of the 1980s’ most notorious horror films. I offer this brief account of a childhood encounter with Gothic horror as a case history, evidence that supports many of this book’s claims. The encounter was only possible because my friend Chris invited me to spend the night at his house; he had a basement where we could romp until the wee hours. The basement had a television, and the television had a cable box, so after Chris’s parents went to bed, we of course searched the channels for anything that might be forbidden. The most exciting thing we found was a movie, irresistible because it was rated R, that we had heard of but knew little about: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984). During the waking hours, nine-year-old-me tended to ignore what I knew about the consequences of watching scary movies, so I agreed to become acquainted with Freddy Krueger, the supernatural madman who murders children in their sleep.

I recall that when the movie got too scary, we switched channels until we thought the worst would be over, and we switched back inevitably in time to see Freddy’s razors ripping through someone’s flesh. Chris and I were giddy, exhilarated. We refused to go to bed that night not because we were scared (of course not!) but because we were having too much fun.

The next day I went home, and that night I went to bed when my mom told me to. Like A Nightmare on Elm Street’s characters, I felt terrified of going to sleep because I knew Freddy would be waiting for me in my dreams. When I closed my eyes, I instantly imagined him on the stairs leading up to my bedroom, brown hat, dirty sweater, and razor blades extending from a horrible gloved hand. Then I remembered how the movie ends: the teenaged heroine, Nancy, confronts Freddy and tells him he’s only a dream. She has the power; a kid could be stronger than a seemingly invincible psycho-killer. In the last chapter, this book discusses the ambiguity of the film’s ending, but nine-year-old-me wasn’t aware of any ambiguity. I remembered Nancy winning her battle against Freddy, and I thought that if she could, I could. I chanted to myself, “It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream,” and eventually I fell asleep. I didn’t have any nightmares that night. In fact, though I still have dreams both good and bad, since that night I have never been terrified of going to sleep.

Thus A Nightmare on Elm Street helped a child to overcome his greatest fears.


So in a way, I owe Wes Craven my childhood sanity, not that any of the kids I chased around with popsicle sticks would have known it. As a testament, this poster, from Nightmare on Elm Street 3, not Wes’s favorite film, I grant you, adorned my pubescent walls:

anightmareonelmstreet3dreamwarriorsmovieposter_promo5After the miracle on A Nightmare on Elm Street, however, seeing part three was the number one item on my wish list for my tenth birthday (I kept a literal list, and seeing the film in the theater received an extra star almost every time I saw the trailer with Patricia Arquette running through the house from the first film). When my parents gave in, the experience was MAGICAL. I of course identified with the boy in the wheelchair who played Dungeons and Dragons, but Freddy killing him brutally did nothing to change Freddy also being my hero. As Carol Clover has explained, that’s how horror films work, folks. I was everybody in those movies. I didn’t need to understand (yet) the subtle Hamlet joke in the poster I had hung with pride (riffs on Hamlet begin in the first Nightmare film, especially with the “I would bind myself in a nutshell and count myself the king of infinite space were it not that I have bad dreams” bit just before Tina appears in a body bag and a centipede creeps out of her mouth and such).


Wes Craven served up a festival of ME in the first Nightmare film, as I was most Nancy but also Tina and Glen and even a little bit Rod and also Freddy, and that festival kept playing in the inferior imitative sequels, and when Mr. Craven finally made his New Nightmare (1994), he showed me an image eerily similar to my childhood self with the taped-on popsicle sticks:


And with Scream, of course, he held up the mirror (psst, another Hamlet reference) to the film geek, un autre moi:


Most recently, when I wanted to express what I felt was the trap I was in because the University of Louisville could rob me of a voice because I have a mental disability, I thought of the centuries-old tradition of Gothic horror. I thought of Ann Radcliffe and the centuries of women who had used the Gothic as a language of voicelessness, and of men who had used the language as well, and the way to express my situation came to me as a story called “The Long Flight of Charlotte Radcliffe.”

If you’ve been reading my site for awhile, you might have caught the tale (at least a few thousand people did), but if you didn’t, I expect it’ll be in my collection Peritoneum, in print and e-book in 2016. The title refers, of course, to Ann Radcliffe, the pioneer of Gothic fiction whose stories usually revolve around women trapped by men whose legal power can overrule their will–a power paralleled today only by those who rule over people declared unfit to govern themselves–and as a result find themselves at constant threat of rape and murder. It also refers to Charlotte Bronte and by extension all the Bronte sisters, who tell stories of women dealing with overbearing men (I would have preferred a titular reference to Anne Bronte’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, the most traditionally Gothic of the Bronte novels, but another Ann(e) would not have been clear enough, so I settled for a better-known madwoman in the attic).

These women are fleeing, hence “flight,” but the story also takes place on an airplane, where my heroine is terrorized by a man in classic Gothic fashion–much like the heroine of Wes Craven’s under-appreciated Red Eye (2005), an extraordinarily intense thriller about a woman terrorized by a man in the claustrophobic space not of the Gothic castle but of the modern airplane. In one sense, I found the perfect metaphor for my situation that folded all of horror history into itself… but Wes Craven found it first. I part ways from Craven eventually, but without him, I would not have had a place to begin.

My philosophy of horror aesthetics and narrative hinges on the assumption that rational connections need not be established and in fact may be detrimental to desired affects. From whom did I learn such lofty notions? Ingmar Bergman, certainly. The dream-driven writing of Romanticists and their offspring, yes. But whom did I watch before all of them, whose work acknowledged them all, harnessed them all, and moved forward?

Wes Craven, RIP, 1939 – 2015, one of the greatest filmmakers who ever lived.