The Apartment Trilogy by Roman Polanski

“I’m sorry to bother you, I was told about an apartment.”

So Roman Polanski asks in the opening line of The Tenant, in what feels like a not-so-subtle wink at an audience preparing to watch the last in his trilogy of horror films known as his unofficial “Apartment Trilogy”—a trinity of horror films linked by their shared setting of an apartment as the feature setting for the horrors of the premise to unfold. As different as the three films remain in scope and story, the trio that consists of Repulsion, Rosemary’s Baby, and The Tenant each use the confined apartment setting as a vehicle to explore larger allegories of the horrors at hand, with each film also depicting a main character battling the possibilities of mental illness and a supernatural terror threatening the safety of their sanity. In doing so, Polanski’s trilogy successfully manages to push the parameters of the horror genre while also exploring larger thematic issues of gender, identity, and mental illness.

Released in 1965, Repulsion marks the first of the trilogy and remains a tour-de-force character-study into the troubled psychology of a young woman named Carol (a doe-eyed Catherine Deneuve). The paradoxical Carol works as a manicurist in a beauty parlor (despite constantly biting her own nails) who is left alone in her sister’s apartment after she leaves with her boyfriend for a vacation. With amazingly wide-eyes, a demure voice, and constantly uncomfortable body-language, Deneuve portrays a woman in a constant battle to reciprocate the basic human emotions provided through social interactions—especially with men. For reasons that will become clear by the ending, Carol has been traumatized by a rough relationship with men since childhood and the experience has left her a shattered shell of a human being—a woman barely capable of holding conversation and driven to near mental collapse by the smallest imperfections.

Early in the film, her sister’s boyfriend has left his toothbrush within Carol’s space, and she lashes out at the violation. This seemingly small intrusion of boundaries marks the beginning of Carol’s trouble with those (again, especially men) trespassing her private space (most especially within the bathroom [the most private possible room]) that will only worsen within this very confined setting of a small Belgian apartment.

While many filmmakers often believe a larger space intimates a more powerful scope, Polanski uses every possible cinematic technique to demonstrate how unbelievably horrifying a simple apartment can transform itself into the most hellish domain imaginable when filtered through the warped psychology of young Carol. Polanski uses the power of repetitive sounds to maximum distortion and discomfort: the incessant ticking of the clock, the torturous dripping of water, the creaks and groans of wooden floors to methodically construct a tortuous glimpse into the everyday life of this traumatized woman. These sounds so representative of mundane life—the ticking clock, the knock at the door, of passersby on the city streets below—no longer reflect the harmless consequence of suburban life, but the chaotic and disorienting noise heard by a woman suspicious of these formerly benign objects that have now transformed into totems representing the terror of her haunted mind.

Polanski further amplifies this heightened, unnerving reality through the use of innovative visuals and cinematography: shadows, unwarranted reflections, uncomfortable close-ups, and optical illusions are all employed to create an even more literal deconstruction of the classical comforts of the home. Whether it be through the jump-scare of the sudden reflection in her dressing mirror, or the visual illusion of decreasing the dimensions of the room to heighten Carol’s accelerating mental suffocation, Polanski repeatedly demonstrates how even the most conventional objects and spaces can suddenly serve as the most horrifying representations of abject terror.

Besides these cinematic tools used to usher the audience into her horrifying psychology, the film also repeatedly depicts Carol’s crumbling mindset through an assortment of symbolic imagery. Cracked surfaces serve as the most obvious example and are seen multiple times both within the apartment and Carol’s very limited outer world. On a sidewalk, a deep fissure spider-webbing upon the pavement causes Carol to completely still—her eyes magnetized to the crack as though hypnotized. As days go by, she continually hallucinates more cracks spreading across the apartment—fracturing upon the walls in tandem with her increasing neuroses—the apartment now acting as a material manifestation of her warped mental state.

Later, as her hallucinations grow more intense and vivid (a man molesting her becomes repeated multiple times), male hands literally emerge from the wall to claw and grasp her. In credit to the relentless atmosphere of dread, this striking visual becomes a perfect metaphor for how terrifying Carol’s world has come to reflect her poisoned inner-psychology. Even within what should be her most private and secure space—her apartment—Carol’s mind conjures up an unyielding demonstration of her interior psychology and how the traumatizing horrors of her subconscious have transformed into her tangible reality.

Lastly, Carol’s character demonstrates the painful reality of a woman battling this constant war of a collapsing psyche against the horrors of her past. Opening with a close-up of her big brown eye, constantly gazing about the space and studying those around her, Carol’s neuroses become quickly apparent: she constantly bites her nails, brushes her hair, speaks meekly…Her appearance and cleanliness moves past the point of concern and into obsession. As a woman who works in a beauty shop—an establishment literally made to emphasize beauty—Carol can no longer function in society while struggling so drastically with her own mind.

From the ceaseless hounding from men, to enduring the sounds of her sister having sex through the thin apartment walls, to living across from a convent of ostensibly “pure” nuns in the neighboring courtyard, to the endless badgering from men who refuse to accept “No”—Carol finally breaks. The apartment landlord arrives to collect the rent and Carol allows him into the apartment from which she has lived in seclusion and squalor. The landlord makes a number of references to her nightgown, which escalates into an attempted rape, only for Carol to stop the attack by killing him.

When Carol’s sister finally arrives home, she and her boyfriend find both the dead body of the landlord, along with Carol—though she remains in an apparently catatonic state. The other tenants filter into the crammed space suddenly concerned for her well-being. While Carol’s ultimate fate remains ambiguous, her last actions are shown to be combing her hair, ironing a dress (the camera takes careful note of the iron’s unplugged cord) and finally in bed—she begins floating toward the ceiling in hallucinatory freedom. One could certainly make the argument that this represents Carol’s attempt at suicide—as woman overwhelmed with repulsion for the world around her—and needing to leave this world behind her so she can finally escape from the relentless deluge of her traumas.

And while this final fate may remain ambiguous, the last shot certainly shines some light toward what may be the initial catalyst that contributed toward Carol’s utter mental breakdown. After being carried away from the apartment, the camera pans across the room until finding an old family portrait from Carol’s youth. Mirroring the opening close-up of Carol’s eye, the camera zooms uncomfortably close upon the eye of a much younger Carol—her gaze filled with repulsion and directed toward what appears to her father seated directly beside her.

This final shot leaves a haunting, disturbing final impression upon the viewer to fill in the blanks about Carol’s family life and why she has been so psychologically damaged by men. Moreover, the fact that this specific explanation does not appear until the final shot addresses how universally understood this overall psychological struggle can be related upon women at large. As a result, Polanski demonstrates how profoundly the devices of the horror genre can be used to address these larger thematic issues, and even more impressively, uses an atmosphere of persistent dread to transport the viewer into such a troubled psychological mind.

The middle installment—Rosemary’s Baby—would prove to not only be the best of the trilogy, nor just one of the best horror movies ever made, but one of the greatest entries into the film canon at large. The premise revolves around a woman named Rosemary Woodhouse, and her husband, Guy, who have just moved into the Bramford—an older New York apartment building. And immediately, the apartment reeks of ominous details: the previous owner went senile, an enormous wooden secretary has been strangely positioned in front of a closet door, legends of witchcraft are reported to have occurred at the same address, an unnerving chant echoes through the walls…

But worst of all, they meet the Castevets: an elderly couple named Roman and Minnie that live down the hall and make excessive efforts to ingratiate themselves into the lives of the new tenants. Soon after, another series of suspicious events start to surface: a young woman living with the Castevets commits suicide just after meeting Rosemary, Guy’s career skyrockets after a secret conversation with Roman, Minnie insists on Rosemary wearing a “good luck” charm of a mysterious herb within a pendant, and finally—Rosemary suddenly finds herself pregnant. The pregnancy arriving, of course, after a horrifying nightmare in which she is raped by the devil.

Immediately upon hearing the news, Roman and Minnie seize upon the situation to become an unavoidable fixture in the couple’s life: referring Rosemary to an exclusive doctor, delivering daily supplements of their specific herb, and essentially isolating Rosemary from any other contact with outsiders beyond the apartment. As weeks go by, Rosemary pieces together the horrific evidence directly related to her pregnancy—and correctly suspects that she is now pregnant with the son of the devil.

While much of Repulsion’s power relies on Polanski’s deft manipulations of cinematic techniques to highlight the extreme psychosis of the protagonist, Rosemary’s Baby works so successfully through an approach of complete contrast in presenting the narrative as objective, removed, and stylistically distanced as possible. While there are two dream sequences and a rapidly edited climax following Rosemary’s attempt to escape her captors, Polanski shoots the vast majority of the scenes without the aid of the stylistic flourishes that made Repulsion so distinct. Whereas the weight of dread in the former film became constructed through such a singular glimpse into this particular female’s point-of-view, the dread of Rosemary’s Baby emerges through a command of unwavering reality.

Indeed, what has allowed for the film’s reputation and unique nature compared to most horror films relies in the slow descent into the horror of the premise—rather than through shock, jump-scares, and moments that may veer too far from reality as to break the barriers of verisimilitude. Ruth Gordon’s portrayal of Minnie Castavet serves as perhaps the best example of how this particular portrayal of a monster can remain so disturbing. Rather than a performance that hinges on leering, creepy machinations, Gordon’s casting presents an affable, grandmother-like figure whose ostensibly good-natured demeanor diminishes any doubts toward obvious malevolent intentions that she may harbor.

Furthermore, the narrative’s greatest strength comes from repeating this effect throughout almost every turn of the plot. The actions of those surrounding Rosemary—from her husband, to the Castavets, to the tenants—all present themselves with an outward appearance of those with the best intentions for Rosemary.

Consequentially, a frustrating urge arises within the audience—an insuppressible cry to reach out and help Rosemary as those around her cast doubts upon her sanity. Nonetheless, Polanski never releases the audience from this plea to help the pregnant protagonist. Instead, he raises the stakes at every possible point: as Rosemary is manipulated by the malicious forces around her, as Rosemary complains of a horrific pain in her stomach and prohibited from seeing any other doctors, as she grows abnormally thin and pale despite her pregnancy…Polanski refuses to release his suffocating grip upon the viewer, demanding their anxiety to rise in equally uncomfortable parallel with Rosemary’s.

In effect, Polanski positions the audience directly within Rosemary’s psychology, much as he did with Carol in Repulsion, though through incredibly different methods. While Polanski frames the claustrophobia of the apartment in Repulsion as a means of discomfort, the apartment in Rosemary’s Baby is used for exactly the opposite effect—to comfort. The tenants of the Bramford apartment building suffocate Rosemary with their unending help and insistence that she need not leave the apartment. When Rosemary escapes their clutches and tries to find another doctor for a second opinion, the tension rises to an almost unbearable weight of dread. She has finally fled the imprisonment of her own home, and every second grows fraught with the fear that she will again be caught and returned back to her apartment for good.

And of course, this is exactly what happens. After delivering the baby, Rosemary sneaks into the Castevets’ apartment, only to find that her baby remains alive and under the care of the cult composed of the apartment tenants. While her initial reaction is one of absolute horror and shock, the film ends on a semi-ambiguous note as Rosemary cradles her child (conceived by Satan) and seems at a sudden peace. As the camera pans out for end credits to roll, over a wide shot of the expansive apartment complexes that mirror the opening, Rosemary’s fate appears sealed. Rather than fight the oppressive rule of her captors, she appears to have finally surrendered—content to be a prisoner of the apartment if it means being with her baby—consequences be damned.

The last in the trilogy—The Tenant—explores yet another intensely psychological character study, though this time with a man taking center stage. That man is Trelkovsky, as played by Polanski himself, serving as both director and star. As with Rosemary’s Baby, The Tenant opens with a similar, ominous foreshadowing with the owner introducing the new apartment and explains that the previous tenant—a woman named Simone—committed suicide (with Trelkovsky noting “I’ll never understand suicide”). Though Trelkovsky seems suspicious of the incredible austerity of those surrounding the apartment, and the circumstances of the previous tenants death, he accepts the terms and agrees to move into the apartment.

Yet very quickly, these suspicions that start out as simple inconveniences become realized as the true horrors. The neighboring tenants’ dislike for noise grows into an outright contempt, and Trelkovsky’s own identity slowly dissolves into one that he no longer recognizes. As the neighbors begin subtly pushing Trelkvosky into living a life not unlike Simone—the previous tenant—Trelkvosky recognizes that he is slowly transforming into the identity of the woman who previously tenanted the apartment.

Watching the film with ideas of its own historical context in mind—coming after the Manson murders of Polanski’s wife, Sharon Tate—and with Polanski starring as Trelkvosky, one can’t help but watch the narrative without projecting certain ideas about Polanski’s own individual troubles of his personal life upon his fictional one. While The Tenant negotiates between these various themes—identity, paranoia, privacy—and there are certainly some memorable moments that mirror the best in Polanski’s career, the levels of dread and are not as strong as the former two of the trilogy. While they don’t necessarily need to be compared, as they are very different films with very different ambitions, The Tenant stands as a very different film, not only within the Apartment trilogy but Polanski’s overall filmography.

Still, The Tenant wrestles with these ideas in an ever-compelling manner. The escalating sense of terror remains, though not as singularly focused, and the final shot before Trelkovsky stares out the window in a full embrace of his changed identity into Simone—with all the other apartment tenants clapping and urging him on—remains one of the most gorgeously haunting moments in all of Polanski’s work.

Through each film, Polanski illumines dark corners of human neurosis and psychological trauma as few horror films have ever so successfully managed. Whether through the resurrection of past traumas in Repulsion, the spiraling paranoia of Rosemary’s sanity for herself and her baby in Rosemary’s Baby, or the crumbling sense of disillusionment within The Tenant, Polanski’s apartment trilogy uses the power of the horror genre to profound effect as comparative allegories of the true horrors of human psychology. In doing so—and by isolating the characters within the most confined and pocketed corners of an apartment landscape—Polanski demonstrates that the most terrifying ideas are often not the fictitious and supernatural, but that the most horrifying of all evils are those that can be found within the darkest corners of the human mind.

Interstellar and The Resurgence of Hard Sci-Fi

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Under the wide umbrella of science fiction, the specific subgenre of “hard sci-fi” has remained a particularly difficult endeavor for most filmmakers to successfully translate to the silver screen. Coined in 1957 by P. Schuyler Miller within Astounding Science Fiction magazine, the subgenre separates itself by exploring premises with scientific underpinnings that explore both the wonders and potential consequences of these fictional—yet plausible—scientific advancements. Hard sci-fi delves deep into a world not too different from our own—one in which the characters are often just as horrified or amazed by the scientific concepts that serve as the catalyst of the narrative’s conflicts. This definition distinguishes hard sci-fi from a recent film like Edge of Tomorrow, or even something like the Alien franchise, where the narrative resembles something closer to an action movie set within futuristic worlds (or otherwise), than one interested in examining characters faced with the ramifications of scientific achievements.

Though some of the best films in the genre fall under this specific definition—Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and Duncan Jones’ recent Moon all standing as stellar examples of scientific scenarios filtered through fictional settings—but perhaps with Moon as a starting point, the genre seems to have suddenly flourished within cinema at large. As seen in Her, Gravity, and most recently Interstellar, and despite the vast differences of scope found in each, the recent surge in hard sci-fi has allowed an opportunity to investigate exactly how and why this specific genre has remained so relevant and powerful within the modern film landscape.

In Spike Jonze’s Her, the film examines the possibility of a man named Theodore falling in love with an AI operating system represented through a female voice. In the hands of most filmmakers, this simple premise could easily be doomed for the worst—portraying the bond between man and machine as anything other than cringeworthy, laughable, or silly. Jonze, however, uses the simplicity of the premise and the subtle hinting of scientific advancements in a near future to explore ambitious questions of human emotion and relationships that raise thought-provoking questions into the nature of what may be considered genuine emotion from both man and machine.

Though the surface scope of the film can be considered comparatively small against something like the vast space of Gravity and the epic cosmic exploration of Interstellar, Jonze uses the simple premise to profound effect. While Theodore (arguably) represents the everyday man—one struggling with issues of loneliness, guilt, and increasing isolation against a world of almost omnipresent socially connectivity—Samantha stands as the opposite: a paradoxical being of infinite knowledge and evolving emotions. In the era of Apple’s Siri and advancing AI across all digital platforms, Jonze depicts the dissolving barrier between human and AI interactions to both and beautiful and devastating conclusions. Familiar concepts of intimacy, compatibility, friendship, and love are all filtered through the prism of the genre to illumine these wide-ranging consequences—both wonderful and terrible—made possibly by such scientific foundations. Moreover, as seen through such an ostensibly small and digestible premise, the film allows a broader understanding into ideas of human behavior and the binding human connection in a world of infinitely expanding science.

Nonetheless, Alfonso Cuaron’s Gravity travels to a terrain even more isolated than that lonely landscape occupied by Theodore: space. The film revolves around astronaut Dr. Ryan Stone—stranded in space after the destruction of her space shuttle—and her impossible endeavor to return to Earth. While the film’s scientific inaccuracies have been widely reported and nit-picked to death, Gravity still successfully manages to construct a setting both eerily realistic and unnerving for the common viewer. Cuaron utilizes the power of sound to its maximum potential—allowing sequences of stultifying silences to drown the viewer in the dread of the limitless abyss of space. And in those moments of chaotic confusion, both the mix and the soundtrack are amplified toward a similar, disorienting effect—positioning the viewer directly into Stone’s own anxious feelings as she fights a battle on all fronts of the human condition—physical, mental, and psychological—to overcome this hostile habitat and return home.

More to the point, Gravity remains firmly rooted in a narrative that satisfies criteria of belonging to the hard sci-fi pantheon. The basic premise of being lost in space, Stone’s application of scientific principles to help resolve her situation, and the consequences of these choices made through grounded science all work toward establishing a story that simultaneously displays the absolute horror and amazements allowed by such advancements into the uncharted frontier of deep space. And while Cuaron ensures that the casual viewer can understand the how and why of the principles in play, the director wisely never overburdens the viewer with unnecessary facts or wasted screen time merely for the point of proving their validity.

Instead, the technological reality demonstrated throughout only helps further transport the viewer into the cold blackness of outer space—conjured through an array of impressive special-effects and subtle acting that enhances the experience rather than distract for the sake of special attention. As a result, Cuaron’s able to use this story filled with scientific underpinnings as a vehicle for further enlightenment: to explore themes of isolation, fear of the unknown, and the power of human resistance against what appears to be an impossible conclusion.

Finally, Christopher Nolan’s recent foray into hard sci-fi through Interstellar proposes a voyage even more ambitious than either of its former sci-fi peers: offering an opportunity beyond the limitations of Earth, beyond the undiscovered domains of space—and into realms that challenge current conceptions of the observable dimensions. Set in the very near future, a multitude of human-induced blights now threaten the globe: ravaged crops, violent dust storms, and an attitude of defeat that has left the future of humanity in doubt. Led by Matthew McConaughey’s Cooper, a team of astronauts travel through a wormhole outside Saturn toward three potential planets that may allow for human colonization.

Like Gravity (and other Nolan films), a number of critics seem more concerned with finding potential plot holes than grasping the bigger point of the fiction encapsulated through the narrative. For all its faults in certain aspects of overall storytelling, Interstellar—perhaps even more so than the others—uses these characters to demonstrate the power of science in the face of insurmountable odds. Though repeatedly hammed over the head throughout the beginning, Interstellar portrays a future world that has given up on the idea of progress and taking chances. Within a world of scarce resources, the bureaucrats challenge Cooper’s indomitable spirit and reiterate their focus upon time-tested methods of stabilizing demands—only exacerbating any chance of defeating the problems in the process—and consequentially relegating his son to a life of farming, rather than the opportunities offered by education.

But when Cooper’s daughter soon begins receiving signs from “the ghosts”, and Cooper manages to find NASA now literally working underground, he is quickly recruited as captain to the team tasked with traveling through the loophole and determining which of the three planets beyond the wormhole may serve as humanity’s next home. Finding that two of the three inhabitable, and with too little fuel for both investigating the third planet and returning to Earth, Cooper journeys alone into a nearby black hole to gather data beyond the event horizon—allowing NASA to launch a massive space craft carrying the world’s population.

While, of course, much of this narrative is driven by speculative science-fiction—exemplified by Cooper’s ability to transcend time within the tesseract created by a future version of himself—the principles of powerful science-fiction remain in full force. The climax is determined by the hero utilizing principles of plausible (if speculative) scientific underpinnings that illumine aspects of human emotion through this fictional premise. Though certainly the most hypothetical of the three, Interstellar attempts to explore the consequences of these scientific propositions while (less successfully) engaging in thematic, emotional ideas of love, sacrifice, and exploration.

Nonetheless, throughout each of the three films, the filmmakers have ventured forth into a genre that embraces the intellectual and thematic capacities as best offered through the genre. Rather than merely using the disguise of sci-fi under the mask of an action movie or a futuristic setting, the narratives fully incorporate aspects of plausible science fiction filtered through narratives of cinematic allegory. Although Kubrick’s 2001 remains the genre’s apex, and a scattered few have successfully emerged over the years, the recent resurrection of hard sci-fi into the genre forefront signals the possibility of audience’s desire for material that matches the criteria found within hard sci-fi: smart, creative works that evoke possibilities of the future to explore the best and worst of immortal truths found within human nature.

Book to Film: Rum Punch to Jackie Brown

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Book To Film: From Elmore Leonard’s Rum Punch to Quentin Tarantino’s Jackie Brown

This article can now be found on the great new site Seroword: http://seroword.com/

http://seroword.com/2014/11/15/book-to-film-from-elmore-leonards-rum-punch-to-quentin-tarantinos-jackie-brown/

Book Review: The Life and Times of Charles Manson

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Most biographies of famous historical figures often seem to start at an immediate compromise with the reader—struggling to negotiate between the subject’s public reputation, contextual history, and yet still deliver an entertaining read without resorting to sensationalist storytelling that may distort the reality of the events. In biographies of infamous figures, especially, authors often have a tendency to present the subject not unlike a bad horror movie character—delivering cheap scares and newsreel highlights of a criminal’s life that exploit the gore of the crimes, rather than breaking down the intertwining events of the subject’s historical backdrop that may have nurtured their life choices. In this respect, The Life and Times of Charles Manson separates itself from the vast number of works written not only about such notorious figures, but one of the most notorious of all—Charlie Manson—by delivering an incredible read that still breaks down in clear contextual detail the confluence of this particular time in history and Manson’s own life that paved the way for one of the most bizarre, shocking, and perplexing crime waves in American history.

Starting even before Manson’s birth, Guinn describes the Kentucky backwoods and Manson lineage that the troubled Charlie would be born into with clear atmospheric detail. While it’s easy to just describe Charlie’s birth as the result of another troubled, unmarried teen pregnancy, Guinn’s deep historical research into the entire family’s personalities, financial, and religious history better help explore the early seeds of potential trouble that would plague young Charlie for the rest of his life. Furthermore, Guinn peppers in anecdotes of Charlie’s early behavior and constant need for attention that laid the groundwork for the troubled psychology that would blossom to disastrous results in the near future

The next few chapters further describe Manson’s perpetual path of self-destruction; specifically, his inability to stay out of institutional life and propensity for manipulating people around him. Manson’s modus operandi quickly reveals itself, and a looming dread expands over the next few chapters as the early formation of the Family grows with ostensibly innocent beginnings. Guinn continually parses in just enough description of the popular movements, incidents, and cultural attitudes that parallel Manson’s own nightmarish distortions of such historical hallmarks.

More importantly, Guinn populates Manson’s narrative with rich characterization and similarly detailed background history of the supporting cast that were as responsible, if not more so, as the catalysts for the crimes often solely attributed to the Family figurehead. In doing so, Guinn demystifies so much of the false propagation of Manson as the calculating, conniving mastermind that has ballooned beyond control in the eyes of the public. Instead, with impressive aplomb, Guinn manages to simultaneously describe Manson’s: unbelievably outlandish teachings filtered through a distorted logic of current events, the fear-based tactics employed to ensure his followers’ unwavering loyalty, and the insatiable impulse for fame that compelled his motives since childhood. As the best biographies are capable of achieving, the reader finishes the narrative with a starkly different understanding of the figure in question. While all of Manson’s horrific inclinations and commitment to his grotesque world vision are not shied away from, Guinn helps deconstruct Manson’s sometimes incomprehensible line of thought, mostly involving either fear for his own personal safety, almost child-like fear for being ignored (in terms of his failed musical career), or just plain racism that charged most of his plans—and how it was the confluence of all the above that concluded in the Tate-LaBianca murders.

Nonetheless, Guinn’s actual writing remains compelling as ever. The chapters detailing the Tate murders are wrought with palpable tension and incredibly vivid descriptions that situate the reader directly into the horrific setting with an oppressive sense of verisimilitude. While my understand was quite murky into the actual machinations of how the Black Panthers, Helter Skelter, the Beach Boys, and Sharon Tate all exactly played their part, Guinn’s writing helps propels the reader through Manson’s puzzling thought process and convergence of these seemingly separate elements that all aligned for one of the most infamous crimes in American consciousness. As a result, The Life and Times of Charles Manson weaves an incredibly compelling narrative that manages to both deliver a page-turning read and succinctly explain the various elements that composed the Manson myth, while also dispelling so much of the mystique previously constructed in the public image of the man.

Album Review: Uncle Acid’s Mind Control

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Unlike almost every other musical genre, one of metal’s biggest strengths has always lied in its distinct ability to conjure up creative, atmospheric realms that invite the listener into a specific world constructed by the artist. Doom metal, even more so than other metal subgenres, relishes this opportunity to create an oppressive, heavy atmosphere that filters the familiar instruments of rock music through the prism of distorted vocals, lyrics, and supporting instruments that open a portal into fictitious sonic worlds. And it is within this specific aspect, that Uncle Acid & the deadbeats separate themselves from their doom peers with an incredibly innovative and distinct approach to the genre as heard on their album Mind Control.

Taking their cues from a mix of Black Sabbath and a nightmare-version of the Beatles, Uncle Acid meld their riffs into atmospheric productions that are reminiscent of the former bands, but also add a very familiar sense of melody. Melodies that if isolated may sound like some undiscovered gem from the Beatles, yet when strained through the creative machinations of Uncle Acid—produce a haunting and unique tone that so eerily reminds the viewer of some digestible pop-rock song, yet also calls to mind an unearthly quality only recognizable in doom.

Mind Control’s basic album concept revolves around a Charlie Manson-like figure that descends from the mountain with song titles and lyrics that evoke the major motifs of the period, such as: “Valley of the Dolls”, “Follow the Leader”, “Desert Ceremony”, “Death Valley Blues”, and “Devil’s Work”. The album oscillates between heavy, thumping riffs like in “Devil’s Work” and the slower, sixties-infused feelings of a song like “Follow the Leader”. Although a song like “Devil’s work” utilizes a heavy riff that will satisfy metal heads looking for a more propulsive charge, songs like “Follow the Leader” offer a more interesting contribution the genre. “Follow the Leader” and “Death Valley Blues” both sound like the Beatles’ “Norwegian Wood” strained through an acid trip led by Charles Manson to his Followers in their final days on Spahn Ranch, but without ever calling unnecessary attention to any of such recognizable elements. Instead, eerie tunes somehow both nostalgic and otherworldly wash over the listener’s ears to create a very creative and transportative effect to both the sound and world constructed within this concept album—as only found in the best of doom.

Boardwalk Empire and the Beginning of the End

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Although never as successful as its HBO gangster predecessor, the Boardwalk Empire finale is the best concluding television finale since its HBO sibling cut to an ambiguous black in The Sopranos nearly seven years ago. Ascending from the ranks of David Chase’s number two on that previous show to show runner of Boardwalk, Terrence Winter devised a series—exemplified in the finale—that commented not only on the nature of the gangsters populating this specific period in Prohibition, but whose sins would trickle down to later generations of Americans as imbued in Tony Soprano at large. Though shows like Breaking Bad, True Detective, etc., remain masterpieces in their own right, Boardwalk’s ultimate sixty minutes demonstrated to devastating effect its mastery of long-term setups, own contextual history within the genre, and themes that illumine the dark nature of these particular-Prohibition gangsters through a beautiful collusion of storytelling.

As will be seen repeatedly, the opening shot of the finale works on multiple levels of setup and payoff in both narrative and theme. Cleverly eschewing the opening credits segment, Nucky’s clothes are crumpled on the beach—their owner swimming out past the ocean’s surf line— and away from the eponymous Boardwalk in contrast to the opening title bottles that always threatened to drown him toward it.

“What you leave behind. That’s all anyone’s going to remember you for”

The finale then cuts to the series of flashbacks that have been presented all season, where the Commodore delivers the above dialgoue to an eager Nucky hoping to finally achieve his dream of becoming Atlantic City Sheriff—and after having passive-aggressively hinted at the Commodore with his keeping the latter’s relationship with young girls a secret. A moment later, a group of young girls arrive to croon the Commodore with a rendition of Longfellow’s “The Secret of the Sea” to almost nauseating effect–the lyrics foreshadowing Nucky’s doom ahead: “Pleasant visions haunt me/ As I gaze upon the sea/All the old romantic legends/All my dreams come back to me…”

The next sequence wraps up Al Capone within an unbelievably poignant, human glimpse into perhaps the most legendary gangsters seen throughout the series. Following a scene of his usual fist-pumping bravado and outward ignorance of his arrest, Capone returns home to confront his son. Unlike almost every other iteration of the man, the real estate of television allows for a heartbreaking look into one of America’s most infamous gangsters. Calling back to an earlier episode teaching his deaf son to fight, Capone shares a final conversation with his disabled son—aided by sign language that he’s clearly been practicing over the years—and begs for Sonny to make something of himself. The veneer of bravado melting, and adding with shades of Walter White logic, that his crimes were for Sonny’s well-being and that “that can’t be for nothin’”. The deaf son then raises his fists in a tragic payoff to that earlier scene; but instead, Capone—a man so far apparently incapable of responding to bad news of any kind without violence—crumbles in his son’s arms for a final hug goodbye.

A bit later on the boardwalk, a beautiful woman proclaiming to be from the future leads Nucky into a dark room to show him an early version of television. The scene drips with tension due the mislead of the New York gangsters announcing minutes earlier that they would murder their “friend” in public, but a more thematic tension arises from the eeriness of the newfound technology represented in the television. As the figurehead in a series depicting the archetypal gangster—the type to wear a pin-striped suit and a red carnation upon his lapel every day—a more haunting dread arises out of watching Nucky watching this revolutionary technology in an America that he will not be a part of moving forward. The television will soon become a mainstay in the American household—one that will eventually lead to a narrative television revolution depicted in The Sopranos built on de-constructing the type of gangsters that were established by Nucky, Capone, and Luciano—those initial godfathers to organized crime, who found their outlet and catalyst to build their empires through Prohibition.

Afterward, Nucky and his brother Eli share their own final farewell. More importantly, Nucky speaks to his swimming out past the surf line in the opening—detailing in more explicit virtue the foreshadowing metaphor of death that will soon meet him:

“Keep going until you can’t turn back. That’s where…there isn’t any choice…you don’t know where that is, you can’t know, until you pass it”.

Meanwhile in New York, Luciano, Lansky, and Siegel have assembled the major mob figures that will form the Commission. Earlier in the episode, Luciano reminisces on his time with Nucky and Jim Colosimo—not so subtly reminding viewers of his incredible ascension to the top of the organized crime food chain. Alluding to King Arthur, Luciano notes that their meeting table is round, signifying a new equality amongst the mobsters. Despite his total destruction of Nucky’s Boardwalk empire, Luciano and the Commission are now moving in more ambitious terms—disavowing heritage squabbles (amongst white-looking gangsters at least) and intending to form a true empire of organized crime on a national level. With Capone is heading to jail and Nucky to the grave, the Commission—led by these once young crooks into future criminal kings—signals the end of the Prohibition gangster. Gangsters no longer slaves to the heritage of their ancestors—the Sicilian, Jewish, or Irish gangsters intent on dominating the other—nor the “half-a-gangster” represented by Nucky, Rothstein, and the Commodore in their constant battle between being a powerful public figure yet more powerful gangster behind closed doors—but an American gangster.

Yet, Nucky’s ultimate fate returns to where it both began and will soon end—with Gillian. In another unbelievably heartbreaking scene, Nucky visits the source of his original sin and subsequent downfall. While fighting back tears in his speech, Gillian remains distracted by a ladybug. It’s worth noting that Gillian wears a pink dress with black dots, not unlike the insect upon her fingers. The viewer wonders whether she is ignoring him, confused, or waiting for him to finish…until the ladybug finally flies away. She tries to stand, but grips her stomach in pain—meaning that Nucky is too late, as Gillian has already met with Dr. Cotton, effectively sealing both their fates.

In the next scene, Nucky returns to his club for his belonging but is stopped by Luciano’s goons. After gesturing to one of the tassle-clad dancers catcalled on stage, the lead goon remarks: “These dancer look hot to trot. Start talkin’ to ‘em, you realized they’re all fucked up.” After having just come from his farwell talk with Gillian—literally a former dancer with severe mental problems (even before her meeting with Dr. Cotton)—Nucky understandably casts the henchman an incredibly sour look before going to retrieve his possessions. During this endeavor, however, he receives a call from the Ritz…

This call revolves around “Joe Harper” becomes beautifully edited in a masterful cross-cut with Nucky’s flashback that echoes something along the lines of the original Godfather. In the flashback, Nucky has returned to the Neptune Parade on the boardwalk. (A mythological legend of note for the series both for his controlling the sea and his rape of Caenis.) Attentive viewers may remember that this parade was set to be Gillian’s goodbye with her first kiss James (who she would later her name her son after) before his family left Atlantic City, but James never showed. On the eve of Nucky’s ultimate sin, both Gillian and the Commodore offer words directly to Nucky’s face evaluating his nature:

“Mrs. Thompsons says you want to be good but you don’t know how”—Gillian

Then between Nucky and the Commodore:

“You think you deserve something…for trying hard…What are you in the end anyway?

“I am what I need to be.”

“How’s that make you anything at all?”

This is almost directly cross-cut in the present with Nucky’s attempt to help out “Joe”, to which he offers a stack of money, only to have Joe respond:

“You’re answer to everything”

“No. Just the best one I’ve got”

The correlation between these lines is remarkable—an astounding commentary both on Nucky’s nature and that of the American ideology. Paraphrasing much of this as though responsive of one another: “You don’t know how to be good…you think you deserve something for trying hard…I am what I need to be”—all ultimately answered in the form of money explains everything about Nucky’s character—a man believing that through an ethic of hard work and his deserving of money that his destiny can best be answered.

This idea is further cemented through the visual metaphor previously set-up throughout this episode, this season, and the series. In his last stroll along the boardwalk, Nucky notices a Neptune sign advertisement in a nod to the flashback of the intercut Neptune parade. (One might also note that he entices Gillian to meet the Commodore by asking if she would like to see the world—a callback to her reading the novel “Around the World in Eighty Days” earlier within the Thompson home). However, strolling along the boardwalk and being carefully watched by undercover Federal Agents, Nucky is stopped by drunk college kids that sing out Robert W. Service’s poem “The Spell of the Yukon”:

“I wanted the gold/and I sought it;/ I scrabbled and mucked like a slave./Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;/I hurled my youth into a grave./I wanted the gold, and I got it–/ Came out with a fortune last fall,–/yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,/And somehow the gold isn’t all”

“Joe” subsequently reveals his true identity—Tommy Darmondy, son of Jimmy Darmondy, and grandson of Gillian—and fires upon Nucky. As the sound distorts into something incomprehensible and murky—like the sound of drowning—Nucky’s final flashback resorts to his days as a youth and the opening shot of the season. In that shot, Nucky was unable to catch the coin, which motivates his never ending hunger for the “nickel…and then the dime…and the quarter”, as he explained to Margaret earlier in the episode, but the series ends with his finally being able to seize the gold. In doing so, he has done everything described in the above: he has fought for the gold, hurled his youth into the grave, came out with a fortune, and finally—dying beneath the boardwalk that he’s built but that no one will remember his name for leaving behind—realized that the gold was not all.

His death—coupled by Rothstein’s death, Capone’s arrest, and the construction of Luciano’s Commission—signals the end of the early days of organized crime. These were men, who believed that through hard work and the unique opportunity presented by Prohibition, that they deserved the gold. But ultimately, these were men of the past. Men who wanted to be good, but did not know how, their morals guided instead by a nightmare version of the American dream ahead. Though Luciano and the Commission would ultimately usurp them, the seeds of organized crime that flourished Prohibition would be passed down for many generations to come. Nucky’s legacy in the pursuit of gold will only be remembered as a footnote in the grander narrative of organized crime, along with his moral compass in being “what I need to be”, as American marches forward without him. And as Narcisse portentously remarks to his Harlem congregation before his assassination: “One generation passeth away, another generation cometh, but the earth abideth forever”.

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The Game of Funny Games

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In the day and age of countless prequels, reboots, sequels, and indistinguishable blockbusters, no remake stands out quite as curiously as Michael Haneke’s return to his 1997 film Funny Games with his American remake ten years later. Despite the relocation to America with American actors, the two films written and directed by the same filmmaker remain largely identical. For a premise that includes home torture invasion filled with some of the most savage and brutal acts committed to film, one must consider why this subject matter bears such close reexamination and recreation, not just by the filmmaker, but by his audience.

Funny Games revolves around a family—a husband, wife, and son—who arrive upon their vacation home only to be confronted by two upper class, white teenage boys that take the family hostage for a very long and horrible night. The boys engage in a series of eponymous games with the family, forcing their complicity in acts of humiliations, torture, and increasingly repulsive choices which culminates in a cycle of violence that not only comments on the repetition of the horror genre but of the audiences’ desire to seek out such horrors.

Starting with the family’s drive to their new lakeside vacation home, the husband and wife play a game of guessing the title and composer of the classical tracks on their cassette player. This is the first “game” to be played by the couple. As the audience settles into the opening credits, the two tease and joke with one another about their knowledge of these classic musicians. The guessing game plays out slowly, realistically, and arguably—boring. Then, suddenly, the clashing and overbearing heavy metal song “Bonehead” by Naked City plays over this idyllic and peaceful moment. The screaming, discordant vocals of the heavy metal over this smiling family within the comfort of their location (the car) can be befuddling, yet demonstrates exactly what Haneke will prove throughout the rest of the movie—that as much as the audience may wish to identify with this innocent and endearing family, as much as the appeal and elitism of the classical music may delude the audience into believing this is the same type of entertainment that they too enjoy, it is only with the intrusion of the unbelievably loud and attention-seeking heavy metal music that the audience finally starts to truly pay attention…for better or worse.

Haneke leads a small, diminishing group of filmmakers confident enough to play out not just a scene or two, but long sequences out in real-time—allowing the audience to observe the family as they pursue their daily and mundane activities. The father and son prepare their boat for sailing, the mother prepares meat for dinner, the family dog tries stealing food out of the refrigerator—for about fifteen minutes, the audience abides these uneventful and monotonous routines of familial life.

And then, it begins.

While preparing the meat, the first of the two teenage boys—Peter—knocks on the door. Almost instantly, a wave of tension rises over the viewer. These sequences of quiet, familial life suddenly interrupted by a chubby, affable looking teenager asking to borrow eggs. Thinking nothing of it, the mother—Anna—proffers a handful of eggs that the boy accepts. But on the way out, he “clumsily” drops them. Again, he asks for eggs. Though annoyed, she again hands him more of her eggs. But, again, he “drops them”—this time, knocking the house phone into the sink. With her suspicion rising, the second of the two boys—Peter—enters the home looking for his companion. If Paul’s presence weren’t enough to grab both Anna and the audience’s attention that something is wrong, Peter’s introduction wastes no time confirming it. The two boys continue to demand the eggs from Anna, while Peter claims a golf club from her husband’s bag. When she asks the two boys to leave her home, they polite refuse. When she demands that they leave…

They politely refuse.

When the husband and son—George and George J.R.—reenter the home, Peter wastes no time breaking the latter’s kneecap with the purloined golf club—disabling any hope for the family’s escape. And with this, the film enters the very long night of “funny” games perpetuated upon the hostage family. In the first of many gut-punching moments to come, Anna notices that the family’s constantly barking dog has gone quiet—absolutely silent. Fear flashing in her eyes, Peter smiles and escorts her outside and plays a game of “hot and cold” with the distraught mother as to where the dog may be. In between his shouts of “hot” and “cold” as Anna’s nears the inevitable, he turns and winks at the camera—at the audience.

Like with the music in the opening, Haneke again ensures that the audience cannot remain unengaged with this destruction of the fourth-wall. Like it or not, the audience must now understand that they are not a passive observer in the politics of this violent narrative but playing an active—albeit removed—role in the games to follow. Peter has dismantled any illusion that the audience is not a secondary participant to the “entertainment” at hand, and he intends to deliver what is expected in the conclusion of this type of genre entertainment. A moment later, Anna opens the car door and shrieks, as the corpse of the murdered dog falls from the trunk to her feet.

Following up from this, Peter and Paul decide to propose a bet with the family: considering whether or not they will survive until 9:00 AM the next morning. Peter then again turns directly toward the camera to ask: “Do you think they’ve a chance of winning. You’re on their side, aren’t you? So who will you bet with?” Again, Peter digs into the heart of the audience’s question of entertainment. The audience has arrived with certain expectations for a horror/slasher movie, and even in choosing to watch the movie, the audience is essentially “betting” with the filmmaker as to whether or not the characters will survive.

After a few more games—one that includes stripping the mother down to consider whether she is fat while stuffing the son’s head inside a pillowcase—Peter leaves Paul in charges of the family while he returns to the kitchen to make a snack. In the interim, as the young man casually makes his snack, a gunshot is heard off-screen. And then, the horrible shriek of one of the parents, followed by sobs and hysterical tears. When Peter moves back to the living room, the image we are confronted with is bright red blood across the television set. Over this, Peter screams at his companion:

“You’re an idiot, fatty. You don’t shoot the person you counted out, but the one that’s left over! What’s wrong with you? He tried to escape! So what! That’s no reason to get trigger-happy! Have you no sense of timing? It’s only midnight. We’ll get nothing from the others now.”

As the wailing of the mother and father are heard through his tirade, the audience comes to the horrific realization that it is the blood of the small child seen upon that television set. The blood upon the television set of both our literal screen to watch the movie, and the “fictional” set within the living room of the family. Enraged more by his companion’s breaking of the rules than by the death of the child, Peter and Paul decide to leave the home.

With her deceased son at her feet, Anna crouches across the floor in shock. She turns off the TV and—simultaneous with the departure of the boys—the film returns to the feeling of “real-time”. The couple sits. Crying. Nearly catatonic. For the next few long, agonizing minutes, the couple must absorb the fact that their child has died. This long, uncomfortable sequence further demonstrating the gut-wrenching consequences of the sadism so reveled in by the horror genre, but that is usually ignored by the urgency of the plot in so many other slashers and home-invasion movies.

The horror audience (and specifically the slasher subgenre) has come to the film with a certain expectation that have been cleanly setup by the premise. A normal group of people are terrorized by the monster from beyond, some will live, but some will most certainly die. Whether it be Freddy, Jason, or Leatherface, these monsters have created million-dollar franchises on this promise—on this bet with the audience—to see who will make it out alive by the end of the picture’s run time. As body counts escalate with each progressives sequel, the filmmakers seem increasingly less interested in the pathos and possible consequences that arise out of these killers taking a life, rather than exploiting the gore and jump-scares that are promised by the premise.

Moreover, this long sequence between the couple brings the rising horror of the film’s former minutes into a stark and unmistakable reality. For all the viscera and compelling filmmaking that has led the audience to engage with film—to be entertained by it—this family has lost their child. While the viewer may attempt to distance from this death by labeling it fictional, Haneke will addresses this problem through philosophical theory in the following scenes.

After recomposing themselves in the wake of this tragedy, Anna and George summon whatever will is left inside them to try and find help. George blow-dries the phone to call the police, while Anna takes to the streets—literally screaming for help. And of course, this glimmer of hope is quickly shattered. While the slasher’s return to the screen is normally presented as a source of excitement following a interim period of following a group of bland teenagers, the return of Peter and Paul into the home—and holding Anna hostage—the viewer is only left with a feeling of dread and that the worst has yet to come.

Despite killing the child, the teenagers return determined to conclude the bet. The final game involves Anna choosing whether a knife or gun will be her weapon of choice for death. After asking her to choose, with the duct-tape still wrapped around her mouth, Peter releases the tape to remind her:

“It’s boring when mutes suffer. We want to entertain our audience, right? Show them what we can do. We’re gonna play another game. This game is “The Loving Wife…Otherwise, known as whether by knife, or whether by gun, losing your life can sometimes be fun. Come on, don’t fall asleep. You have to play the game or otherwise I have to gag you again.”

Just after the audience has settled into some feeling of normalcy following Anna’s escape, Haneke refuses to let the audience off the hook. Even though Anna, standing in as the audience surrogate, continues to ask why they insist on completing the bet, that they’ve suffered enough. Peter stares at the camera and delivers: “Do you think it’s enough? You want a real ending, right? With plausible plot development, don’t you? The bet is still on.”

Indeed, with the boys’ disappearance following the child’s death, one wonders how the film could possibly continue. With so much running time left and the main agents of “plot” progression through the boys, Funny Games does not have much “entertainment” to pool from moving forward. What if Anna were to find safety? To find police that would resolve the situation? Would the audience claim afterward that this were as anticlimactic as Peter suggests? As the game reaches its climax, with Peter continuing to mock Anna and her husband, she finally does it—Anna grabs the shotgun and shoots Paul in the chest to kill him. Distraught, Peter grabs the shotgun, flips over the pillow couches, looking for…..the remote.

He finds the remote, clicks rewind, and then the film literally begins to rewind—reversing to the moment to just before Anna fired the gun. This time, however, Paul manages to reclaim the weapon and stop her from killing his companion. Although there have been a few fourth-wall breaks listed above, even as intense as Peter directly confronting the camera, this moment is arguably the most destructive and unbelievable. For the second time now, a moment of plausible escape has occurred for Anna. She seizes the moment, killing the film’s agents of violence…

…but it’s taken from her.

As though embodying the very soul of the film, Peter grabs the remote and changes the narrative’s course. He rewinds the timeline, seizes the shotgun, and uses the weapon to kill George. Like a viewer of the horror film, if given the opportunity, Peter is determined for the viewer to be entertained by this premise to maximum degree. In the most extreme version of this scenario imaginable, it means literally taking the film’s narrative into his own hands and changing the actions of the protagonist to ensure that there may be no outcome possible other than the one that causes viewers to be as “entertained” as possible. Though this exact definition remains up for debate, its consequences do not, as detailed in the final scene.

With Anna now the family’s sole survivor, the boys take her out upon the family’s fishing boat. While sailing out to the middle of the vast lake, the boys debate a particular philosophical discussion in a casual manner that may easily slip past the viewer due to its casual delivery and camera’s focus on Anna’s attempt to retrieve a knife in one last hope for escape. The conversation even begins with Paul in mid-sentence, exclaiming:

“And so everything is it’s mirror image, but of course, all these predictions are lies to avoid panic…but the problem isn’t only how to escape the anitmaterial world to go back to the real one but how to communicate between the two worlds…”

Peter then realizes that Anna has seized the hidden knife, and after applauding her “Olympic Spirit”, the two pause their philosophical discussion, check to find that it’s only 8 AM…before then Peter nonchalantly throws Anna over the boat for her to drown in the middle of the lake. The two appear to give little care toward Anna’s quick demise, especially with so much time left in the “bet”, under the excuse that they’re hungry. Docking the boat upon the other side of the lake, however, the two resume that previous discussion:

“Where was I?”

“You were discussing the difference between communicating with the material universe, and antimaterial universe, right”

“It turns out that one universe is real. And one is fiction…it’s a kind of model projection in hyperspace.”

“But where’s your hero now?”

“He’s in reality and he’s in fiction”

“But the fiction’s real…you can see it in the movie right?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then, its’ just as real as reality, ‘cus you can see it, too.”

“Bullshit.”
“Why?”

Here, again, the conversation plays out so seemingly out of context, quick, and cursory that the dialogue may slip past the viewer. However, it holds the key to much of Haneke’s thesis for the violence within not just this movie but horror in a broader context. While the discussion is clearly ambiguous, it also hints toward a theory of fiction that supposes much of the fiction—while existing in a different reality than our own—can still be believed to hold some level of truth. While one may easily scoff at such a theory, perhaps spouting Paul’s reaction: “Bullshit”, Peter/Haneke answers with the simple question of “Why”.

Though answers exists to such an esoteric and abstract theory, the point is to at least consider the consequences of distancing ourselves from such fictional horrors. Numerous times throughout the film, Haneke confronts the viewer about “rooting” for such heinous acts to occur, about accepting such tragedies in the name of entertainment, or attempting to distance ourselves from playing a removed role in the progression of these atrocious acts that occur on the “fictional” screen. Though there will always be violence in fiction—often times playing to discover a larger emotional truth about human nature, but used in equal measure for the shlock value of cheap entertainment thrills—Funny Games is a rare film that uses the genre to both the push the boundaries of such thrills and simultaneously comment on the larger issue of violence in fiction at large.

The film ends with Peter knocking on the resident’s door at this house on the opposite end of the lake. When the woman opens the door, he asks if he can borrow some eggs. She allows him inside the house to wait, and after she leaves, Peter stares directly into the camera for a final look at the audience as the heavy metal of “Naked City” ramps up to full volume again—suggesting the repetitive nature of this fictional cycle of violence. In Haneke’s decision to even repeat making this movie—in painstaking shot for shot recreation—Haneke is challenging repeat viewers for their compulsion to seek out this violence yet again. And not just of this remake, but of this level of violence in a broader fiction.

While many genre fans are often annoyed by movies like this, one as subversive and challenging about the very elements that a viewer has paid to see, Funny Games proves to be one of the most exceptionally crafted and inventive pieces of horror filmmaking to simultaneously push genre boundaries on a narrative level while confronting viewers’ desire to seek out this specific type of “entertainment”. Furthermore, Haneke’s decision to recreate his own movie through a shot-for-shot remake with American actors and setting serves to not only reproduce the entertainment for a new audience but also works as commentary on the continuing cycle of violence within the genre. As usual, Haneke has raised the bar for filmmakers to examine the principles of their work, genre, and purpose of the entertainment in their hands. Going forth, one wonders when other filmmakers may seize the opportunity to examine such a particular, prominent genre through both the narrative and medium as masterfully as Funny Games. As Peter would remind us: “The bet is still on”.

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The Manhunters: Will Graham and Clarice Starling

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“You’d be more comfortable if you relax with yourself. We don’t invent our natures, they’re issued to us, along with our lungs…and everything else. Why fight it?”

In the two best adaptation of William Harris’ series of Hannibal Lecter novels, the films delineate two distinct portraits of the psychological profile contained within not just the serial killers, but more interestingly, also within the investigators responsible for apprehending them. Throughout Michael Mann’s 1986 seminal crime procedural adaptation of the Red Dragon novel and Jonathan Demme’s 1990 masterpiece adaptation of the book’s sequel—The Silence of the Lambs—the complex moral challenges facing both manhunters allows a fascinating glimpse into issues of gender and psychological insights contained within both FBI Special Investigator William Graham (William Petersen) and the young FBI trainee Claire Starling (Jodie Foster). Specifically, this contrast is viewed through the mutual interaction between both investigators and Hannibal Lecter–the cannibalistic serial killer aiding both manhunters in the pursuit of the killers beyond their reach.

While Silence revels much more in the serial killer genre elements with procedural clues in the background, Manhunter brings the police procedural ideas to the forefront. Manhunter’s basic thesis revolves around the thin line separating the psyche between serial killers and the obsessive nature of those investigators attempting to “solve” them. Over and over, Mann highlights the dual identity that Graham must negotiate between being a “good cop”, who uses the obsessive nature of his persona to stop criminals, and how that same obsessive nature taps into the dark reservoirs of his psyche that overlaps with the same perverted landscape as the killers of his pursuit.

In Graham’s introductory scene, he’s persuaded by his FBI Superior Jack Crawford to return to his job as a special investigator after being committed to a mental ward for his arrest of Hannibal Lector. In his first real scene of police work, Graham effectively places himself in the mind of the current killer—codenamed The Tooth Fairy —and recreates his actions within the scene of the murder. Graham effectively uses a method actor’s technique of embedding his thoughts into the mind of the killer in order to piece together the crime from the murderer’s perspective. He talks out loud to himself, plays the role of the Tooth Fairy, speaking into his recorder: “God she’s lovely isn’t she…you opened their eyes, didn’t you! Didn’t you!”

Later, Graham meets with Lecktor (only ever unnecessarily spelt this way in Manhunter) for further help unlocking the identity of the killer. Played by Cox in a much more naturalistic and intellectually driven behavior than that of Hopkins, Lecktor taunts Graham’s plea for help, knowing that Graham’s arresting him continues to haunt him beyond the thin veneer of his outward confidence. Lecktor even (sloppily) underlines the film’s thesis by telling Graham in a bald declaration: “the reason you caught me is we’re just alike.”

The idea of transformation—or becoming—is another theme echoed throughout both Manhunter and Silence. In an uncovered note from Francis to Lecktor, he writes: “You alone can understand what I am becoming. You know the people I use to help me in…undergoing change to fuel the radiance of what I am becoming.” As Francis Dolarhyde (aka the Tooth Fairy) kills his victims in the act of becoming the Red Dragon, Graham struggles against becoming locked in the very acts that he’s committed to fighting. LIkewise, Lecktor’s final piece of advice to Graham in unlocking the killer’s motive involves “becoming”:

“Didn’t you really feel so bad because killing him felt so good and why shouldn’t it feel good? It must feel good to God. He does it all the time.”

“Why does it feel good, Dr. Lector”

“…because God has powers. And if one does what God does enough times, one will become as God is”.

Mann further implements this motif by framing Graham’s investigative obsessions in a manner that suggests his own becoming not altogether unlike Dolarhyde. The pre-credit opening is shot from the POV of The Tooth Fairy ascending the household steps to murder the family, and when Graham breaks into the house for his own investigations, Mann replicates the same POV shot to parallel the perspective of the two men. Similarly, this transitions into Graham’s own unlocking of the killer’s psyche—allowing his realization that the Tooth Fairy needs to use mirrors as an “audience” of his becoming. Furthermore, Graham must continue to watch the home videos of the family in the same ritualistic manner as the Tooth Fairy. In watching the videos over and over again, Mann again demonstrates how Graham’s practices for success border that thin line between investigator and the killer.

As Graham falls deeper and deeper into the case, Graham’s son forces him to confront this very nature that he’s demonstrated an inability to control, asking:

“This guy’s trying to kill us?…When are you gonna kill him?

Mann ingeniously uses the innocent of the child’s question in order to again highlight the thin moral boundary separating the two men. A guilty look flashes across Graham’s face: his own son’s question reflecting an idea not too different from the same taunts used by Leckter. Similarly, the question—and his son’s point-of-view of right and wrong—display a failing on Graham’s part to truly define exactly what the moral justice side of his job means. Almost reluctantly, he answers:

“I’m not…It’s only my job to find him.”

However, this does not prove to be the case.

As with Lecktor’s insight that a killer kills because it feels good—to act like God—and if one kills enough times than one will become as God is—Graham cannot stop himself from needing to act like these killers in order to become one. After spending the entire movie using the same obsessive mindset utilized by the killers in order to fulfill their conquests, Graham finally finds the killer of his pursuit and shoots down The Tooth Fairy. Although Mann employs the cinematic style of an action/cop hero forced to kill the bad guy, and the film ends with Graham back on the beach with his family, the question remains whether Graham’s process hasn’t exactly validated Lector’s claims. Though innocent lives have been saved, Graham has now—multiple times, and in the same, serial manner—killed two men by enslaving himself to the same psychological compulsions that compelled the very men that he’s just killed.

Though Lecktor believes that it is in replicating God’s power to kill that drives the Tooth Fairy, Graham can now be seen as one occupying another spectrum in the desire act as God—specifically, in acting as the all-powerful protector. Just before Graham leaves to take on the case, he works with his son to help a build a fence to keep out predators—protecting the innocent animals. Throughout the investigation, Graham continually consults the photos of the murdered families (along with their home videos) as a continual reminder of his responsibility. Nearing the climax, Graham finally yells at Crawford for roping him into the case by shouting:

“You showed me two dead families knowing damn well I’d imagine families four, five, and six”. To which Crawford retorts: “Damn right. And I’d do it again”.

The idea of Graham as protector and father is further underscored by challenges of masculinity repeatedly addressed in the film. In the investigator’s need to outsmart both Lecktor and The Tooth Fairy as a way of proving masculine dominance to himself, family, and co-workers, Mann again uses a parallel structure between The Tooth Fairy and Graham to negotiate their dual struggle. The police’s main assumption about the Tooth Fairy—that he is gay—is proven to be something that troubles and provokes Dolarhyde into fits of rage. After kidnapping Lounds (the paparazzo), he asks point-blank: “Do you imply that I am queer?” Though Lounds profusely denies it, Dolarhyde forces him to “promise”, which he concludes by stating “We’ll seal your promise with a kiss” (before then sending Lounds to his death).

Though some may point to Dolarhyde’s night of “romance” with his blind co-worker, Reba, as an argument against any homosexual inclinations, what one finds on close examination is that she is further framed as yet another prop in Dolarhyde’s slow transformation toward becoming the Red Dragon. After their night in bed, Dolarhyde wakes in a panic upon finding her absent. He races outside looking for her, only to find Reba standing in the rising morning sun. When she talks about coming back inside the house, Dolarhyde begs her stay outside because: “you look so good in the sun”.

This is a clear allusion to main source and inspiration of Dolarhyde’s Red Dragon ideal through the William Blake painting: The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in the Sun. With Francis standing in for the Red Dragon, Reba is literally standing outside in the sun, fueling his fantasy in acting as the woman literally clothed in the sun.

In line with Graham’s role as father figure and protector, he, too, feels the need to prove his masculinity through the job. Beside the photos/videos of Graham watching as a father might, desperate to protect his family, he’s quick to anger and easily provoked by any threat to his shortcomings. With Lecktor–Graham’s ultimate tool in unlocking the clues to the killer–he’s unable to ever let pass any provocations by the jailed cannibal. During his first visit to ask Lecktor’s help, when Lecktor asks why he would ever aid the police in finding the Tooth Fairy:

“Thought you might be curious to see if you’re smarter than the person I’m looking for”

“By implication, you [Will], are smarter than me”

“You had disadvantages…You’re insane”

“Don’t think you can persuade me with appeals to my intellectual vanity”

“I’m not going to persuade you. You’ll either do it or you won’t.”

Graham deflects Lecktor’s assertion of Will being smarter than either of them by resorting to Lecktor’s insanity, and when Lecktor continues to taunt their similar natures, Graham flees the asylum from being so overwhelmed by the implications. In contrast to the finesse and verbal outsmarting used by Clarice in Silence, Graham’s response to any version of insulting his “less than” is to prove himself the better. Later, when Graham explains to the investigators (with Lounds in attendance) that the Tooth Fairy may be impotent with females, Lounds asks how working on the case affects Graham’s own sex life. To which he responds:

“Mine? Doesn’t affect mine. Affects yours. Go fuck yourself”.

Again, unlike Clarice’s reactions in Silence to utilize any abject response to her sexuality as a means of subverting expectations to her advantage, Graham—as a man compelled to prove his masculinity—ends up sharing psychological qualities not altogether unlike those of the Tooth Fairy.

Graham’s obsession as both a protector and father figure, and then decision to kill in the name of it, further supports Lecktor’s explanation to not just The Tooth’s Fairy psychology—but Graham’s. Again, although the film ends on an ostensible sunset of triumph for Graham, there remains a darker reading into Graham’s “feeling good” for having fully completed his cycle of becoming more like God the protector.

Clarice Starling, although an FBI novitiate in training to fulfill the same position occupied by Graham, works as a fascinating counterexample to the troubled male investigator. While Graham’s pathology has proven to be linked to those of the very killers he seeks, and further complemented by his masculine mindset, Clarice works both on the opposite side of the spectrum and strategically utilizes her disadvantages into her advantage.

Clarice is introduced as an FBI trainee, one not even officially introduced into the field, and furthermore—as a woman. Without exaggeration, almost every scene involving Clarice is framed from either her literal point-of-view or displays how men in the field treat a woman, much less a trainee. The first shot of Clarice is training at the FBI training headquarters—climbing a hill—overcoming man-made obstacles. Not a moment later, this is followed with her entering a crowded elevator filled with men drawing her height, where she must force her way inside only to confront their glaring stares. She then meets with Crawford (played, as great as Farina’s moustache will always be, perfectly by Scott Glenn). Here, Crawford offers her the goal of talking with the notorious Hannibal “The Cannibal” Lecter under the pretenses of interviewing him for an FBI psychological profile. Clarice eyes the Buffalo Bill headlines posted behind him, playing along, as Crawford adds: “I don’t expect him to talk with you, but I have to at least say that we tried.”

At Lecter’s insane asylum, Clarice enters a whole new realm of misogyny from both the staff and those interred at the criminally insane. Chilton—the director of the Baltimore asylum holding Lecter—charms Clarice with such lines as:

“We get a lot of detectives here, but I must say, I can’t ever remember one this attractive.” … “Will you be in town overnight”…”, “Crawford’s very clever using you, isn’t he?…Pretty, young woman to turn him on. I don’t think Lecter’s even seen a woman in eight years, and oh are you ever his taste”.

After deflecting Chilton’s first few words, Clarice snaps on the last: “I graduated from UVA, Doctor. It is not a charm school.” When she then suggests that she be left alone to interview Lecter, and Chilton passive-aggressively notes that she could have mentioned that earlier, she replies: “Then I would have missed the pleasure of your company”.

Unlike Graham’s volatile attitude toward even the smallest chide, Clarice must navigate the male-dominated criminology field with a level of self-aware tact. While Graham’s only real obstacle came from within himself and those criminals of his pursuit, Clarice must contend with both sadistic killers and the constant, looming male bureaucracy challenging her competency at every turn.

In Clarice’s first interview with the imprisoned cannibal, Hannibal is insulted both by Crawford’s sending of a trainee and Clarice’s not so subtle questionings that are the equivalent of filling out a standard psych eval. On her way out, however, one of the deranged inmates—Migs—degrades Clarice in one of the vilest methods imaginable: by literally throws semen on her face. An infuriated Lector, who considers Migs’ discourtesy to be “unspeakably ugly”, immediately calls Clarice back and gives her the first clue in catching Buffalo Bill—who is connected to Lecter through a former patient during his days as a psychiatrist.

One wonders if this incident had happened with Graham or another male investigator, rather than Clarice, how the pursuit of Buffalo Bill would have continued forward. Migs would be understandably less inclined to humiliate a female investigator, and Lecter himself seems more repulsed by the discourtesy to a female investigator than those male investigators routinely sent to interview him. Despite Lecter humiliating Clarice only moments before, calling her: “a well-scrubbed rube. You’re not one generation removed from poor white trash.” Migs’ disrespecting a woman in this particular way revolts Lector to the core so much so that he allows Clarice for the first of many breakthrough in finding Buffalo Bill.

As strong as Clarice remains following the incident, she breaks down when reaching her car in the parking lot outside the institution. Alone, without anyone watching, she lets out a long cry that leads to a flashback from her youth. Here, Clarice’s motivation and inspiration for her career is first revealed as her father—the local sheriff—returns home from work. The role of this man in Clarice’s life proves to be the source of her strength, and the defining model of what a strong and decent man can be in contrast to the more despicable men that will populate the remainder of her working years.

When investigating the first clue, Clarice again demonstrates her resourcefulness where many men would turn back or ask for help. Following Lecter’s lead to a storage unit, Clarice and the storage manager are unable to open the long-jammed door. While the manager suggests that his son could help, Clarice finds a tire lift in the back of her car and manages to lift the door enough to crawl inside the long abandoned facility, while the manager stares dumbfounded at her ingenuity.

Still, much of Clarice’s noteworthiness lies in her silent resilience, an ability to trudge forward in perseverance despite the setbacks or constant humiliation from either her peers or the killers. In her second interview with Lecter, he asks: “Do you think Jack Crawford wants you sexually? True, he is older, but do you think he visualizes exchanges, scenarios—fucking you.”

Whereas Graham, in his endless need to prove his position of alpha superiority, would no doubt be ready with some hotheaded comeback, Clarice returns with a simple shake of the head and replies: “That doesn’t interest me, doctor. Frankly, it’s the sort of thing that Miggs would say.” Again, using her intellect and subtle passiveness to turn the tables on Lecter, and in effect, beat him at his own game of mental intimidation.

When Buffalo Bill’s next victim is found, Clarice and Crawford travel to the funeral parlor to inspect the latest corpse. But first, Demme uses the opportunity to again expose Clarice position in the workforce. Demme places the camera from Clarice’s POV, and the eyes of every officer in the room stare down upon the woman as she pushes through the crowded funeral home to the backroom parlor. When Crawford speaks with the Sheriff, and the latter begins discussing Buffalo Bill’s mutilations to the woman’s corpse, Crawford utters loud enough for the room to hear: “Sheriff, this type of sex crime has certain aspects, I’d just as soon discuss in private…you know what I mean” before letting his eyes visibly direct toward Clarice.

Despite her clear competency to both draw out information from Lecter in a manner so many of her male peers have already failed, Clarice’s male FBI superior belittles her before the entire male squad. When Clarice does gain entry to the parlor room, and finds the death moth secreted within the corpse’s throat, she again demonstrates her impressive analytic prowess. In the car ride afterwards, Crawford comments to Clarice: “When I told that Sheriff we shouldn’t talk in front of a woman, that really burned ya, didn’t it? It was just smoke, Starling. I had to get rid of them. She replies: “It matters, Mr. Crawford. Cops look at you to see how to act. It matters.”

Later, with an attitude not too dissimilar from Graham’s in dealing with Lounds’ taunts, Chilton tries outsmarting Lecter in the most obvious, masculine way possible—bullying him. In his hopes to humiliate Lecter, and his exploiting the opportunity as a means of demonstrating his power, Chilton destroys Clarice’s more clever and subdued path toward finding Buffalo Bill. (In the end, Chilton’s plan proves even more destructive when Lecter’s able to escape from imprisonment.) But yet again, the series has proven that this masculine response of aggression—mirroring the killers’ own compulsions to fuel their dangerous fantasies—leads to disastrous results.

In their last interaction together, Lecter agrees to continue his arrangement with Clarice of helping profile Buffalo Bill under the condition that she reveal her most painful memory. Clarice speaks through a choked up voice, recounting the incident after she ran away to a farm in Montana after her father’s death. There, late one night, she heard the screams of the lambs being slaughtered. Hoping to silence the horrible sound, she sneaks in, steals one of the lambs, and ran as fast as she could—thinking that if she could save just one…

Besides explaining the title, Clarice’s story sheds light on her psychology and driving motivation in a manner both illuminating and heartbreaking. When Lecter asks if she ran from the sight of the slaughtered lambs, Clarice politely refutes him—making him understand that she opened their pens, but they wouldn’t move, the lambs were confused and wouldn’t run…but she was compelled to help save them. With the obvious metaphor for the sheep as the helpless victim, Clarice has been driven all her life to not look away from the danger, to be strong as she saw her father, and use her smarts to help those confused and dumbfounded by the situation in order to save the helpless victims.

Rather than wanting to punish those responsible for the violence, Clarice’s drive has always been focused on saving the victim. While Manhunter’s title is changed from its novel adaptation of Harrris’ Red Dragon, it still encapsulates so much of what defines Graham as an investigator compared to Clarice. Whereas the former relies on his inhabiting the mindset of the killer to the point that he himself arguably transforms into one, Clarice remains unaffected by any such dangerous pathology by knowing that her job relies in her helping to save the innocent. While she is indeed the one to kill Buffalo Bill by the film’s conclusion, her shooting him in self-defense plays out with a world of difference compared to Graham’s. Clarice’s inability to answer Lecter’s final question as to whether the lambs have stopped screaming only helps prove this point further. While Graham views himself as the man responsible for stopping the slaughterer, Clarice operates under the hope that she may always be in service of helping save just one more.

While both investigators are working toward a similar, admirable goal, the stark differences in psychology and methods between Will Graham and Clarice Starling highlights the vast difference between the two and respective consequences of both. Graham’s method of embedding himself within the same, sadistic moral point-of-view as the killers has been proven to be successful in stopping the slaughters, yet still morally questionable in terms of its endgame. In his pursuit of justice, Graham himself begins to transform into the same type of monster that he’s promised to stop—ending in his compromised morals and continued psychological suffering.

Clarice, on the other hand, is driven by the traumatizing effect of violence in hoping to save the victim, rather her needing to solve what is an impossible goal—of defeating violence with violence. Instead, she uses her own unique gifts—skills and training crafted through a lifetime of education and experience to help stop the suffering of those in need. And perhaps most fascinating, the psychology of both investigators is discovered through their relationship with Lecter—the link in finding the killer of their respective pursuits. Where Graham and Lecter continue an endless push-pull of trying to outsmart one another, Clarice uses Lecter’s own psychological tactics to her advantage without needing to compromise herself. In the end, both films demonstrate why the investigators and Hannibal Lecter remain such superb examples of how Harris’ morally ambiguous novels continue to intrigue audiences and expose the wide spectrum of human nature for all its good and evil.

The Case for The Case of Charles Dexter Ward

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Despite a bibliography responsible for some of the most profound contributions to weird fiction and the larger horror genre, H.P. Lovecraft lived a life of very little fame or fortune by his death at a age of forty-six. Yet today, the author of such famous works as “At the Mountains of Madness”, “The Dunwich Horror”, and “The Colour Out of Space” remains widely lauded as one of the best in horror—bridging the gap between Poe and Stephen King. Still, this minimal recognition during his own lifetime inspired a great deal of self-doubt and suspicion that often seeped into the celebrated author’s own creative prowess.

Lovecraft wrote on numerous occasions of his own hypercritical reactions to his work, so much so that he would often allow the manuscripts to collect dust rather than be published, or only finally publish the material after a considerable amount of time had passed. (In his notes on Thing in the Doorstep, renowned Lovecraft scholar S.T. Joshi writes in the eponymous book: “[Lovecraft] was so dissatisfied with the story upon its completion that he refused to submit it anywhere. At last, in the summer of 1936…when Julius Schwartz proposed to HPL to market some of his tales in England, HPL reluctantly submitted the story.” (pg. 493)) Perhaps the most amazing example of this mistrust in his own abilities, however, can be found in one of the author’s longest yet most profound of achievements, a novel unpublished during his lifetime due to his own dissatisfaction for the material—The Case of Charles Dexter Ward.

Calling the novel a “cumbrous, creaking bit of self-conscious antiquarianism”, Lovecraft’s longest piece of fiction remained unpublished until his weird fiction peers August Derleth and Donald Wandrei managed to have the writing posthumously published (in abridged form) within the May and July 1941 issues of Weird Tales. Yet, most remarkably, for all Lovecraft’s creative and unprecedented literary creations: the Cthuhlu mythos, the cosmic horrors of the Old Ones, supernatural entities capable of transcending barriers of time and space, the author rarely employed personal and individual human tragedies into his work, though not without calculated reason. In a letter to E. Hoffman Price, Lovecraft explained his reasons for focusing less on his characters than the fantastic cosmic horrors of their adventures as such:

“Individuals and their fortunes within natural law move me very little. They are all momentary trifles bound from a common nothingness toward another common nothingness. Only the cosmic framework itself—or such individuals as symbolise principles (or defiances of principles) of the cosmic framework—can gain a deep grip on my imagination and set it to work with creating. In other words, the only ‘heroes’ I can write about are phenomena”. (S.T. Joshi, xxxvi of Introduction to Thing On the Doorstep)

And indeed, looking throughout the most famous of Lovecraft’s achievements, one finds that the author has distilled this existential philosophy to incredible effect, leaving the reader overwhelmed by climaxes confronting their insignificance amongst the cosmos and their personal troubles. Moreover, examining some of Lovecraft’s most famous character creations—from the humans of Randolph Character and Herbert West to his mythical creations of Cthulu and Yog-Sothoth—one finds clear examples of such principles in play: characters that serve more as functionaries of Lovecraft’s horror philosophy than characters whose individual hopes or failures are used to drive plot. Yet, it is in this respect, that Lovecraft manages to best represent the true tragedy of both horrors—of individual human tragedy and that of his existential cosmos—through the character of Charles Dexter Ward.

The Case of Charles Dexter Ward begins with a structure not too unusual from many Lovecraft tales by hinting toward the final consequences of some unspeakable horror. The Case of Charles Dexter Ward opens in Providence within a private hospital for the insane, shedding few tangible clues, but laying out such preliminaries as to the fact that Charles has gone missing from his room and only left behind a trail of some fine gray dust.

Lovecraft then launches into an early biography of young Charles, jumping back to the chronological beginning of the tale, and providing a wealth of background information into his family history, setting, and position in society. With shades of the author’s own upbringing peppered throughout, Charles is described a precociously gifted scholar with very proud parents. Lovecraft then provides a number of incredibly gorgeous passages that describe everything from the town’s: architecture, landscape, and beauty of his colonial hometown of to contribute further perspective on Charles’ homelife. Following this brief, yet vital understanding into Ward’s family life and early prosaic upbringing, the essence of the plot begins upon Charles’ discovery into the existence of a great-great-great-grandfather whose identity had as of yet been a mystery: Joseph Curwen.

Lovecraft then pauses the present story and returns to the past—back to 1761— to doll out the disturbing history of Joseph Curwen’s infamous early existence and subsequent downfall. Though Curwen poses as a wealthy shipping entrepreneur, local suspicions arise concerning the astounding levels of beef that are delivered to Curwen’s barn, along with the strange, intermittent shafts of light that are periodically produced. Curwen’s enemies soon discover more details of his nefarious plans, which include the possibility of his being able to rise forth beings from the dead and outside realms of human experience. After a raiding party attacks Curwen’s property, the disgraced wizard is never heard from again and the surviving raiders agree to a unanimous secrecy of what they may have just witnessed.

Returning to the present, the narrative’s remaining bulk is devoted toward Charles’ increasing obsession toward his heretofore-unacknowledged ancestor. The young boy drops out of school, a social life, a relationship with his parents…all in the pursuit of unlocking the abominable secrets previously pursued by Curwen. The Ward family doctor—Dr. Marinus Willet—serves as the audience’s eyes, as he slowly discovers the horrid depths of Charles and Curwen’s plans through letters, old documents, interviews—all pointing toward a plan of complete cosmic destruction. Willet’s investigations into Charles’ unraveling psychology eventually lead him the underground catacombs found below Curwen’s old premises—long since abandoned since the attack by the raiding party years ago.

These passages—wherein the elder doctor stumbles down the subterranean depths to uncover a variety of terrible creatures housed by Curwen—present some of the most dread-filled pages within all of Lovecraft’s bibliography. Though these horrors are mostly hinted at, rather than given completely description (as say, the reveal of the Shoggoth in At the Mountains of Madness), they become all the more powerful for placing the reader directly into Willet’s shoes and being forced to finally discover the unspeakable monsters living beneath this tiny town.

Afterward, the tragedy of Charles’ obsession finally reveals that the young Ward has been replaced by the soul of his disembodied ancestor: Joseph Curwen. Willet surmises that through a variety of ancient spells, rituals, and hinted alchemy, Curwen killed and replaced Charles’ being, and now intends to finish the nefarious plans set in motion more than a century ago.

As is Lovecraft’s predominant style, the author embellishes his narratives with impressive depictions of fictional creations through a vivid command of language. The inimitable style pulls the reader into the transportive realm of the text before concluding in the reveal of that great, supernatural horror–one whose believability has been soundly constructed through passages designed to hypnotize the reader through this wall of atmospheric realism. As a result, the final reveal builds with an almost unbearable weight of dread. In each major section, Lovecraft has left a trail of clues, hints at horrors to come, that allow the reader to piece together the unspeakable terror until the ultimate reveal of his horrific creation.

While many of Lovecraft’s narratives are written from first-person point-of-view, The Case of Charles Dexter Ward uses third-person omniscient to expert effect. The story begins with a general impression into Charles’ life, then drastically changes gears to offer the full details of Curwen’s downfall, before reverting back to Charles’ perspective before ending with Dr. Willet’s.

In doing so, the reader becomes familiar with Charles, understanding his world as an actual person and not just as an investigate means of supernatural phenomena. Consequentially, his final fate allows for a demonstration of horror on both the cosmic and personal scale as Lovecraft has never executed so perfectly. Charles’ slow psychological unraveling, his inexorable descent into cosmic powers beyond his control, and the manipulation of this young boy into an expendable chess piece by his own ancestor all exemplify a beautiful merging of the true terrors found within the hearts of men and the cosmic horrors that they may conjure.

Unlike a number of other central Lovecraft characters—say Professor William Dyer in Mountains of Madness or Wilbur Whateley in Dunwich Horror—who either serve as the human functionary unraveling the horrors, or, as in Wilbur’s case, as the actual cosmic phenomena to be later revealed, Charles Dexter Ward represents as a unique combination of both. Charles begins as an innocent child with inclinations that border the bizarre, but never necessitate any cause for worry. But as he digs deeper into his unusual family lineage, Charles’ downward spiral into the occult echoes many of the familiar metaphorical tragedies that would befall a young man due to individual struggles, e.g.: alcohol/ drug addiction, depression, mental illness…that Charles’ ceaseless obsession into Curwen creates a very unique type of dread for the life of this young boy that separates itself from similar character in the Lovecraft canon.

As within the climaxes of cosmic horrors necessitating a very calculated amount of prior clues to propel the reader towards the ultimate reveal, Charles’ own storyline works in a similar, dreadful fashion. As the boy begins to psychologically unravel, his mother and father’s concerns escalate into a subplot of severe family tragedy. As Charles’ experiments with Curwen’s writings soon require his isolation from family, his mother is asked to leave all meals before his door and forbidden entry from contacting him. The mother’s clear disgust for her son’s unstoppable obsession soon becomes apparent, and the reader watches with accumulating dread as these parents must witness their young child begin to lose his mind. Eventually, Charles’ mother’s own sanity collapses under the mental strain and she is sent away to Atlantic City for an indefinite stay: never to see her boy again. Meanwhile, Charles’ father–Theodore–takes up the fight alongside Dr. Willet. The anxious father soon recognizes that his son’s interests with Curwen has driven into a treacherous realm of unstable mental illness, and perhaps toward death or an even worse, unspeakable conclusion.

After his discovery of Curwen’s catacombs beneath the farmhouse, Willet pieces together the true horror of what has happened—that Charles has been murdered by Curwen and the young boy’s body is being possessed by the very ancestor summoned by the boy. Upon realizing what he must do, and how he will be the one responsible for killing Curwen (vis-à-vis Chalres), Willet understands that his actions the following day will result in Charles’ death. What follows is Willet’s letter to Theodore—Charles’ father—explaining how the case will conclude:

“It is better you attempt no further speculation as to Charles’ case, and almost imperative that you tell his mother nothing more than she already suspects. When I call on you tomorrow, Charles will have escaped. That is all which need remain in anyone’s mind. He was mad, and he has escaped. You can tell his mother gently and gradually about the mad part when you stop sending the typed notes in his name…So don’t ask me any questions when I call…There will be nothing more to worry about, for Charles will be very, very safe. He is now—safer than you dream…But you must steel yourself to melancholy, and prepare your wife to do the same. I must tell you frankly that Charles’ escape will not mean his restoration to you. He has been afflicted with a peculiar disease, as you must realize from the subtle and physical changes in him, and you must not hope to see him again. Have only this consolation – that he was never a fiend or even truly a madman, but only an eager, studious, and curious boy whose love of mystery and of the past was his undoing. He stumbled on things no mortal ought ever to know, and reached back through the years as no on should ever reach; and something came out of those years to engulf him…There will be, indeed, no uncertainty about Charles’ fate. In about a year, say, you can if you wish devise a suitable account of the end; for the boy will be no more. You can put up a stone in your lot…that will mark the true resting-place of your son. Nor need you fear that it will mark any abnormality or changeling. The ashes in that grave will be those of your own unaltered bone and sinew – of the real Charles Dexter Ward whose mind you watched from infancy – the real Charles with the olive-mark on his hip and without the black-mark on his chest or the pit on his forehead. The Charles who never did actual evil, and who will have paid with his life for his ‘squeamishness’. That is all. Charles will have escaped, and a year from now you can put up his stone. Do not question me tomorrow. And believe that the honour of your ancient family remains untainted now, as it has been at all times in the past.”

While Lovecraft has written some of the most unsurpassably gorgeous descriptions of fantasy and horror in all of literature, the above letter from a doctor to a father explaining that his son will be dead tomorrow is undoubtedly Lovecraft’s most poignant and heartbreaking. In this above passage, Lovecraft has masterfully merged a union of horrors between the tragedy of human affairs and the consequence of cosmic insignificance. Though Lovecraft’s legacy both in literature and pop culture will always honor him for imbuing the genre with fantastically creative creatures and conceptions of dread that remain amongst the most innovative the genre has to offer, one of the author’s own best works was almost never given the chance to even be presented for any audience. Moreover, one of the author’s most unique characters was almost lost amongst the other classics of the Lovecraft canon. A tragedy that would have made impossible the case of a young man’s downfall—the precocious young Charles Dexter Ward—who provides an invaluable link in representing terrors indicative both to the author’s own philosophical output and those tragedies found in the heart of human nature.