Movie Goers Don't Know What Scary is Anymore

By Amy Biancolli, The Houston Chronicle
March 02, 2010

Days ago I wrote my review of The Crazies, Breck Eisner's retake on the George Romero non-zombie zombie movie, but one aspect of it keeps gnawing at me. I can't let go of the suspicion that movie goers don't know, any longer, what it feels like to be scared.

There are exceptions, but most contemporary horror filmmakers -- and contemporary horror audiences -- seem to have forgotten that being frightened is something more, something nastier, than just being jabbed in the butt with a cattle prod every 15 or 20 minutes. In my review I call them "shock-pops," these quickie jolts to the system -- a sound or sudden image that pops outta nowhere. In response we shout "ah!" or "oh!" or "holy fluffy Shih Tzu!" while experiencing a rapid and instantaneous uptick in our heart rates.

Which, you know, isn't a bad thing. The ticker could always use a work-out. But then it's over. You jump from your seat, and you're done -- until the next shock-pop comes along, goosing you from your padded seat and your equilibrium. The rhythm of such movies follows the same pattern, as the heroes (whoever they are) move from one location to the next on a feature-length quest to poke the audience: we get filler, shock-pop, filler, shock-pop, filler, shock-pop, shock-pop. It's like paying 10 bucks to be tasered several times an hour. With popcorn on your lap. While balancing a soda. Not pleasant.

Back in November, I mentioned Alfred Hitchcock's definition of suspense in a blog entry about Paranormal Activity, which I liked but didn't love -- because it wasn't as scary as it might have been. There was too much reliance on shock-pops, less on classically mounting dread. Think back to the most terrifying movie you've ever seen: Was it Rosemary's Baby? The Exorcist? For me, I'd have to say The Shining, with all of its ghosts and redrums and Nicholsonian flip-outs in the dead of winter.

One of my favorite bits is that steadicam shot of little Danny on his Big Wheel. As violins flutter in the score, he pedals his trike down hideously carpeted corridors toward Room 237. There's one shock-pop -- that quick cut of the dead-eyed girls -- but it's not the point of the scene. The point is the slow crescendo of fear that builds as the kid approaches the door.

Or think of the bathtub scene, which boasts three of the best shock-pops in the history of movies: first, when Danny pulls back the shower curtains to find the rotting ghoul; second, when she opens her eyes; and third, when said ghoul grabs him from behind after several long, agonizing moments while he tries to escape.

But the key to the sequence -- to any great and terrifying horror sequence -- isn't those momentary shocks. It's the near-unbearable anxiety that builds before, after and around them. We care about that little boy. As he yanks at the door, fumbling with the knob, we see (but he can't) the straggle-haired bathtub horror slowly advancing behind him. And it's terrifying.

That's the frightening part. That's why we sit through horror movies: to feel angst, alarm and fear for characters we're genuinely attached to. Or at least, that's why I sit through them. What about you?