Three Horror Films for Screenwriters — Halloween Edition
Most horror movies are shit.
There. I said it.
That’s not because there are a lot of cheap and nasty horror films out there. Actually some of those can be quite good. Or even if they fail, at least people are actually trying.
The problem, these days, is that we have lost touch with what makes a really good horror film. It’s not all jump scares or torture porn. The worst thing, for me, is seeing thoroughly inept horror movies be feted. I guess that’s because we’re so starved for the good ones that we’re desperate to love the good ones.*
It’s hard to pinpoint precisely when ce started happening, but I’d put my money on it being somewhere around the time of House of 1000 Corpses (2003). Just as with Ti West’s X, lots of references to old, good horror films–most notably The Texas Chain Saw Massacre in both previous cases–does not a good horror film make.
Of course there are some good horror films that have come out in the past few years, but they’re few and far between.
That’s not to suggest that older horror films are necessarily better, but thanks to survivorship bias, we do have a good selection of excellent horror films from the ages that we can choose from.
And any October is a great time to dig in and enjoy some horror in anticipation of the best holiday, Halloween.
With that in mind, let’s examine three prime horror films for screenwriters. Let’s be honest: they aren’t exactly obscure, but they might have fallen by the wayside for younger viewers. It’s time to stop watching Terrifier sequels and learn something.
Let’s focus on how these particular films bend–and sometimes break–screenwriting convention and become memorable for doing just that.
Without further ado…
*To be fair, that’s probably true of films in general these days, but it’s most acutely true in horror.
An American Werewolf in London – John Landis, w. Landis (1981)
So let’s take a look at what makes this film interesting from a writer’s perspective.
First, let’s get the obvious one out of the way: this is one of the rare horror movies that is literally told from the perspective of the monster.
There are a few approximations of this with a monster narrator, most notably Interview with the Vampire, but even if Louis is a vampire you’d be hard-pressed to argue that Lestat is not the monster.*
But in this case, David is most definitely the monster as well as the protagonist. In fact, much of the real horror of the film is David’s plight as he fights the curse that takes him over and turns him into a killer against his will.
Second, the film’s tonal shifts are legendary. If you read contemporary reviews, you’ll see that a lot of the reviewers complain about this aspect of the film. It doesn’t know whether it’s horror, thriller, or comedy.
And yet the film doesn’t know what it wants to be just like David doesn’t know what he wants to be. I’d argue that’s the point: David is a nice Jewish boy from New York who’s trapped in a foreign land and has fallen victim to an eldritch curse; he just wants to be good and play with Alex the nurse. And, you know, eat human flesh and howl at the moon.
You can forgive him from being a bit confused. The film’s tone turns on a dime, but that’s life. Especially for a werewolf.
Third, don’t underestimate the presence of Jack in this film. Jack acts as a sort of Greek chorus, vocalizing David’s worst fears at the same time as giving us, the audience, necessary information about the mechanics of the curse.
Jack is, effectively, a cheat to allow us to digest necessary information but in a spectacular way: we are so focused on Jack’s progressively decomposing corpse and sardonic humor that we don’t realize he’s actually spoon-feeding us information.
Ask yourself the following:
–Are you sticking too closely to genre trops because you think you have to? Who said so?
–Would the story be better told from the perspective of the monster? How can the monster be made relatable?
–How can you get across blunt exposition in a hideously original way?
Suspiria – Dario Argento, w. Argento, Daria Nicolodi after a de Quincey short story (1977)
Perhaps the most interesting thing about Suspiria is how well the film holds together despite its near-total lack of plot. We’re going to focus on this and how it plays out because this is the fundamental difference between Suspiria and your average shit horror.
As a writer, seeking the plotline, the first thing to notice is to notice that Suzy doesn’t change. Like the heroine of a fairy tale, she simply exists as a figure of innocence who confronts the horror of the monstrous world she’s found herself in. She endures abuse, insanity, and consistent, stylized murder of her peers only to discover that her dance school is in fact the front for a coven run by an evil witch. That’s basically the whole plot. Suzy, for her part, has less character development than Little Red Riding Hood.
Rather, what carries the writing burden in the film is its nightmare logic. This film makes David Lynch plots look comprehensible, yet it holds together. Nearly every scene in the film is uncomfortable, often for strange or inexplicable reasons; some of these are banal, such as Suzy being unable to enter the school when she first arrives or even Suzy being unfairly denied lodging with her first roommate.
However, as the script progresses, what seemed charming eccentricities of the school, people, or situation develop in more vulgar, horrifying ways: from the maggots in the rooms above to abuse/neglect from the instructors to the horrifying, inexplicable death of Daniel the piano player, the situation relentlessly gets stranger and worse. Again, like Lynch, it masterfully highlights the malevolence just under the surface of what are otherwise banal situations.
In many ways, the fact that Suspiria is genuinely “unconcerned with niceties such as plot and logic,” according to Peter Sobczynski, gives other aspects of the film breathing room: the incredible levels of gore; pacing tuned always to “creeping dread”; the incredible saturated color; the peerless soundtrack by prog-rock lunatics Goblin (that I’m listening to as I type this).
Argento demonstrably knows his way around plot; just look at any of his earlier films. The choice to reduce plot to the bare essentials–or less–is purely stylistic.
More than anything, Suspiria is a vibe. It needs to be experienced, preferably on the big screen. Its tone sticks with you long after the film much in the way that a disturbing dream colors the rest of your day. When everything is so demonstrably removed from reality, you simply don’t need much of a story to tell you why.
Consider whether your nightmare is suffering from too much explanation…
Christine – John Carpenter, w. Bill Phillips, after Stephen King’s novel (1983)
Full disclosure: Bill Phillips was an early mentor and supporter of my screenwriting work, but this movie is still fucking great.
This film is, for my money, an underrated Carpenter and a horror masterpiece in its own right.
Still, there’s something inherently ridiculous about a car that runs around killin’ folks. Or, you know, drives around killin’ folks, but you get the point.
I mean FFS. What’s next? Possessed toasters? Demonic exercise bikes? Homicidal Waymos? (Actually, I’m keeping that last one.)
However, there are several distinct lessons to learn here, starting from the above point:
- Absurdity Played Straight
Everyone knows the premise here is dumb.
The question is what to do with that. It’s obviously tempting to try to be clever and play with the conceit, punching down by mocking the inherent silliness. The difficulty with such an approach, of course, is that it risks corrupting the audience’s enjoyment for the would-be flex of appearing clever.
The problem is that meta-horror insistent upon acknowledging its own silliness requires a very deft hand. It is always a massive risk, and it nearly always detracts at least somewhat from the scares.
Even if the film manages to balance the horror and the navel-gazing, e.g. Scream or Cabin in the Woods, the film’s heart is invariably diluted.
Phillips and Carpenter, each contemporaries of King, understand the film’s 1950s nostalgia and play it for heart, not for laughs. It’s played far straighter than, for example, Grease. Even when Christine gets deeply silly. It has moments of humor, but it doesn’t lean on its jokes–and, crucially, they are never at the expense of character or character motivation.
This technique works wonders: Carpenter and Phillips guide us as to how to interpret the film, which is as much a love letter to the 1950s as it is to horror–even if it takes place contemporary to its 1983 release.*
Perhaps it is best read as a study of how people of a certain age tend to glorify the 1950s (and definitely still were when I grew up in a small town in the 90s). Not least, the filmmakers give a knowing, caustic appraisal of Arnie’s 1950s fetish with the boom box scene at the end.**
As such, the film becomes deeply touching, particularly as we watch Arnie go from outcast nerd to confident cool guy–and trample the heart of his new love, Leigh, in the process.
*Consider how playing the absurd straight worked a year later for Ghostbusters, which was–not unintentionally–shot by the same DP as Easy Rider and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
Oh, yeah, and there’s a car driving around murdering folks.
**Notably, the worker boom box is played by Phillips himself.
- Christine’s Human Proxy
The only way that the filmmakers are able to keep this away from epic stupidity is to turn Arnie into Christine the car’s human proxy.
As Christine regenerates, Arnie becomes increasingly confident. To a degree this is fine, but then the pendulum swings too far and Arnie simply becomes a callous asshole.
It’s not that Arnie is killing people–although he doesn’t seem to mind letting them die–but we witness the toxicity in the car not just from scenes where Christine menaces people but also from seeing her effect on Arnie’s behavior.
Remember, we always want to support the underdog–yet billing yourself as the underdog does not sanction becoming a bully. Still, we can’t help but see that the relationship with the damn car is what’s causing all these problems.
Carpenter and Phillips give us a fundamentally human understanding of Christine’s evil through the proxy of Arnie’s increasingly shitty behavior. The true tragedy of the film is that Arnie refuses to let go of Christine, even as he becomes aware of her effect on him.
- In-Story Narrator as Audience Avatar
Notice also that Carpenter and Phillips use Dennis as our avatar in the story rather than Arnie.
Given that Arnie/Christine is ultimately the antagonist, this makes some amount of sense. However, Arnie is also the one that changes while Dennis plays the role of relatively passive narrator. He does have a few story points, including his developing relationship with Leigh leading to struggles with Arnie.
Nevertheless, it is reasonably rare for a horror film to have anyone but the main protagonist be the audience’s avatar in the film. It’s a feature more of novels where the narrator plays a supporting role, like The Great Gatsby or Moby-Dick.
Only at the very end, after Arnie’s death, does Dennis really take action as he and Leigh destroy (?) the still very much alive Christine.
Ask yourself: is your story better told from the perspective of someone peripherally involved rather than the person who is, say, being seduced by evil? Would it benefit from having Harry Dean Stanton in it?*
*Yes.
Conclusion
When you’re looking at a particularly successful–or just particularly good–horror movie, consider that we’re sort of always dealing with monsters of one form or another.
What changes, and feels fresh, are innovations in plot, character, and setting. As much as social commentary is, can be, or at least probably ought to be part of horror, remember that the medium is the message, too: the structure of the horror container created has as much bearing on the way we receive it as whatever statement it’s trying to make.
Exercises:
Let’s look at some exercises that establish how these excellent horror films for screenwriters do something different and interesting–and what you can learn from them.
Exercise 1: Write from the Monster’s Point of View
First, Write a short scene (1–2 pages) from the point of view of a “monster”:
>This might be a vampire, a disease, a malfunctioning robot, or a homicidally jealous ex.
Next, treat the plight of this monster seriously by giving it guilt, confusion, desire to change, or other emotional stakes.
Finally, given the conflicting emotions within the monster, allow the tone to shift mid-scene: go from comedy to horror, or romance to melancholy, or even romance to horror. Just find a nice abrupt left turn.
Ask yourself how the tonal shift mirrors the character’s internal state. Make us feel for the monster even though we can acknowledge it as horrifying.
The idea here is to learn how to develop tone through confusion rather than relying on tired tropes; note how the focus on the monstrous gives the horror a human quality.
Exercise 2: Construct a Scene Without Plot Logic
Here we’re going to work on establishing atmosphere and nightmare logic (rather than causal logic).
First, write a short scene (1-3 pages) that is set somewhere that seems ordinary enough, but begins to develop a sense of creeping dread. Your choice, but the more banal the better, from a bedroom to a bus station to a high school classroom.
Next, do not give clear reasons for what is happening. Put the focus on the sensory aspects of the world, from colors, sounds, textures, rhythms. Think ASMR.
Escalate the scene through progressive sensory distortion rather than narrative exposition.
Now go back and revise: remove any line that attempts to justify why something is happening. (Because, well, who fucking cares?) Make sure to replace this with sensory experience that inspires dread or unease.
The point of this is that horror comes not from tidy plot resolution. This isn’t a detective story. Horror is often as much about disorientation and lack of control as it is scary concepts. Consider how far you can push the vibe even with minimal story logic.
Exercise 3: Play the Absurd Straight
Here we want to be as sincere as possible, despite a concept that might otherwise seem totally ludicrous. Remember, you as the writer have a lot of power regarding how someone perceives your work.
If you choose to write in an earnest way–and do it well, of course–you’ll be able to take the reader/viewer through the journey in the way that you perceive.
It’s when you insist on letting people know you’re “in on the joke” that you really risk losing the audience. Bear this in mind.
First, make sure you have a totally fucking stupid premise. For example, a haunted Roomba or a FitBit that exercises people to death (mostly bankers?).
Now write a short, 1-3 page scene that treats this premise with dead seriousness. The characters need to react as if this shit is really happening.
Make sure you show a human proxy for the absurdity: a character begins to mirror the monster’s influence. In short, we’ll have trouble latching on to an object, but a person being affected by the object–bingo.
In rereading, consider whether the sincerity made the situation more–or less–unsettling. Is there the possibility of including a peripheral narrator–a Nick to the Gatsby, an Ishmael to the Ahab–who might give us the detachment to follow the story to its (probably inevitable) tragic conclusion?
So for this one we’re exploring how being sincere about absurdity heightens the emotional stakes for the characters, adding in the idea of proxies to humanize the supernatural.
Horror films for screenwriters!