ATTACK OF THE INVULNERABLE OBSERVANT LITTLE KUBRICKS!
by Matthew Waldron
What the hell is wrong with you people?
Sorry. But it has to be broached. Because I'm mystified.
For instance- raking leaves. It's exhausting. It's not fun to be
exhausted. Basically it's not something I look forward to. Being scared for 2
hours? Equally exhausting. Granted, in its own way. But still. And so what the
hell is wrong with you people? Billions of dollars pumped every year into the "scary
movie/horror"-industry (for lack of a better term). Ostensibly for the
benefit of feeling what is usually accepted, universally, to be a negative
emotion. Vexing for me to wrap my head around. So, as in all times of
perplexing-cinematic-crisis, we turn to the Gods:
Stanley Kubrick once told an interviewer he'd be willing to put
himself directly into the middle of a violent combat situation if there was a
magical way to observe without getting
hurt. In effect, whether watching Cornel Wilde's Beach Red, or
you-know-who's Saving Private Ryan, each of us enters into that exact same
meta-existential-compact; if offered, none of us is going to hop in a time
machine back to run The Mogadishu Mile. But watching Black Hawk Down isn't a
bad way to spend a rainy Saturday afternoon (fuck it, let the
guy-who-played-Draco Malfoy's-dad run it for you...).
Cinema can provide, whether we're aware of it, and better than
nearly any other medium, the opportunity to experience life-threatening-danger
and come away with injuries sustained really only, at worst, to our checking
accounts (if one doesn't have sense enough to disregard the concession
stand...). Like Invulnerable Little Observant Kubricks we're safe and free to
be there when the first Higgins Boats open up on Omaha Beach without the risk
of large-calibre, German-fired rounds ripping through our helmets, then our
skulls.
No less terrifying, none of us ever wants a cancer-diagnosis for
ourselves or anyone we love, but witness the droves willing to pay and watch a beam of projected light portray
a Young Beauty like Shailene Woodley waste away nonetheless.
Key word being "safe". Some might argue
"voyeuristic". In some instances, many even, they may be right.
Though at its best cinema, in and of
itself, is capable of so much more. Even its darkest, less reputable corners.
Which brings us to the charms of red-headed-stepchildren like
torture-porn.
I don't bear the honor of being a scholar of the genre. Human
Centipede is about the closest I've personally inched my face around
the corner towards it. And I actually- surprisingly- liked it very much
(besides Salo, or The 120 Days of Sodom
it's the only film I would describe as being "pretty great"...while
simultaneously being pretty comfortable never seeing again).
I have to believe most of us don't
exactly want to be the captive of some pseudo-entomologist,
sociopath-rogue-German-surgeon. But maybe, in the deepest, darkest
recesses...some do? Though, tragically, and for obvious reasons, it's not
terribly "ideal" given the things we hold dear within the context of
modern contemporary notions like "liberty" and "civilization".
And so in the end we're (fine with being) left with watching a beam of light portray said rogue-surgeon abduct some other assholes, like a few
quasi-Hawaiian Tropics-girls and some random Asian who have their assholes sewn to each other's
mouths for 90 minutes.
"Exploitation" is a common accusation against the
"scary movie/horror"-genre, and there's certainly plenty of it,
though Tom Six, the classy auteur of said-Centipede-fable, wreaks instead, to
me, of being simply a goddamn genius for tapping into these deep, dark
recesses. Just as you-know-who was before him while making "Jaws".
Just as Bunuel and Dali were before him slicing up eyeballs. As Edwin S. Potter
was having that Bad Man shoot his gun directly at us at the
turn-of-the-century.
And so admittedly then one of the pitfalls of dogma seems to be
tunnel vision. You forget there's more out there beyond your horizons. I'm a
film snob with many concrete ideas about cinema and why it matters.
"Scary/horror movies" in particular have never really been a big part
of my purview. Again, they've mystified me. But the best thing that can happen
to me on any given day is to realize the truth is I have absolutely no idea
what I'm talking about usually. And when I flush out my headgear I remember The
Exorcist is something I've always regarded as perfect-cinema. And we can all agree guys like Guillermo Del Toro
frequently transcend the genre.
I long to not be a bigot. And as such, though I'm not fluent in
the language they speak, I can't dismiss millions of "scary/horror movie"-fans
around the globe as merely a horde of self-loathing masochists. Hopefully. I
think instead, ironically, the thrill
of "scary movies" isn't so much the intrinsic appeal. Rather it's the
soothing, warm relief afterwards of being able to return to the safety of our normal lives which
begin again soon as the beam fades away. Exhausted but unharmed. Like a horde
of Invulnerable Observant Little Kubricks.
That makes sense to me.
