Saturday, 20 July 2013

MOKIE SMASH.

Saturday, 20 July 2013 04:58 am
mokie: Man with an old computer monitor for a head drinks through a straw (media pop culture)
How much time has to pass before the Whedonite love-shine wears off of The Cabin in the Woods and we can finally discuss how Joss hasn't seen a horror movie since 1990?

"It's a dissection of horror tropes!"

No, it's a warehouse of slasher trope lampshades, and an embarrassingly heavy-handed and shallow lampshading at that.

Two kinds of people discuss slasher tropes as if they are general horror tropes: people who make slasher films and conflate them with all horror, due to their own creative tunnel vision, and people who hate slasher films and conflate them with all horror, because it's so much easier to mock "some big-breasted girl who can't act who is always running up the stairs when she should be running out the front door" than to wrap your head around Silent Night, Deadly Night being in the same general genre as The Shining.

The slasher is a subgenre of horror, in much the same way that a sitcom is a type of television show. There are specific elements that differentiate a sitcom from a hospital drama (a focus on comedy), Antiques Roadshow (work of fiction) or, within its own genre, sketch comedy (continuity of characters and storyline). No matter how original the sitcom, those specific elements are expected, because they are a defining feature of the subgenre, but they are not definitive of all televised programming. Similarly, there are specific elements that define a slasher film and differentiate it from Schindler's List or Downton Abbey, obviously, but there are also defining elements that differentiate it from other horror--elements which separate Friday the 13th from Dracula, Jaws and even The Hills Have Eyes.

The Cabin in the Woods doesn't dissect these elements, it simply calls attention to them. I know TV Tropes would argue that it qualifies as a deconstruction ("How would this really play out?"), and that a deconstruction automatically qualifies as analysis and criticism. That might satisfy Leonard Maltin, but it doesn't really work for me.

Five people go to a cabin, and they fall into common slasher archetypes: jock, brain, slut, virgin, stoner/idiot. Why? Because it's necessary to the plot. But it being necessary to the plot in The Cabin in the Woods does not at all explain or explore why it's necessary in slasher films. It repeats the trope, it points it out with a neon sign and wagging eyebrows, but it's no more making a point with that sign than standard slashers make a point when they have the stoner announce himself by pulling out his stash. Mentioning 'final girls' just shows an awareness of the trope; it is not, in and of itself, exploring the final girl phenomenon in slashers. I don't care how ironically you insert a trope in a film, how firmly your tongue is planted in your cheek: examination is more than just repetition with a smirk.

"It skewers the horror slasher genre!"

If it had been made in 1991, maybe. The film's biggest problem is that it's twenty years too late to be relevant. It's mocking an idea of horror films (see: people who hate slasher films and conflate them with all horror) rather than the current state of horror films, even accounting for an upswing in remakes/reboots.

You see, the slasher subgenre was disgraced by the late '80s, a parody of itself. Its tropes had already been teased out, dissected, drawn, quartered and burned. As far as public perception goes, The Silence of the Lambs was arguably the nail in the coffin, the film that said the general public was moving on (and Candyman didn't hurt, either). Wes Craven fought it for a few years with the sad spectacles of Freddy's Dead and New Nightmare, some diehards hung in there because direct-to-video sequels are cheap, but slashers had become the pathetic dude who hangs out near his high school years after everyone else graduated and went away to college. (Except less creepy.)

While it's true that Craven finally hit a target with Scream, which dug up that coffin to paint wangs on it, that film is arguably less a send up of horror slashers than thriller slashers. (A thriller wants you on the edge of your seat, horror wants you hiding behind the sofa. Did I mention yet that I hate the standard genre break-down?) Either way, it firmly established that nobody was taking slashers seriously anymore as horror movies, and that every movie buff with a Geocities page had already exhausted the tropes and archetypes to death to the extent that 'genre-savvy kid' was now a trope.

That was 1996. Everything The Cabin in the Woods thinks it's saying was already considered a dead horse by 1996. That makes The Cabin in the Woods the film equivalent of a joke about airline food.

Let's revisit an earlier point: slashers are a subgenre of horror, which means there are defining elements that differentiate it not just from other films, but from other horror films. So what differentiates Friday the 13th from The Hills Have Eyes from Saw? One is a slasher, one is exploitation, and one is torture porn. Those are three different subgenres--related, but different--which each have and rely on different tropes and rules. This is important, because again, The Cabin in the Woods is not sending up general horror tropes, but tropes which are specific to the slasher subgenre.

In an interview Whedon gave regarding the film, he criticized "the devolution of the horror movie into torture porn and into a long series of sadistic comeuppances." That makes sense from a purely developmental point, given that they started filming in 2009, so concept, writing and so forth would have taken place a year or three before, and the mid-'00s was rife with torture porn--except The Cabin in the Woods never waves a tentacle in torture porn's general direction. All of the tropes belong to the safer, more generic, and long-since outmoded genre of slasher horror, rather than the torture porn genre Whedon stated that he found objectionable.

In other words, it doesn't just fail as a 'serious critique' of modern horror because it instead sends up old-fashioned horror--it fails as a critique of the genre's devolution into torture porn because it's too squeamish to ever broach the topic of torture porn. Like the definitive documentary on Leonard Cohen that spends all of its 160-minute run-time explaining decorative woodwork and lathing, both the stated goal and the end product might fall under the general category of "Things you find on PBS," but that doesn't mean the film accomplished what it set out to achieve.

"It reinvents the horror genre!"

The fuck it does.

I hate to break it to you, people who hate slasher films and conflate them with all horror, but the horror genre moved on while you were rolling your eyes at Jason X. While you were wondering how horror fans kept falling for the same old tripe, we were lined up at the theater next door for The Devil's Backbone and wondering how you were falling for that same old tripe, and the answer's simple: you looked for what you expected the horror genre to be, the schlocky low bar, the terrible Netflix filler, and because it's what you were looking for, it's what you found.

In the meantime, trends have come and gone, and you missed them. Hollywood discovered, ruined and forgot Asian horror, discovered Spanish horror then forgot it had discovered it (I blame Tom Cruise), and decided to forget it had ever discovered M. Night Shyamalan. Subgenres have cycled in and out of prominence again--ghost stories are still kind of big. Slashers even tried to make a sheepish comeback with some modern reboots, but by now the originals are collector's items (like Care Bears!), so we weren't having with that.

The Cabin in the Woods is not relevant enough to reinvent anything. At best, it's an irony-frosted nostalgicicle, the film equivalent of a friend discovering a cache of Surge in his mom's basement. It's nice that you enjoy it, but it can't reinvent a genre it refuses to even recognize.
mokie: Red angel in the desert with wings of veins (dream)
I dreamt that I returned to work at the pet shop. I wasn't giving up my current gig as a word miner--it was just a back-up job with benefits. (Literally.)

The shop in my dream wasn't the actual shop. It consisted mostly of an outdoor area that was clearly the local zoo, with a brief glimpse at an interior that was just as clearly a Best Buy. As I was taken around in a golf cart on the standard first-day tour, I saw cages that were obviously in need of cleaning, and also noted that there were many more cages than there had been when I previously worked at the shop, with zoo keepers luring still more animals into cages, pens and even corners blocked off with chicken wire. Many of these animals weren't pets, or even real (one was a blue Pixar wombat), so this was clearly a display area, but I had the sense that the display was for my benefit rather than the public.

I approached my old manager at the shop and told her I'd like to start my rounds early. Given how long it has been since I worked there, the greater number of animals to prepare for overnight, and the amount of spot-cleaning I knew would be necessary, I thought I should give myself a little buffer of time to do the job right. Though she agreed, I heard her (in voiceover) as I left expressing doubts about hiring me back.

So I took a deep breath and forced myself to leave it be. I reminded myself that I needed to trust my co-workers to do their jobs, not discount them off the bat as slackers, and not get back in that mode of thinking I had to do all the heavy lifting.

While I was thinking these things, I was flying along at car-level along an asphalt road in Forest Park. No machine, no broomstick, just me. I was headed for a roundabout near an administrative building, apparently to pick up my dropped glasses. As I neared the roundabout, however, I saw a slew of racist road signs and knew I would be hassled. I circled to my glasses, crossing in front of an old fashioned and very shiny black and chrome sedan, like something out of an old horror film. It was menacing all on its own, but as I leaned down to pick up the glasses, the car inched out of its parking spot behind me. It didn't bump or come after me, but it was threatening nonetheless, so I tucked my glasses away and hurried back the way I'd come.

Notes, details and explanations
#1. As jobs go, the word mining is a mixed bag. I love the freedom of working pantsless, I miss the stability of a job that was over when I walked out the door. After a stressful few months of putting out fires for clients who forget I have to sleep too, I was half-heartedly considering the feasibility of a part-time gig for the benefits and steady paycheck. It would never work, but it should tell you how frazzled I've been that I gave even half-serious consideration to going back into retail.

#2. The golf cart tour is straight from my days working at the local zoo. My memories of that job aren't as fond as my memories of the pet shop gig. The blue Pixar wombat is a mystery.

#3. The pet shop gig attracted a lot of slackers who taught newbies 'a better way to do things', and then framed and blamed newbies when their slacking caused problems. My in-dream worry about making sure things were done properly, and my in-dream reminder that I don't have to do it all myself and need to trust others to do their jobs, stems from several years of trying to minimize that damage.

I suspect it also has to do with my sister telling me to put her son to work when he's over at my house, and him asking for jobs to do to earn cash. Though I've eased into it with some tasks I hate, backing off and trusting that he's doing things right is difficult. (Oh, please Bob, just let him be washing his hands after he does the litter box and before he does dishes.)

#4. Also, I need to clean the rabbit cage, so that's also a factor. Hang on, I have a nephew who needs work...

#5. Probably not relevant, but the former manager's voice-over used a specific word starting with 'ex'. I can't remember it, and it's torturing me.

#6. One of the racist road signs was antisemitic, and disgust at the signs turned into fear for my own safety then--I knew something would happen to me if I didn't get out of there right away. I'm not sure where that certainty came from, since I'm not Jewish.

#7. I haven't been to the zoo in ages, or in a Best Buy for even longer, so I'm not sure why either appeared in the dream.

#8. The road was in Forest Park (where the zoo is located), but the roundabout with the signs was somehow also at or near Webster University. I don't associate Webster University or the burb in which it's located with racism, but there has been a race-related dust-up elsewhere in the burbs making news recently. It's possible that my city-girl dreaming brain plucked random Webster scenery out of my memory to stand in as a stock image for 'the burbs', since they mostly blur for me.

That dust-up, for reference: Missouri state law requires unaccredited school districts to foot the bill for shipping students to an accredited district if their family requests it. The Normandy school district (98% black) in St. Louis County is shipping kids to the Francis Howell district (86% white) in St. Charles, and both sides are upset. Normandy parents are looking at a school 20 miles away and wondering if it was chosen for its distance, to discourage students from transferring. Francis Howell parents are worried about (a) extra students from Normandy putting a strain on Francis Howell's resources, (b) poorly performing students from Normandy dragging down Francis Howell's averages and putting its accreditation at risk too, and (wtf) drugs! gangs! violence! There's the occasional whiff of "We moved here to get away from all that!"

The issue came up for discussion in a summer when terrible schools and stressful race relations was already a hot topic in my circles, so it's probably just waking brain overflow.

#9. Why was I flying? Don't know. Control issues, career trajectory doubts, one too many viewings of The Avengers--take your pick. I have the same issue with my dropped glasses: was it a hint that I'm not seeing something properly? That I need to focus? That I would be getting up in a few minutes to hit the bathroom and had forgotten where I'd set them down? I just don't know.

Though, oddly enough, I am pretty sure that the threatening old-fashioned car had something to do with how badly Captain America sucked.

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