It Follows and Ghost Stories

Horror is a divisive genre: for some it’s the purest form of cinema, a visceral experience of dug fingernails and sweaty palms; for others it's a low art form, taking short-cuts to emotions.

If I’m honest it’s always been a genre I’ve denied. As a teenager – unlike others in my age group - I never felt compelled to watch them. I remember as a child finding an old VHS labeled ‘Silence of the Lambs (Boys do not watch!)’ – ever the obedient kid, I didn’t watch. Even the name struck fear into me. Typically, horror is incredibly popular with a teen market; it’s illicit and forbidden, a chance to display courage in front of friends, a way to demonstrate maturity in youth. The only horror I watched as a teenager was Scream, which if anything is more of a heartfelt pastiche than loyal rendering.

This cover-art is terrifying.

Being a fan of Mark Kermode’s film reviews I’ve become more interested in the genre. He is a huge fan of horror, writing his PhD thesis and lecturing on the topic. He opposes the crash-bang-wallop of horror cinema, praising instead filmmakers who carefully marry music with mise-en-scene; in doing so create a safe environment for people to face their fears. Even though Kermode has proselytised the value of the genre, I didn’t truly become converted until I watched Stranger Things. I believe the Netflix series has served as a gateway drug into the slightly harder strains I’ll write about today. That show pastiched the 80’s movies of Carpenter and Spielberg, re-imagining them for a box-set generation. On reading up on the show and its references, I realised there’s a lot of good horror I’ve missed, all because I associated the genre with physical torture as opposed to mental suffering. I've since discovered good horror directors go medieval on your brain, shackling your mind to the rack, pulling your fears to the fore. Meanwhile, bad horror directors mistake ‘show don’t tell' storytelling, showing too much, making you feel sick rather than afraid.

Over the holidays I’ve watched two horrors, It Follows and Ghost Stories. The first was critically lauded on release, gaining art-house as well mainstream success. The director David Robert Mitchell explained how the movie originated from an anxiety dream he had as a child. In this nightmare he was constantly being followed. This 12A rated hallucination has been upgraded to a 15 for the movie. Along with the stalkers, Mitchell has added a sexual element. In his film a person is followed after having sex with a ‘carrier,’ the only way the following can stop is if the new host can pass on the disease to another.

The movie immediately disorientates you by throwing the viewer into a perverse situation. A girl in vest top and heels is seen sprinting out of a house. Her running is wild and frenzied. She arrives at her house distracted and uncommunicative. Her father asks if she’s ok. The girl gets into her car and makes her way to the beach. We cut to a new scene: a corpse lies in the sand, its leg snapped into an impossible position. The opening appears like a woman’s worst nightmare: a man chasing a girl down because she had the audacity to say ‘no.’ However, we soon find this isn’t a tale of misogyny but mystery.

In the next scene a young girl Jay is swimming in a pool. She’s blissful and content, revelling in her youth, dreaming of her date. Said date is Hugh, a charming college kid that takes her to see Charade, a movie where the male lead isn't what he seems. Whilst sitting down to watch Hepburn and Grant, Hugh sees something that spooks him, causing him to run outside for fresh air. He explains his exit with reasonable sanity, allowing for further dates. Soon it isn’t long before Jay and Hugh have turned a car into a makeshift bedroom, stripping their bodies of innocence and throwing their desires to the headrest. This moment of ecstasy jarringly gives way to a picture of terror. Jay is tied to a chair – again, the imagery suggests sexual abuse is imminent. However, it’s just a way to constrain Jay whilst Hugh tells her what he has done: he was being followed by a thing, sometimes a stranger, sometimes a relative, but now he has passed it onto Jay. Now, she will be followed until she sleeps with someone else. If she’s found and killed they will come for him. (Hugh's reasoning that he chose Jay because she’s young and pretty and won't have trouble sleeping with someone is quite the double-edged sword. Yes, it’s wonderful when someone compliments your physical magnetism, but many would rather it didn’t come with the side-effect of being chased by psychos.)

From here, the film comes into a class of its own. The premise is fantastic: because anyone can be the stalker the viewer is apprehensive the whole time. With Jay in the foreground you’re always on tenterhooks as to what’s going on in the background: are those people moving towards Jay or are they just passing her? The score by Disasterpeace is an eerie exercise in tension building. Known more for his work on video games, the electronic compositions infect the frame with the same terror the stalkers do.

What’s so rich about Mitchell’s film is it demands re-watching. Instead of the camera shepherding you through clues, it points you in different directions so you miss what’s there. Photographs on the wall are significant; things at the back of the frame are vital: the film rewards the keen-eye observer, the passenger prepared to check the blind spots of Mitchell our unreliable driver. It seems rich in symbolism too: water is a recurring motif. Why? That swimming pool scene made me think of the birthing imagery of Gravity. Is the water an evocation of the womb, a vessel of innocence, where the threats of existence can’t get to you?

Ghost Stories was originally a play that debuted in Liverpool in 2010, before becoming a West End smash. I remember the posters all over the Underground advertising it as a frightening ordeal. My mate Jim had seen it and recommended it as original and inventive. In terms of theatre-land it definitely is. Given horror is such a high-grossing genre, it’s a surprise West End producers have ignored it for so long. Last year we took our students to see Women In Black, a show that’s been running for years – up until Ghost Stories it didn’t have any competition.

West End poster.

With the success of the play, creators Andy Nyman and Jeremy Dyson are bidding to scare a wider audience through a film adaptation. Both men have worked within the medium: Dyson co-writing The League of Gentlemen’s Apocalypse and Nyman featuring in Kick Ass 2 and The Commuter. Having more of a budget behind them, they have enlisted a stellar cast of comedy royalty from child Prince Alex Lawther (The End of the Fucking World) to King of comedy Paul Whitehouse. Even though Martin Freeman from The Office also features, this isn’t a comedy film. There are laughs, but not many. What it proves is great comic actors are able to turn their face to drama, something that can't always be said for dramatic actors and comedy.

Andy Nyman stars as Professor Phillip Goodman, who from an early montage we learn had a troubled childhood. His father, a religious figure, didn’t take well to his daughter's relationship with an Asian lad, so much so he disowned her. In seeing faith’s dark side, Goodman looks for reason in the rational, devoting his life’s work to debunking the supernatural. As well as an academic, he enjoys a TV career outing psychics. Like Arthur Kipps in The Woman in Black and the unnamed protagonist of H.G. Wells’ The Red Room, Goodman is a staunch skeptic – like them he’s about to question everything he thought he knew.

Most horror stories have a cynical protaganist.

The cause of Goodman’s descent (ascent?) into the supernatural is because a respected paranormal investigator has gone over to the dark side. This debunker calls Goodman to his caravan to challenge his arrogance, offering him three stories that will make him change his mind. Three inexplicable tales that can’t be explained away through logic or science. Just as Kipps and the unnamed of Red Room should never have opened the door on their house of horrors, Goodman’s disbelief leads him in too.

The first story is about what a night watchman saw on his late shift. Played by Paul Whitehouse, Tony Matthews tells Goodman his story. It was late at night. A radio phone-in was on. Nothing was to be heard. Nothing was to be seen. The place still gave Tony the chills. Previously, it was a psychiatric unit housing disturbed patients. It disturbs Tony too. Something doesn’t feel right about the place. This sense of unease is vindicated when one night strange things happen. The lights go out. The radio jumps in and out of frequency, eventually settling on haywire FM. A sound outside is sounded. Investigating, Tony stumbles through a corridor of mazes like a tortured rat. What he sees deeply affects him: his eyes come to resemble tunnels, embracing only the eternal darkness of that night.

The second story involves Lawther’s character taking his parents car illegally for a drive. His breakdown in the woods leads to his existential breakdown. Lawther is fantastic here demonstrating the outré behaviour that has seen him cast in Black Mirror and Howard’s End. The final story has Freeman’s country-yuppie character tell the story of his wife’s pregnancy. Complications arise and the outcome is chilling. Enlisting Freeman is a coup: as a recognisable face in America, he may ensure Stories becomes a cult success there.

All of the stories are interesting and compelling, but for me the joy of this film is in its structure. Both Dyson and Nyman were on the Comedians’ Comedian Podcast recently discussing the film. The pair talked about how comedy and horror resemble one another: both demand a physical response from an audience; both have the set-up, punch-line mechanism – in the case of horror, it’s the build up to the scare and the subsequent jump from the audience. For me, the ending is like an Edinburgh hour of comedy in that it has multiple callbacks to earlier moments. Every viewer will understand the ending, but some viewers will appreciate it even more if they’ve been paying close attention.

Aptly given the horror trope of the skeptic becoming a believer, I too am following that journey: whereas before I would laugh off the genre as ridiculous and stupid, I’m now starting to see things differently; I’m coming to recognise how the cranks and oddballs- associate fans of the genre- were right along. Like the protagonists of all horror stories, I’ve opened the door to the supernatural, walked amongst it and accepted I was wrong. I can no longer hand on heart debunk horror, instead I must atone for my sin and give it the attention it deserves. With that in mind bloggers, what three horror films would you send me off to investigate to complete my conversion to this strange, brilliant world? 

It Follows is available on Netflix and Ghost Stories is out in cinemas.

Lady Bird

When I used to do stand up I had a routine about my hometown. The opening joke was, “Dorothy said, “There’s no place like home”... Well, Dorothy wasn’t from Watford.” I then proceeded to mock my birthplace with the kind of devastating wit that regularly saw me knocked out of amateur comedy competitions.

I was twenty-three at the time, puffed up on the arrogance of having seen different places. For five years I’d live in Bristol and Leeds, mixed with people from different towns and backgrounds; drank, danced and sang to songs outside the Top 40. I was now back home and didn’t want to be. Returning to Kansas wasn’t a relief, but a nuisance. From the shake, rattle and roll of the city to the dull drone of the town. Life was black and white. Colours had melted into the ground, leaving only a puddle, a memory of what was.

What university looked like.

The hangover didn’t last long. Soon the headache had receded and clarity was restored. Yes, on the face of it the town wasn’t a looker, but the constituent parts that made it – friends, family, football club and reminiscence – gave it shape and soul. Most of my friends had left the university cities, seeking fortune in the capital or maintenance at home. Other than nicer buildings, there was therefore nothing for me in these places. If I hadn’t migrated, I would never have heard the new birdsong of independence, accents and music; but coming home felt pretty great; the nest quite snug.

The self-indulgent naval gazing from above was brought to you by Lady Bird, Greta Gerwig’s comedy-drama, available while stocks lasts. Her film was this year's Moonlight: made on an independent budget, it found mainstream success following the patronage of film critics and Twitter attendees. At the Oscars it was recognised in picture, acting and director categories (Gerwig is only the 5^th female director to ever be nominated). And although it went home empty handed, it’s still packing out art-house cinemas.

Great Gerwig

The film begins with a mother and daughter driving back from a college open day. They’ve been in the car for over twenty hours together, listening to an audio cassette of John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. As the story ends, their eyes water. Like an umbilical chord, this spool of tape has bound them, tying them in collective consciousness. The mother wants them just to sit awhile so they can digest what they’ve heard. The daughter, on the other hand, is ravenous for something new and reaches for the radio. An argument ensues between them. The chord has been cut and now the cries we hear are primal, not cultural. This switch from blissful harmonising to strangulated vocals is a motif that runs throughout the whole film. How a parent-child relationship can turn on a dime is something I’m sure everyone can relate to: Gerwig’s rendering of it is heartbreakingly beautiful.

Marion and Christine, mother and daughter, are at loggerheads over what parents and children are always at conflict over: children don’t think parents appreciate the pressure of playground hierarchy and grade stress, and parents don’t feel children have a fucking clue about the number of they've sacrifices made to keep the fuckers alive. Marion is also upset as Christine seems to reject everything she's given: she’s embarrassed by the house she lives in, the clothes she can ill-afford, the town she resides in and even her name – early on she announces to her teacher that she’s ‘Lady Bird,’ a name given by herself.

Christine "Lady Bird" (Saoirse Ronan) and Marion (Laurie Metcalf)  

The nomenclature of Christine is symbolic of the central conflict of the movie: Lady Bird wants to be everything her mother isn’t. She wants a bohemian life, free from paycheque strife, in a city that heralds individualism over collective grind. The audio tape of Grapes of Wrath is somewhat ironical then: in that story the Joad family moved to California because their situation was hopeless during the ‘Dust Bowl.’ Lady Bird, on the other hand, wants to migrate west out of California to find aesthetic fulfilment. In many ways this is the argument of the age: the older generation recognise the economy behind decisions, consequently they’re more pragmatic; the younger generation don’t see the dollar signs, as a result they’re more idealistic. Remember the film is set in 2002 as well, long before the credit crunch and the fall in standards of living. Mother and daughter then are tied by history, but disconnected by the futures they see.

There are other thematic concerns in the film; love and friendship being the primary two. The narrative takes place over Lady Bird’s final year in school, a time when sex possesses every fibre of your being, where you don’t think about intercourse every five seconds, but every single second. (It’s a wonder that exam answers aren’t just graphic illustrations of sex organs.) Over the course of the movie Lady Bird experiences love’s travails with Danny, a sensitive Catholic boy, and Kyle, a monosyllabic existentialist. These romances are necessary when you’re young, as although they’re not right and never work, it allows you to understand what one day will.

Kyle (Timothee Chalamet) affecting cool.

The relationship that does endure – despite its setbacks – is the one with Julie. Their friendship is tender and mischievous. Together, they pig out on communion wafers and feast on gossip and crushes. Even though she kicks against childhood, the scenes with Julie prove Lady Bird is still just a kid. She’s running into adulthood with child sneakers: she’ll get there, but they’ll be pain along the way.

When the film ended last night, a lady in front of us- who had been on her phone for most of the evening- turned to her partner and said, “That was so boring. Nothing happened. It was like a TV movie.” I’m loathe to invoke the adult put-down, “Only boring people get bored,” but for this film, in this case, it’s true. Lady Bird is a story where everything happens, it just isn’t spelt out by manipulative music. 

Gerwig has created a film that will make you want to ring home straight after and thank your parent for whatever it's they've done – the only reason to pick up your phone in the cinema.

Lady Bird is still available in some cinemas.   

Smile

When it comes to art and culture I’m not a completist. The Smiths are the only band whose back catalogue I’ve completed. With everything else I tend to dip in and out, wanting to hear new voices, experience different styles. I do have favourite writers- Orwell, Dickens, Townsend, Salinger and Heller – but I haven’t read everything they’ve ever written. The author I’ve come closest to covering is Roddy Doyle.

Aged sixteen I picked up a copy of The Commitments from the library and thought, ‘this is the author for me.’ It had what all great literature needs: ordinary characters, inventive swearing, comedy and soul. Prize-winning literature often negates this holy square, instead it has university professors endure personal crisis over whether their paper will be read by one or two people. Essentially, it’s ivory tower autobiography as opposed to real world reportage. I recognise all authors work from their study, but the difference between 'important' writers and great writers is the former live there, whereas the latter leave them to find their stories.

Roddy Doyle was born to a middle-class family in Dublin. After studying at University College Dublin, he became a secondary school teacher in a community school. Here, he met Paul Mercier, a talented teacher and moonlighting playwright; seeing his gritty plays inspired Doyle to capture the spit and sawdust of city life. His first book The Commitments was about a group of unemployed Dubliners seeking fame and fortune in a Soul band. Its protagonist Jimmy Rabbitte is aptly named: he has been a rabbit’s foot for Doyle’s career, being the leading vehicle in three other novels, The Snapper, The Van and The Guts. Just as we followed Adrian Mole from pimpled adolescence to middle-aged health scares, so to do we with Jimmy Rabbitte. To create an enduring character is something few authors achieve; to have a satellite of other great novels points to a master.

The last Doyle book I read was Roy Keane’s autobiography. It’s not often a Booker-Prize author (one of few winners to feature working-class characters) is tasked with ghosting a footballer’s life, but like I say Doyle isn’t like most writers. I love the fact Doyle has one foot in popular culture and the other in unpopular culture (the average literary author earns a £11,000 a year). Like Mike Leigh, he recognises that narrative shouldn’t be co-opted by the middle-class, the working people should have their lives, their heroes recognised.

Roy Keane promoting his fisherman lost at sea look.

Smile is Doyle’s latest work, I first heard about it on Jarlath Regan’s fantastic podcast An Irishman Abroad. Doyle talked about the story’s origins: whilst in a Catholic Brotherhood school he led a cheeky campaign against homework; his teacher’s response, ‘Roddy Doyle, I can never resist your smile.’ Fortunately, nothing happened to Doyle in school; however, since leaving he’s aware that others weren’t so fortunate. The comment got him thinking of how openly the Brothers abused their power. As totems in the community, they were impervious to attack. If a child went home and complained about their teacher’s behaviour, the family would side with the Church. These men were representatives of God: they had Divine Rule; to speak out against them would damn you and your family to Hell. Better to put the Brothers behaviour down to eccentricities and idiosyncrasies than face the cold, hard truth: these men were animals, wolves in God’s clothing, tearing children from innocence.

The book begins with Victor Forde in the pub, nursing his pint, licking his wounds after love's gone wrong. He’s broken, but not beaten. It’s a solitary life: the bartender now replacing his lady for confidences - it’s a life nonetheless. However, this lonely cocoon is broken when in one day slinks Fitzpatrick: a gut wearing shorts. Immediately, Fitzpatrick is upon him, recalling their school days and a sister Victor had a boner for. Victor’s memory stumbles across the girl, but it can’t unearth the man. Fitzpatrick goads him, invoking the story of them in class together, when the Brother made the remark: “Victor Forde, I can never resist your smile.” The premise is Pinter’s The Birthday Party, an unexpected visitor precipitating a character’s crisis – yet Doyle does it with such sleight of hand you’ll be open-mouthed when the rabbit’s revealed at the end.

Pinter's The Birthday Party must have been an inspiration. Pic. courtesy of FT.

I appreciate at the beginning of this piece I praised Doyle for his humour, and now reading this you might be questioning how a story with abuse at its centre could have any comedy. Well, for much of the book childhood trauma is down in the cellar, lost amongst the barrels. Out front, facing the customers, is Victor’s adult life: how he met, married and lost his wife Rachel. The pub conversations from recent work Two Pints is there, so too the family dynamic of his Barrytown Trilogy, meaning humour still holds a place in this eerie tale.

One of my favourite scenes involves Victor meeting Rachel’s father, the notorious Mister Carey. Here’s a sample for you to enjoy:

- Hello, Mister Carey.
- Jim
It was a threat, a verb. He was going to Jim me and it was going to hurt.
….
- What sort of a name is Victor?
- Dad - !
- I mean, where does it come from? What’s the history?
- It’s just a name, I said.
It was the best I could do. My notoriety, my adult credentials, were hiding behind the drum kit, shivering.
- Leave him alone, said Rachel.
She patted my arm and patted her father’s arm. We headed for one of the rooms at the front of the house. She patted my arse. She didn’t pat his. I was ahead.

 ______________________________________________________________________________

Look at the comic brio at play here. He captures  how a noun sounds like a verb in the wrong mouth. That personification of his front man 'notoriety' running for cover at the back of the stage is sublime. And the repetitious back-and-forth of ‘she patted’ allowing for the knockout blow of ‘she didn’t pat his’ proves the man knows funny. In possessing the blarney of the pub and the brain of the library, Doyle is the perfect writer.

If you like Smile, then I recommend John McDonagh’s Calvary on Netflix, which broaches a similar topic with black humour and grey pathos. Although the title might be ironic, having Doyle on your bookshelf really is something worth smiling about.

Smile is out now.