October 31, 2017 THE K PAOLETTER Henry Van der Wyde's portrait of the actor Richard Mansfield (1887) M onsters are meant to scare. That’s obvious, even if the actual mechanics of fright aren’t. Wandering the hastily-assembled aisles of whatever seasonal Halloween superstore has set up shop in a vacant strip mall near you, the few truly frightening costumes (distinct from the ones that are gross, sexy, or Pikachu) lean on the concept of body horror. Masks of fake flesh contort human features into a suggestion of torturous pain and creeping danger. They frighten because they occupy the “uncanny valley,” that nowhere place between the alien and the familiar. The problem with these masks is that they become less scary the more you look at them: a visage that might make you jump when it first emerges out of the darkness, once scrutinized, has a certain floppiness to it; the blood streaming from the eyes is sticky and reflective, the stitches fastening the lips together have been painted on with a makeup brush. Once the initial jump-scare has been achieved, what is left? For a writer, the problem is even more magnified. Once a monster is described, how long can it continue to horrify?
K Paoletter October: Monster's Ball
K Paoletter October: Monster's Ball
K Paoletter October: Monster's Ball
October 31, 2017 THE K PAOLETTER Henry Van der Wyde's portrait of the actor Richard Mansfield (1887) M onsters are meant to scare. That’s obvious, even if the actual mechanics of fright aren’t. Wandering the hastily-assembled aisles of whatever seasonal Halloween superstore has set up shop in a vacant strip mall near you, the few truly frightening costumes (distinct from the ones that are gross, sexy, or Pikachu) lean on the concept of body horror. Masks of fake flesh contort human features into a suggestion of torturous pain and creeping danger. They frighten because they occupy the “uncanny valley,” that nowhere place between the alien and the familiar. The problem with these masks is that they become less scary the more you look at them: a visage that might make you jump when it first emerges out of the darkness, once scrutinized, has a certain floppiness to it; the blood streaming from the eyes is sticky and reflective, the stitches fastening the lips together have been painted on with a makeup brush. Once the initial jump-scare has been achieved, what is left? For a writer, the problem is even more magnified. Once a monster is described, how long can it continue to horrify?