The Horror of Personality: American Horror of the Sixties and the Voyeur’s Dualistic Perception
The struggle of society to reconcile that which it cannot explain has long been a topic explored by the horror movie genre and during the 1960’s, it began to delve into the split desires of not only the minds of the characters, but the minds of the audience as well. It began to explore the split between the voyeuristic tendencies that bridge the gap between the curiosity and repulsion of watching those who are not like everyone else.
Directors of the sixties sought to personify horror, to expose the human being as the monster that causes the horror, in opposition to the well worn Dracula/Mummy monster motif made famous in the previous decades. In a very realistic manner, horror films of the sixties meddle with the dualistic nature of the voyeuristic human, the very relatable fears associated with unfamiliarity and the notion that horror most often comes from within. Four directors, Alfred Hitchcock, William Castle, Roman Polanski and Robert Wise exemplify the direction that the horror genre took in the 1960’s through their films Psycho (1960), Strait Jacket (1964), Rosemary’s Baby (1968) and The Haunting (1963), respectively.
Psycho
The most defining and well known film of the sixties came from the inimitable Alfred Hitchcock, whose film Psycho set the standard by which subsequent films were to follow. A dual voyeuristic quality resonates throughout the film, in that not only do certain characters exhibit voyeuristic tendencies (as does the character Norman, who spies on female guests of a motel), but the audience does as well. The success of the film lies in Hitchcock’s ability to force the audience to cross the line between observational curiosity and utter repulsion. At one instance, the audience nearly feels sympathy for a character that has done wrong, yet almost immediately thereafter, the audience is repulsed by what the same character does next to rectify the wrongdoing. For example, the audience is shocked with Norman as he murders Marion (the character played by Janet Leigh) during the infamous shower scene, yet moments later, the audience is compelled to literally admire(!) the detailed cleaning up of the bathroom (not to mention the shock of seeing a main character eliminated from the storyline so early on). In a forced voyeuristic position, the audience becomes a part of the film, and subsequently, part of the horror. Similarly, in the opening scene the audience’s attitude toward Marion transforms from one of questionability (after seeing her steal money), to one of sympathy (eagerly pining for her safe escape from her employer and a policeman). It is this duality that makes the film wonderfully effective and horrifying. The audience finds themselves repulsed and horrified yet somehow attracted and sympathetically drawn to the very same character. Simply put by Hitchcock, the horror comes about, “when the mind houses two personalities there is always a conflict, a battle,” as quoted by author Donald Spoto, in his book The Dark Side of Genius, the Life of Alfred Hitchcock (p.423).
Perhaps an even more horrific aspect of the film is that the horror is in no way unexplainable, it is very real and could easily occur. The horror from within and horror of unfamiliarity run hand in hand in this film. Upon stealing the money, certainly a most unfamiliar act for the innocent Marion, her subsequent escape takes her through a whirlwind of new places and experiences. This unfamiliarity undoubtedly fuels her imagination as she now suspects that everyone is out to get her. Whether or not this is actually the case is never fully resolved as the audience is never allowed a definite unbiased view of the characters involved. The unfamiliarity notion is taken one step further through the clever cinematography that sets up an opposition of composition that denies the viewer a sense of normalcy. For example, the strongly vertical dark old house, enhanced by the geography of the site, looms over the horizontally oriented hotel. This bisecting horizontal and vertical composition creates a slashing or cutting imagery, reinforcing not only the infamous shower scene, but the duality of the viewers, who are constantly cutting from sympathy to repulsion. Author Donal Spoto described it thusly, “His [Hitchcock’s] relentless manipulation of the audience’s identification with the characters gives the structure of Psycho a moral function: to reveal a split in the desires of the viewer, a split that is manifest in the clash between squeamishness and curiosity that is the essence of the picture.” (Spoto, 423)
Straightjacket
Directors of the sixties came to emphasize the horror of people in and of themselves, as it is in one’s head where the most horrific thoughts and ideas reside. In his book Dark Dreams: A Psychological History of Modern Horror Films, author Charles Derry quotes director William Castle stating, “I get very frightened of people rather than monsters. I think people are more fun to work with than monsters anyway.” (Derry, 113) Castle, in his 1964 movie Straightjacket, undoubtedly exhibits notions of dualistic perception and a reinforcement of the questionability of reason. That is, who is the audience to side with and who is the real victim in the conflict?
The audience comes to know the main character Lucy (Joan Crawford) as a woman struggling to overcome her insanity in the seemingly friendly confines of her brother’s ranch while being watched over by her daughter Carol (Diane Baker). It is difficult to discern exactly from whose point of view the audience is to interpret the story. Through the majority of the film, the audience sees the “insane” Lucy through the eyes of those who expect her to be insane. The social commentary that exists with this aspect of the film is astounding, for often society views those who are declared different with a veil in front of their eyes, seeing the others the way that society wants them to be seen. The most interesting and horrifying aspect of this film is that regardless of who the real monster is (Lucy, Carol, or society), there is no resolution – the insane and the sane have merely switched roles. The watcher (Carol) has now become the watched (Lucy).
Although Lucy has come to the confines of familiarity in that she is surrounded by her family (which the audience is led to believe is a plus for her sought-after return to normalcy after spending time in an asylum), it is evident that the horror of the film lies in the discomfort by which she is received by her family members, who are very weary of her presence. Right at the top of the movie, the perceived monster, Lucy, finds herself in an unfamiliar situation (finding her adulterous husband in bed with another woman). Lucy’s subsequent actions land her in further unfamiliarity, as she snaps and murders her husband. Indeed, the viewer is aggressively led to believe in her insanity.
Reinforcing the notion of unfamiliarity is the cinematography of the film, as director William Castle never allows the viewer to become all too familiar with the proxemics of the initial horrific event to the family farm, nor the insane asylum. There are a few key geographic places that are repeatedly shown, yet their distance from one another is never revealed. For example, the distance between the two farmhouses is never shown, even the distances amongst the out-buildings of the farm are somewhat obscured and the only room shown for an extensive amount of time in the farmhouse is the living room (where the normal people go about acting as if Lucy is still insane).
Ultimately confusing is the final scene in which the audience is put into an alternate vantage point, that of Carol’s husband, Michael (John Anthony Hayes), whereas for almost the entirety of the film, the audience is forced to experience the storyline through the eyes of either Lucy or Carol. This final scene effectively sums up the uncertainty of perception, which drives the individual to see only what they want to see, not necessarily what is really there. Several of the side characters (and the audience) come to the realization of a horrific mis-conception that they had held all through the storyline; culminating with a truly horrific ending.
Rosemary’s Baby
Rosemary’s Baby was the first of Polanski’s movies to be filmed for Hollywood and interestingly enough, it contains the influence of the previously discussed director William Castle, who was the film’s producer. Although there are definite similarities to the previously discussed films, Rosemary’s Baby explores a different realm of psychological horror, that of the fears and worries surrounding the reality of having a living organism growing inside one’s body.
As in the previously discussed film Strait-Jacket, the majority of the film is told from the lead female character’s point of view, but as the film progresses, the point of view of the audience alternates, constantly leaving them torn between shock and sympathy. For example, having just moved into a new apartment, the couple begins to befriend their new next door neighbors, Rosemary claims to start getting “bad vibes,” that is, she begins to question the motives of the new couple and attempts to shun them. The audience, at this point in the film, sees this as somewhat rude and questionable behavior, as the neighbor couple seem harmless enough – the viewer looks down on Rosemary with disgust. Her husband, on the other hand, sees nothing wrong with their newfound friends, in fact he is very eager to return and listen to the older man’s stories. Soon enough however, the audience’s perception alternates to that of sympathy for Rosemary, for the true intentions of the neighbors becomes more and more apparent. The audience still has a lingering curiosity that yearns to think that it is all in Rosemary’s head – that she is simply projecting her fear of the new pregnancy onto her own reality that no one else can see. Even towards the climactic ending, the audience is once again led to alternate their point of view, after almost entirely assuring themselves that the real horror lies with the neighbors and their Satanist activities.
Rosemary takes it upon herself to escape from the evil that lives next door and takes to the street to contact her trusted “good” doctor (whom she had previously left) and promptly schedules an emergency appointment to see him. She seems very delirious and edgy, but the audience is torn between feelings of sympathy for Rosemary; is she just imagining it all or is she truly in danger from the Satanists next door? When she finally reaches the “good” doctor, the audience is nearly convinced that it is all in her mind, especially when he releases her back to a different genuinely concerned “evil” doctor (in Rosemary’s mind) and her loving husband. The horror here lies in the fact that to the “good” doctor, Rosemary was simply exhibiting mild insanity due to her pregnancy, when in fact she was really in a perfectly clear state of mind. That is, she knew that she was in danger and she did all that she could to escape to safety – that that safe entity turned her back to the realm of horror is just as disturbing as the Satanist acts of the neighbors!
One of the most interesting aspects of the film revolves around the aforementioned notions of unfamiliarity and the horror coming from within. More than the obvious intent of exploiting the subsequent fears associated with pregnancy, the film subtly (and horrifically) comments on the folly of overindulgences and the willingness to be friendly. That is, Rosemary literally brings the horror upon herself. For example, it is she who adamantly insists on moving into the new flat, it is she that initially presses for intimacy with the new neighbors, and it is she who really wants a child, as summarized by author Barry Kieth Grant, in his book Planks of Reason: Essays on the Horror Film (p. 420). All of these urges that Rosemary has ultimately lead her into a world that she is entirely unfamiliar with, both physically and mentally.
The notion of unfamiliarity is furthered through the cinematography throughout the film and much as in the previous film Straightjacket, the audience is never given a clear overall physical view of the apartments or the doctors’ offices. Even within each apartment, confusion abounds. It is tough for the audience to identify where each room is in relation to another. In this respect the audience literally becomes involved with the story, struggling to figure out where everything is, just as Rosemary does. Obviously, there is the confusion that exists within the mind regarding Rosemary’s pregnancy, a very unfamiliar situation for her – who is she to trust and can she trust herself? Ultimately, the most disturbing, yet fascinating scene of the film is the final scene, where the audience is again torn between what to believe. This duality is beautifully horrific, even though Rosemary’s belief about the Satanists are confirmed (horrific enough) she, it appears, does not abandon her child with the Satanists, but decides to keep her motherhood vows to her child. She turns to the dark side for the sake of being there for her child, a chilling moment indeed, devoid of God, or as described by author Dennis Fisher, a scene that “[leaves] the Satanists with their dark powers to triumph,” (p. 607) haunting indeed.
The Haunting
The Haunting, directed by Robert Wise, truly horrifies the audience without ever showing the horrors of the house and is essentially a commentary of the psychological profile of its lead female character, Eleanor, played by Julie Harris. As author Dennis Fisher described it in Horror Film Directors, 1930-1990, “Wise projects an atmosphere of palpable evil and menace in the claustrophobic locale of the sinister Hill House without so much as showing one of the noisy poltergeists that boom across the soundtrack and create such a fine ‘frisson’ of terror.” (p. 744)
As in the previously discussed films, the audience is again torn between different points of view, leaving the audience to determine if the assumed insane person is truly insane. Through the beginning scenes of the film the audience comes to learn of the overt instability and utter loneliness that surrounds Eleanor and immediately the audience is forced to make a decision regarding her demeanor; is the audience to feel sorry for her, or is there a sympathetic side with her as if she has been wronged in the past and now others are taking advantage of her? The dominated nature of Eleanor makes the penultimate escape scene eloquently intense. But, back to the beginning. Having just stolen a car, the audience sees her vulnerability almost immediately when she drives out of the parking garage, a symbolic gesture of a newborn coming into the new and unexplored world. Eleanor exhibits a sort of helplessness from the moment she enters the uncharted realm of the real world, as she is indecisive about which direction to head; caused by a multiplicity of road signs. The scene is particularly interesting; reminiscent of Psycho as the audience is torn between feeling happy for her escape yet somewhat worried by her theft of a vehicle (a spur of the moment decision that leaves the audience wondering about her stability). This duality of push and pull of morals is very effective, as it keeps the audience involved in the film and the film questions the audience’s own morals as it simultaneously does the morals of the characters.
A further interesting aspect of the film, as in Rosemary’s Baby, is that the subsequent horror that occurs is set into motion by Eleanor’s urge to escape. It is Eleanor’s persistent subconscious voice that urges her to get away to a new location, under the pretext that “it will be better there.” This subconscious push lands her in the grip of unfamiliarity; new faces and places, far different from her previously sheltered existence. Her instability is exploited to the fullest upon her arrival at the house, as she is torn between love and hate for all of the people that are at the house with her. There are obvious lesbian overtones (taboo for the time) between the psychic Theo (Claire Bloom) and Eleanor who is, however repressed, secretly in love with her. But, this possible attraction is overshadowed by her attraction to Dr. Marway (Richard Johnson), the assumed authority figure in the story. The unfamiliarity of this situation is cause enough for insanity, especially for the sexually deprived and lonely Eleanor. However, on top of this duality of attraction is the unfamiliarity with the unexplainable haunting of the house.
Furthering the notion of Eleanor’s horrors of unfamiliarity is the cinematography, purposefully and skilfully used to reinforce her confusion. Shot with a distorted 30mm camera that was used, according to director Robert Wise, “to make the house literally come alive,” according to author Sergio Leemann, in his book Robert Wise on His Films (p 177), thus never giving the audience a normal view of any of the characters. For example, numerous times the camera captures Eleanor’s vulnerability, from a higher angle looking down, making her seem meek and small. Also, the audience, as in the previously discussed films, is never given a clear understanding of the surroundings, especially in the house. When the key areas are shown – such as the garden, library, and dining room – the camera is never in one position for a very long time. For example, during the introduction and explanation of the previous owner’s gruesome hanging, rather than simply showing the woman hanging with an upshot, the audience sees the woman at eye level. Immediately following this shot, the camera spirals down the staircase, as if it is crashing into the ground. Also, at the interior garden, during a scene where Eleanor is dancing for what one is led to believe are ghosts, the audience is given a view crowded with statues and overgrown plants. Eleanor bobs and weaves in and out of the audience’s view, behind the statue and in front of the plants.
Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the film is that the audience is torn between the duality of Eleanor’s insanity. The audience can not avoid wondering that, as conveyed by author Dennis Fisher, “it is quite possible that the subsequent supposedly supernatural events in the films were actually caused by subconscious telekinesis on the part of Eleanor, rather than real ghosts.” (Fisher, 746) For, earlier in the film, she defiantly refuses to admit to the telekinesis event of her childhood, as she does with the majority of her feelings. Herein lies the true horror of the film: it is a horror of the audiences’ interpretation. It is definitely horrifying and morally wrong for these thoughts to creep into the minds of the audience. This is where the horror films of the sixties have succeeded, bringing to the table another dimension of horror – the horror of personality. Not only the personality of the character, but of the audience as well.
Those who are not like us give us reassurance – I am normal, look at her; I am not like her; she’s insane; I am not like her, therefore, I am not insane, I am normal. As conveyed by author Barry Grant in the book Planks of Reason, “One might say that the true subject of the horror genre is the struggle for recognition of all that our civilization represses or oppresses.” (Grant, 416) For society of the sixties, as well as directors of the sixties, rather than leaving the unexplainable at just that, unexplained, there is a quest for understanding. This understanding might come as an understanding of the uselessness of reason in the face of the unexplainable. However, one key aspect had changed, the “thing” that the unexplained is pinned on, is no longer a hideous garden variety Frankenstein type monster, but rather, it is us. It is the aberrant personalities of we monstrous humans that wreak havoc on society more so than an angry monster.
Oftentimes, the root cause of the horror comes from within people themselves, this horror, in turn, is subsequently fueled by an unfamiliar environment or situation. Thrown in for added horror and confusion is a duality of perception: is it the act of the character or the perception of the audience that is more horrifying? It is easy to displace feelings and morals upon those who are in precarious situations, situations that the audience is not a part of (physically). Surely the acts that the characters commit are horrific, but is the passing of the audiences’ judgment upon them more horrific? Directors of the sixties exquisitely captured this duality of perception, the audiences’ emotional affinity with the character at one moment, then immediately following a sense of repulsion of that very same character! The audience is a voyeur, it is this that draws us and repulses us at the same time and is what the 1960’s psychological thrillers were able to explicitly harness.
