The Shining – Bitch Flicks

Little Girls in Horror Films: Setting the Stage for Female Double Standards

This guest post by BJ Colangelo appears as part of our theme week on The Terror of Little Girls.

Horror films frequently utilize little girls as a “go-to” scare tactic. As the sound disappears in a dark and spooky house covered in cobwebs and shadows, a little girl’s laugh or even a song will echo throughout the halls. The contrast of something so seemingly innocent found in a dark and uninviting environment has been used for decades. Whether it’s the iconic and eerie request of the Grady sisters asking Danny Torrance to play forever (and ever, and ever, and ever) in The Shining, or the innocent announcement of “They’re Heeeeere” from little Carol Anne Freeling in Poltergeist, little girls are as much of a scaring staple as a shrieking cat or a set of wailing violins. While there are the exceptions like Damien in The Omen or Barto in The Unborn, for the large part, little girls are used much more frequently in killer kid/child possession/child ghost films. In the same breath, the safety of little girls is valued far more than the safety of little boys. This double standard shown with little girls in horror films perpetuates the idea that women, regardless of age, are constantly in a state of conflict.

Little girls are often what we associate with innocence. Girls are said to be born out of “sugar, spice, and everything nice,” which attaches a stigma to women from birth that is unrealistic. Society is conditioned to believe this ridiculous myth, which changes the way we value little girls over little boys. When little girls in horror films aren’t used as demons/ghosts/killers/etc. and instead exist as just human, the importance of their survival is much greater than any other character. Referring back to Carol Anne Freeling in the Poltergeist franchise, the entire film is centered on protecting and saving her. Carol Anne’s brother, Robbie, arguably endures the more traumatic events in the film, but the focus still remains on Carol Anne. Yes, Robbie’s trees, gravity, his own toys, and his bedroom are torturing and “taken” by the spirits in the house, but the entire focus stays on protecting Carol Anne. Never mind the years of therapy Robbie may require to help him after the tree outside of his room tried to kill him, we still only care about Carol Anne simply because as a little girl, we feel that she constantly needs protecting.

Even when little girls are presented as the villains, we still care more about their survival than little boys. The Swedish vampire hit, Let The Right One In, shows Eli, a vampire girl around the same appearing age as her male counterpart, Oskar. Eli is capable of taking care of herself (and proves it throughout the course of the film) while Oskar is frequently bullied and shown as weak and in need of protection every step of the way. However, Eli’s survival is the one we focus on the most. Whether it’s aggravation towards her helper, Hakan, and his insolence that has now put her safety in jeopardy, or the fact an angry townsperson is hot on her trail to kill her, we sympathize with Oskar’s bullying, but we don’t invest in his safety quite like we do Eli’s. We expect Oskar to “deal” with his issues like he always had done before, but with Eli, we constantly want those around her to “save” her, even though she could do it on her own if she chose.

In Wes Craven’s The People Under the Stairs, we also witness intersectionality at play. Poindexter “Fool” Williams, is a young African-American boy trapped in a house of horrors. While he appears to be about the same age as the Caucasian girl, Alice Robeson, we value her safety far more than we do Fool’s. From the get-go, Fool is presented as almost deserving to be in trouble because he’s a poor Black child, and the angelically white Alice is stuck living in a home with abusive parents. The threat from “Mommy and Daddy” Robeson is much greater toward Fool, but we still shift our focus toward Alice and sense a greater sense of distress towards her survival. Fool is presented as not only a troublemaking youth, but also as the undisputed hero of the film. We believe that this poor Black child is capable enough of making it out alive because “he should be used to survival” while we see Alice as weak and with a lack of “street smarts.” It’s a tragic truth, but this sort of value on the young white female is something that is commonly reflected in the way the media portrays lost children (aka: missing white woman syndrome).

At the same time, despite our value of the lives of little girls over just about anyone else in a horror film, girls are used overwhelmingly more than boys as a source of “evil” in horror films. Cathy’s Curse, The Exorcist, Silent Hill, The Bad Seed, The Ring, The Shining, Orphan, Night of the Living Dead, Alice Sweet Alice, The Last Exorcism, The Amityville Horror, Case 39, and countless other films have all portrayed little girls as the perfect vessel for pure, unadulterated evil. We are terrified of these evil little girls, but at the same time, we feel like they need to be protected over anyone else. These conflicting ideals are the very start of the double standards that women endure over the course of their lives.

Compare this to a film like Insidious, where the focus is on little boys, we still don’t invest in their safety. The son, Dalton, is transported into an otherworldly land, but the greatest sense of conflict occurs when the father, an adult, goes in after him. It’s almost as if we don’t care about boys until they become men, but we only care about women when they’re little.

The film Orphan is particularly interesting in that it shows a little girl as evil–a little girl as the ultimate object needing protection–and a little boy as someone we completely ignore. Esther, a deranged child adopted by a loving family with two existing children, plays the villain in this film. The existing daughter, Max, is a deaf girl about the age of 4, and her brother Daniel is closer to Esther’s age at 10-12. While Daniel is immediately skeptical of Esther, he is written off as being a pain-in-the-ass prepubescent boy, while Max is shown as the perfect daughter, loving and trusting…the way little girls SHOULD be. However, when Esther is revealed to be the personification of evil that she is, our focus shifts to protecting Max. Esther literally tries to set Daniel on fire and burn him alive, but we still fear for Max’s safety on a much higher level when Esther turns her attention to Max. Why? Because she’s a little girl, and little girls need saving.

Once childhood is over, these little girls grow up into other tropes and female archetypes that continue the path of double standards: the mother or the killer, the slut or the prude, the dumb blonde, or the geeky brunette. Women in horror films aren’t allowed to simply “be,” but instead are constantly being pushed into eerily specific archetypal boxes. This practice starts in the young representation of children and follows us for the rest of our lives. Art really does imitate life, regardless of how depressing the outcomes may be.

BJ Colangelo is the woman behind the keyboard for Day of the Woman: A blog for the feminine side of fear and a contributing writer for Icons of Fright. She’s been published in books, magazines, numerous online publications, all while frantically applying for day jobs. She’s a recovering former child beauty queen and a die-hard horror fanatic. You can follow her on Twitter at @BJColangelo.

The Terror of Little Girls: Social Anxiety About Women in Horrifying Girlhood

Horror films hold a mirror up to these ideals, distorting the images and terrifying viewers in the process. The terror that society feels while looking at these little girls echoes the terror it feels when confronted with changing gender norms and female power.

This repost by Leigh Kolb appears as part of our theme week on The Terror of Little Girls.

Horror films have a long-standing tradition of commenting on the social fears and anxieties of their time.

Another universally recognized truth of horror is that scary children are terrifying–especially little girls.

While an analysis of “creepy children” in horror films usually proclaims that they are providing commentary on a loss of innocence, and it would make sense that a little girl is the “ultimate” in innocence, it can’t be that simple. We wouldn’t be so shaken to the core by possessed, haunted, violent little girls if we were simply supposed to be longing for innocent times of yesteryear.

Instead, these little girls embody society’s growing fears of female power and independence. Fearing a young girl is the antithesis of what we are taught–stories of missing, kidnapped or sexually abused girls (at least white girls) get far more news coverage and mass sympathy than stories of boy victims. Little girls are innocent victims and need protection.

In the Victorian era, the ideal female was supposed to be pale, fainting-prone and home-bound. Feminist literary icons Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar write about this nineteenth-century ideal in The Norton Anthology of Literature by Women:

“At its most extreme, this nineteenth-century ideal of the frail, even sickly female ultimately led to the glorification of the dead or dying woman. The most fruitful subject for literature, announced the American romancer Edgar Allan Poe in 1846, is ‘the death… of a beautiful woman’… But while dead women were fascinating, dying girl-children were even more enthralling… These episodes seem to bring to the surface an extraordinary imperative that underlay much of the nineteenth-century ideology of femininity: in one way or another, woman must be ‘killed’ into passivity for her to acquiesce in what Rousseau and others considered her duty of self-abnegation ‘relative to men.'”

The feminine “ideal” (and its relation to literature) coincided with women beginning the long fight for suffrage and individual rights. It’s no surprise, then, that men wanted to symbolically kill off the woman so she could fulfill her ultimate passive role. There was something comforting about this to audiences.

Rhoda Penmark will not lose to a boy. Or anyone else.

Fast forward to the 1950s and 60s, and the modern horror genre as we know it emerged and began evolving into something that provided social commentary while playing on audiences’ deepest fears (the “other,” invasion, demonic possession, nuclear mutations and the end of the world).

We know that horror films have always been rife with puritanical punishment/reward for promiscuous women/virgins (the “Final Girl” trope), and violence toward women or women needing to be rescued are common themes. These themes comfort audiences, and confirm their need to keep women subjugated in their proper place. It’s no coincidence that the 50s and 60s were seeing sweeping social change in America (the Pill, changing divorce laws, resurgence of the ERA, a lead-up to Roe v. Wade).

Terrifying little girls also make their debut in this era. Their mere presence in these films spoke not only to audiences’ fears of children losing innocence, but also the intense fear that little girls–not yet even women–would have the power to overthrow men. These girl children of a generation of women beginning a new fight for rights were terrifying–these girls would grow up knowing they could have power.

The Bad Seed‘s Rhoda Penmark (played by Patty McCormack in the 1956 film), genetically predisposed to be a sociopath, murders a classmate and the janitor who suspects her. Her classmate–a boy–beats her in a penmanship contest, and she beats him to death with her tap shoes. A little girl, in competition with a boy, loses, and kills. While in the novel Rhoda gets away with her crimes, the Hays Code commanded that the film version “punished” her for her crimes and she’s struck by lightning. It’s revealed that Rhoda’s sociopathic tendencies come from her maternal grandmother, a serial killer. This notion of female murderous rage, passed down through generations and claiming boys/men as its victim, certainly reflects social fear at the time.

In 1968, Night of the Living Dead premiered on big screens and has been seen as commenting on racism/the Civil Rights movement, Cold War-era politics and critiquing America’s involvement in the Vietnam War. However, little Karen Cooper’s (Kyra Schon) iconic scene has long disturbed audiences the most. Infected by zombies, she eats her father and impales her mother with a trowel. A horror twist to an Oedipal tale, one could see Karen as living out the gravest fears of those against the women’s movement/second-wave feminism. Possessed by a demon, she eats her father (consumes the patriarchy) and kills her mother (overtaking her mother’s generation with masculine force).

Little Karen Cooper consumes patriarchy and overtakes her mother.

Five years later, Roe v. Wade had been decided (giving women the right to legal first-trimester abortions), the Pill was legal, no-fault divorce was more acceptable and women began flooding the workforce.

Meanwhile, on the big screen, sweet little Regan MacNeil–the daughter of an over-worked, atheist mother–becomes possessed by the devil.

The Exorcist was based on a novel, which itself was based on the exorcism case of a little boy. Of course, the novelist and filmmakers wanted audiences to be disturbed and terrified, so the sex of the possessed protagonist changed (would it be as unsettling if it was a little boy?).

Chris MacNeil, Regan’s mother, goes to great lengths to help her daughter, and resorts to Catholicism when all else has failed. Regan reacts violently to religious symbols, lashes out and kills priests, speaks in a masculine voice and masturbates with a crucifix. This certainly isn’t simply a “demonic possession” horror film, especially since it was written and made into a film at the height of the fight for women’s rights (the Catholic church being an adamant foe to reproductive rights). Only after Regan releases her demon, which possesses a priest (who flings himself out of a window to commit suicide), does she regain her innocence and girlhood.

Tied and bound, Regan haunts and kills men, and reacts violently to religious images.

What her mother and her culture are embracing–atheism, working women, reproductive rights, sexual aggressiveness–can be seen as the “demons” that overcome the innocent girl and kill men (and traditional religion).

These films are have terrified audiences for decades, and for good reason. The musical scores, the direction, the jarring and shocking images–however, they also play to society’s deepest fears about women and feminism. For little girls to be possessed is the ultimate fall.

In 1980, The Shining was released. Yet another film adaptation of a novel (Stanley Kubrick’s treatment of Stephen King’s novel), this film contains two of the creepiest little girls in film history–the Grady girls. The Shining shines a light on crises of masculinity. Jack Torrance, played by Jack Nicholson, is a recovering alcoholic who has hurt his son, Danny, in the past. When he takes his wife, Wendy, and son with him to be caretakers of a hotel over a winter, his descent into madness quickly begins. Danny has telepathic abilities, and sees and experiences the hotel’s violent past. As he rides his Big Wheel through the hotel, he stops when he sees two little girls begging him to “Come play with us Danny. Forever.” These girls–dead daughters of Grady, a previous caretaker who killed his family and himself–are trying to pull Danny into their world. Danny sees images of them murdered brutally, and flees in fear. Meanwhile, Jack is struggling with his alcoholism, violence and lack of control of himself and his sensitive wife and child. When he sees Grady, Grady advises him:

“My girls, sir, they didn’t care for the Overlook at first. One of them actually stole a pack of matches, and tried to burn it down. But I ‘corrected’ them sir. And when my wife tried to prevent me from doing my duty, I ‘corrected’ her.”

Danny is confronted with the horror of what men are capable of.

In this aftermath of the women’s movement, Jack (a weak man, resistant to authority) is being haunted and guided by a forceful, dominating masculinity of the past. He’s stuck between the two worlds, and succumbs to violent, domineering alcoholism.

But he loses. Wendy and Danny win.

While his predecessor succeeded in “correcting” his wife and daughters, that time has past.

Here, the flashing memories of the ghosts of the past are terrifying. The Grady girls provide a look into what it is to be “corrected” and dominated.

“Come play with us Danny,” the girls beg, haunting him with the realities of masculine force and dominance.

Starting with the late-70s and 80s slasher films (and the growing Religious Right/Moral Majority in politics), the “Final Girl” reigned supreme, and the promiscuous young woman would perish first. Masculinity (characterized with “monstrous” violence and strength) and femininity became natural enemies. These fights on the big screen mirrored the fights in reality. The Equal Rights Amendment was pushed out of favor and was never ratified, and a growing surge of conservatism and family values began dominating American rhetoric.

In the late 90s and early 2000s, we see a resurgence of the terrifying little girl. This time, she is serving as a warning to single/working/independent/adoptive mothers.

In The Ring (the 2002 American adaptation of a 1998 Japanese film), Rachel Keller (played by Naomi Watts) is a journalist and a single mother. She unknowingly risks her son and his father’s lives by showing them a cursed videotape. A critic noted:

“If she had never entered the public sphere and viewed the cassette in the first place, she would not have inadvertently caused Noah’s death, nor would she have to potentially cause the death of another. Rachel would, perhaps, have been better off staying at home.”

Single motherhood has often been the driving force behind horror plots.

In her investigation into the video, she discovers the twisted, dark past of the video’s subject, Samara, a young girl who started life troubled (her birthmother tried to drown her). She was adopted by a couple, but her adoptive mother suffered from visions and haunting events due to Samara’s powers. They attempted to institutionalize Samara, but eventually the adoptive mother drowns her in a well after Samara cannot be cured of her psychosis. Her adoptive father, Rachel finds, locked Samara in an attic of their barn, and Samara left a clue of the well’s location behind wallpaper. (Bitch Flicks ran an excellent analysis of the yellow wallpaper and the themes of women’s stories in The Ring.)

Samara’s life was punctuated by drowning, which has throughout history been a way for women to commit suicide or be killed (symbolizing both the suffocation of women’s roles and the return to the life-giving waters that women are often associated with). While Rachel “saves” Samara’s corpse and gives her a proper burial, Samara didn’t want that. She rejected Rachel’s motherhood and infects Rachel’s son. Rachel–in her attempts to mother–cannot seem to win.

Rachel “saves” Samara from her watery grave, but she still cannot succeed.

The ambiguous ending suggests that Rachel may indeed save her son, but will have to harm another to do so. This idea of motherly self-sacrifice portrays the one way that Rachel–single, working mother Rachel–can redeem herself. However, the parallel narrative of the dangers of silencing and “locking up” women is loud and clear.

And in 2009’s Orphan, Esther is a violent, overtly sexual orphan from Russia who is adopted by an American family. Esther is “not nearly as innocent as she claims to be,” says the IMDb description. This story certainly plays on the fear of the “other” in adopted little girls (much like The Ring) and how that is realized in the mothers. In this film, Esther is actually an adult “trapped” in a child’s body. The clash of a childish yet adult female (as culturally, little girls are somehow expected to embody adult sexuality and yet be innocent and naïve) again reiterates this fear of little girls with unnatural and unnerving power. The drowning death of Esther, as her adoptive mother and sister flee, shows that Esther must be killed to be subdued. The power of mother is highlighted, yet the film still plays on cultural fears of mothering through international adoptions and the deep, disturbing duality of childhood and adulthood that girls are supposed to embody.

Like Samara, Esther is a deeply disturbed daughter, capable of demonic violence.

In the last 60 years, American culture has seen remarkable change and resistance to that change. Horror films–which portray the very core of society’s fears and anxieties–have reflected the fears of women’s social movements through the faces of terrifying little girls.

While nineteenth-century literature comforted audiences with the trope of a dead, beautiful woman, thus making her passive and frail (of course, we still do this), twentieth and twenty-first century horror films force audiences to come face to face with murderous, demonic, murdered and psychotic little girls to parallel fears of women having economic, reproductive, parenting and marital (or single) power.

Little girls are supposed to be the epitome of all we hold dear–innocent, sweet, submissive and gentle. The Victorian Cult of Girlhood and Womanhood bleeds into the twenty-first century anti-feminist movements, and these qualities are still revered.

_____________________________

Leigh Kolb is a composition, literature and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri.

Call For Writers: The Terror of Little Girls

Our theme week for November 2014 will be The Terror of Little Girls (see Leigh Kolb’s “The Terror of Little Girls: Social Anxiety About Women in Horrifying Girlhood” at Bitch Flicks).

Both the horror and thriller genres are rife with terrifying little girls. Sometimes these girl children are possessed by malevolent spirits. Sometimes they’re changelings or aliens, impersonating sweet, innocent beloved daughters. Other times, they’re ambiguous ghosts, haunting our protagonists for justice or revenge, and sometimes they’re just sociopaths who murder and torment their victims.

Scary children are certainly a prolific trope, articulating our culture’s fear of the loss of innocence as well as the unknowable, even alien, qualities of children. However, when we examine why the trope of creepy little girls is so prominent, we’re presented with an even more complex psychology. Little girls embody all that is good and pure; they are innocence and vulnerability. They are viewed separately from women because they symbolize all the potential that our culture embeds in the ideal of womanhood.

The films that depict terrifying little girls are acting out the deep-seated fear of the loss of our culture’s goodness and purity, virginity and innocence. There’s also a collective discomfort surrounding the fact that little girls become women and that womanhood is unpredictable and uncontrollable. Little girls in films like The Exorcist and The Bad Seed embody a premature, preternatural womanhood that is powerful, sexual, and taboo. And they must be stopped, killed if necessary, to neutralize their threat. The logic: though we can’t truly stop little girls from growing up into those subversive creatures known as women, we can engage in the futile fantasy that destroys them before that happens time and time again.

Feel free to use the examples below to inspire your writing on this subject, or choose your own source material.

We’d like to avoid as much overlap as possible for this theme, so get your proposals in early if you know which film you’d like to write about. We accept both original pieces and cross-posts, and we respond to queries within a week.

Most of our pieces are between 1,000 and 2,000 words, and include links and images. Please send your piece as a Microsoft Word document to btchflcks[at]gmail[dot]com, including links to all images, and include a 2- to 3-sentence bio.

If you have written for us before, please indicate that in your proposal, and if not, send a writing sample if possible.

Please be familiar with our publication and look over recent and popular posts to get an idea of Bitch Flicks’ style and purpose. We encourage writers to use our search function to see if your topic has been written about before, and link when appropriate (hyperlinks to sources are welcome, as well).

The final due date for these submissions is Friday, Nov. 21 by midnight.

The Exorcist

Case 39

Night of the Living Dead

The Ring

Supernatural

Children of the Corn

The Addams Family

Phone

Village of the Damned

The Sixth Sense

The Children

The Shining

Alice, Sweet Alice

Silent Hill

The Brood

Orphan

The Bad Seed

Interview with the Vampire

Let the Right One In

Let Me In

The Omen IV: The Awakening

The Notion of “Forever and Ever and Ever” in ‘The Amityville Horror’ and ‘The Shining’

The nightmare that Jack and George share signifies their innate fear—the possibility of destroying the family they, as men, have built.

This guest post by Rachel Wortherley appears as part of our theme week on Demon and Spirit Possession.

Two families in search of fresh start move into new homes: the Torrance family to the “Overlook Hotel” in Denver, Colorado, and the Lutz family to a beautiful Dutch-Colonial home in Amityville, New York. Unbeknownst to them, they will encounter horror in the form of demons and evil spirits attempting to destroy their “traditional” family dynamic.

Stuart Rosenberg’s The Amityville Horror and Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining focus on the prospect of renewal. Rosenberg’s film focuses on newlyweds George and Kathy Lutz (Josh Brolin and Margot Kidder) as they move into a new home with their three children and dog, Harry. There is one catch. The home’s previous inhabitants (two parents and their children) were killed by their son and brother. Audiences were also being presented a “tweaked” version of the nuclear family being that George is the children’s stepfather. It is noted that they have only recently begun to call him “George” rather than “Mr. Lutz.” George’s wish is for them to address him as “Dad.” The new marriage and their determination to make new memories inside a tainted house is George and Kathy’s attempt at growing closer as a family.

The Shining also begins similarly. Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson), a schoolteacher turned writer, moves with his wife Wendy (Shelley Duvall) and son Danny (Danny Lloyd), to the “Overlook Hotel” where he is hired as the winter caretaker. While this is Jack’s opportunity to write in solitude, it is also an opportunity for their family to start anew–at least in the eyes of Wendy. Wendy reveals to Danny’s pediatrician that Jack, a recovering alcoholic, accidentally dislocated Danny’s shoulder in an attempt to pull him away from ruining important school paperwork. This unfortunate incident prompts Jack to quit drinking. As a result, Wendy forgives him and attributes it to being “just one of those things.” While the Lutz family in Amityville wants to create new memories, the Torrances want to erase their pasts. However, the memories within the walls of their respective households become imbued in the minds of the families, leading to madness and terror.

It should be noted that children and fathers appear to be greatly affected by the supernatural beings in their homes. Because of the innocence of children, the spirits readily reveal themselves. For example, seven-year old Amy Lutz in Amityville is seen conversing and playing with “Jody,” her imaginary friend who lives in the house. There is one pivotal moment when Amy sings “Jesus loves me” as her and Jody’s chairs rock back and forth. This suggests that the spirit is not evil, but in search of a companion. Jody also wants Amy to stay in the house “forever and ever,” presumably in the same ghostly state that Jody has taken. While Amy’s brush with the afterlife is playful and innocent, the same cannot be said for Danny Torrance.

Danny is a seven-year old boy who has the capability described as “shining.” He has terrifying premonitions and can telepathically communicate with others who “shine,” specifically the hotel chef, Dick Hallorann, who enlightens Danny to their capabilities. Danny’s gift materializes in the form of his imaginary friend Tony who Danny describes as “the little boy who lives in my mouth.” Tony appears to be a being that fosters Danny’s gifts, yet encourages him to conceal it from others, for fear of no one believing him. When Danny’s first premonition of blood cascading through the hallways of the Overlook Hotel occurs, Danny is unable to remember. Tony also appears when Danny is attacked by the demonic figure of the woman in the bathtub in the forbidden “Room 237.” It is also Tony who communicates the infamous word, “redrum” (murder spelled backward) to Danny to warn his mother of the pending murder that Jack wants to inflict upon their family, as well as the gruesome murders from the past. Wendy recalls that Tony made his first appearance after Danny’s incident with Jack. This suggests that Tony exists as a source of protection for Danny to shield his innocent consciousness.

While these otherworldly figures engage with children in a mild manner or as a scare tactic, they react entirely different with the fathers in the respective films. Rage and violent behavior are triggered within George and Jack. George, who desperately wanted the children to call him “Dad,” exclaims that Kathy needs to “discipline her children.” George’s physical appearance goes from strong to sickly. He sweats profusely, incessantly chops wood, and neglects work. The process of George’s descent into madness is a slower process whereas Jack’s descent appears to occur immediately. He also appears angrier than George. Kubrick goes from a casual scene when Wendy brings Jack breakfast in bed and he jokes about the ghosts in the hotel to a penultimate scene where Jack rages at her to never disturb him when he writes. This further suggests that while Jack wants to be with his family, he does not want to be “with” them. Sane Jack in the beginning of the film looks forward to the isolation of a large, empty hotel, yet this is impossible because his family is present.

The distance between Jack, his wife, and child is noticeable before his descent. Jack has minimal scenes with Danny and when sharing scenes, Danny is glued to Wendy. Jack barely interacts with him apart from instilling fear into Danny while in a trance-like state. In this scene, he simultaneously assures Danny that he would never hurt him while leering at him in a murderous manner. In comparison to George and Kathy’s marital bliss and passionate love scenes, Jack and Wendy appear too casual with each other. They almost seem like strangers. There is a sense that Wendy distrusts Jack. A scene that supports this occurs when Jack, screaming and crying in his sleep, awakens from a nightmare in which he murders and chops Wendy and Danny into pieces with an axe. As Wendy comforts him, a disheveled and traumatized Danny walks in with bruises on his neck–bruises inflicted by the ghostly woman in room 237. Remembering Jack’s drunken rage three years prior, Wendy immediately accuses him of abusing Danny.

As a result, Jack retreats in anger to the hotel bar where he encounters the ghost of Lloyd, the bartender. There he is satiated by alcohol while commiserating to Lloyd the complications of his marriage, specifically Wendy’s inability to forgive him for something that occurred “three goddamn years ago.” Unspoken anger and resentment clouds their marriage. In Amityville, George has the same nightmare and confesses it in tears to Kathy. The nightmare that Jack and George share signifies their innate fear—the possibility of destroying the family they, as men, have built.

The Lutz family manages to escape physically unscathed in the aftermath of their battle with the forces embedded within their house, whereas Wendy and Danny are the only two who escape their haunted home. A murderous Jack, wielding an axe, attempts to find his wife and son and ultimately succumbs to the bitter cold of Denver. Wendy is officially a single mother to Danny. However, a photograph from the Overlook Hotel in the 1920s depicts a smiling Jack with partygoers. He has found his new family.

Stuart Rosenberg’s The Amityville Horror (1979) and Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1980) are films that are released around the same time as family-centric films; specifically films that deal with the subject of divorce and single parenting. In Robert Benton’s 1979 film, Kramer vs. Kramer, audiences witness how a single father deals with raising his son in the absence of a mother, almost losing his child to the mother, and the mother ultimately granting him full custody. The parents also become civil toward each other. Audiences who are rooting for the father, played by the likeable Dustin Hoffman, gain a sense of satisfaction in the end. Meanwhile in its predecessor, Paul Mazursky’s An Unmarried Woman (1978), we watch how Jill Clayburgh’s character deals with a multitude of events: her husband divorcing her for a younger woman, teaching her teenage daughter to feel empowered, and having to start her dating life from scratch. While these images were progressive in its time, audiences were not shown the other perspective; the sometimes horrific nature of broken homes.

In Rosenberg and Kubrick’s respective films, outside forces attempt to help keep the nuclear family alive. In Amityville this materializes in the form of Father Delaney, who attempts to warn them about the house, yet is quelled by being struck mute and blind by the supernatural forces. This is reminiscent of the Catholic Church’s strict laws against divorce in favor of marriage counseling. In The Shining Dick Hallorann acts as a guardian to Danny. He comes to their rescue only to be cut down by Jack’s axe. Outsiders are not allowed to interfere. The family must deal with the uncomfortable and painful feelings within their household, as well as the aftermath. There lies the true test and the meaning of “forever and ever” as a family.

Rachel Wortherley is a graduate of Iona College in New Rochelle, New York and holds a Master of Arts degree in English. Her downtime consists of devouring copious amounts of literature, television shows, and films. She hopes to gain a doctorate in English literature and become a professional screenwriter.

‘The Shining’: Demon Selection

Jack is both a victim and perpetrator of domestic violence. Jack’s father was an abusive alcoholic who beat and berated him. When Jack drank he used to parrot his father’s words (“take your medicine” “you damn pup”). He is primarily verbally abusive. The last incident of drinking that pushed him to sober up was accidentally breaking Danny’s arm. Wendy, perhaps like Jack’s mother, lied for him but swore she would leave if he didn’t sober up.

The Torrance family happily driving to the Overlook Hotel

This guest post by Wolf appears as part of our theme week on Demon and Spirit Possession.

Stephen King’s The Shining miniseries debuted almost 17 years ago. King’s take was made to follow closer to his original novel and as a rebuff of Kubrick’s classic (King still disliked the movie). The miniseries is often criticized for being long, needing more scares, and having too much detail and long dialogue. While these points have merit, King’s version has a better Wendy, more background, and far more character development. The story itself is well known – The Torrance family moves into the Overlook Hotel for the winter. Father Jack is an alcoholic, out-of-work teacher, and amateur playwright. Young Danny has psychic abilities. The Overlook is haunted. Wendy is along for the ride with no job to perform nor psychic abilities. She has also lead a fairly charmed life, minus Jack’s problems, and is not possessed by the Overlook at any point. *

But why does the Overlook not chose Wendy? Or why can’t it reach her the way it can Danny and Jack?

The Hotel wants Danny. Wendy knows it. Jack is already “infected” by the hotel and refuses to believe it. Danny knows it as well. This suggests that his power will live on in the hotel after he is dead and a ghost. The hotel might seek out people who Shine and their Shining stays with their spirits trapped in the Overlook. It is never fully explained how Danny got his gift or his Shining – which includes telepathy, telekinesis, visions, and the ability to regenerate a haunted hotel and its ghosts. Some fans have assumed Jack himself might have the Shining.**

Jack drinking with Grady at the party where all the guests and the band have been dead for years

Danny is never fully taken over by the hotel, but it grows stronger with his presence. It uses what it can take of his Shining and, being a little boy, he unintentionally feeds it. He has a false sense of security since he was told by Dick Hallorann, who works at the hotel and explains to Danny what the Shining is, that the things one might see at the Overlook are like “pictures in a book.” Soon the pictures become physical manifestations and the hotel has its own puppet to use when it takes full control of Jack.

There is one other very big reason why Jack might have been the one the hotel fully possessed (to the point where Jack tries to control himself and can’t–only once does he break through and tells Danny to run, but loses this battle within minutes): Jack is both a victim and perpetrator of domestic violence. Jack’s father was an abusive alcoholic who beat and berated him. When Jack drank he used to parrot his father’s words (“take your medicine” “you damn pup”). He is primarily verbally abusive. The last incident of drinking that pushed him to sober up was accidentally breaking Danny’s arm. Wendy, perhaps like Jack’s mother, lied for him but swore she would leave if he didn’t sober up.

With the hotel influencing Jack, but not yet controlling him, he begins to act like the alcoholic he once was and uses the same words. This was more intense than his last incident as a dry drunk; this is full drunk Jack with no alcohol. Eventually the hotel has the power to conjure objects that torment the family – party favors and panties in an elevator that turned on by itself (“There is something that wants us to join the party, Don’t you understand that?” Wendy explains to Jack) and a bar with alcohol for thirsty Jack.

Jack possessed by the Overlook — Jack, possessed by the Overlook

The hotel preys on Jack’s past problems. Even as a grown man, he still loves his father and speaks to what sounds like his ghost on the radio. The emotional conversation where Jack acts like a crying boy and is berated once again, culminates in Jack smashing the family’s one means of communication with the outside world. Jack carries the scars of abuse, the confusion of loving your abusive parent, and guilt over continuing the cycle of alcoholic abuse.*** He also confides that he feels like he belongs at the Overlook. He lashes out at Wendy in jealousy over her good life and unleashes all of his frustrations with his own life. His fear of them living on the street if he can’t fulfill the duties of this job are probably exaggerated, but his feelings of failure and concern for his family never being able to obtain a comfortable lifestyle are genuine.

Jack isn’t an evil man. He is damaged and the hotel takes full advantage of it. He is alone, hurt, guilty, and has a past full of enticing cruelty and trauma for the sinister hotel to enjoy. We do not know about other victims of the hotel. Did the woman in 217 who has sexually charged scenes, including the way she kisses and then strangles Danny, have some sexual abuse in her past before she committed suicide at the Overlook? Did she even plan on killing herself before checking in or was the suggestion given to her during her stay? Does this shed light on how the hotel that has killed so many remains open and functioning with its “indiscretions” covered up by management?

Without the word of the (Stephen) King, we can only guess that the hotel wants people who Shine or who have emotional issues that make them susceptible to the demonic influence and also please he sadism of the Overlook. And this is why Mr. Jack Torrance was possessed by the hotel and not his wife. This is why Jack let the hotel in, while Danny tried to keep it out.

*In the DVD Wendy isn’t the only one to hold this honor; Dick Hallorann never subcomes to the Overlook. In the book, however, when the hotel is at its strongest, Dick has a moment where he is compelled to kill Danny.

**This theory gains momentum since Dick’s grandmother had it. Perhaps it skips or is weaker in some generations.

***! ! ! SPOILER ! ! ! Danny grows up to be an alcoholic in King’s latest novel.

Wolf is known to her friends as the Pop Culture Queen and loves to read books, watch movies, and keep up on her TV shows. She is a perpetual psychology student who hopes to finish her schooling before she’s 90. She occasionally finds the time to write for fun and win trivia contests. Criticism, questions and suggestions are always welcome in her email: hairdye_junky@yahoo.com.

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What have you been reading/writing this week? Tell us in the comments!

Horror Week 2012: Women’s Terror Vocalized in Horror Films

If only she could scream louder! It might defeat Ro-Man

In the 1953 B-movie, Robot Monster, protagonists Alice (Claudia Barret) and Roy (George Nader) attempt to engage in post-apocalyptic frolicking and fornicating. This is all while being pursued by a gorilla-suited socialism-spewing space man (John Brown). This space man, or as he calls himself, Ro-Man, falls in love with Alice. How could a communist alien from the stars resist a red-blooded American woman? Exactly. Impossible.

Unfortunately for Ro-Man, his love is unrequited. So, he does what any oversized hairy simian does. He launches an impromptu kidnapping. While Alice kicks and screams in his arms, he awkwardly saunters across the desert countryside. But, it is Alice’s screams that are of particular interest. While fighting Ro-Man, Roy grunts and groans but he doesn’t issue the same prolonged tone of terror that Alice does. Alice’s only “action” is to indicate her utter passiveness via screaming. Roy gets to act and rescue.

The woman’s scream has been an essential part of horror. Women play a fundamental role in horror films – possibly more than other genres. Women function as a foil. They are wrought by terror. They scream the way we, in the theater, want to.

The archetypes we see presented in B-movies extend into the classic horror canon. Some of the great horror movies wouldn’t be the same without the woman’s scream.

Psycho featured one of the more famous screaming scenes on the silver screen. What is brutal about this Alfred Hitchcock film is that we follow a faux-protagonist for a long time, Marion (Janet Leigh), only to see her abruptly and brutally murdered. Her role is to be lost to terror and die shrieking.

The thing about Psychoand Robot Monster is that they position their female characters in both terrifying and erotic situations. Alice is swept away by Ro-Man from her dalliances with Roy. Marion is murdered while in the shower. Their screams can be reminiscent of orgasm.

This is pretty typical in any horror movie – especially the ones featuring young people getting indirectly punished for sexual activity (as in: any horror movie since the ‘80s.)

There’s got to be a better place for women in horror films.

And there is. But, it’s complicated.

There are strong women characters in horror movies – ones that rarely scream, and if they do it is with purpose. Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) from the Alien films has got to be one of the bad-assest of horror heroes out there. She’s calm, steely and a survivor. Buffy (Sarah Michelle Gellar) from Buffy the Vampire Slayeris also an admirable kicker of supernatural asses. Women can be tough in horrific situations.

It’s not the norm, though.

I mean, in all likelihood, you would scream in her situation.

In Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, Wendy (Shelley Duvall), the chirpy wife to the murderously insane Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson), spends the last half of the movie in hysterics. It seems like a pretty appropriate reaction to your husband losing his mind and trying to kill you. She does ultimately save herself and her son, but it’s in a human and clumsy sort of way.

This should be ok – but against a backdrop of hysterical women, Wendy becomes a part of the passive amalgam.

The problem is that we are still dealing with an either-or sort of situation. Women can be preternaturally courageous and stoic. Or, they can be spastic screeching machines that fall to pieces.

We need more nuance. While horror is not the first place you look for complex characters, we can do better than fitful women standing in for the audience’s own desire to scream.

The Terror of Little Girls: Social Anxiety About Women in Horrifying Girlhood

Horror films have a long-standing tradition of commenting on the social fears and anxieties of their time.

Another universally recognized truth of horror is that scary children are terrifying–especially little girls.

“At its most extreme, this nineteenth-century ideal of the frail, even sickly female ultimately led to the glorification of the dead or dying woman. The most fruitful subject for literature, announced the American romancer Edgar Allan Poe in 1846, is ‘the death… of a beautiful woman’… But while dead women were fascinating, dying girl-children were even more enthralling… These episodes seem to bring to the surface an extraordinary imperative that underlay much of the nineteenth-century ideology of femininity: in one way or another, woman must be ‘killed’ into passivity for her to acquiesce in what Rousseau and others considered her duty of self-abnegation ‘relative to men.'”

Rhoda Penmark will not lose to a boy. Or anyone else.

Little Karen Cooper consumes patriarchy and overtakes her mother.

Meanwhile, on the big screen, sweet little Regan MacNeil–the daughter of an over-worked, atheist mother–becomes possessed by the devil.

Tied and bound, Regan haunts and kills men, and reacts violently to religious images.

“My girls, sir, they didn’t care for the Overlook at first. One of them actually stole a pack of matches, and tried to burn it down. But I ‘corrected’ them sir. And when my wife tried to prevent me from doing my duty, I ‘corrected’ her.”

Danny is confronted with the horror of what men are capable of.

But he loses. Wendy and Danny win.

While his predecessor succeeded in “correcting” his wife and daughters, that time has past.

Here, the flashing memories of the ghosts of the past are terrifying. The Grady girls provide a look into what it is to be “corrected” and dominated.

“Come play with us Danny,” the girls beg, haunting him with the realities of masculine force and dominance.

In the late 90s and early 2000s, we see a resurgence of the terrifying little girl. This time, she is serving as a warning to single/working/independent/adoptive mothers.

“If she had never entered the public sphere and viewed the cassette in the first place, she would not have inadvertently caused Noah’s death, nor would she have to potentially cause the death of another. Rachel would, perhaps, have been better off staying at home.”

Single motherhood has often been the driving force behind horror plots.

Rachel “saves” Samara from her watery grave, but she still cannot succeed.

And in 2009’s Orphan, Esther is a violent, overtly sexual orphan from Russia who is adopted by an American family. Esther is “not nearly as innocent as she claims to be,” says the IMDB description. This story certainly plays on the fear of the “other” in adopted little girls (much like The Ring) and how that is realized in the mothers. In this film, Esther is actually an adult “trapped” in a child’s body. The clash of a childish yet adult female (as culturally, little girls are somehow expected to embody adult sexuality and yet be innocent and naïve) again reiterates this fear of little girls with unnatural and unnerving power. The drowning death of Esther, as her adoptive mother and sister flee, shows that Esther must be killed to be subdued. The power of mother is highlighted, yet the film still plays on cultural fears of mothering through international adoptions and the deep, disturbing duality of childhood and adulthood that girls are supposed to embody.

Like Samara, Esther is a deeply disturbed daughter, capable of demonic violence.

—

Leigh Kolb is a composition, literature and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri.