Tag Archives: Predator

Fear of The Unknown

One of the wonderful agonies I found when I started watching Lost years and years ago was the show’s tendency to show a character’s reaction to a revelation/object/monster rather than the revelation/object/monster itself. It became characteristic of the show, and something emblematic of Abrams’ style.

Granted, J.J. Abrams had little involvement with Lost past the pilot, but he did work with Damon Lidelof to lay much of the show’s groundwork. Including, presumably, Abrams’ love of the Mystery Box. See, according to him, there’s a certain level of suspense and wonderment to be found in not knowing something. That there is a mysterious monster is more frightening — and in some ways more beautiful — than what it is. It’s less important what’s in the hatch than that there is one. The best horror writer is the one in your head, coming up with all sorts of half-formed possibilities for why something might be the way it is.

More than anything though, it makes us want to see what’s going on. Take Predator, due to the alien’s stealth, we spend much of the film not knowing what’s killing Dutch’s squad. Simply knowing something’s out there, something we can’t see and something deadly enough to take out an elite band of mercenaries, is terror enough. Alien does the same thing, withholding a good view of the Xenomorph as long as possible, leaving us to fill in the gaps on this monster. It’s effective, so much so that finally seeing the titular alien would be a letdown were it not for H.R. Geiger’s inspired design.

Point is: there’s something to be said for being restrained.

Cloverfield, that found-footage monster movie produced by Abrams, is in actuality a magnificent exercise in restraint. Rather than doing what Godzilla and virtually every other monster-invasion movie does, Cloverfield focused only on a small group of friends trying to survive on the ground. There’s no sweeping shots or frantic discussions in a war room. The found-footage nature of it forces the filmmakers to keep it small and, in turn, the audience in the dark. We see the monster’s limbs, we see smaller monsters, and all the time it’s scarier because we don’t see it in full. The possibility of it all is far more frightening.

Keeping in that sensibility is the not-a-but-kinda-sequel 10 Cloverfield Lane. Trapped in a bunker with a captor/savior while Armageddon might have happened outside, protagonist Michelle — and the audience — is left to fill in the clues as to what happened. We don’t know what happened outside, we don’t know if Howard is really doing this out of the kindness of his heart, heck, we don’t know what his angle is at all. That the movie is not particularly forthcoming on any of this makes every hint of malice or mystery terrifying. There’s nothing scarier than not knowing what’s going on.

10 Cloverfield Lane earns this, however, by making sure we know Michelle on at least some level. We aren’t totally in the dark, we have a handle on our protagonist and thus we can react with her to all the crazy crap going on. We have a touchstone, a constant, a frame known to counter the unknown. Without that, 10 Cloverfield would be more frustrating than gripping.

Y’know, I’m not a fan of horror movies. Too much reliance on squick and pain and how downright creepifying something can be. But what 10 Cloverfield Lane, Alien, and Lost did are much more my jam. The simple fear of the unknown taken up to eleven, an implacable fear that you can’t quite put a finger on. Now that is terrifying.

Also, 10 Cloverfield Lane is a dang fine movie you should check out and I wanna rant about, but won’t because the less you know the better. Like I said, it’s scarier when you know less.

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Imply, Don’t Show

Every aspiring writer is at one point treated to the ancient adage of “show, don’t tell”. The idea is that rather than telling us that Sam is an impressive diplomat, it works better if the writer describes her being a great diplomat. It gets boring (and annoying) if a writer keeps on saying that a character is a certain way but never actually shows them acting according to said characterization.

That’s well and good for characterization, but what about for plot points and events? Or scares and other monstrosities?

A lot of the time tension and interest is raised more by what you don’t see than what you actually do. The viewer’s imagination is far less limited than a special effects budget or the creativity of the art department. See, your imagination is fantastic at creating a tailor-made horror for you. You just need the implication.

The original Predator from 1987 is an excellent example of how tension can be heightened by simply not seeing the ‘monster’. For most of the film we watch Dutch’s squad get killed by some unknown creature. Tension keeps rising as we wonder just who or what this is. We finally see the Predator himself as the climax approaches, but by then his reputation as a masterful killer (with a tendency to rip people’s skulls and spines from their body) has already been well established. Since we’ve been shown what he’s capable of his appearance is now the embodiment of our anxiety.

Had we seen the Predator raging into view at the start, yes, we’d still be intimidated, but we wouldn’t have the amazingly high tension that makes the movie so good. It’s worth mentioning that in the 2010 sequel Predators, the titular Predators are barely glimpsed at first, but before long we see them in full. We already know what a Predator looks like, no sense in putting us through the same beats again.

Cloverfield did it too, to a different effect. In most monster-attacks-city films we watch the spectacle from the point of view of people in power (mayors, generals, ace fighter pilots, etc) or the littlest cancer patient. In this film it’s just a small group of survivors trying desperately to keep that prize status. We don’t get any good shots of the monster (until the very end) but we do see the destruction and the characters’ responses.

It’s an intense film, thanks not just to the shaky cam point of view, but also due to the fact that we’re never sure just what it is they’re running from (and that anyone can die). Though the monster itself isn’t a particularly terrible abomination, we’ve already had a good ride by the time we see it..

This extends to other mediums, too. Video games, for example. Now, I’m not a player of survival horror games, so I’m ignoring that genre. In Uncharted: Drake’s Fortune, Nathan Drake finds himself on a mysterious island long since deserted by its Spanish settlers. He encounters a trap like other ancient ones only not made from wood but the wreckage of his recently-crashed plane. An antagonist says that his men have been disappearing in the jungle. We see strange footprints in the jungle and we encounter bodies strewn up on traps.

Drake finds himself exploring underground catacombs and at last the monsters are revealed: cursed zombies. Or something. But now the game, like Predator, switches gears from the tension of the unknown to shooting your way to safety. Uncharted used implication when it needed that sort of tension and switched back to normal combat tension after the former dissipated.

So we can use implication to invoke a form of terror or tension, but it can also be used to keep interest alive. Lost made use of reaction shots and frequently hid just what it was the characters saw and forced us to rely on their descriptions or reaction. It accentuated the mystery of the show. We got our share of apprehension as we waited for the camera to show just what it is Jack saw. Sometimes we’d get to see just what it was, sometimes not. But the point was that there was something out there that could change something; something that caused that character to react the way they did.

Like everything in Lost, it wasn’t so important what the item/reveal was, just the way the character reacted. Nonetheless, the implication served its purpose and keeps you glued to the serial.

Implication is another tool in a storyteller’s toolbox. Really not much more to say than that. Tensions tend to run higher when we don’t know what it is we’re afraid of/interested in, but have enough hints and clues to know that we should be.

The trick is, of course, to be careful that we don’t wind up with a massive let down. ‘cause that, well, that pretty much sucks.

Also: buy my book In Transit! Support aspiring authors who sometimes use implication (but not in that book)!

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What Makes A Good Sequel

Sometimes, it feels like everything’s a sequel. Last year we got no less than twenty-eight sequels. In one year. Heck, all but one of 2011‘s top ten blockbusters (that one is Smurfs, but we won’t talk about that) were sequels. Well, this veritable deluge of sequels wouldn’t be that bad if it weren’t for the fact that so many sequels flat out suck.

The mentality behind so many sequels seems to be something like “hey, that worked so well the first time! Let’s do it again! Except more!” What people loved about Curse of the Black Pearl was Jack’s hijinks and Will and Elizabeth’s romance. So let’s put more of that in it and ratchet everything else up. More Matrix means more crazy action and philosophy. More Transporter means making all the action just… ridiculous. Yet it doesn’t work. It should though, right? That’s what a sequel is: what made the first one great, just taken up to eleven.

Well, not quite

A sequel cannot be the same movie as its predecessor. We’ve already seen that movie. The original Alien was an intensely suspenseful sci-fi horror movie. The horror thing wouldn’t work twice: after watching Alien we knew what the titular creature looks like. If James Cameron had tried to simply do the first one again in a different setting, it’d be the same as before except with less of a mystery as to the nature of the monster. Instead, he took the universe created by the original and told a completely different story. Aliens was more about action with some moments of sheer terror and suspense. We were still watching our protagonists try and survive against extraterrestrial monsters, but this time they were fighting back with the considerable firepower they had. It was the same but different. And it was good.

Predators wisely took a similar route in being a twenty-three year later sequel. They didn’t waste time maintaining the intense suspense that made the first so good because what the Predator looks like is practically common knowledge. So the new film was more of an action orientated suspense flick, filled with shout outs and nods to the original.

Another great examples is The Dark Knight which toned down the mystery and adventure of Batman Begins in favor of showing what would happen to Batman after being the Bat for several months. It’s a gritty crime thriller now, since that’s what Batman’s world has become.

On that note, a sequel should be the next logical step. The heroes beat the villain, now what? Dark Knight explored the ripples of having a vigilante watching the streets. Toy Story 2 and Toy Story 3 followed Woody and friends’ next adventure and, ultimately, ‘their kid’ getting too old for them. It was a progression of the story that it started with and it made sense. The adventures were escalated, but not without good reason: the stories’ progression necessitated it, not the other way round.

The Lord Of The Rings was written as one story in three (well, technically six) parts and adapted to film in the same format. As such, The Two Towers and The Return of the King are two of the best sequels made. The story was meant to be in three parts and, when done as well as this, it worked. We’re not talking sequel hooks or little plugs, we’re talking proper planned trilogies.

Sometimes the progression requires a shift in focus. The Empire Strikes Back kept the feeling of high adventure from the original Star Wars but focused it more on character drama and development. It was still a Star Wars movie in universe, shape, and feel, but rather than trying to make a bigger and better adventure than destroying the Death Star we were treated to a movie about what our heroes did after. Ultimately, Return of the Jedi blended both: the plot climax of defeating the Empire and Luke’s personal climax of facing Darth Vader. Jedi took the threads of both prior movies and wove them together into a satisfying conclusion.

During an interview Joss Whedon was asked how he’d try to top the original in a sequel to The Avengers (did you really think I wouldn’t mention either?). His reply: “By not trying to. By being smaller. More personal, more painful… By being the next thing that should happen to these characters, and not just a rehash of what seemed to work the first time.” That’s what a sequel should be. It doesn’t matter if it’s bigger or smaller: it has to be the next step. The progression, a continuation. A proper sequel.

Alternately, we could try and come up with something completely original. But hah.

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