I love scary.
The problem with any student of horror, or at least is the case with me, is that one becomes hardened extremely rapidly. I remember the last three times a film scared me: 1- In 2008, I saw The Toolbox Murders (1978) for the first time, and although it was a beautiful mess of a film, the raw energy thrown into it made me listen closely in bed that night to every creak in the house. 2- Around the same time, I watched Suspiria, which I had seen at least 5 times before, repeatedly, and woke up in the middle of the night to hear a loud screeching coming from a room that was glowing green. Turns out, someone had left a green nightlight on in the room where a hamster was running in the wheel which was grinding against the side of the cage. Crisis averted. 3- In 2004- I watched Ju-On for the first time, after having initially seen the American version (The Grudge), and I had to turn the lights on mid-film.
Revisiting Ju-On last night, after a long period of absence, brought home exactly how important building suspense and atmosphere is to eliciting fear and horror. Although it uses identical rhythm and timing for its big scares, its juxtaposition of contrasting light and dark visuals (particularly cutting between shots [think about the internet meme in which you see a pretty standard location picture, and you notice, within a dark patch, that you can see somebodys face or something]) works incredibly effectively- the viewer's eyes become adjusted to the light image, so registering patterns in the dark shots immediately following them takes a moment longer than in an all-dark sequence. And although there's a nice little synth score incredibly reminiscent of the A Nightmare on Elm Street films, the music knows exactly when to shut up. I don't mean low, pulsing tones to build suspense. I mean long, protracted periods with no musical accompaniment whatsoever. The fact that we are not told how to feel renders the absence much more palpable, so that when something DOES appear, aurally or visually, it is much more potent. The point - which Ju-On highlights perfectly - is that while the Japanese can rely on Hollywood-rendered senses of rhythm and pacing, these films excel in reducing emotional information where it provides greater impact for the viewer. Create the atmosphere, then leave the audience in near-sensory deprivation, then hit them hard. They may not know WHY they feel the way they do, but rest assured, they feel it.
Similarly, The Name of the Rose works almost identically, but to different ends. Until the climax, the truly horrific set pieces cut long before the payoff, so the viewer is immersed in nearly two hours of unresolved, slowly bubbling tension. With this film Jean-Jacques Annaud proves to be a master of the establishing shot. The locations for the exteriors go a long way to help this. Extreme long shots of this isolated cloister in the mountains of Northern Italy render tangible the removal from the rest of the world. Indeed, it feels like this cloister itself is all that there is to civilization, and, for all intents and purposes, it is. The mist-shrouded mountains look beautiful, forbidding, and nearly impassable. The cloister itself stands as a monolith almost entirely seen in shadow. The slightest movement of the sun itself registers upon the dark, shadowy facade of the turrets.
Ok, forgive me waxing prosaic, but these are truly beautiful establishing shots. Include the wonderful James Horner score and I can really only compare this to the general sense of locational tension built around Roman Polanski's Macbeth. The singularly grotesque appearance of all characters, save Sean Connery's William of Baskerville and Christian Slater's Adso of Melk, are truly impressive visually. It doesn't matter that there are no moderate climaxes mid-narrative. All of the tension bubbles throughout, and is released in fantastic fashion in the final few moments. It is a masterclass in restraint, with an excessive payoff.
Though I haven't read Umberto Eco's original novel, I find this, as a film, an engaging experience. Although a few of the plot points, which are no doubt central to Eco's intent of developing a text steeped in his theories of semiotics, feel a bit silly and stilted within the film, it doesn't matter. In fact, the whole WHY of the film doesn't matter. In the end, it is all about what we experience, and the frustration created through delayed satisfaction.
Yes, this was a bit of a ramblesome and meandering meditation, if you will, but, I truly appreciate the skillful establishment of atmosphere where my tendency to be scared has diminished through increased exposure to horror films.
I still adore them though.
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