The Rhythm Of Horror
I recently caught up with 1408, the well-reviewed Stephen King movie adaptation from last summer, with John Cusack and Samuel L. Jackson. You could say that this story of a haunted hotel room is The Shining’s less assuming younger brother. I guess I found it acceptably diverting for a horror movie that mostly didn’t scare me. Much of its entertainment value can be chalked up to the presence of the always-watchable Cusack. He has to carry much of the film by himself while interacting with a set. So while half of my brain was enjoying Cusack’s low-key technical bravura, the other half was trying to figure out why it wasn’t scary.
I started out by thinking that the core fear the film was exploiting wasn’t particularly primal. Being trapped in a hotel room just isn’t one of my big terrors. (A few minutes later, I realized, wait a minute. I have been trapped in a hotel room!) Having gushers of water pour at me from a painting of a ship on a stormy sea does not feature on my extensive worry list.
The real problem is that the hotel room is a sort of hellish heroquest environment where anything can happen. Since the room can do anything to him and has to fill an hour and forty-four of screen time, you know it’s just toying with him for most of the action. The lack of limits on its powers make it less frightening; real world consequences are not in play within its walls. Also there’s no respite (unless you fall for the old “false rescue in a hallucinatory environment” trick.) Horror, like comedy, depends on a rising and falling pattern of tension and release. What’s really scary is when the protagonist gets to safety-and then that safety is violated. You can’t ratchet up the tension without corresponding downswings. It’s a rhythm thing.
Cloverfield provides a counter-example. When the characters find temporary respite, it becomes scarier, because you know another shoe is going to drop, and you're on edge, waiting for it to happen.