Anything Goes: A Horror Writer's Cop Out
Column by Alexander Butziger -
Aug 10, 2007
3 ratings from readers
Even those who deny logic and the laws of nature are bound by it. This is true even in supernatural stories, such as the famed Harry Potter series — where the more lawful the events, the better the story.
The law of identity has a nasty habit of reasserting itself. Even authors whose stock in trade is supernatural horror stories show it cannot be defeated.
Obviously, as the law of identity states, all things are what they are, definite entities with definite characteristics. Their behavior is determined by their nature, by their characteristics (the law of causality, a corollary of the law of identity).
The law of identity is an axiomatic truth. It’s confirmed by every observation one makes. Plus, even if someone denies such an all- pervasive truth about reality, they end up using that truth unknowingly in their arguments — even when they try to deny it.
Now, what happens if a horror writer makes up entities with supernatural powers, omnipotent monsters that can assume any shape at will, that are not bound by any laws of nature?
It’s a lazy writer’s dream. No loose ends to take care of. No plot holes. No logic of the story to respect. If all ends are loose by definition, those left loose by accident don’t stick out. If the laws of logic are suspended, a writer can play it deuces wild.
Yet, most every self-respecting author writing tales of the supernatural accepts implicitly that there is nothing truly supernatural, nothing bound by literally no laws, nothing omnipotent.
Even Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter need wands, potions, and spells, and have to use them to exacting standards. Every horror story of substance has its “supernatural” beings bound by rules. They aren’t the laws of nature that apply in our universe, but laws they are. They are, so to speak, laws of the supernatural.
However, once the supernatural is no longer an omnipotent blur without laws, it ceases by definition to be supernatural. Being subject to predictable laws is the hallmark of nature.
All those witches in fiction — and alchemists in our real past — weren’t dealing with the supernatural. Not in the sense of “omnipotent.”
What the witches found in fiction and what the alchemists were searching for in the real world — is another body of laws that supersedes the known laws of nature.
For potions and the philosopher’s stone alike, they accepted that the identity they wished to change could only be changed by scrupulously following specific recipes and carefully selecting specific ingredients. Those alchemists who tried to turn lead into gold, to seemingly defeat the law of identity, explicitly or implicitly accepted the law of identity.
Turns out that in a way they were right. There is a law of nature that does supersede the laws of chemistry known up to the Twentieth Century.
Lead can indeed be turned into gold, not by chemistry, but by nuclear bombardment. Trouble is, doing that costs more than the gold is worth.
One cannot escape the basic law underlying all others: the law of identity.
But what happens if a horror writer does play it deuces wild? What if a story does feature truly omnipotent beings?
That’s simple. The closer the characters come to being omnipotent, the fewer laws of nature they’re bound by, the more the plot disintegrates. Plot is the logical progression of events, and the more the author tries to deny the law of identity, the less logic there is to anything that happens.
A truly hundred-percent supernatural story featuring truly omnipotent beings would be exceedingly short and boring. The god or vampire or Voldemort or Potter could just command, “Die, enemies!” and all his antagonists would be dead.
Story over.
Alternatively, the writer could have both sides being omnipotent: an irresistible force versus an immovable object. The resulting impasse would terminate the story as well.
So the monsters must be hobbled to slow them down, must have an Achilles heel to give the heroes a chance to defeat them. Vampires cannot stand sunlight, garlic, and crucifixes, cross water, or enter a room uninvited.
If there were no such rules, the vampires could just effortlessly consume one peasant girl after another. Once past the “shocker” part, once the existence of vampires has been established, the story would degenerate into a mindless orgy.
Many horror stories are simply short shockers. A couple stops over at an out-of-the-way hotel. All night the goings on get stranger and stranger, until it turns out the hotel is occupied by vampires. The couple either manages to escape by the skin of their teeth, or they get killed.
In tales like these, the whole story is nothing more than baiting and thrilling the readers (or movie viewers) by hints that something monstrous is going on. Conveniently, the story stops before the author has to deal with the contradictions inherent in the supernatural, so he never has to go to the trouble of making his monsters work.
If the monsters are invulnerable and cannot be fought, the only two plot elements available are the monster’s inner conflicts about whether to use his powers and, more frequently, the efforts of his victims to suck up to him to evade his wrath.
For example, take John Carpenter’s The Fog. The ghosts are pretty much omnipotent while in the fog. Their victims can only run. Or when the fog encircles them, plead with the ghosts, try to bribe them, or offer themselves in sacrifice to save others.
There’s minimal conflict because the ghosts’ omnipotence makes any activity of their victims pointless. They are passive and helpless.
That doesn’t mean that The Fog isn’t a good movie, or isn’t worth watching. But it means that what makes movies like this interesting is not plot or conflict.
The Fog is actually very similar to another movie filmed in the same area: Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. Both movies feature a thrilling “exposition,” but in both the real star is the atmosphere.
Take an idyllic California coastal town and have it enveloped and wrecked by some irresistible, inexplicable force.
The more easily-scared members of the audience might appreciate the thrill of an ax or a bird attack out of the blue. But a little less omnipotence and a little more logic might be even more effective.
Alexander Butziger is the author of the Kevin Traynor series of capitalist mystery novels. His latest book, Phantom Train, explores the nature of the paranormal. Adventure number three, Mysterious Boat, is forthcoming.
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