Deadlights: On Dread

Carnival of Souls theatrical poster, artist unknown

A primary way in which horror differs from other genres in that its characters are typically less able to resist or change the world around them. When a threat appears in a horror narrative it is far more likely to injure, derange, or kill the protagonists of that narrative than it would be in another genre. This sense of inevitability is key to horror. Consider the ending of John Carpenter's seminal slasher Halloween in which mere moments after being shot and falling from a window the killer Michael Myers vanishes into the night, or the terrible tension of Nightmare on Elm Street in which any teenager who falls asleep is sure to be torn apart by the vengeful spirit of Freddy Krueger. 

For those unfamiliar with horror this tenet of the genre can be difficult to stomach. Carnival of Souls is a beautifully made film, its shoestring budget stretched artfully across its brisk 1-hour running time. It's also a phenomenal example of sustained dread. With its lack of gore, minimal jump scares, and brief duration it makes for both an object lesson and an ideal introduction to sitting with a film's cultivated sense of doom. Its pools of light and shadow sketch a world in which this kind of inevitable ruin seems natural just as its silent antagonist, a tall man in minimal makeup and an old-fashioned suit, invokes the specter of death with far more authority and gloom than any Final Destination flick.

Minimalist atmospheric film like Carnival of Souls is crucial to building appreciation for what horror means and how it achieves its goals. It's a ridiculous notion that mid-century horror isn't scary (watch The Innocents and then claim that with a straight face) but it does tend to be less grotesque, more palatable to people who flinch away from blood and are thus unlikely to dig into work that revolves around it. In its cultivated quiet it reaches deeper into squeamish viewers than more shocking work could. There is value in watching art which doesn't comfort, art which examines the essential powerlessness and insignificance of our lives and at the same time fans the smoldering embers of our will to keep on living.

So let Herk Harvey's outsider movie wash over you. Stare into the churning, muddy waters of the river at the film's opening. Listen to the wheezing music of the church organs. Let the world of cavernous, empty rooms and flat, desolate landscapes the film is conjuring seep into you until you're suffused with it. Agree with yourself to inhabit this netherworld, if only for a little bit, and see what it digs up inside you.