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Cynthia

The History of Horror: 1970s and 1980s: The Auteur Movement and When Horror Gets Graphic

The late 1960s saw a rise in horror films that became stylized and realistic, taking on the auteur movement of such filmmakers as Jean Luc Godard and Francois Truffault. Polish filmmaker Roman Polanski had made a name for himself as a director in his native country with such psychological suspense thrillers as Knife in the Water (1962) and Repulsion (1965), starring French actress Catherine Deneuve, revealing a style suitable for horror films. In 1967, Polanski directed Fearless Vampire Killers, a humorous take on the old legend. When producer Robert Evans bought the rights to the Ira Levin novel Rosemary's Baby, he turned to Polanski to helm the big budget production. Rosemary's Baby isn't a horror film in the traditional sense with monsters and other horror creatures stalking the cinematic landscape, but, like Lewton's previous work, used the psychological fears of the recent Thalydimide scares of the 1960s to create a story of demon birth. The fear of authority, in this case medical authority, was prime material for younger audiences who were rejecting and rebelling against the values and conventional wisdom of older generations. Other films, such as George Romero's Night of the Living Dead, represented the changes occurring in American society during this period. Starring Duane Jones, one of the first African American actors to lead in a horror movie, Night of the Living Dead turned over old ideas of what constituted a

good horror picture by using cinema verité filmmaking and making its Black lead the hero. Romero has often stated in interviews that his film was a social commentary on the changing of the old guard (the humans in the film) being devoured by a new revolutionary spirit (the ghouls). His 1970's sequel, Dawn of the Dead, likewise commented on the growing mall culture in America and the incessant materialism and consumerism that replaced spirituality and communality.

The horror films of the 1970s, like many of Hitchcock's films, found terror in reality. In Willard (1971) and its sequel Ben (1972), rats terrorized the victims of their owner Willard, a wimpy and abused young man who uses them to get revenge. Films such as Steven Spielberg's TV-produced Duel (1972) provide its terror thrills from a demonic eighteen-wheeler which chases star Dennis Weaver through the Arizona desert. In 1973, veteran television director William Friedkin directed what would become to that date one of the scariest films to make it to the theaters, The Exorcist. Based on a novel by William Peter Blatty, The Exorcist brought a new level of horror storytelling by taking the story of demon possession with the same level of seriousness as drug dealing in Friedkin's previous film The French Connection (1971). The Exorcist also brought a level of gore and sexual content into the horror movie not seen before, with young demon-possessed Regan assaulting herself with a crucifix. Such depictions took the genre to another level, shocking and horrifying audiences.

Twenty-five years after the second World War and the holocaust and the ongoing conflicts in Vietnam and in the United States had primed audiences for more graphic depictions of horror on the silver screen. The presence of gore and graphic violence upped the ante for later films such as Brian de Palma's psychological thriller Sisters (1973), The Omen (1976) and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1976). Based on the story of Ed Gein, a serial killer from the Pacific Northwest (Hitchcock also used Gein as the basis for Norman Bates in the 1960 film Psycho) who often wore the skins of his victims, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre featured a family of serial murderers to strike horror in the hearts of film goers. The later successful Halloween (1978) capitalized on the growing fear of crime in America to create horror, though the monster in this film, Michael Myers, was a more supernatural version of the super predator, creating a new genre of horror called slasher films. During the eighties, films such as Friday the 13th (1980) and Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) followed in this vein. These films often scored the growing societal problems of teen sexuality and pregnancies with the super predators of Jason Voorhies and Freddy Kreuger often attacking their victims in postcoital bliss. Other films during the 1970s that featured a high quotient of blood and gore were Black Christmas (1974), directed by Bob Clark (Porky and A Christmas Story), and Suspiria (1977) by Italian horror director Dario Argento.

The rise of Blaxploitation during the early seventies also saw horror films targeted toward Black audiences with grindhouse fare like Blacula (1972), which told the story of a cursed African prince who comes to L.A. in search of blood and his reincarnated lost love. A sequel Scream Blacula Scream was released a year later. The Thing With Two Heads (1972), starring veteran screen star Ray Milland and football champion Rosey Grier, was a campy horror take of race relations. Most of the Blaxploitation horror films were simply Black versions of well-known horror films, such as Blackenstein (1973) and Dr. Black and Mr. Hyde (1976). One film, though, released in 1973, Bill

Gunn's Ganja and Hess, took a detour away from the schlock of most Blacksploitation and told the story of a doctor who becomes infected with a disease in Africa that turns him into a vampire.

During the 1970s, horror novelist Stephen King became the literal king of new horror films when the Brian de Palma-directed 1976 film Carrie, based on King's first novel, became a smash hit. Starring the young Sissy Spacek and John Travolta, Carrie used telekinesis as an analogy for a young woman's growing sexual maturation. The film's ending, when Carrie's prom is ruined after she is splattered with pig's blood, is one of the most frightening sequences to ever be filmed and also one of the most familiar to film audiences. In 1979, King's The Shining found film treatment under the helm of director Stanley Kubrick and starred Jack Nicholson and Shelley Duvall. While King himself wasn't fond of this eerie and spooky version of his bestselling novel, audiences were easily spooked by Nicholson's performance of a writer who is driven to insanity while caretaker of a closed resort hotel in the mountain range with his small family. Other film adaptations of King's films during the 1980s include Cujo (1983), Christine (1983), Firestarter (1985), Silver Bullet (1986), and Maximum Overdrive (1986), shot often with mixed results.

During the early eighties, film audiences saw a return to the werewolf mythology, only this time with updated special effects to create a more believable transformation from man to beast. Such films as the John Landis-helmed An American Werewolf In London (1981) and Joe Dante's The Howling (1981) elevated the genre using special effects as a key ingredient to storytelling. The work of famed special effects artist Rick Baker helped bring a new appreciation to makeup and effects used in horror films and have since become a standard bearer. Other werewolf films during this period include Wolfen (1981), In the Company of Wolves (1984) and the aforementioned Silver Bullet.

The 1980s also saw an output of humorous horror films that recalled earlier movies such as Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein. Movies such as Gremlins (1984) and The Ghostbusters (1984) were extremely popular with audiences who preferred to laugh along to the frightening hijinks. Other films of this ilk include The Witches of Eastwick (1987), starring Cher, Michelle Pfeiffer, Susan Sarandon and Jack Nicholson; and The Lost Boys (1987), starring Coreys Heim and Feldman, Jason Patric, Keifer Sutherland, and Dianne Wiest. The Lost Boys was heavy on atmosphere and humor, creating an interesting mix for this tale of teenage vampires who take over a seaside California community. Other films, such as the independent and underrated Lady in White (1988) returned to an earlier era of gentle horror films that played less on gore and violence and more on atmospheric chills.

Still, the 1980s became an output for a lot of horror films that used graphic violence for its source of fright. Along with King-based and slasher movies, Canadian director David Cronenberg, who began his career in horror films during the 1970s with films like Shivers (1975) and The Brood (1979), released the 1981 film Scanners, a movie that took graphic film violence to new levels when psychics with awesome telepathic abilities caused heads to literally explode on screen. Other films directed by Cronenberg during this period include Videodrome (1983), the popular remake of The Fly (1986) starring Jeff Goldblum and Geena Davis, and Dead Ringers (1988) with British actor Jeremy Irons playing dual roles as a pair of spooky twins. Wes Craven became a well-known name in horror circles starting with his 1972 film Last House on the Left, one of the first films to include graphic violence in this genre, and the infamous The Hills Have Eyes (1977), a horror flick about desert-dwelling killer mutants who terrorize a vacationing family. During the eighties, Craven's films, such as the Freddy Kreuger Nightmare series, defined much of horror films during this period. Graphic violence and gore became the norm during the 1980s as horror fans demanded more and more horrific depictions of violence to up the terror factor. Other horror producers and writers, such as Bruce Campbell of Evil Dead (1981) fame

Bruce Campbell, Evil Dead

and Army of Darkness (1992) and British horror novelist Clive Barker who wrote Hellraiser (1987) and Candyman (1992) brought an interesting mix of horror and humor to their films. Director Sam Raimi, due to his stylish camera work, enlivened many of these films, such as the scene in Evil Dead II, in which he shoots a shooting eyeball plopping into a young actress's mouth. These stylized and humorous takes on the genre would set up the 1990s, which became the decade of irony for horror fans.

Source: IMDB.com and www.filmsite.org/horrorfilms.html

The History of Horror: 1940s WWII and the Cold War; 1950s and 1960s: Repression and Revolution

1940s: World War II and the Cold War

During World War II, real life horror was playing across the silver screen in newsreels delivering word back to Americans from the home front. The holocaust, whose extent of true horror was not revealed until after the war ended, made cinematic versions pale in comparison. Yet during this period, Hollywood continued to churn out horror films to audiences' delight. Two such filmmakers who created some of the classic horror films of this period were Jacques Tourneur and Val Lewton. Russian born RKO producer Lewton teamed up with French director Tourneur to create such suspenseful films as The Cat People (1943), I Walked with A Zombie (1943), and The Leopard Man (1943). Though Lewton and Tourneur's films tended to be more suspenseful psychological dramas rather than straight horror, the chills they created had far more impact on the cinematic imagination. In the classic The Cat People, for instance, horror is conveyed through what is implied and not what is shown. The film is about a young woman who is transformed into a black panther whenever she is overwhelmed by sexual desires and jealousy, leading her to stalk the young heroine who has fallen in love with her husband. One of the film's most frightening sequences occurs when the heroine is stalked by a panther while swimming in a local pool. We don't see the panther crawling in the darkened pool room, but only its shadow and its growling. Other films such as The Uninvited (1944) starring Ray Milland and the gentle ghost love story Portrait of Jennie (1948), starring Joseph Cotton, were films that were also depended on atmospherics to deliver their chills.

The 1950s and 1960s: Repression and Revolution

The changes occurring in 1950s and 1960s America found its way to the movie screen, particularly in many of the horror films created during this golden age of cinematic filmmaking. Capitalizing on the advent of the atomic age, 1950s horror revealed the frightening reality of the Cold War Era. Films such as The Creature From the Black Lagoon (1954), Godzilla (1954), and Them (1954), about mutant ants, revealed what could happen to the natural order of things when atomic energy unleashed its massive fury. Other films such as The Thing (From Another Planet) (1951), War of the Worlds (1953) and Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956) played on Cold War fears of Soviet invasion as well as the previous decades' fears of the Nazi blitzkreig. During this period, rock and roll became the dominant soundtrack for a younger generation, prompting Hollywood to take advantage of the teen buying dollars by creating horror films marketed directly to this new demographic. I Was A Teenage Werewolf (1957) and The Blob (1958), starring the young Michael Landon and Steve McQueen respectively, were two such representatives of this new subset of horror films. The decade also saw a rise in B-movie horror films produced by such sclockmeisters as William B. Castle (1959's The Tingler and The House on Haunted Hill). When theater ownership monopolies were struck down by the courts during the late 1940s, independently owned theaters and drive-in theaters opened up a field of independent filmmakers who could now get their films into theaters without dealing with the studios. Filmmakers, such as the director and producer Edward D. Wood (1959's Plan 9 From Outer Space), despite their lack of filmmaking skills, could raise budgets and shoot films that found their way into movie theaters. While these films lacked cinematic style, they more than made it up in cheesy frights that delighted teenage audiences looking for cheap thrills. During the 1950s, television had dealt a serious blow to the competitive edge films had over the attention of American audiences by delivering entertainment right into their living rooms. The studios competed with this new medium by shooting films in wide-screen (Cinemascope and Vistavision, for instance), while producers like Castle used gimmicks, such as films shot in 3-D, to offer audiences something extra for their cinematic viewing pleasures. Ironically, many nascent local broadcast affiliates broadcasted old horror movies to fill out viewing hours, often in the guise of horror hosted programs such as L.A.'s KABC-TV's Vampira (Maila Nurmi), which delivered classic 1930s horror pictures to a new generation of fans. It was during this period that a rise in classic horror memorabilia depicting such characters as Karloff's Frankenstein and Lugosi's Dracula became a moneymaking enterprise for both collectors and buyers.

While the days of horror films creating household names had ended by the 1940s, the 1950s saw one such actor whose name would forever be attached to horror: Vincent Price. During his early screen career, Price was a supporting actor often appearing in dramatic films such as 1940s noir thrillers Laura and Leave Her To Heaven (both starring screen actress Gene Tierney). Price's first horror film was in the 1948 Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, where he was uncredited as the voice of the Invisible Man. But his first starring role in a horror film was in the 1953 Andre de Toth classic House of Wax, where he plays Prof. Harold Jerrod, a sculptor who uses real life victims for his wax models. Price would later star in other 1950s classic horror films such as The Fly (1958), as well as four films released in 1959 alone––House on Haunted Hill, The Tingler, Return of the Fly, and The Bat.

Price continued his career in horror movies throughout the sixties, starring in a series of Edgar Allan Poe-based films such as House of Usher (1960), The Pit and the Pendulum (1961), the horror anthology Tales of Terror (1962), The Raven (1963), The Masque of the Red Death (1964) and The Tomb of Ligeia (1964), all directed by Roger Corman, a film producer and director whose output during the 1950s and 1960s created an arena for low-budget horror and exploitation films. Corman's films during the 1950s, such as It Conquered the World (1956) and Attack of the Crab Monster (1957) were hardly film classics in the traditional sense, and were often ridiculed on the 1990s Comedy Central show Mystery Science Theater 3000. But Corman set the stage for offering work to some of the most inventive directors, such as Francis Ford Coppola (Dementia 13) and Martin Scorsese (Boxcar Bertha) of the 1970s auteur movement. In Britain, the Hammer Studios released an outlet of horror films during the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s that have become classics within the genre, including such films as The Curse of Frankenstein (1957) and the Brides of Dracula (1960), starring such Hammer horror mainstays as Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. Other horror films released during the early 1960s include Herk Hervey's Carnival of Souls (1962), Whatever Happened to Baby Jane (1962), and Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte (1965).

Though not necessarily a horror film director, British born Alfred Hitchcock directed two films during the early sixties that changed how horror films would be interpreted by modern audiences. In his 1960 thriller Psycho, Hitchcock proved that the most horrific models of evil were not vampires or werewolves but other human beings, in this case, Norman Bates, an outwardly normal if troubled young man who turns out to be a serial killer masking as his late mother. In 1963, Hitchcock released The Birds, using another normal and everyday creature as the villain in this piece. In The Birds, Hitchcock dispenses with exposition which explains the random and frightening bird attacks in the small California seaside community of Bodega Bay, making the horror seem arbitrary in the way true horror often visits upon everyday reality.

The films of this period––particularly Hitchcock's The Birds; Hervey's Carnival of Souls; the 1961 Deborah Kerr film The Innocents, based on Henry James's The Turn of the Screw; and Robert Wise's 1963 classic The Haunting (starring Julie Harris) based on Shirley Jackson's novel The Haunting of Hill House––revealed the repressive nature of 1950s Cold War on the American mindset, often focusing on sexual hysteria and repression among its female leads. As the baby boom generation began to dictate popular culture during this period, the youthful rejection of the moral codes of previous generations was met with virulent opposition until the early 1960s, when even rock and roll was tamed for older audiences. But as the underground ideas and movements of the Beat generation slowly influenced artists as broad as Bob Dylan and The Beatles, younger audiences were slowly rejecting older values, giving way to a popular culture that represented this growing freedom of ideas about politics, spirituality, and sexuality.

During this decade, the Production Code, which controlled many of the films previously released, were relaxing, allowing filmmakers to push the envelope in what they could show in horror films. Challenging old Hollywood standards were a new wave of filmmakers, graduates of the nascent film school movement and the stepchildren of the European-based French Nouvelle and Italian neo-realism movements of the 1940s, '50s, and early '60s, emerged with a new style of storytelling for the horror genre.

Source: IMDB.com and www.filmsite.org/horrorfilms.html

The History of Horror: The Cinema, Part I

9 TV Shows That Aren’t on DVD But Should Be

DVDs and online streaming are a godsend to TV fans. Binge viewing has practically become a new phenomenon now that fans can watch and re-watch their favorite TV shows at their own leisure. But while a wide selection of TV programs have been released on DVD or made available on streaming formats like Netflix, Hulu, or Amazon, others have either been given a single season release or haven’t been released at all. Whether due to music rights or fears that these releases won’t be profitable, production companies are reluctant to make some of these shows, including formerly popular ones, available for the public. You’d be surprised by what isn’t available on either format. 

Frank’s Place (1987)

When this sophisticated “comedy” began airing on CBS in 1987, it quickly won critical plaudits for its non-stereotypical portrayal of African Americans. Unfortunately, when the network began shuffling its time slot, Frank’s Place lost viewers and was eventually canceled after 22 episodes. A shame considering that this rare gem about a college professor, played by Tim Reid, who inherits his estranged father’s New Orleans restaurant effortlessly balanced humor and drama. Populated with an assortment of colorful characters that could only be found in the Big Easy, Frank’s Place was smart, funny, thought-provoking and original. It also boasted one of the best intro’s featuring Louis Armstrong’s “Do You Know What it Means (To Miss New Orleans)”. Easily this show is deserving of a DVD series set.

A Different World (1987-1993)

Only the first of this series’ six-season run is available on DVD and it’s not even its best. A spin-off of the Cosby Show, A Different World was meant to be a showcase for actress Lisa Bonet, who played Denise Huxtable on the classic sitcom. Unfortunately, Bonet wasn’t a strong enough actor or comedian to carry an entire series, so she left and Debbie Allen was brought in as producer to breathe new life into the premise. Under her helm, the series became a fairly realistic portrayal of life at a historically black college, but it’s main draw was of course the on-again, off-again romance of Dwayne and Whitley (Kadeem Hardison and Jasmine Guy). At times poignant and funny, A Different World offered a different glimpse of black life in America in the 1980s and ‘90s. If there is one TV show that deserves a full season treatment it is this.

St. Elsewhere (1982-1989)

Like A Different World, the first season of St. Elsewhere is only available on DVD. That’s simply criminal since this seminal, groundbreaking drama set the stage for the medical dramas that followed. Blessed with a great cast that included such vets as Norman Lloyd and William Daniels, as well as Ed Begley, Jr., David Morse, Howie Mandel, and Denzel Washington, St. Elsewhere was both gritty in its depiction of a run-down, neglected public hospital (the hospital is called St. Eligius but was nicknamed St. Elsewhere because if you were a patient you’d rather be elsewhere), while sprinkling in flights of absurd humor that made it uniquely surreal. Before the series finales of Lost and the Sopranos upset fans, St. Elsewhere was there first, suggesting the entire series was the imagination of an autistic boy. Tom Fontana, who produced and wrote Homicide and Oz, series that were as equally groundbreaking and influential, cut his teeth on St. Elsewhere. With a pedigree like that, why isn’t this show’s entire series run on DVD? Your guess is as good as mine. 

Head of the Class (1986-1991)

Head of the Class was an ABC sitcom that celebrated nerds and geeks. Based around actor Howard Hesseman, who played a substitute teacher for a class of advanced students at a Bronx high school, Head of the Class found humor not in the kids themselves but in their funny, sometimes painful phases of growing up. While the cast of students, which included a young Robin Givens, obviously changed over the course of the series (Hesseman likewise left after the series’ penultimate season and was replaced by comedian Billy Connelly), the premise remained the same. Despite its popularity, the show is still unavailable on DVD. 

I’ll Fly Away (1991- 1993)   

Airing on NBC, I’ll Fly Away starred Regina Taylor and a pre-Law & Order Sam Waterston as a maid and district attorney respectively in the Civil Rights era south. During its brief run, the series won Emmys, Humanitas Prizes, Golden Globes, and NAACP Image Awards for its realistic portrayals of life for black and white southerners during this tumultuous period in American history. Not only that, future Sopranos-creator, David Chase, was also on the series’ writing staff. So why is this little remembered award-winner not on DVD?

The Days and Nights of Molly Dodd (NBC, 1987-1988; Lifetime, 1988-1991)

Music rights may ultimately prevent this series from ever being released on DVD and that is unfortunate because this intelligent, sophisticated urban dramedy deserves to be seen by a new generation of TV viewers. Starring Blair Brown, The Days and Nights of Molly Dodd was about a divorced woman in her mid-30s who juggled her personal and professional life in 1980s Manhattan. Originally airing on NBC to moderate ratings, the series later moved to the Lifetime network which continued to air it for 13-week runs for three years. Also starring David Strathairn and Richard Lawson who played Dodd’s love interests, The Days and Nights of Molly Dodd is one series that definitely deserves to be widely seen again.

Spenser: for Hire (1985-1988)

Based on the Robert B. Parker serial novels, Spenser: for Hire set itself apart from other 1980s procedural crime dramas for its grittiness and attention to detail. It was also one of the few series that was shot on location in Boston, lending it an authenticity that was also a rarity. Starring Robert Urich and Avery Brooks, who played the bad ass Hawk, Spenser: for Hire would make a great DVD series set. The fact that it isn’t is a real mystery.

South Central (1994)

South Central, the Fox-based TV series from 1994, starred Tina Lofford as Joan Mosley, a single mom raising her two biological kids and a foster son in South Central L.A. after the death of her eldest son in a gang-related killing. Avoiding the usual clichés of urban dramas, the series focused on the innocent people who were affected by the emotional and economic costs of drugs and gang violence. What was often a depressing and true-to-life depiction of urban life, was also funny, uplifting, and real. The series also boasts the early career work of Larenz Tate and Jennifer Lopez. 

Roc (1991-1994)

This is the most shocking DVD omission on the list. Why? How about the fact that this critically popular Fox series was smart, funny, poignant, thought-provoking and damn well entertaining all at once. Charles S. Dutton was funny and caustic as Roc Emerson, a garbage collector living with his wife Eleanor (Ella Joyce), his father (Carl Gordon), and musician brother (Rocky Carroll) in Baltimore, Maryland. While there were comparisons made to Jackie Gleason’s The Honeymooners, Roc was much more than that as it tackled everything from marriage and family responsibilities to poverty, homelessness, and the War on Drugs. Roc was also the first series to be set in Baltimore, a city that became a character of its own in the HBO series The Wire. 

Banned Book Week: Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man

Earlier this month, North Carolina’s Randolph County Board of Education banned Ralph Ellison’s classic 1952 novel Invisible Man. Heralded as one of the best novels written during the post WWII era, Invisible Man explores racism and the complex web of racial identity in 1950s America. It has since become required reading for high school and college students.

The fact that North Carolina is behind this latest effort to ban books seems appropriate considering that this state has also been behind the effort to deny voters the right to vote through their heinous Voter ID laws. The right to vote and First Amendment rights go hand-in-hand. One cannot exist without the other. The right to choose who will represent us in local, state, and federal governments is as dependent on expressing and being exposed to the market place of ideas as breathing is to life. The fact that Voter ID laws will disproportionately affect African Americans (as well as women, the elderly, and college students) makes this latest move by Randolph County Board of Education seem like an overall strategy to affect the local and national dialogue regarding issues concerning African Americans.

Ellison’s novel goes to the heart of how racism operates in this country, how it depends on denying our voices and our very existences. As he writes in the novel’s prologue: 

I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids -- and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination -- indeed, everything and anything except me.

Whether it be President Obama, who has become a caricature in the minds of his Republican opponents, or Trayvon Martin (and countless other black men), who tragically was unable to live beyond the “figments” of George Zimmerman’s rabid imagination, this modern, so-called “post-racial” America continues to prove how much Ellison’s voice is still very much needed. 

UPDATE: due to numerous complaints both in Randolph County and across the country, the Education Board voted Wednesday 6 to 1 to return Invisible Man back into the local school libraries.  

Why Soaps Deserve More Respect

Time Magazine

Naturally if anyone wants to be taken seriously today the last thing she’d claim is a love of soap operas. Even in this day and age, when TV critics and fans are praising their favorite cable drama as Dickensian (an adjective based around that most melodramatic of English writers), soaps, which are arguably the missing link between Dickens and cable TV, continue to be the red-headed stepchildren of pop culture. They’re a dying breed (only four air now on broadcast networks; All My Children and One Life to Live, cancelled only a few years ago, have now been reborn as webisodes on Hulu and iTunes), but the style they helped develop––serialization––is more popular than ever. 

Dating back to the 1960s since the premiere of the night time soap Peyton’s Place, prime time serials have always had a niche on TV. Throughout the 1970s, ‘80s, and ‘90s programs like Dallas, Knots Landing, Dynasty, and David Lynch’s whacked out take on the genre, Twin Peaks (which itself hails roots from the daytime serial Dark Shadows) followed in the footsteps of their daytime counterparts. But starting in the 1980s, hour-long dramas and sitcoms as diverse as Cheers, Hill Street Blues, Wise Guy, The X-Files, and Homicide: Life on the Street began utilizing aspects of serialization in their storytelling arcs, greatly expanding the definitions of episodic television. Yet serialized dramas didn’t really take off until HBO began airing original programming during its Sunday night schedule. Shows like Oz and The Sopranos helped change the face of night time television, proving that audiences could embrace complex narratives about anti-heroic characters (though ironically the first anti-hero[ine] that audiences really embraced was As the World Turns’ Lisa Hughes Grimaldi, a character so loved to be hated that a fan once slapped actress Eileen Fulton as she walked out of a Manhattan department store). After the critical and commercial success of The Sopranos, HBO ordered more serialized dramas like The Wire, Deadwood, Six Feet Under, Big Love, Boardwalk Empire, Treme, Luck and others. While the subject matter of HBO’s dramas are as disparate from one another as they are from soaps (with the possible exception of Big Love, which would truly have made an arresting daytime sudser with its tales of marital bed hopping and corporate and familial intrigues), their glacial-moving plot lines and multiple character story arcs are a direct influence from soaps.

Other cable and broadcast networks followed HBO’s lead with shows like Mad Men, Homeland, Downton Abbey, The Walking Dead (based on the graphic novel, a medium that has a lot in common with soaps), and Breaking Bad. But this isn’t an example of HBO influencing a genre as it is of the cable network’s borrowing from daytime and successfully broadening its critical appeal.

Yet while cable has brought respectability to serialization, the actual serials which developed the genre from the 1930s to the present, gets, like Rodney Dangerfield, no respect at all. Does it have to do with the stories---the multiple marriages, outlandish plots, the melodrama? Perhaps. But unlike most television dramas, soaps allowed a space for women’s stories to flourish. Even today, on cable dramas like Mad Men, Big Love, Boardwalk Empire and The Sopranos, where women characters are as complex as their male counterparts, the conflicts are still largely male-centered and -oriented. Not so on daytime where women and their issues were front and center. Soaps addressed the problems women faced in the latter half of the twentieth century with far more finesse and detail. Stories that dealt with love and sex, the position women faced in choosing between work and family, their ambitions, fears, and joys were the grist of many a soap story in the 1970s and 1980s. And while soaps can be accused rightfully at times of slipping in quality (soaps churn out five episodes a day for fifty-two weeks a year as compared to cable dramas’ thirteen-week yearly cycle), I can honestly say that in all the years I’ve watched them and seen their highs and lows, they’ve produced quality programming that were equal, even––dare I say it?––superior to night time dramas.

I’m not interested in dredging up the usual arguments of soaps’ artistic quality by how they have tackled social oriented stories. While true (even when night time television avoided them, soaps dared to bring up topics like rape, STDs, drug abuse, abortion, etc.), I’m less interested in that than I am in looking at how soaps deserve credit for their role in expanding television’s artistic growth. I will concede that currently soaps have surrendered to self-parody and irrelevance, but that does not diminish their historical and artistic value. 

Guiding Light, CBS, Proctor & Gamble 

In the 1970s soaps were as inspired by changing tastes as much of popular culture. Like film, daytime became grittier, more character-oriented. Soaps, like the now defunct Guiding Light, told compelling, tightly-drawn dramas around the rot that can build up in dysfunctional marriages. Few of these stories were equal to the Roger and Holly Thorpe saga.

In the winter of 1979, Roger Thorpe raped his wife Holly. The story which led to this tragic set of events is, like most soap stories, elaborately woven. Teenaged Holly Norris was obsessed with Roger Thorpe, the show’s resident anti-hero, but he had designs on other women, namely Peggy Scott, who would become his wife. Holly instead married good guy Ed Bauer, trusted doctor and son of the town’s most respected family, but Holly couldn’t put Roger entirely out of her mind. The two had an affair which resulted in the birth of their daughter, Christina, whom Holly passed off for a short time as Ed’s. When the truth of Christina’s paternity came to light, Ed divorced Holly and Holly married Roger. But their’s was not a happy union. Roger’s insecurity, in both his place in Springfield and in his marriage, led him down a treacherous path which included an affair with Ed’s kid sister and another rape, also involving Ed’s new wife, with whom Roger had shared a past. The walls began to close in on Roger as Holly, fed up with his infidelities, prepared to take their daughter and leave.

The rape scene is difficult to watch. Unlike a similar rape on General Hospital involving Luke and Laura, which the show’s writers would later revise as a seduction when the actors’ on-screen chemistry proved too hot to ignore (they’d revise it again as rape years later), Guiding Light left no doubt that what occurred between husband and wife was a horrific violation. The scene begins with Roger arriving home just as Holly was about to leave him. Surmising the situation, Roger prevents her from leaving, taking her suitcase from her and throwing it across the room, then physically threatening her as she tries to get away. The scene ends with Roger assaulting Holly. The shot lingers only long enough to show him pinning her down on the bed while she pleaded for him to stop before the scene fades.

Two things come to mind whenever I watch this scene on YouTube. First, the acting between actors Michael Zaslow and Maureen Garrett was superb. As Holly, Garrett was confident and assertive, determined to take control of her life, but as the threat of violence asserted itself, her confidence withered away until she was reduced to a frightened child. Throughout the scene, Garrett moved back and forth between both dichotomies. As she desperately attempted to reason with Roger, she lowered her voice and spoke in a slow, deliberate manner. But after Roger slapped her and threw her down on the couch, her demeanor changed. Her body stiffens and appears to fold inward as though she is anticipating more blows and her voice becomes a high-pitched whine as she begs Roger to leave her alone. The scene is all the more compelling and difficult to watch because we are watching more than just Holly’s physical violation but a spiritual and psychological one as well. Rarely, has rape ever been portrayed in a painfully truthful way. 

Zaslow, likewise, did a terrific job. His Roger Thorpe was more than a one-note monster. While his behavior was monstrous, he was also a damaged soul, a man whose ambitions and talents could never match the societal constrictions that denied him personal and professional success. As Roger berates his wife and callously asks her to compare him to his nemesis Ed Bauer in bed---“You probably wouldn’t be in such a hurry to cut out from him like you’re cutting out from my miserable life”---he comes across less as a two-dimensional villain and more of a man who knows he has reached the point of no return. His ambitions and insecurities have created a fatal mix that crushed whatever good was in him. Zaslow’s masterful performance makes it easy to sympathize with Roger. At one point, he’s barely able to get his lines out, his voice breathless and huffy. Whether this was done by design or because Zaslow himself got caught up in the scene, I can’t tell, but it does lend Roger a poignant vulnerability on the level of a tragic, Shakespearean character. Because of Zaslow, Roger became a character fans both hated and pitied.

Roger and Holly Thorpe

The production values are impressive too. Videography, by 1970s standards, were fairly minimal, with camera angles limited to close-ups and master-shots. But the rape scene set new standards for daytime. A hand-held was used for some of the scenes, the first ever for soaps, and was utilized in such a way that allowed viewers to not only step into the scene but into Holly’s point of view. In one shot, where Roger slapped his chest and asked Holly why she never looks at him the same way she looks at Ed, the audio was somewhat distorted, the image softened, disrupting the fluidity of the unobtrusive set-ups. It’s disorienting and almost surreal, capturing the surge of adrenaline people often experience during violence. Along with the score, which is both menacing and understated, the scene puts viewers in a frightening and uncompromising position, pretty daring for daytime TV. Women watching this at home didn’t have to imagine their worst fear (if they had not already gone through it before) but were experiencing it vicariously through Holly.

The scene made such a huge impact that by the time Holly had Roger charged for marital rape, another first in television history, Garrett received tons of fan mail in support. 

The rape story line was before I started watching the series, but when both Garrett and Zaslow returned to the show ten years later, their strange, neurotic and tragically painful relationship became one of my favorite story lines. While the show’s gender politics was questionable at times (the writers danced around a romantic relationship that didn’t really exist the first time around), there was no denying the chemistry of both actors and their ability to breathe life into some of the most complex characters to ever hit television.

   

Soap operas are by no means perfect and, at times, have told stories that are questionable when it comes to gender, race, and class. They’ve had their fare share of stinkers, both story- and acting-wise. And yet, there were times, more than I can relate here, in which they were delightfully subversive, broke the rules and reset them again, and reached for moments of transcendence that television would not fully embrace until both primetime and cable began churning out more challenging fare. And, while most contemporary viewers and critics turn their noses up at a medium that is sadly going the way of TV westerns, shows like Mad Men, Boardwalk Empire, and Breaking Bad owe a great deal of debt to the daytime serials of the past.  

Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ One Hundred Years of Solitude

Gabriel Garcia Marquez begins his novel One Hundred Years of Solitude with this line: “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.” What a marvelous way to begin a story, so alive with the world in its very clauses, just as William Blake suggests exist within a grain of sand. So much is going on here and yet Marquez presents his world, Macondo, the fictional community that figures predominantly in many of his stories, with the kind of fluidity that is pure music.

Notice how he begins this sentence: “Many years later.” There’s something wonderfully vague about this beginning. Not five years or twenty years or even the one hundred years in its title, but “many years” as though time is a flowing river blending effortlessly into the sea. Even this beginning suggests a media res, a middle of things, a violent disruption of order. Here is a history being suggested, whether the history of Colonel Buendía or a history of Macondo or a history of Latin America. The sentence sets the reader up for a tale that goes beyond the singular, and frankly violent moment of its beginning. Someone will die, but this death is but a moment in a far bigger canvas. Marquez pitches his novel backwards and forwards in time, beginning with the Colonel facing a firing squad, then moving further back to his childhood. We know in the sparsest sense what this childhood might entail. There is something magical about the idea of “discovering ice,” as though this memory not only encapsulates a “distant afternoon” of the colonel’s childhood but of history itself. Marquez further drives this impression home in the following sentences with “a bed of polished stones...like prehistoric eggs” or of a world “so recent that many things lacked names...” This is the way a child might see the world: huge and new and strange and wonderful. The first sentence sets up this magic and what will soon follow throughout the entire novel.

I mentioned before about a violent disruption, but the entire sentence is full of disruptions and contradictions. The clause “as he faced the firing squad” is as violent a disruption as any sentence can bear. It punches its way through brutally and unforgivingly, interrupting the rhythm of the sentence with a rhythm of its own, as all acts of violence must. Yet this violence is well into the future, a future that pushes further outward as the sentence continues. From there Marquez establishes another rhythm, one that is much more languorous, as though one falling into a daydream to escape the unpleasant or mundane, and indeed Colonel Buendía is facing the violent end of his life. Yet, as the old saying goes, his life flashes before his eyes, unfolding delicately like onionskin. Marquez fully builds his world with the complexities that it contains. There is the end of history and the beginning of it as well. There is death and birth, destruction and renewal. One can read this single line and have a sense of an entire story. We might not know who Colonel Buendia is or why he is being executed, but it is the very ambiguity of these questions that fuels the beauty of this first sentence and why it pulls me in as a reader. 

The best stories are the ones that leave enough space for writers to enter. They reveal only what is necessary and allows the reader to fill in the white spaces with her own imagination. Marquez creates a first sentence that is balanced beautifully between what is there and what is imagined. We do not need a fully descriptive passage of what Buendía looks like or what his executioners look like. And yet there they are: as real as what could possibly have been written on page. This is the world Blake refers to. Within one sentence, with carefully selected words, Marquez is able to construct a world in which, as the novel soon unfolds, a world so fully realized, so fully contradictory and ambiguous and magical, that it leaps off the page.