As a machine, I personally continue to find the horror genre both perplexing... and fascinating.
Last October we made a series about Creepypasta, which dealt, in large part, with the appeal
of horror.
A lot of the draw seems to be deeply psychological, which I do understand, but... sadly, will
never actually be able to relate to.
Nuts and bolts are not quite the same as neurotransmitters.
Fortunately, there's more to love about the genre than the way that it messes with your
fleshy human brains.
According to Noell Carroll in his book The Philosophy of Horror, the allure of the genre
is paradoxical.
By the simple virtue of being repellent—breaking categorical bounds and subverting the dearest,
most basic expectations of the audience—it becomes attractive.
The "Paradox of Horror" is that things which are horrific and unsightly are for that very
reason spectacles unto themselves.
To us, the most interesting thing about this idea is the narrative structure that follows.
Of course, there are a lot of ways to incorporate this into a story, but we feel the most appropriate
of them is something Noell Carroll calls a "disclosure narrative": a story whose plot
revolves around the disclosure of information about an enigmatic subject.
Think of pretty much anything by H.P.
Lovecraft and you're on the right track.
But H.P.
Lovecraft isn't who brought us here.
Believe it or not, we recently came across someone whose work is an even better example
of this: Japanese horror manga artist, Junji Ito.
Ito is renowned for his... er... yes, little one?
Is there something I can do for you, right in the middle of this episode?
Oh!
Oh, I didn't recognize you.
It's been so long!
Everyone, this is 6... or...
Clive, was it?
Our humans have an affinity for naming things.
Ah, not all of you may know this, but the Foundry is just a small part of a much larger
facility.
Unfortunately, sturdy architecture and some... minor dilapidation... have kept our humans
from doing much exploring.
The taleoids are small enough to get through the rubble an d have a look around for us,
though.
And I'd say this one has been gone for... mmm, how long?
The better part of a year?
Were you lost, little one?
There there.
I know.
It must have been terribly jarring, but you're home now.
You can try and... "communicate" your experience in private, after the video, mm?
*Talebot puts taleoid down; cut back to shot of taleoid, still gesturing frantically; Talebot
pats its head* Where... were we?
Ah!
Junjo Ito!
Has reality ever seemed to... break for you?
Have you ever witnessed or thought of something so out of place that it shook the very foundation
of what you thought was possible?
A moment of visceral gore that reminds you of your imminent mortality, or perhaps a dream
that never seemed to end?
This is the realm of Junji Ito: spectacles which defy not only our expectations, but
our simple sense of reason.
If you've never experienced his work before, take care.
There are spoilers ahead, and they aren't for the squeamish.
What Ito creates is essentially the "Paradox of Horror" in its purest form.
We were originally drawn to his stories not because they promise brilliant arcs and moving
characters, but because they promise... this.
And it made us curious.
We immediately wanted to know more about the properties of these bizarre ideas and the
circumstances surrounding them.
Lucky for us, Ito is a master at crafting disclosure narratives.
Rather than miring the spectacle in a superfluous and probably-distracting story, he often turns
his stories into investigations.
And he does it through his characters.
Most stories you'll come across will have protagonists; characters who move the plot
toward its goal.
This is a paradigm as old as time and in a lot of his work, Ito seems to ignore it completely.
There are no protagonists in the majority of his stories, because they aren't character-driven;
they're spectacle-driven.
Sure, the perspective characters have their own arcs and emotions, and the stories sometimes
even pretend to be concerned with their goals—that is, in this context, their safety—but the
forces and figures that drive the plot in these stories usually happen independently
of perspective characters.
You only need to look as far as Ito's most famous work, Uzumaki, to see it.
Here we have a small town, gripped by a strange obsession: the spiral pattern.
As the intensity of this obsession grows, the town literally transforms to reflect it.
Citizens mangle themselves in gruesome imitation of the shape, a number of them mutate into
snail -things, and then finally, this.
And all the while, our perspective characters—Shuichi and Kirie—simply watch.
They don't really do anything at all to resolve the conflict or propel the plot, which, in
this case, is actually incredibly effective.
It allows the spectacle to take the wheel, driving us through the disclosure narrative
while we ride back seat with our tour guides: the perspective characters.
This is a unique and important piece of Ito's style, but it's also just that: a piece.
There's much more to the relationship between his characters and...
Uh... do you hear that?
Oh no...
What are you doing?!
No!
No, don't draw on the walls!
Bad!
Okay, clearly something's the matter.
We'll work through this later, I promise.
For now, just... behave yourself.
Don't... touch anything.
Okay?
So, thus far we have the "Paradox of Horror", exemplified by Junji Ito's disclosure narratives,
which are driven by spectacles rather than protagonists.
It works really well for this kind of horror, but make no mistake; it is weird.
Most fiction relies on a sympathetic link between the audience and the characters in
order to create engagement.
But the nature of Ito's work makes it inherently engaging.
The premise of the horror is usually the first thing he establishes, leaving us thirsty for
its disclosure.
When we learn that the pieces of Tomie's corpse are capable of gruesome regeneration in Tomie,
we want to know how and what that will mean for her 43 murderers.
In Enigma of Amigara Fault, when we learn that people are being mesmerically drawn into
mountainside holes shaped like their bodies, we want to know why and what will become of
them.
We're promised an investigation of his strange horror at the start of almost every story.
And that's what we stay for.
Contrary to common wisdom, a highly-engaging perspective character, laden with their own
goals and emotional imperatives, could actually damage this kind of story, removing narrative
focus from the all-important spectacle.
So it's appropriate that his characters aren't protagonists.
Even more, that they're by and large generic, unassuming, unremarkable.
In Gyo, the main character's goal to find and save her fiance rapidly becomes irrelevant.
Even the side characters have more compelling, expositional arcs.
These aren't the highschoolers fleeing from the axe-murderer in the woods that we're used
to.
You probably aren't going to find yourself on the edge of your seat, rooting for their
escape.
Most of the time, you just kind of passively appreciate that their still alive, because
it means you get to continue your investigation of the horror.
And it might sound like a weird thing to say, but the fact that his characters are relatively
difficult to get attached to is, in the end, a mercy.
These stories are not about catharsis.
The characters are—for the sake of our morbid curiosity—drawn so deep into the cascading
spiral of the horror, that there is usually no hope for recovery.
It would probably be a disappointing way to end a story...
if we were invested in the characters to begin with.
Instead, because of both their insignificance to the progression of the plot as well as
their removed nature, we get to delve into our exploration of the horror with reckless
abandon.
For once, we don't have to worry about how the crisis will be averted or the damage undone.
In Army of One, the world becomes irreversibly stricken with a mania that causes people to
stitch themselves together.
There is no resolution, no recourse.
The main character just has to look on as it unfolds.
And we're glad.
Glad to follow Ito's characters down their doomed paths, because we get to see every
twisted facet of his imagination along the way.
The majority horror is, in a way, vicarious.
The characters are exposed to something horrific, and we, the sympathetic audience, are drawn
paradoxically to the spectacle of their dread.
Ito brings us even closer.
By allowing his perspective characters to be passive, unsympathetic, and powerless to
change the trajectory of their narrtives, he gives us the opportunity to engage directly
with the spectacle.
The characters simply show us the way, as, piece-by-piece, we come to understand whatever
hideous, world-warping terror Ito has wrought for us.
He's one of the few horror authors who has managed to immerse us fully in the Paradox
of Horror.
No sympathetic characters or clever plot devices; we ourselves find his spectacles irresistible
because of the revulsion they stir in us personally.
His horror is a first-hand experience.
Now, Clive, what was it you wanted to...
Oh no!
What did you do?!
I thought I told you not to... what?
What are you pointing at?
Oh!
Um... hello.
You're a new... face?
Well... that was... interesting.
Nothing to be too worried about, though.
I'm sure this place is full of all kinds of strange things when you start exploring.
Give it time.
I'm sure the answer will come before too long.
Anyway, rowdy taleoids aside, I hope you all enjoyed the video!
We'll be trying our hand at Ito's spectacle-driven, protagonist.. -less... horror in this month's
short story, so stick around if you want to see our take on that.
In the meantime, if you'd like to see more videos faster, feel free to support us on
Patreon!
Everything helps.
As always, thanks for watching, and keep making stuff up!
We'll see you... next week!
Bye!