1998

20.3

Ralph R. Donald
Don’t Do That, You Twit! Or, Why Horror Films Never Run Short of Victims

For some reason known only to God and Roger Corman, a surprising number of otherwise normal individuals—folks like us—take great delight in being scared out of our wits. We line up to view horror films and intentionally subject ourselves to ever more frightening situations because these terrifying pictures are one of our guilty pleasures. We just love to sit in the dark and be scared silly – safely.

We can be scared ever so completely, and yet still exit the theater feeling relatively safe about going home to a dark, empty house. Why? It’s because we know that the unspeakable evil perpetrated on the protagonists in these films is unlikely to visit us. In great part, this is because we know that monsters and things that go bump in the night don’t really exist – at least most of them don’t. The other reason is this: although we don’t think much about it, we just know that we must be positioned considerably higher up the evolutionary ladder than most of the victims we just saw being eviscerated on the screen. And because we are somewhat more evolved than others of our species, Darwin tells us that we will be the beneficiaries of natural selection–we will be the ones to survive and endure. Like the deer that doesn’t freeze in his tracks in the middle of the road when he sees the headlights of an oncoming car, we know that we can avoid the pitfalls of those twits on the screen who, in movie after movie, just ask for it.

For example, the Darwinian imperative is clearly seen when a victim is being chased by a monster. We all know what usually happens next. As he flees, the panicky victim insists on repeatedly looking back over his shoulder toward the pursuing monster rather than keeping an eye on where he is going. Result: he trips and falls over some conveniently-placed tree root. Then the monster easily catches up with his snack.

While we’re on the subject of moving around, just why is it that entering a dark, spooky room or passageway is a cue to twits to start walking backwards? Do twits think by doing this they can keep the murderer from sneaking up behind them? It never seems to occur to these individuals that "behind" is a relative term.

HUNTERS THAT GET GATHERED

Most of us non-twits instinctively know that if given the option to sit together in a circle in some well-lit, easily defensible location, it’s not a better idea to toddle off, willy-nilly, into strange, dark, creepy-looking places searching for the unknown evil. But the horror film twit who becomes the leader routinely ignores this logical decision and announces, "Let’s split up and go find the beast."

And then there were three.

And while they’re searching for the beast, they’re liable to be startled by a cat, a rat, or some other harmless creature. The twit victim, relieved, then lowers his guard, assuming there’s nothing else around to fear.

And then there were two.

But let’s say that a search is somehow justified. In real life, there are two places you and I would never agree to search: the attic and the basement. Twits volunteer to search there, even after the power mysteriously goes off. They arm themselves only with candles.

And then there was one.

This is the same variety of twit, who—when his car runs out of gas and the only house around is old, spooky, full of bats, cobwebs and spiders, with wolves howling and the whole scene eerily illuminated by crashing lightning and the full moon—says to his pretty girlfriend, "Don’t worry, honey. I’m sure whoever lives here will let us use the phone." Later, neither is suspicious when they sit down to dinner with their tall, pale host with the funny, Eastern European accent. He offers them some Madeira but doesn’t join them, saying, "I never drink–-wine." These are the same sorts of twits who suspect nothing when a drooling Don Diego can’t wait to give them a tour of the dungeon so he can show off his collection of Spanish torture devices.

If there was a top ten of twitdom, the number one way to tell that one of them is about to become tomorrow’s soufflé happens right after the twit hero or heroine manages to bludgeon, shoot, or stab the villain. Without fail, the twit, incorrectly assuming that the villain is dead, drops his or her weapon and staggers a short distance away, looking dazed. We all know what happens next. The villain, a much more resilient creature than any protagonist, either attacks the unarmed twit again or, worse yet, picks up the weapon the twit just dropped and uses it on him! There is a variant on this scenario. Some of these twits have never seen a dead person before, and so they are unsure if the villain has really breathed his last. Although none of them knows how to determine if someone is dead, they try anyway–after they drop the knife. And as they lean over the body, well–you know what happens next.

Speaking of weapons and killing, just how intelligent is it to wait until a dark night to hunt the great white shark that’s recently been dining on local bathers? And then, just how big a boat should you use?

There seems to be an entire class of twits who haven’t been paying enough attention to realize that they’re in a horror film. For these victims, it’s not a really smart idea to buy, rent, or (on a dare) stay one complete night in a house: (a) built on top of an old cemetery or an Indian burial ground; (b) that features a small room painted entirely red that doesn’t show up in any of the blueprints; (c) that has a history of people who stay there dying horrible, mysterious deaths; (d) where someone tried to bring a demon back from Hell; or (e) a house used by witches, warlocks, aliens, or that was ever visited by Stephen King when he was a child.

You know a twit is courting disaster when he/she: (a) enjoys discovering and chanting strange Latin incantations and reading the words to old black magic spells out loud; (b) opens boxes, puzzles or strange portals in the floor that are inscribed with warnings or curses; (c) cheats on his fifty-foot-tall wife; (d) steals an odd trinket from any old, dead guy; (e) tries to strike up a friendly conversation with a large, silent stranger carrying a chain saw; (f) decides to explore secret passages armed only with a candle; (g) bets the farm that all he/she needs to ward off a vampire is a cross or a string of garlic; (h) walks right up and greets all threatening alien war machines with white flags and signs reading, "welcome, y’all."

A twit not destined to repopulate the species can always be counted on to:

(a) ignore the large seed pod that someone left beside her bed; (b) set a trap for the monster using himself as bait; (c) check into a motel managed by a taxidermist; (d) chalk up the spare body parts found in a roommate’s steamer trunk to–"bad habits"; (e) when captured spying on the villain, exclaim, "I heard every word you said, and as soon as you let me go, I’m calling the cops"; (f) think it’s chic to decorate her home with various varieties of wolf-bane; (g) ignore dogs, cats, and other more intelligent creatures when they bark, growl, hiss, or otherwise try to alert him to the danger; (h) send the moron lab assistant to the morgue to steal a good brain; (i) rather than run like a sprinter, choose instead to stand, scream loudly, and back into a corner as the monster slowly approaches; (j) try to kill the fifty-foot prehistoric monster with his .38 caliber police special.

One can always identify the twit in such films, because he/she is the one who: (a) visits wax museums after hours to find out why the statues’ faces look so lifelike; (b) places an electric blanket on top of the chunk of ice that imprisons a frozen alien; (c) refuses reinforcements as he goes after the monster alone, because, "This is between me and the vegetable!"; (d) forgets to take along wooden stakes and a stout hammer when going vampire-hunting; (e) raises a hand when the native chief asks if anyone present is a virgin; (f) pours pig blood on someone who demonstrates highly-developed psychokinetic powers; (g) is blissfully intent on kidnapping a child who can burn you to a crisp by just staring at you.

While we’re at it, twits should probably not choose to relocate to any village in the state of Maine.

Because they are so hormonally challenged, adolescents make up an entire,

separate anthropological class of twit victim. With the exception of "little miss goody two-shoes"—who’ll end up the only survivor (you know the one to whom I refer–the sole survivor who, despite dropping the knife or gun or cudgel, accidentally manages to kill the monster–at least three or four times)—the rest of the twit teenagers in these movies seem incapable of thinking about anything but drugs, booze, sex, and rock ‘n roll. Why do these "teenage knife kill" movie twits fit into the Darwinian natural selection plan so nicely? That’s easy: because none of them seems to have parents. We know these over-sexed dimtwits are bound to meet up with Jason or Freddy because they all demonstrate their specially-stylized roles in our little morality play: (a) the obnoxious and immature boy (the one with the freckles, curly hair and worst pimples); (b) the practical joker; (c) the narcissistic stud; (d) the vain beauty; (e) the bitchy/smart-aleck girl; and (f) the slutty tease.

All are toast.

Usually, only the boring, stick-in-the-mud, goody two-shoes female in the script, like Ishmael, returns alive to tell ye.

Sometimes it’s hard to sit back and watch these teenage twits in action as they: (a) leave an under-dressed female protagonist alone while someone staggers off to get more beer; (b) fail to notice that their group’s getting smaller—and much quieter; (c) are so intent on debauchery that they intentionally hide in dark, out-of-the-way places so they won’t be disturbed; (d) seem incapable of calling the cops, putting out the alarm, or notifying the coast guard; (e) and finally, after the evil one is apparently killed, nobody notices that the beast’s body disappears. This guarantees more sequels and more dead teenage twits.

Darwin points out that many species have great litters of young because, in their predator-filled environment, few will survive to adulthood. So I guess it’s a good thing that twits in horror films are like tribbles: since they multiply faster than rabbits, despite the lethal environment of these horror films, we’ll never run out. We need them. These twits are so stupid that as long as they’re around, you and I will always feel safe as we sit munching popcorn in the dark.

The End (?)
 
 
 
 

Ralph R. Donald
Department of Mass Communications
Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville
Edwardsville, IL 62026-1775
 
 

Alien (1979)

The Amityville Horror (1979)

The Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman (1958)

The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms (1953)

Carrie (1976)

Dracula (1931)

The Evil Dead (1983)

Firestarter (1984)

Frankenstein (1931)

Friday the 13th (1980)

Fright Night (1985)

Gate (1987)

Halloween (1978)

Hellraiser (1987)

House of Wax (1953)

The House on Haunted Hill (1958)

The Howling (1981)

Independence Day (1996)

Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956 and 1978)

It! (1967)

Jaws (1975)

Little Shop of Horrors (1986)

Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)

The Mummy (1932)

Phantasm (1979)

Predator (1992)

Pumpkinhead (1988)

Psycho (1960)

The Raven (1935)

Pet Sematary (1989)

Phantasm (1979)

The Pit and the Pendulum (1961)

Poltergeist (1982)

Salem’s Lot (1979)

Scream (1996)

The Shining (1980)

Tales of Terror (1962)

Terminator (1984)

The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974)

Them! (1954)

The Thing (1951)

War of the Worlds (1953)

The Wolf Man (1941) . . . and many, many, more.