"I'm Hoping I Never Get Caught Acting:" The Tao of Lance Henriksen

Welcome to the Lance Henriksen Blogathon!

I want to kick off the celebration here today by considering a few of the reasons why Mr. Henriksen has proven so popular, durable, and well-loved among a remarkably diverse set of admirers. 

Just think about it.  This coalition of Henriksen fans includes:

1.) Horror aficionados (myself included), who view Henriksen as one of the great modern screen icons, and heir to the legendary likes of Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee and Vincent Price.  

In his genre roles, Henriksen can play a monster (Near Dark [1987], The Pit and the Pendulum [1991], Man's Best Friend [1993], or a hero (Pumpkinhead [1989], The Horror Show [1989], Jennifer 8 [1991]) with equal aplomb.  Cushing, Lee and Price arose from a more artificial, theatrical age and yet exuded dignity, humor and menace in spades.  Henriksen displays the same timeless virtues, but does so in a far more naturalistic, realistic age of movie-making.  That's not an easy task.

2.) Western fans, who adore Henriksen as a kind of old-fashioned but absolutely authentic "gritty" presence. 

Henriksen and the Western fit together like hand and glove.  There's something about his very look and sense of powerful physicality -- his sharp, laser-like eyes and that leathery skin -- that makes Henriksen an absolute natural in the rough-and-tumble frontier world of over a century ago.   Henriksen seems like a guy who has been through a rough spell or two, and weathered it.  He carries the mileage of these experiences on his shoulders, and in his face.   

You can readily detect this tough, bracing -- often-wolfish and sometimes world-weary -- Henriksen quality at work in such productions as The Quick and the Dead (1995), Dead Man (1995), Gunfighter's Moon (1998), and Appaloosa (2008), among others.

3.) Cult-tv admirers, who will never forget Henriksen for his singular contribution to that form: the profiler Frank Black on Chris Carter's much-missed Millennium (1996 -1999). 

Today, forensic investigators and serial killer hunters are a dime a dozen on network television, and often draw attention to themselves with histrionic and silly character "quirks."  Under Henriksen's and Carter's stewardship, Frank Black was determinedly the opposite.  He was low-key.  He was the stillness at the center of chaotic terrain.  He was our weekly anchor as we swirled around some very dark worlds and unpleasant characters.  Frank wasn't trying to pick fights.  He wasn't trying to "win" for any particular team.  He wasn't selling anyone on anything.  People could accept or dismiss Frank's advice as they saw fit.  He was the voice of reason and humanity in an often unsafe and insane world.

Also, Henriksen's Black wasn't needlessly angst-ridden or overly dramatic about his life and circumstances.  Rather, we clearly recognized him as one of us.  Or rather what we hope we could be like in such grave and disturbing situations: a committed family man facing the dark so the rest of us wouldn't have to. 

So  that's the landscape, or the "coalition" that goes into an appreciation of Lance Henriksen; that fuels such passion and admiration for this talent.  But what is the firmament underneath this landscape?  What's the "tao of Lance Henriksen?"

I believe we must commence with something the actor said to me in a telephone interview back in 2003. After affirming that for him, films were a kind of love affair or fling -- a passion that burned white-hot while he was in a role -- Henriksen also said, almost off-hand, something else of import:  "I'm hoping I never get caught acting." 

Rather, he said, preferred to "channel" a character, a person.

I submit that this is Henriksen's Tao as a screen artist: his ability to channel people/characters in a fashion that feels authentic to audiences, and lacks what you might term shallow Hollywood bullshit. 

Here are a few elements of that Tao, as I see them.

He doesn't "play" characters as heroes or villains. 

Henriksen makes each and every role he takes on about the person, without standing back -- away from the performance -- and transmitting some sense of moral judgment. 

His characters may do heroic things or they may do evil things, but Henriksen commits to each and every performance in the same detailed fashion; excavating that person's soul based on his understanding of the story, the dialogue, and the given background.   He leaves the judgment for us to suss out.

This is a remarkably efficacious process because, at times, it can generate that wonderful quality of ambiguity at just the right moment.  I see this aspect of his acting aesthetic clearly in one of Henriksen's most famous roles, as Bishop in Aliens (1985) and in Alien 3 (1992). 

In the case of Aliens, we have the tradition of a malfunctioning android, Ashe (Ian Holm) from Alien, and thus share Ripley's early fear that Bishop will turn out to be equally duplicitous.  Mid-way through the film, Bishop stands at a microscope and discusses the face-hugger's "magnificent" nature, a clear resonance of Ashe's description of the alien as a perfect life form. 

Yet Henriksen plays the line in a fashion that works two ways simultaneously.  As essentially, a wonder-struck child (a facet evident in Bishop throughout the film), admiring "life."  But also as, possibly, a machine with a malevolent, ulterior motive.   In short, Henriksen is Bishop, responding as Bishop would, but he leaves the judgment of Bishops' verbal response to the audience.  He doesn't telegraph any easy answers for us.

He accomplishes much the same task in Alien 3, portraying the android's human maker, also named Bishop.  This character says all the right things -- all the things the audience wants to believe for Ripley -- before showing his true colors.  In this case, our memory of the Bishop android is ruthlessly exploited.  We suspected him initially, but he turned out to be true blue.  In this case, we expect Bishop to be a friendly face, but his motives are actually suspect 

But again, Henriksen doesn't play the villainy as such.  His Bishop -- overtaken by the possibility of having a Queen alien as a specimen -- asks Ripley to consider all the things that they could learn from the beast. This line reveals that, after a fashion, he he is pursuing his own (dark...) path to further human knowledge.  He even says, again, that the alien is a "magnificent specimen."  This is a wonderful, and twisted reflection of the Bishop android's sense of wonder about alien life, as seen in Aliens.  Like father like son?  Not hardly...

What we see here is Henriksen playing each character with shades and echoes of each other, and without superficial, easy "tells."  This is critical to the fostering of suspense in both films, and Henriksen doesn't play the scenes in gimmicky or obvious fashion.

He makes authenticity a starting point. 

One example of Henriksen's demand for authenticity is plain in his westerns.  Case in point, The Quick and the Dead.  

As flamboyant Ace Hanlon, Henriksen had to appear absolutely comfortable, and more than that, deft, with gunfighting.  After all, the character was supposed to be "the best." 

Not only did Henriksen train with guns (sometimes firing thousands of rounds a day) in preparation for the film, but Thell Reed, his trainer, put double springs in Henriksen guns so the actor would have to work extra hard to pull the hammers back.  Then, once on  set, Henriksen did the movie with lighter springs in the hammers, so when he fired his guns, it was like lightning.  Voila, the fastest gun in the west was born.

Similarly, Henriksen did his research, and made certain to wear his guns high, as they were actually worn in the Old West. He made an effort to live, breathe, dress and behave as Ace Hanlon would have believably lived, breathed, dressed and behaved, and the results are impressive. 

Why is any of this background detail important?  Well, we quickly believe in Henriksen as Hanlon in the film, and when he does some gun-slinging there's little visual trickery or cutting necessary because he bothered to research and prepare for the part, a process Henriksen terms "gathering."  He adopts the skills of his characters, such that it is possible.  And again, this approach makes for tremendous authenticity.  Other actors do it as well, of course, but with Henriksen one senses this is a critical component of "channeling" a character.

He really goes for it. 

You can see in Henriksen's work that he isn't afraid to shoot for the moon. 

Henriksen plays some very hardcore, tough characters (think Chains Cooper in Stone Cold), and takes them as far as they can possibly go.  

Yet in a lot of action movies, you can detect actors playing villains "lightly" or for fun.  They're playing themselves, not a character. It's all a lark.

This happened sometimes in the James Bond movies, circa 1970 - 1985.  "Celebrity" villains came on board to menace Bond, but there was no real sense of menace because some of those actors were "performing," not channeling.  They were having a good time, not acting authentically as their characters. When Henriksen plays a role like Chains Cooper, the sense of menace is tangible because he has literally become that guy.  Henriksen doesn't walk through any role. 

And that's why his performances are always rewarding, even if the movies he stars in are not always so.

He is  (sometimes...) the Dad we all love

I should add, as well, that -- subjectively speaking for a moment -- I have a favorite Henriksen "mode." 

I almost universally find Henriksen the most affecting when he is portraying a father. 

Pumpkinhead (1989) always brings me to tears because of those first scenes in the film involving Ed Harley (Henriksen) and his young, golden-haired son (Matthew Hurley).  This father-and-son share a small, simple house in the desert, and spend their days together, just the two of them.

For a time, this duo seems to exist in this perfect bubble of slowed-down time.  There's a gentleness and patience and real love evident in Henriksen's performance in this portion of the film.  And Pumpkinhead remains absolutely heart-breaking because of it.  His performance serves the narrative purpose ably, too.  After losing that boy, it is understandable that Harley would make a mistake of rage, of passion.

Henriksen brings the same sense of quiet tenderness to his role as Frank Black, father of Jordan (Brittany Tiplady), in Millennium.  Again, it's a kind of silent but omnipresent  sense of love that he wordlessly offers.  He's not over-the-top or schmaltzy. He's just a Dad who really, really loves his child, and feels a bond with that child.  Frank sees the value in children, and he sees the humor in children too, as you can plainly see on his face in Millennium's "Seven and One," which opens with little kids dancing (very amusingly) at Jordan's birthday party.

Not to get too personal here, but in his fatherhood roles, Henriksen always  reminds me a great deal of my own dear Dad, and other boomer fathers I know.  Frank Black is not effusive like me and fathers of my generation.  Instead, his love is this patient, steady, yet powerful thing that makes itself known not necessarily through words or a show of overt emotionality, but through a touch here or there, or a look in the eyes.   Long story short: you always feel "safe" in his presence.

It's amazing that the same guy who plays Chains Cooper can also channel this parental ideal so convincingly.

And again, that's the Tao of Lance Henriksen.  Whatever role he takes on, you believe him in it one hundred percent.  You never catch him acting..

You Play a Good Game, Boy: The Tao of the Tall Man

A phantasm has been defined as a "fantastic sequence of haphazardly associative imagery, as in dreams."

But in terms of the Tall Man -- Angus Scrimm's iconic cinematic Bogeyman -- a phantasm can certainly be defined as a nightmare.

In Don Coscarelli's four Phantasm films -- spanning the years 1979 to 1998 -- the Tall Man has destroyed small-town America (not unlike Wal-Mart...), overturned the order of human life itself, and terrorized a triumvirate of heroic friends: Michael (Michael Baldwin), Reggie (Reggie Bannister) and Jody (Bill Thornbury).

Loping in gait, exceedingly grave of visage and utterly imposing in stature, The Tall Man reigns as one of the horror cinemas most fearsome, beloved, and long-lived Bogeyman. But what makes this creepy old ghoul tick? Why has The Tall Man endured as a figure of silver screen fear for so long?

The first answer, of course, rests with the actor essaying the role. Scrimm's menacing, growling performances are unforgettable, and that deep tenor voice is positively nightmare-inducing. Yet the character's mystique goes deeper. And so today, we must examine...the Tao of the Tall Man...

1.) He's the Personification of Death; the Personification of Adult "Knowledge:"

In my 2002 book Horror Films of the 1970s

, I wrote that the original 1979 Phantasm functions on many levels, but most effectively as the heroic dream fantasy of a lonely, sad boy (Michael) who feels haunted by the presence of death and betrayed by life; by reality itself.

This was my manner of accounting for the original film's captivating, almost child-like quality, wherein "something sinister" is lurking at the local cemetery and must be investigated...by a rwelve-year old kid.

I don't mean that brief description of the inventive plot as any sort of put-down. Rather it is my belief that the film beautifully captures the world-view and perspective of a pre-adolescent boy, the film's protagonist and primary participant. I wrote in the book that "every bizarre event that happens in Phantasm can easily be interpreted as having occurred in one of the boy's twisted dreams/nightmares."
In the movie's sad "real life," depicted momentarily at the film's conclusion, Mike's beloved older brother Jody is -- like the boy's parents -- dead and gone. Mike is pretty much alone, at least in terms of biological family.

The preceding dream (the text of the film itself...) in which Jody is alive and well may thus be interpreted as a disturbed kid's anxiety dream. In that lengthy "phantasm," Michael represses knowledge of Jody's death and imagines he can conquer mortality. His enemy is Death Itself, the Tall Man. Michael destroys him; he buries the Tall Man in the ground with his brother's able assistance. But when he wakes up from this heroic dream, Michael sees that his victory was imaginary, illusory; that in real life, death is never defeated. Jody recedes into the wind...growing smaller and smaller in the imagination (and in the frame too...) because of his status as dead. The unchangeable fact here is that Jody is the one who is gone, not some menacing monster.

Mike can't play the hero in real life...only in his dreams. In the film's epilogue, the Tall Man returns for one last attack and that's because in real life death always returns too. The Tall Man takes Michael, and that act represents, perhaps, the ultimate childhood fear. Of being dragged into the darkness of death, kicking and screaming, with no one to help.

Throughout the film, Coscarelli transmits the idea of Mike running away from reality (and into dreams.) The notion is expressed in both the dialogue and the visuals. For instance, Mike literally can't keep up with his brother. "Jody's leaving soon," he notes (rather cryptically...) in the dream, processing his brother's real life death as but a "departure" that he might be able to stop.

And, in one particularly affecting shot, Mike's feeling of abandonment and isolation is portrayed in starkly visual terms. Mike follows desperately after Jody as his older brother rides down a long road on a bike...oblivious to his brother's pursuit. This moment embodies the idea that Jody is on a one-way journey, moving away from Mike. Forever. Mike can run and run, but he can't catch up with Jody. Jody is dead.

In Michael's powerful, movie-long dream, The Tall Man represents inexplicable, baffling adulthood; or even, simply, adult knowledge. For instance, when The Tall Man first appears, he is explicitly connected to the adult mystery of sex. Jody and one of his friends are "lured" into the grave yard by a sexy siren...really the Tall Man (shape-shifted to appear as a gorgeous female). Mike doesn't understand sex, and so he imagines it as something mysterious and fearsome...manifested in his dream as the Tall Man, also the vehicle of Death. After all, both sex and death threaten to take Jody away from Michael, right? Both are elements of life that a child isn't equipped to understand.

The Tall Man is thus the personification of fears surrounding growing-up. Encoded in that term "growing up" is the realization of one's own mortality; and sex, among other things. The Tall Man symbolizes the mysteries of human life that Mike doesn't yet understand...but deeply fears. Further enhancing the dream metaphor, The Tall Man seems to appear frequently in Michael's bedroom...the very place where a boy will worry about death or first grope with the mysteries of sex.

2.) Imagine There's No Heaven, Or He Doesn't Just Kill You:

I have long subscribed to the belief that many of the scariest "monsters" in horror history (on both TV and in film) are those beings that don't actually kill their victims.

What they do to their victims is -- actually -- far worse than death, and promises lasting, spiritual suffering well beyond a quick mortal demise.

Consider the Creeper, in Jeepers Creepers (2001), a monster who steals body parts to replenish his own life. The owners of those appropriated body parts eternally become a part of the horrifying monster; forever at one with Something Evil.

Or recall the cybernetic Borg on Star Trek.: The Next Generation...they don't want to kill you; they want to use your body and your mind against you, and make you serve an "evil" cause as a drone.

Again, that loss of identity, that loss of sovereignty, is much scarier than dying by a painful (but quick...) machete wound.

The Tall Man fits very well into this category of villain or monster. When mortals die, we learn quickly in Coscarelli's films, they are revived (with yellow blood in their veins), crushed to diminutive proportions and re-purposed as slaves, as dwarves on the Tall Man's barren, arid world (which could be Hell, really). The Tall Man thus harvests our human bodies, making us all slaves to his insidious, inhuman agenda.

An eternity spent as a monstrous, prowling, subservient dwarf isn't exactly something to eagerly look forward to, especially if you've been indoctrinated to believe the Kingdom of Heaven awaits in the after-life. As the Tall Man acknowledges in Phantasm II (1988): "You think that when you die, you go to Heaven. You come to us!" Thus the iconic character is frightening to audiences because he promises that the mystery of death is not a mystery at all, but a doorway to eternal servitude, eternal damnation in sub-human form. Yikes!

3.) There's Something Scary About Old People:

Technically, it's called Gerontophobia. And no, it's not nice, and it's not really fair...or even remotely rational.

But -- at least for a very young person, like Mike --- there's something deeply unsettling about very old people. Their ways seem alien. Their values are not yours, necessarily. They seem angry and temperamental. They want you to stay off their lawn, and they always seem to be hovering behind you, watching, making sure you are following "the rules." A kid might even note that they smell of death; they have one foot in the grave already...

Old people are not, in some cases (perhaps because of dementia, or extreme pain...), the trustworthy, capable, helpful adults a young child is familiar and comfortable with (think teachers, and hopefully, parents too.)

Some old people actually look scary too, like witches or monstrous crones. And that's part of The Tall Man's Tao: his frightening appearance as an angry, unapproachable, even inappropriate old man. Even his trademark shout, "Booooy!" is coded specifically to terrify the young; to spark a fear of the elderly...the dying.

4.) Last But Not Least...He's Got Balls:

As far as horror bogeymen go, an important rule is this: the right tool for the right job.

Freddy has his finger knives, Jason has his machete, and Leatherface has his trusty chainsaw.

The Tall Man too is associated with a weapon and, appropriately, it's a literal nightmare weapon (reflecting the dream-like/phantasm nature of the films).

That weapon, of course, is the famous silver sphere, the sentinel...the ball. Many of the franchise's most memorable and gruesome scenes involve these chrome, flying, autonomous things. These devices home in on an unwitting victim, sprout blades, embed themselves in the human skull...then drill into it. Finally, they spit out a torrent of blood, until the victim is dead, dead, dead. The balls are fast, utterly unreal, and even sentient.

In short, the chrome, reflective spheres are among the most inventive horror weapons ever devised and as the keeper of the balls (so-to-speak), the Tall Man controls them.

Personifying death and mortality (through his aged appearance), boasting a tragic past (as we see in 1998's OblIVion), procuring slaves and harnessing the power of the bloody ball, the Tall Man walks tall in the imagination of horror fans. Watching Angus Scrimm play this immortal character, one feels that, like Death, the Tall Man has always been with us...and always will.

Or, as the character himself might note: "The funeral is about to begin..."

Once You Are in Hell, Only the Devil Can Help You Out: The Tao of Jigsaw

Without a doubt, the most prominent silver screen bogeyman of the last decade is John Kramer, or Jigsaw (Tobin Bell).

This memorable horror villain has headlined a whopping six franchise feature films spanning the years 2004 to 2009, with a seventh Saw installment on the way (in 3-D) soon.

Much like historical cinematic bogeymen such as Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers, and Hannibal Lecter, Jigsaw's very nature informs us about ourselves; about the things occurring in our world during his terrifying reign from Saw (2004) through Saw VI (2009).

The first important thing to understand about John Kramer is that he is a man who has known personal hardship. John's unborn child died in the womb when a weaselly drug addict named Cecil (Billy Otis) slammed a door into the belly of the expectant mother, John's wife, Jill Tuck (Betsy Russell).

If that tragedy wasn't sufficient suffering for one man to endure, John Kramer also weathered a terrifying car accident and the associated, bloody injuries, and -- finally -- was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. In some ways, John Kramer has been made to suffer more -- and in a shorter span -- than the Old Testament's Job. Like that Biblical character, Kramer was once a prosperous, happy man. But he was tested by -- if not God -- then certainly life.

Instead of surrendering to his enduring pain and loss, John Kramer selected another path. Sick and dying, he began to see that all those supposedly "healthy" people around him did not cherish they lives; that they were ungrateful for all they had.

So John set about to test these ungrateful, unaware people in the most painful, life-threatening manners possible. These tests or "traps" (or "games," as John Kramer terms them) comprise the gory, body-annihilating set-pieces of the Saw series. Each game is introduced with Jigsaw's euphemistic opener, "I want to play a game," and usually ends with a simple "game over."

Contextually, Jigsaw's flesh-rending, trademark games represent the crucible through which these ungrateful individuals must face their crimes, their weaknesses, their oversights, and their mistakes. In keeping with the post-9/11 context of the Saw films, nobody gets off scot-free, without losing something (usually a limb or other body part...).

For example, Dr. Gordon (Cary Elwes) in Saw (2004) -- who has been unfaithful to his wife -- loses a foot to rescue his family. A predatory lender in Saw VI (2009) must hack off her own arm to survive, giving up a literal pound of flesh.

Interestingly, those victims/player who do endure through Jigsaw's bloody gauntlet may also arrive somewhere special in terms of understanding: at the same destination, in fact, as their secret guru, their anonymous teacher, John Kramer.

In other words, they come to appreciate life all the more for their harrowing journey. Jigsaw's mantra, "Cherish Your Life" becomes a phrase to live by.

I hasten to add, this is not a small lesson in the Age of Terror. We should cherish our lives, the Saw movies remind us, because easy, happy, seemingly-eternal continuance isn't a given. As an ex-President is fond of reminding us, "oceans can't protect us anymore." Government can't protect us, either, as Hurricane Katrina and the BP Oil Spill have proven. Life can be taken away in a heartbeat, even in modern America. That's an essential part of the human experience, despite our affluent, technological culture.

The Saw movies actually concern several entangled, interconnected aspects of American politics in the 2000s. There is blowback: a repayment for bad deeds by a wronged person; certainly a metaphor for what some people might deem imperialist foreign policy leading up to 9/11.

There is also the reckoning that comes from surviving an absolutely destructive, horrifying, and traumatic event, like the 9/11 attack itself. That attack (and Katrina, etc.) remind us how lucky we are to be alive. How the bell could have tolled for us; or for our own beloved family members in such a crisis.

And most importantly, perhaps, there is the hypocrisy of personal judgment imposed on other people. What elevates Jigsaw to the realm of villain and bogeyman-- and not merely a righteous moral avenger -- is the fact that he forces his belief system on others. He believes he knows the answers, that he knows the "right way" and that others must follow those ways so they can function on his "higher" moral level. This is self-righteous and intrusive in the extreme, yet Jigsaw sees his actions simply as helping people.

In other words, Jigsaw imposes upon his victims "games" in which they must specifically choose between two pre-arranged alternatives. Yes, they may learn from the horrifying experience. But the fact that they must learn at all is a result of Kramer's actions, no matter how John chooses to see it or rationalize it.

Jigsaw remains popular, I submit, because people of all political persuasions can interpret his behavior as being either Bush-like (pre-emptively forcing his will on others because he believes God wants him to; that he is on a holy mission) or Obama-like (legislating new social order from the bully pulpit).

I'll stay out of that particular argument...but I submit a case could likely be made from either end of the spectrum.

Finally, the Saw films boast another important and timely quality. They are unbelievably gory. Saw III (my choice for the best film in the cycle) is probably the most effectively gory film I've ever seen. By that, I mean simply that the movie boasts a powerful emotional impact, and isn't just a display of spaghetti special effects for shock and awe. This quality too is a product of our times. In the 2000s, Americans saw the bloody corpses of Uday and Qusay Hussein on cable television, photographs of prisoner abuses at Abu Ghraib, news footage of American corpses hanged and burned to cinders in Iraq, and even a contractor decapitated by Al Qaeda, on the Net. You want to complain about "torture porn?" Don't point at the Saw films as devilish culprits (they merely reflect what's happening in our culture), point out the mainstream media for playing such ghastly images on a seemingly endless loop, day in and day out.

Given all this pertinent historical context, let's now play a game ourselves. Let's enumerate the most important qualities of this particular silver screen "monster," or the Tao of Jigsaw.

1.) He understands that "The Knowledge of Death changes everything."

Because of his own personal experiences, Jigsaw has come to understand what truly matters in life.

It's not wealth. It's not material belongings. It's personal morality;

It's the way we treat each other in this life. As strange as it sounds, many of Jigsaw's games are designed to foster that understanding.

Because Jigsaw has accepted his own death, he has no fear, no desire for possessions, no need to gain further power or prominence in the culture. Instead, he uses the knowledge of death to "see" other people as they truly are, and pinpoint and expose their faults.

It was never done in the Saw films, but it would have been truly interesting to see John's self-righteous moral lens turned on himself; to see someone else at the same plateau of "higher" morality judge him. His students, Amanda Young (Shawnee Smith) and Detective Hoffman (Costas Mandylor) accept his dictates almost mindlessly; and other characters, such as Kerry (Dina Meyer) and Rigg (Lyriq Bent) reject him out of hand, considering him simply a criminal to be caught. Who judges the judge?

2.) He picks the right tool for the right job. Or, the punishment fits the crime.

Jigsaw is fiendishly clever and yet amazingly insightful in the manner he selects his victim's deadly "games." The games almost universally have something to do with the victim's bad behavior.

A corrupt cop, Eric Matthews (Donnie Wahlberg) is positioned by rope over a melting ice cube of considerable size, for instance, a metaphor for his "slippery" moral behavior on the job, in Saw IV. When the ice melts...he will hang.

In Saw III, Jigsaw makes an abused woman's continued survival dependent on the physical separation from her abuser (her husband). They are both impaled on long spikes, but the beaten-down woman can pull herself off...and kill her spouse in the process. In other words, this woman must release herself from the shackles of co-dependency, instead of going back to the man that hurts her. Again. She can either die with him, or establish independence in a...pointed fashion.

In Saw VI, a slimy health insurance agent, Will (Peter Outerbridge) mercilessly chooses every day which strangers should live and die according to business, according to health insurance policy "rules." He issues death sentences with an eye not towards morality, but towards the company's bottom line. Jigsaw understands this, and thus makes Will's behavior on the job personal. In his deadly game, William must choose from among his friends, family and co-workers who should live and who should die. He suddenly sees the emotional underpinnings of his policy choices clearly.

Even Amanda's ghoulish game in Saw -- which involves a helmet that will literally rip her face apart -- seems to fit the nature of her individual personal demons. She is a junkie. She puts poison into her body on a regular basis. Amanda cares so little for her "temple," apparently, that she is willing to destroy it. Accordingly, Jigsaw provides a game which requires her to protect it from total destruction; the very opposite of her typical behavior.

3.) He understands that we're all "connected."

We're all in this life together. We are all citizens of the planet Earth. Ocean may separate us, but we are all of one globe.

Jigsaw understands that all human beings are "connected" through our choices, and attempts to teach this lesson to his victims.

In Saw V, Jigsaw arranges a game for five co-conspirators involved in a real-estate swindle. All five of the people enmeshed in this "deal" were looking out only for themselves; only for their own bottom-line. The end result is that several homeless people died in a fire they caused. They were so busy looking out for their percentage, they forgot the human equation. They committed murder because lining their pockets was more important.

Accordingly, Jigsaw lands all five conspirators in a game in which one person's fate dictates everybody's fate. The five people-- like we citizens of Planet Earth -- are connected. And if they learn their lesson -- if they realize the nature of this connection -- they will survive with minimal carnage and bodily harm. If they don't realize this, if they only look out for themselves, there can be no winner. Everyone will die.

In essence, this is an environmental message. We share the Earth. We either treat it right so we all can enjoy it, or we risk losing the whole game for everybody.

4.) He knows that immortality exists not in continued survival, but in the children.

Jigsaw, John Kramer, knows that he is going to die. He knows that the body weakens, and that life ends. He is not immortal.

Throughout the Saw films, then, he takes on multiple apprentices, "spiritual" children who can learn what he knows, and follow in his fatherly footsteps. These children are Amanda, Hoffman and Rigg.

Some of John's heirs prove disappointments. Rigg is a failed student. He is shown Jigsaw's way...but never takes to it.

Amanda and Hoffman both very soon prove to be more sadistic and less fair-minded than John (who believes that "everyone deserves a second chance"). Specifically, it is always possible for victims to survive one of John's games, if they play well, if they choose correctly. There is escape if the lesson is learned and understood, and understanding is demonstrated to the game master.

In Amanda and Hoffman's games -- as Detective Kerry learns the hard way -- the deck is stacked. There is only death and annihilation at the end of the contest, and so John's brand of justice becomes simply "vengeance." As self-righteous as John is, at the very least he plays by the rules. His offspring do not.

Yet sometimes siblings fight (Amanda and Hoffman boast a terrible rivalry...), and sometimes children disappoint their parents...but Jigsaw knows that the future is theirs, regardless. He attempts to share his wisdom with them, even taking into account that they are not "him" and can never be "him." He is both a good and bad father, I suppose. Good, because he teaches his children how to live. Bad, because that way to live is, well, at best self-righteous, at worst evil.

In a deep (and yet exquisitely gory...) fashion, the Saw movies are deliberately all about our moral decisions, and about the way we pass judgment on others for their moral decisions. We can look at the context of the films, the years from 2004 - 2010, to glean a better understanding of the movies, but perhaps the most critical aspect of the Tao of Jigsaw is human nature itself. John Kramer -- Jigsaw -- will likely carry relevance and meaning for us so long as human nature remains unchanged.

In other words, "the games have just begun..."

What Needs Does He Serve By Killing? The Tao of Hannibal Lecter

In the impressive anthology Dark Thoughts: Philosophic Reflections on Cinematic Horror, author and co-editor Daniel Shaw opines in his essay "The Mastery of Hannibal Lecter" that Hannibal the Cannibal (Anthony Hopkins) "is one of the most powerful human characters in the history of horror" and that this is "the primary reason why we are so drawn to him." (Scarecrow Press, 2003, page 11.)

That is no doubt an accurate observation, and so today I want to gaze into the eyes and heart of this popular silver screen villain and see -- to paraphrase the good Dr Lecter -- "what is it in itself?" about him that makes Lecter so powerful a force in our psyches.

"What is his nature? What does he do...?"

The first thing to consider, perhaps, is the context from which Thomas Harris's Dr. Lecter sprang. The character -- a serial killer -- was created in the early 1980s (in the novel Red Dragon), but gained wider prominence after the release of Jonathan Demme's 1991 seminal (and oft-imitated) The Silence of the Lambs.

In other words, Hannibal "rose" in the American pop culture during the very epoch that the public was developing a deeper awareness both of the real life serial killer and the tools which could be used to catch this strange predator -- the tools of Forensic Science.

"Hannibal the Cannibal" entered the Cinematic Bogeyman Hall of Fame, for instance, not long after Ted Bundy was executed in Florida, and in the very year that Jeffrey Dahmer was apprehended, 1991.

In terms of other cultural influences, best-selling author Patricia Cornwell, a medical examiner in Richmond, penned the Kay Scarpetta novels (Post-Mortem [1990], and Body of Evidence [1991], for example). Cornwell’s literary work focused on a new kind of contemporary detective, one who could scour a victim’s corpse and pinpoint concrete evidence about the identity of the killer based on skin or hair fragments, semen samples, or DNA evidence. Forget crucifixes, prayer or arcane exorcism rituals, the key to exorcising serial killers from our culture rested in the law-enforcement deployment of behavioral science (psychology) and forensic pathology.

So clearly, Lecter appeared in The Silence of the Lambs at exactly the right time. But that serendipity alone doesn't explain the character's ongoing popularity, appeal and fame nearly twenty years later. To comprehend that, we must indeed understand "what he does," or more accurately, "how he does it." So, without further ado, I present the most important components of "The Tao of Hannibal Lecter."

1.) He Mostly Kills The Rude (Or, he operates by his own sense of morality).

Unlike many of the slasher bogeymen popular in the 1980s, Hannibal is not an indiscriminate killer. He isn't a berserker with a machete.

On the contrary, Hannibal selects his victims very carefully. He kills them because they have violated some code of behavior that he cherishes; and that personal code has something to do with...courtesy.

In The Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal is directly responsible for the death of another inmate, Migs, who tossed a handful of his semen at Clarice Starling (Jodie Foster) as she was leaving the cell block. Migs actions were disgusting and rude. They showed no respect for Clarice (and no chivalry, either) and so Migs violated Lecter's powerful sense of decorum. Lecter killed Migs by verbally upbraiding the man all night...until he swallowed his own tongue.

Similarly, In Hannibal, Clarice's F.B.I superior, Paul Krendler (Ray Liotta) manufactures false evidence against Starling, another violation of chivalry and decorum, and makes it appear to her superiors as though she is having an illicit, romantic relationship with Lecter. Again, Lecter strikes back at the man for his moral trespass. Specifically, Hannibal cooks Paul's brain and feeds it to him. But not before reminding him, "I hate rude people."

Lecter's treatment of Mason Verger (a convicted child molester) is very much in the same mold. Lecter realizes that the man is a monster, and then sees to it that the man cuts off his own face. "Try peeling off your face and feeding it to the dogs," he suggests, while Verger is hepped up on drugs. Then, he hands Verger a shard of broken glass.

Again, Hannibal's official, appropriate capacity here is as Verger's court-ordered psychologist...but Lecter detected a "higher" morality he could serve and did not wait for society to punish (or possibly not punish...) Verger. He did it himself.

In Hannibal Rising (2007), the audience witnesses an early example of Hannibal's sense of chivalry and moral code. A fat butcher (Charles Maquignon) insults Lady Murasaki (Gong Li), young Hannibal's lovely ward. The butcher's insult is sexual in nature (involving the shape and form of her genitals) and unforgivably crude. So Hannibal bides his time...then strikes back with a vengeance: gutting the butcher with a samurai sword, and then decapitating him.

The real problem with Hannibal Lecter, as Will Graham points out to the good doctor in Red Dragon, is simply that he is insane. Lecter's moral barometer is off the mark at times, and this fact makes the killer an unpredictable monster. For instance, Lecter famously killed an untalented flutist (and then served his corpse to the symphony board members...), but a poor performance (or even a series of poor performances...) hardly feels like an adequate justification for murder. Similarly, that census taker whose liver Hannibal ate (with a nice chianti and some fava beans...) could only have been so obnoxious, right?

In other words, Hannibal Lecter remains terrifying because the filmmakers (and Hopkins) allow us a glimpse of his moral code and justifications for murder, but not an ironclad, black-and-white understanding. Also, Hannibal brooks no interference over issues such as his personal freedom (as a few unlucky Tennessee police officers learn the hard way in Lambs). This means that Hannibal will always be at odds with characters like Clarice, and thus always a menace.

Still -- in broad strokes -- we can see that Hannibal punishes the morally corrupt who, for one reason or another, have escaped justice. He kills all the men who murdered his sister, Misha, in Hannibal Rising, destroys corrupt figures representing authority/the establishment (Krendler, Pazzi and Dr. Chilton), punishes rudeness (Migs) and, essentially, rewards politeness.

2.) He Appreciates The Finer Things (and Admires Beauty)

Hannibal Lecter is no mad-dog killer. He boasts a keen intellect, and is thus able to contextualize himself and his life in terms of literature, music, art and history.

In Hannibal, the serial killer presents in Florence a meticulous lecture on the work and life of Dante Alighieri, for instance.

In The Silence of the Lambs, we see his beautiful paintings of Florence in his cell, too. He isn't a dabbler...he's an artist and a scholar.

Hannibal admires physical beauty as well, particularly in women such as Lady Muraski and Clarice Starling. So much so, in fact, that Lecter is unwilling to corrupt such ideal beauty with his own hand.

At the conclusion of Hannibal, the cannibal half-heartedly makes a sexual pass at Clarice (Julianne Moore), aware that she will deny him; and more so that he wants her to deny him. She represents an ideal for him: an ideal of incorruptibility. And in denying his advances, Clarice passes Hannibal's test. (This is quite different than in Harris's novel, Hannibal, by the way, wherein Clarice and Hannibal run away together...as lovers.)

It's odd to write these words of a serial killer, but Hannibal -- as a character and fright icon -- boasts clear aesthetic, intellectual and interpersonal standards, and in the tabloid, gutter culture of the 1990s (the era of The Jenny Jones Show, Ricki Lake and Jerry Springer), that was something that many people came to miss.

Also, it's critical to note here something else about Lecter's nature as a Renaissance man. Historically-speaking, the slashers of the early 1980s morphed into the rubber reality killers of the latter part of the decade: all-powerful supernatural forces like Freddy or Pinhead.

Arguably, Hannibal Lecter remains as frightening as either of those two silver screen bogeymen, yet there's an important distinction: he is grounded entirely in reality. To make Hannibal appear formidable the makers of the Lecter films (Ridley Scott, Jonathan Demme, Brett Ratner, Peter Webber) could not rely on the supernatural elements that built up Freddy, Pinhead, or even Candyman.

Instead, they presented a human character possessing full control of his psyche, in full control of his body, who -- simply put -- was smarter and more deadly than anyone else he might happen to share a room with. Hannibal is thus an unusual mixture of the best in us and the worst in human nature. He loves art and literature, but uses his knowledge of it to commit murder. He understands the human mind, yet uses that understanding to hurt others. He can paint a delicate, beautiful landscape...and then turn around and bludgeon a man to death. Hannibal is a gourmet cook...and a cannibal. He has achieved more than most men have in a lifetime...and yet Lecter is a monster.

3.) He Lets the Punishment Fit the Crime

Hannibal's moral code or sense of justice is not arbitrary or capricious. When this madman commits murder, the punishment fits the crime, at least, again, for the most part.

For instance, in Hannibal, Lecter makes certain that Inspector Francesco Pazzi (Giancarlo Giannini), -- who has accepted a three million dollar award for Hannibal's capture -- dies according to the traditional, historical method of those who have been avaricious: hanging.

Before he kills Pazzi, Hannibal informs the detective that avarice and hanging were linked in Medieval times. He then proceeds to hang poor Pazzi in the tradition of the detective's ill-fated ancestor. Hannibal then throws in a little disembowelment for good measure...

Paul's punishment -- seeing his own brain eaten -- goes back to Hannibal's considerable knowledge of Dante Aligheri. In The Inferno, in the second lowest circle of Hell, there were two men depicted there: Ugolino and Ruggiero. Ugolino was seen eating the skull of his betrayer, Ruggiero, and this ring of Hell was explicitly reserved for those guilty of treachery (against country, family, benefactors, etc.). Hannibal -- an expert in Dante -- no doubt saw Paul's betrayal of Clarice (his "kin" in the F.B.I.) as the sin for which he was to be punished. He picked a literary punishment that fit the specifics of the transgression.

In Hannibal Rising, a film which depicts Hannibal's earliest crimes, the audience sees how the serial killer develops this sense of "the punishment fitting the crime." Hannibal learns that his sister was not only killed, but eaten, and so sets about eating the men who committed this crime. It's an eye-for-an-eye punishment (or a cheek-for-a-cheek, as the case may be.)

4.) He is a Mentor (and he doesn't play favorites).

A man of great knowledge and yes, even wisdom, Hannibal is not shy about sharing what he knows (especially if there is a "quid pro quo" that interests him). As Hannibal notes, he comes to his victims and friends both "in the guise of a mentor."

Lecter mentors F.B.I. agents Will Graham (Ed Norton) and Clarice Starling (Jodie Foster), but then turns right around and also mentors the budding serial killer known as "The Tooth Fairy" (Ralph Fiennes) in Red Dragon. Hannibal is not confined or bound to our conventional sense of morality, and is thus a willing teacher to anyone who approaches him with respect and courtesy.

In Red Dragon and The Silence of the Lambs, intrepid F.B.I agents go before Hannibal and must lay themselves bare before his laser-like mind; before his total understanding and mastery of human psychology. They do so willingly, to catch monsters like the aforementioned "Tooth Fairy" or "Buffalo Bill," but their experience is nonetheless terrifying to those of us in the audience. As Jack Crawford insightfully warns Clarice: "you don't want Hannibal Lecter inside your head."

Amen.

So while Freddy Krueger arrives through the subconscious doorway of your dreams, Hannibal is, perhaps, equally powerful. He utilizes his uncanny, inevitably accurate, complete understanding of you -- your very identity -- against you. He gets inside your head in a different, more subversive way, perhaps.

Finally, Hannibal Lecter boasts a great, ghoulish sense of humor. Before killing you, he may ask "bowels in or bowels out?," or some such thing. Like Krueger, Lecter is an acknowledged master of the bon mot. In this case, however, the humor doesn't mitigate the terror in the slightest. When Lecter amuses himself at your expense...you're going down. Soon.

With Hannibal Lecter on the prowl, the lambs never stop screaming...

Every Town Has An Elm Street: The Tao of Freddy K.

In William Schoell and James Spencer's superlative companion, The Nightmare Never Ends: The Official History of Freddy Krueger and the Nightmare on Elm Street Films (Citadel, 1992), director and horror icon Wes Craven briefly recounts the youthful experience that led him to create cinematic dream-killer Freddy Krueger.

Specifically, Craven reported that -- as an eleven year-old -- he awoke one night from slumber to the sound of strange, scuffling sounds outside his bedroom window.

Young Craven got up out of his bed, went to the window, and gazed down to the avenue below. There, a mysterious stranger stood. The man looked up at the window and met young Craven's stare. A terrified Craven hid for several minutes.

When Craven returned to the window, the stranger was still standing there; still looking up at the window...in the exact same position. He hadn't moved.

Then, the man entered Wes Craven's building, slowly climbed the stairs to the family apartment -- his footsteps audible -- and neared the front door...

"As an adult, I can look back and say that that was one of the most profoundly frightening experiences I have ever had," Craven told the authors of The Nightmare Never Ends. "That guy has never left my mind, nor has the feeling of how frightening an adult stranger can be. He was not only frightening, but he was amused by the fact that he was frightening and able to anticipate my inner thoughts..." (page 179).

Meet Freddy Krueger, the villain of Craven's A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), and unarguably the most popular movie boogeyman of a generation.

This Friday the legend of Freddy K. is re-born with a big budget remake of the seminal Nightmare on Elm Street but -- disappointingly -- without Craven's input, advice or participation.

Considering the imminent silver-screen re-birth of Krueger, this seemed like the ideal time to go back and remember those qualities that made Robert Englund's Freddy such a powerful cultural influence in the mid-to-late 1980s.

1. When the Parents Are Away, Freddy Plays:

In Craven's original film, Freddy's teenage victims have literally no place to turn.

Tina's Mom is more interested in shacking up with her boyfriend than in helping Tina (Amanda Wyss) deal with her night terrors. Nancy's Mom (Ronee Blakeley) is a (mostly) useless drunk. Nancy's Dad (John Saxon) is a police detective, and always "on the job." Instead of listening to Nancy and helping her fight Freddy Krueger, he uses Nancy as bait to catch the wrong person (Rod). Glenn's Dad, Mr. Lantz (Ed Call) hangs-up on Nancy when she calls to check up on Glenn (Johnny Depp). "You've got to be firm with these kids!" he barks. The price of that self-righteous telephone hang-up: Glenn gets torn up by Freddy in the blood-flood to end all blood floods.

The adult world depicted in A Nightmare on Elm Street is not one friendly to children. In fact, local children sing the famous jump rope song ("one, two, Freddy's coming for you...") from one generation to the next, to warn one another about Krueger and his monstrous actions. The parents themselves are too busy burying the past; too busy burying the "truth" in the hope that what they repress and deny will simply stay buried. Of course, it doesn't.

Freddy visits the sins of the parents (murder) on the children, and because their parents aren't honest with them, the children of Elm Street don't even know why this is happening to them.

Writing for People in May of 1985, critic Ralph Novak wrote that "Craven is something of a generational turncoat. While he is 35, all of his adult characters have the intelligence and courage of cantaloupes."

That's exactly right...by design. Nightmare on Elm Street is about the younger generation learning to make it on its own; about recognizing the terrors of adulthood. And yes, there are some things worse than lying or obfuscating parents.

And that's what Freddy is: the amused stranger from Craven's childhood who enjoys terrorizing children because he can.

There's something especially upsetting about this aspect of Freddy, the fact that he preys on children, on the young. The world can be a pretty frightening place even for adults (even without Krueger) in it, but just imagine being eighteen and finding out that this guy is after you. One of my favorite lines from the original film is Nancy's (Heather Langenkamp) shocked realization that -- without sleep -- she "looks twenty." That comment is so innocent, and yet so dead-pan. She means it. Not being forty years old like me for instance, she doesn't see that it's funny...that twenty years old is just a blip on the radar. Freddy is such a monster because he destroys such innocence. And he relishes the job.

2.) Freddy is the Man of Your Dreams:
Freddy is also incredibly frightening because, much like Michael Myers, he's utterly inescapable.

The great white shark from Jaws can't kill you if you don't go into the ocean, for instance. However, everyone must sleep sooner or later. Everybody has to dream. And that's the field where Freddy stalks his prey, on the dream plateau. Freddy can afford to be patient because he knows that he always has the home-field advantage. He lives in dreams, and we just visit that often-surreal place.

The dream sequences of a Nightmare on Elm Street -- at least before some of the more outrageous rubber reality set-pieces of the sequels set-in -- all play cannily on very basic human fears. That we're being chased for instance, and that our feet get, essentially, stuck in mud. Or that there's something hiding in the bubble bath unseen...where we're vulnerable. Or that the monster chasing us can stretch beyond human proportions to grab us.

Freddy scares us because we're all vulnerable to the irrationality of dreams. But again, Freddy thrives there. He uses that irrationality, that vulnerability against us. Our nightmare landscape is his playground.

3.) To Be Or Not To Be: That is the Question Freddy Poses:
I always say that Nancy Thompson is Hamlet for the horror set.

Consider that A Nightmare on Elm Street serves as a direct thematic counterpoint to John Carpenter's Halloween (1978).

In Halloween, Laurie Strode (Jamie Lee Curtis) sits in high school English class while an unseen adult teacher drones on about "fate" and "destiny." In the midst of the class, Laurie sees Michael Myers' car on the street: she thus glimpses her fate. As the teacher explains on the soundtrack that "you can't escape fate," we are led (through the visuals) to understand the connection: that Laurie cannot escape her impending connection to an escaped serial killer.
By contrast, A Nightmare on Elm Street finds Nancy Thomas in another high school English class as a teacher discusses the resourcefulness of the melancholy prince in Shakespeare's Hamlet. The teacher notes that Hamlet "stamps out the lies" of his mother, something which Nancy will do in Elm Street as well, and that the prince "probes and digs" to find the truth. Again, that's the very task Nancy undertakes: seeking information about the life and death of Freddy Krueger, and her parents' role in his murder.

The Elm Street philosophy suggest that only by digging beneath the surface, by learning the truth of a thing, can one overcome the sins of one's parents and survive. The key to beating Freddy is to know and understand him: to see that he thrives on the energy of your hate, and then rob him of that energy.
4.) Freddy is the 1980s Personified: Apocalypse, Armageddon, and Deficit Spending

I realize that my conservative friends and readers get exasperated with me for pointing out some, er, unpleasant facets of the Ronald Reagan years in America.

Like the fact that Reagan repeatedly expressed a belief that we were living in the Bilbical End Times.

Like the fact that he joked about bombing Russia on an open mic, or claimed, erroneously that nuclear missiles could be recalled after launch.

Or that his tax cuts for the utra-rich turned an 80 billion dollar deficit into a 200 billion deficit in just two years.

Or that 35 million more Americans lived below the poverty line in 1983 than did before he was inaugurated.

It was in this decade, as well, that middle-class American families, by trying to keep up with the yuppie Joneses, had to become two-income households. And that meant the advent of the "latch-key kid" syndrome: the child who came home from school to find...nobody at home.

All of this context plays into the terror that is Freddy Krueger. The sins of the father -- the national debt -- is visited onto the children; just as the sins of the father (murder) was visited upon the children of Elm Street. More than that, the ascent of Freddy - a hellish demon -- in supposedly secure middle America suggested nothing less than an apocalypse in the making.

In Freddy's Dead we saw what ultimately became of Freddy's Springwood. As you may recall, the affluent community had turned into a ghost-town. And today, to continue the economic metaphor, there are hundreds of small towns in America where Main Street looks just like Springwood: places where the economic policies of the last thirty years have destroyed prosperity.

This is who Freddy was. Who Freddy has been for a quarter-century.
After Friday, I'm not sure who he will be. If the talents behind the remake are smart, they have paid adequate note to our unsettled times; to America's continuing dreads and fears.

If the new Freddy can tap into these 2010 bugaboos, then the long-lived dream demon will survive the translation to the next generation.

If Freddy becomes, instead, just a ring-master shepherding a circus of impressive special effects, this new iteration of the legend may not carry the power of his predecessor. I wish Craven had been involved in the making of the film; at least then we would know for certain that the film would carry some sub textual meaning, or genuflect to the ideas that have currency in today's America.

If you're interested in reading more about Freddy and his creator's history, don't forget to check out my 1998 book: Wes Craven: The Art of Horror.

The Tao of Michael Myers? Or The Hidden "Shapes" of John Carpenter's Halloween (1978)

I have written about John Carpenter's Halloween (1978) on several occasions. In The Films of John Carpenter (2000); in Horror Films of the 1970s (2002) and here, on this blog, over the last four-and-a-half years.

And yet despite this fact, I am drawn to revisit the film again and again, across the years, to further detect new and intriguing aspects of the masterpiece. This is a fact which differentiates it from Rob Zombie's 2007 ill-advised remake, and some of the piss-poor, latter-day sequels.

So the question becomes: what is it, precisely, about John Carpenter's Halloween that stands up to --- and actually encourages -- continued, intense scrutiny?

And hell, it isn't just my scrutiny either, it's the scrutiny of other scholars, authors, bloggers, list-makers and admirers the globe around. Over thirty years after the film's release, Halloween's reputation only continues to grow.

But the answer to the question about the Tao of Halloween, The Tao of Michael Myers, is deceptively simple, and it very much concerns my favorite cinematic conceit: visual form echoing narrative content.

Specifically, as percipients of Halloween, we gaze intently at that blank, white, featureless mask of "The Shape," Michael Myers, and then immediately recognize, at least subconsciously, that we are missing some crucial aspect of understanding.

Michael's true motives -- just like his concealing, ivory face-mask -- are not entirely filled in; not fully circumscribed. His personality and purpose seems oddly incomplete, and thus the shadowy, featureless mask fully and trenchantly reflects our inability to conceptualize or understand the thing that he represents. From this lack of understanding grows the seeds of terror. Why does Michael kill? Is he the Boogeyman? What drives him? How does he survive point-blank bullet strikes? As in life, Halloween provides no easily digestible answer to myriad questions about mortality and murder, destiny, choice, and chance.

Yet Halloween does brilliantly provide the attentive viewers some intriguing clues about Michael Myers and the things he signifies. Some of these hints actually seem to conflict with one another; and some are just barely enunciated. But again, this very facet of ambiguity makes the film (and the iconic character himself) resonate more powerfully in our minds. In other words, Halloween lets our imagination fill in the narrative, explanatory gaps, and again, a sense of terror takes hold. We see reflected in that blank, chilling mask all the things we fear -- all the things we don't understand -- about our lives in this mortal coil.

Basically -- to boil it down -- I believe that Halloween provides us at least four important "leads" about Michael Myers true and highly unusual nature (and it is important to remember that all of these clues don't take into account the "Laurie is his sister"-revisionism of the sequels. and the remake). These clues are, in no specific order:

1. Michael Myers is a Physical Representation of Laurie's Id.

This is the Freudian-interpretation of John Carpenter's Halloween. As you may be aware, the Id is a component of Freud's so-called "psychic apparatus" or "structural model for the human psyche." Basically, the Id houses our unconscious, our basic drives, our instincts. It controls our desire for sex and our other appetites too. It is amoral, chaotic and egocentric.

Consider now the buttoned-down, Laurie Strode (Jamie Lee Curtis), both a good student and a responsible babysitter . She clearly symbolizes the rationalist Ego, the part of us that holds the reigns of control over our lives and seeks to "please" the Id in a socially and culturally acceptable fashion. The Ego represents common sense; even consciousness itself. This is the Freudian "borrowed face," the veneer of appropriateness we all put on over our Ids.

Accordingly, underneath the mask, Michael represents Laurie's Id, unfettered and on-the-loose, lashing out at those around her who more "honestly" contend with their drives and libidos (Annie and Linda) than do the Ego. Laurie even seems to "activate" Michael Myers, at least in a sense, by singing aloud a modern magical incantation (a ballad) on the day he stalks her. The lyrics to that ballad go: "I wish I had you all alone, just the two of us," and set up, rather nicely, the thrust of Michael's murderous mission on October 31st. He systematically kills all of Laurie's friends and acquaintances until it is, indeed, just the two of them. They have sex (or hope to have sex), and he destroys them because they express what Laurie cannot.

Now, of course, some readers may rightly remind me that Michael cannot possibly be a product of Laurie's Id, since Michael was alive and killing before she was even born (back in 1963). That's right...but.. do we know for certain that Laurie's mission of murder isn't the the very thing imprinted upon that mentally-deranged mind behind the blank-white mask?

Horror scholar and professor Vera Dika wrote that "Carpenter openly represents Michael as Laurie's "id." This reading is supported by the inclusion of footage from Forbidden Planet (1956)...The earlier film had portrayed a situation in which the unconscious desires, or the id, of the main character became manifest and threatened to destroy him and his world. Similarly, Laurie is almost destroyed by the strength of her repressed unconscious impulses. Her battle with Michael is a substitute for the sexual act." (Vera Dika, Games of Terror: Halloween, Friday the 13th and the Films of the Stalker Cycle. Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1990, page 51).

John Carpenter himself lends some credence to this Freudian interpretation of Halloween by noting that Laurie, "The one girl who is the most sexually uptight just keeps stabbing this guy with a long knife...Not because she's a virgin but because all that repressed sexual energy starts coming out. She uses all those phallic symbols on the guy...she doesn't have a boyfriend, and she finds someone -- him." (Danny Peary, Cult Movies. Delacorte Press, 1981, page 126).

This theory won't exactly find popularity with feminists or "Final Girl" proponents, since it positions Laurie as the repressed "creator" of the monster in Halloween, not a Girl-Powered heroine. Her suppressed sexual appetite and longing is the drive that brings Michael to life and even selects his victims. In this way, the noble Laurie somehow becomes responsible for Michael; or at the very least, connected to him in a very intimate, very personal way.

2. Michael Myers is Just a Developmentally Arrested Child Playing Halloween Tricks.

There's a such a thing as "psychological neoteny," the retention by adults of what are generally considered juvenile traits. In Halloween, Michael Myers seems "arrested" in an early point of childhood, acting out instances of so-called play but, because of his delayed maturity, failing to understand the true consequences of his actions.

A hallmark of childhood is the total and immersive interface with a world of make-believe play. In theory, make-believe play should teach a child to self-regulate and even learn self-discipline; a quality known as "executive function." But in Michael's specific case, nothing positive results from the fact that his mind is "frozen," essentially, in childhood. It's as though he's an overgrown kid, playing an elaborate trick-or-treat game without any acknowledgment of the harm that very game is causing to others outside himself.

It is impossible to deny the "game"-like aspects of Myers' behavior in the original Halloween. He sets a "stage" or "show "for Laurie in Lindsey's house a prank involving the corpses of her friends and a stolen grave marking/head-stone. Also, at least to some extent, it seems that Michael strongly identifies with young Tommy Doyle...since he follows the boy home from school too. Halloween II and later films seem to forget that Michael actually stalked two people on October 31st, 1978: Laurie and Tommy. I suggest that this is because Michael is essentially delayed at Tommy's age and somehow sees Doyle as a contemporary; or surrogate; someone his own age.

Michael evidences some interesting physical reactions after he kills the teenagers on Halloween night that also, if interpreted in a certain way, bolster this theory. He just stares and looks at them, tilting his head to one side. You must wonder if this is because the dead are -- counter to his expectations -- not getting up and continuing to play. Michael has killed them, but doesn't really understand the finality of death. He is thus quizzical and curious over the corpses, wondering why the teens don't want to play anymore. We can also judge that Michael is developmentally arrested at/or around 1963, the time when he committed his first murder (an action that no doubt also slowed down his formal education, another characteristic of many with delayed maturity.)

3. Michael Myers is the Physical Embodiment of Fate

Early in Halloween, there is a fascinating if brief scene set in a high school English class. Laurie is in attendance, listening only sporadically as an off-screen teacher drones on endlessly about the concept of fate in literature.

The unseen instructor then asks Laurie about her reading assignment, and Laurie answers by making a distinction between two authors, Samuels and Costaine. She notes that "Costaine wrote that fate was only somehow related to religion, where Samuels felt that fate was like a natural element; like Earth, Air, Fire and Water." The teacher further notes that Lauriie is correct, that Samuels definitely "personified" fate. "It [fate[ stands" where a "man passes away."

Who else stands where a man passes away? Michael, of course, a character who survives stabbings and shootings and keeps on coming like a freight train. He is Fate "Personified" (as Samuels dictated) and you can't kill something like Earth, Air, Fire or Water, can you?

This revelation of Michael as Agent of Fate opens up the whole "Boogeyman" Argument; that perhaps there is actually a fifth natural element, Earth, Air, Fire, Water...And Evil. And that Michael as a representative of this natural force is thus unstoppable; in kiddie slang, The Boogeyman.

The film's discussion of fate contextualizes Michael not as a supernatural avenger, but as a heightened, natural one. He is not magical, but rather a force as natural (and as essential?) as Air or Water. So there is an order to the universe, it's not just what we had in mind...

4. Michael Myers is an Indictment of Contemporary, Rational Society: The Undiagnosable Amok in The Scientific World

Finally, I believe Halloween suggests (or at least implies...) that Michael Myers represents some kind of modern-day "dragon" in a society that no longer recognizes dragons as real monsters.

As I wrote in The Films of John Carpenter, Halloween willfully "deconstructs" our technological, contemporary world so that (as viewers experiencing the film) we actually appear have more in common with ancient proto-humans huddling in caves than with our rational, 21st century brethren. In particularly, nothing in Halloween works the way it is supposed to work by our "rationalist," "daylight" brand of thinking.

To wit: Dr. Loomis (Donald Pleasance) is a total and complete failure as a psychologist, unable not only to heal Michael Myers, but to understand what drives him. Loomis's role in Halloween is not that of a doctor, nor of a psychiatrist, but explicitly that of St. George: hunting down and slaying the dragon. But specifically, Michael Myers suffers from no diagnosable or treatable psychological disorder. He is "purely and simply Evil." If you look in the DSM-IV, you won't find "Evil" listed as a malady.

It is utterly unacceptable that rational, middle-class teenagers in Haddonfield should die at the knife of Michael Myers on the eve of the 21st century. That's just not supposed to happen in modern-day America. For one thing, there is the blanket of parental protection and love, which should shield children, right? Yet in Halloween, the parents (and most adults for that matter...) are mostly an afterthought. We see Laurie's father only briefly, never see the school teacher, and never get to meet the parents of Lynda, Annie, or even Tommy Doyle. Adults do not represent a positive, let alone helpful force in this horror vision.

Well, okay, if parents can't help save the children (representing our tomorrows...), then there's modern medicine and cutting-edge science, which should not only diagnose Michael, but keep him behind bars. Right? Not surprisingly, it fails too. The "system" fails, and Michael escapes.

All right, what about another imortant societal construct then: the law? Well, kindly Sheriff Brackett can't even protect his own daughter, let alone capture a mad-dog killer! Not a single cop on patrol even notices Michael's car parked on the street!

In other words, all of our carefully-constructed traditional bureaucracies and cherished codes of justice, belief and conduct ultimately offer Annie, Lynda and Bob zero protection. These kids are on their own. They are prey.

In fact, these teens have it much worse than our cave-men ancestors in pre-history. At least the cave-men knew to be afraid, knew to fear the forces in the dark that they could not comprehend. The characters in Halloween are thoroughly unprepared and unable to conceive of a reality that includes Michael Myers, and that's why they are such easy pickings. The movie thus indicts modern society rather fully: it is woefully unprepared to combat what may be a "natural force," Evil Itself.

J.P. Telotte wrote that "What Carpenter seems intent on demonstrating is how consistently our perceptions and our understandings of the world around us fall short...We are conditioned by our experience and culture to see less...to dismiss from our image contents those visions for which we might not be able to account..."(American Horrors: Essays on the Modern American Horror Film: "Through a Pumpkin's Eye: The Reflexive Nature of Horror." University of Illinois Press, 1987, page 122).

Now, I am not suggesting that any one of these four interpretations is absolutely the "right one" to come to a perfect understanding of Carpenter's film, only that Halloween retains such power because the truth of Michael Myers seems to dwell in all these interpretations.

Ultimately, Halloween preserves the Shape's mystery and thus lets you decide about the important things like meaning. Many of the sequels and indeed the Rob Zombie 2007 remake fail so egregiously to live up to the original Carpenter film because they work diligently towards an opposite (and inferior) end; because they seek to diagram in details the answers about Michael for the audience's consumption and peace of mind. Yet peace of mind -- closure itself -- runs counter to what good horror ought to be, at least by my personal barometer. Who wants to leave a horror movie content that you understand everything you saw; that it all fits into a neat little box? As I've said before, I want my slumber troubled; I wantmy mind bothered by the things only the genre can show me and tell me. If I desire peace of mind or resolution from ambiguity, I'll watch network television.

As a direct result of all the well-meaning but psychologically facile explanations of the sequels and the remake, the magic of Michael Myers is somehow bled away. When we understand Michael is simply hunting his biological sister down, he becomes nothing but a garden variety wacko with a tough hide. When he is infused with supernatural powers and becomes a genetically-engineered Druid observing Samhain, he's just another easily explainable Devil, only one with an alternate religious belief system.

And finally, the magic of Michael Myers is totally squandered when we bear witness to the peculiarities of his abusive childhood; when we come to understand that he was raised in a violent, redneck household and is merely carrying on in the family tradition. Thus the later movies, and especially the re-imaginations nullify The Shape's Power; the Shape's Tao. They turn it to ashes.

When considering "The Shape," I submit that it is better to ponder and speculate about Evil's True Nature than to know it all. Oscar Wilde once wrote that the greatest mystery in life is actually "one's self," and Halloween remains such an indelible viewing experience because -- in addition to technical expertise and canny imagery -- it leaves more than abundant psychic space for our imaginations to ponder it.