This Journal

8.1.99 - Sunday

The Haunting

So here we are in August, and it's true that everyone was born in this month. I was born in this month...so it just makes sense that everyone else showed up at the same time. Yes, I am the center of all that exists.

But there's another angle worth pursuing. If you count back nine months, what do you get? That's right, you get December, a chilly month but not a complete loss. Think of all those warm and cozy Christmas songs. Think about all those chestnuts roasting, all those heartfelt homecomings, all that shopping with loved ones on the brain. The approach of winter solstice requires a certain re-affirmation of life's energy. So nine months later, in the midst of another difficult season, we can memorialize and celebrate that warmth again.

Happy Birthday to you all.

Tonight Jay and I took in a film called The Haunting. It was pretty much what I expected it to be. It had some pretty slick effects, an impressive cast thoroughly wasted, because the script just didn't have it. That seems to be the problem with the average film and blockbuster: all fx and nice pictures, great sound, no character, no complexity, no atmosphere, no soul. But I did get a few not-so-deep thoughts out of this film.

One of the startling insights of The Exorcist way back when was that Evil can appear in the most mundane or humdrum of locations, a D.C. townhome. Poltergeist began a film tradition that took it even farther into the suburbs. Yet this re-make of The Haunting turns back to the older take on "the haunted house" by letting the art director run mad. This was a lucky call on someone's part, because it's about all the movie has going for it. It looks marvelous, but it's pretty empty.

Although I haven't seen it yet, I suspect that The Blair Witch Project has it all over The Haunting. If it proves nothing else, Blair Witch reminds us that the best is not often the most expensive. Great design and strong effects can be dirt cheap if they have to be.

 

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Terror is as much a part of the concept of truth as runniness is of the concept of jam. We wouldn't like jam if it didn't, by its very nature, ooze. We wouldn't like truth if it wasn't sticky, if, from time to time, it didn't ooze blood.
Jean Baudrillard