Here guest blogger Lydia continues yesterday’s interview about representations of women in horror, and what it’s been like resurrecting Grand Guignol for a modern audience…

So, we’ve just got done talking about the rise of the ‘saw a woman in half’ phenomenon – seems like there are both political  and practical reasons why horror can fall into misogyny. Is this stuff as common as people think?

Tom: There’s tons of it. Tons and tons. We choose not to put on plays like that as they don’t interest us, but in the 1940s and 50s when the Grand Guignol was trying to compete with Hammer, they wrote pure exploitation crap. It’s true of all kinds of horror: you can tell a form is dying when it spills out pure sexualised violence. It doesn’t take much money or skill to produce, but it sells, so the lower end of the horror market is flooded with this kind of thing.

Stew: The nadir of all creative horror genres, periods of productivity, and exciting works always end with women being hacked up. Bad horror tends towards unthinking misogyny and ultraviolence.

Tom: The Friday the 13th sequels, for example, are aimed at teenage boys who want to see tits and gore. It’s not that they’re interested in sexualised violence itself, or damaging women; in fact anything emotionally realistic would probably upset or disturb them – they just want as much sex and as much violence as possible within a given time span.

Stew: For those cynical sequel makers, women are just a convenient vessel for both tits and blood. A lot of the women being killed are topless or have recently been topless, or are even mid-coitus. We’re seeing it again now in the torture porn genre – a term people argue with, but I think it’s completely accurate. In Hostel for example, all we’re seeing is girls chosen for their looks being chopped up.

Tom: More than that – they’re being chopped up in such a way that it’s clear it’s supposed to be a turn-on. Because the films have decent production values, it’s harder to spot. The people producing this stuff are far more competent with a camera and effects than whatever clown the studios hired to make Friday the 13th part 8. So instead of being a sequence of disjointed tat, it lovingly focuses on the bodies, on the violence, in a style that is erotic in and of itself.

Stew: What we’re refuting here, and in our theatre, is that these stereotypes are intrinsic to horror. It’s a lot more interesting than that. Horror is what occurs at the negative extremity of human experience: the points at which we don’t understand something, can’t cope with something, or are driven to actions that are well outside the boundaries of normal behaviour. That covers everything from hauntings to murder and massacres, death, and losing your mind. Anything that we are not fit to cope with can produce horror. It can go as far as Lovecraft and involve gods from beyond time, or it can be a woman killing her child. Violence can be a part of it, but it’s not necessary.

Tom: You can have extreme violence without horror. There are places the two cross over. You could have a legitimate discussion about whether, say, Rambo is a horror film, because it is undoubtedly a film that sets out to be horrific.

Stew: And then there are films which use the tropes of horror but are not horror. Shaun of the Dead is very gory, and terrible things happen, but really it’s not a horror film because it doesn’t exist to horrify.

Tom: There are a lot of horror comedies where horror provides a kind of desktop theme – the styles and shapes, but not the core. And then you have true horror comedies like Drag Me To Hell and almost all of Sam Raimi’s films: genuinely scary, genuinely unnerving and deeply funny.

Those cross-genre films are often the ones that freak me out the most – you get more involved and don’t know what to expect or what’s expected of you.

Tom: Grand Guignol scripts often work towards implicating an audience and making it disgusted with itself – it works you up so that you’re desperate for the payoff, so you want to see mayhem; you want to see everything destroyed. It reveals a lot about people and it’s fascinating, but you have to be careful not to be merely titillating – if they’re never revolted by it then they’ll never really face the facet of themselves that wanted it. When it’s successful, it exposes some fucked up inner feelings buried in the audience’s subconscious and assumptions.

So that old helpless innocent woman trope shows what people want in gender relations?

Tom: I think that’s actually become rather dated. It was never important that she was innocent, more that she was sympathetic. Back in 1890, even 1950, that meant virginal and naïve. That was the woman men wanted to be with and male writers thought women wanted to be. But those same cynical reasons are why in more modern stuff – not just horror – female characters are becoming more sophisticated, interesting and independent. It just reflects the kind of person the majority of men want to be with.

Cynical, but it rings true. What do these tropes say about men?

Tom: Men seem to be pretty blasé about male characters in horror. They just want them to die
interestingly. Unless it’s the killer, and even then, it’s just hoping for more killing.

Stew: There are very few strong male heroes in horror. Maybe Ash, but he’s a buffoon who happens to save the day. Shaun, in Shaun of the Dead, has toughness about him, but again is buffoonish. There aren’t a lot of great male characters running around in horror as a contrast for the problems with women.

Tom: A lot of men die too, it’s just that their deaths aren’t lingered over. In horror films where there’s a long series of victims being killed off sequentially, perhaps the numbers will be split equally male/female, but the last one is almost always a young woman.

Stew: She has survived to the end because she displayed a level of ingenuity that the others – male and female – were incapable of. It harks back to the resourceful gothic heroine.

Tom: So now we have a combination of factors: women are more likely to sympathise with a resourceful, interesting woman, and men are more likely to feel emotional involvement and protectiveness towards a young, attractive, likeable female character. It lacks subtlety, but for a form which doesn’t focus on character development it often turns out like that.

I see an interesting link to the politics of violence, and in particular sexual violence. There’s still a deeply entrenched assumption that male victims should somehow have been able to fight off their attacker; by being defeated you have been proved not to be a proper man, whatever that means. And the shame related to that can be felt to be worse than the crime itself.

Stew: Well, the killers in cheap slasher films, after hacking up topless women, will taunt male victims about their lack of manliness. Freddie and Chucky will always make wisecracks concerning the masculinity of their male victims. They bully and humiliate them before killing them. And then Jason, who has a hockey mask, massive weapon and is all muscles: he’s kind of an ur-male; masculinity pushed to a horrific extreme.

Tom: Of course, this is in slashers, one of the lowest forms of horror; it doesn’t really go anywhere interesting with those ideas.

It’s kind of interesting that even in it’s most simplistic form, people are so addicted to these ideas – the miseryporn biography stories about horrific child abuse that my elderly female relatives are addicted to have so many of the same tropes.

Tom: I think it’s an urge that is common, if not to everyone, then to the vast majority of people, to vicariously experience the negative extremes of human possibilities. To understand somehow what that feels like. The forms in which people enjoy or find it acceptable to explore that differ, but it’s not exclusive to 16-24 year old men.

Lydia: So in fact we have ended up with several distinct things which go by the name ‘horror’. There’s the inherited tropes and structures – the kind of desktop theme that you describe horror comedies playing with, all capes and bats and fainting virgins. Then there’s the market – primarily made up of teenage boys – for unsophisticated tits and violence served up as concentrated as possible, so they sometimes end up overlapping and confused. And then, finally, we have various approaches to the exploration of the negative extremes of human experience. Since the latter plays on the audience’s deeply help assumptions and fears, in its weaker forms it can slip into mere titillation and reinforce stereotypes, but when elevated to an art from, it can shake and move you, reveal yourself to yourself.

Stew: And be fucking scary, yeah.

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• @theatreofdamned

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Guest blogger Lydia grabbed them for a chat about representations of women in horror, resurrecting Grand Guignol for a modern audience, and sawing women in half. Well. Sort of…

Let’s start off by facing up to the accusation that women in horror are condemned to inhabit a narrow range of stock characters. Is this the case in the Grand Guignol? What are these characters? Where did they tropes originate? What purposes do they serve?

Stew: It can seem sometimes that the women in horror only embody the Madonna/Whore complex, and that men have their own Cunt/Hero division. It’s actually not as straightforward as that. When those tropes crop it’s usually for reasons concerning the practicalities of how horror works – there is a need for heroes and villains.

EJ Martin in Laboratory of Hallucinations

Tom: Horror doesn’t often have a lot of time to spend developing sophisticated characterisation, and uses shorthands as a result. The most obvious and irritating stereotype is the angel of the house, or the innocent virgin, the best example being Lucy Westenra in Bram Stoker’s Dracula. The character’s common in older Grand Guignol, though as the plays grew more sophisticated they’re increasingly rare. It’s simply because, for fairly obvious reasons, if you want people to be upset about a character being destroyed then you want that character to be someone they feel positively towards. In the early 20th century, the easiest way to do that was to bring in a nice, sweet posh girl who was rather inept, so you get a lot of them.

Stew: Another common one is the Hag, which crops up not just in the Grand Guignol but throughout horror. As we found out fairly recently, she’s the proto form of the psycho-biddy, which is a major horror cinema trope, starting with Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? The hag figures in Grand Guignol, as in a lot of literature before that from Spenser onwards, are generally suggested to be women who have rejected their femininity – women who have become masculinised in some way or are specifically anti-maternal: they eat children, they destroy children. That’s a figure that goes back right through literature and myth. The Grand Guignol used that history together with figures from contemporary Paris: brothel madams and drunks and women who for other reasons were seen as no longer trading in the economies of sex.

Tom: The evil women in Grand Guignol can be really fun – and they’re often interesting characters. Let’s face it, there are no great characters in the Grand Guignol, or in horror generally- it’s not going to contain Hamlet. So a slightly stereotyped but also powerful and charismatic figure is often about as exciting and interesting a part as any man or woman is going to get in this kind of material.

So the gothic trope – of the woman who looks too hard and too deep and finds terrible things, seemingly punished for curiosity and empowerment – that doesn’t crop up in the Grand Guignol?

Tom: That’s a gothic trope, but was never in the original Grand Guignol, which doesn’t deal with those gothic elements of haunted houses and graveyards.

Stew: The Grand Guignol grew from Théâtre Libre which was naturalist theatre, and which existed to reflect the scandal sand stories of Contemporary Paris and Europe more widely.

Tom: Particularly working class Paris.

Stew: If you view it as an analogue of Zola or Huysmans, you’re not far wrong. Zola was one of the first who talked about prostitutes and drunks and told their stories without making them into moral points. And the Grand Guignol is essentially an amoral universe.

Tom: There are certainly characters you’re expected to sympathise with or like, but it doesn’t ever punish. It doesn’t punish for being good, it doesn’t punish for being bad, it just basically rains destruction down upon pretty much everything.

Stew: The gothic universe is a moral one, and very distant from natural. In many ways the kind of work Théâtre Libre was doing was a stand against that gothic high melodrama which you might see on the Parisian stage. So a lot of those female tropes, a lot of what you’d find in an Ann Radcliffe novel or even in Edgar Allen Poe’s more explicitly European gothic fiction don’t actually find their way into the Grand Guignol.

Tom: To me, most of the interesting bits of the grand Guignol – and what we do – is not really, as it might sometimes seem, the destruction of women by men, but the destruction of humanity by inhumanity. Rather than having a big monster that looms and attacks (although that sometimes happens) it’s more interesting to look at a human become a monster, and then to see that human monster inflict damage on themselves and others. For writers in the early 20th century, it was easiest to use innocence or maternity as a symbol for the most human aspect of a woman.

Stew: And in men, you’re likely to see an oversophisticated doctor causing damage on the individual’s humanity – on a happy person or on a happy relationship. Scientific progress, more than immoral behaviour, is seen as destructive. The amorality and inhumanity of science is more frightening than the superhuman or superstition.

Tom: So you get all these mad scientists who believe that they can defeat death or uncover the secret of consciousness by hacking up your brain and of course they’re male because of the time they were written and set.

So the more sophisticated plays can explore monstrousness without falling back on those gender stereotypes?

Tom: Absolutely. An example is A Kiss Goodnight, which we produced last year. It opens with a man who has been terribly physically disfigured by his wife – she threw acid in his face. He has intervened in court to prevent her being sent to prison on the condition that she visits him this one last time. So we have a man who seems saintly and who has been destroyed by a woman who is beautiful externally but is, if not monstrous, at least capable of monstrosity. We find out, in due course, that he isn’t a nice chap either, and it’s never clear if his inner monstrosity is a consequence of his physical destruction, or whether he always contained it.

Stew: I think the play suggests that they were both always capable of these terrible things.

Tom: It seems that they were always very well matched, and the play involves getting their physical appearances to match their inner monstrousness as they destroy each other.

So the gore and grossness is not necessarily to do with sin, or having moral damage physicalized?

Tom: The Grand Guignol doesn’t make that kind of judgement. A lot of horror does.

Stew: In the Grand Guignol the amorality and inhumanity of scientific progress is more frightening than immorality or superstition or even the superhuman.

Tom: It explores forces which are seen to destroy or damage humanity: disease and mental illness, religion – that is, religion itself, not God.

Stew: It is important to point out that whilst the Grand Guignol itself is amoral, it was undeniably part of a continuing trend of increasing violence against women in theatre and onstage. In magic for instance, Jim Steinmeyer writes brilliantly about the sawing-a-woman-in-half routine. It’s so hoary now we see it as similar to pulling a rabbit out of a hat, but in fact the action is a horribly violent and brutally misogynistic piece of show which is entirely about killing a woman – putting her back together is optional. At the time, as soon as the trick was invented it was everywhere, everyone had their box illusion and it was always sawing a woman in half, with names like “destroying a woman”, “disintegrating a woman”.

And although there’s little skill involved in the trick, you never see an assistant sawing the magician. So is there an aspect again of who has power over whose body?

Stew: It started happening in the Twenties and Thirties, and I think there was a political aspect to it – these performances formed a backlash against women’s increasing prominence.

Tom: In that specific case I always thought it was simple practical reasons: sawing someone in half is awesome, and magicians want a beautiful assistant for sales reasons. Ergo: woman in halves.

Come back tomorrow for Part 2, in which we talk blood, boobs, cinema’s influence on Grand Guignol portrayals of women, slashers, Final Girls, and more…

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• @theatreofdamned

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VITRIOL

Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.

William Congreve, The Mourning Bride (1697)

This Corrosion.

Vitriol is more properly known by its scientific name: sulphuric acid. Or additionally, ‘Any of various sulphates of metallic elements, especially ferrous sulphate.’ The only reason I get to do it for V is because the late c13th had a rather fanciful approach to science (no offence guys), and dubbed this chemical vitriol, from the Latin vitreus (= ‘of glass, glassy’). Cos, in certain states, sulphuric acid looks ‘glassy’. Geddit?? Ahem. Actually, there’s nothing whimsical about vitriol in its everyday life: it’s extremely corrosive (hi, GCSE Chemistry), and has an exothermic reaction with water, basically meaning it dehydrates anything it comes into contact with… but then liberates extra heat through the very process of reacting with water, causing more burns. Nasty.

Catherine de Medici, attributed to Francois Clouet, c.1555

Of course, like its sibling term acid, vitriol is also a lovely little example of a word whose literal and figurative meanings have almost equal prominence in modern English. Thus, around 1769, vitriol started meaning ‘Acrimonious, caustic or scathing speech, criticism or feeling’ and – naturally – this sense was in figurative relation to sulphuric acid’s ‘corrosive’ qualities. These are the same corrosive properties that made sulphuric acid every murderer’s friend throughout criminal history – every Wikipedia fan given to perverse procrastination knows about John George Haigh, the Acid Bath Murderer, who dissolved the bodies of his victims in a bath full of acid (but was eventually dobbed in by a couple of stray gallstones and part of a denture)… Shudder.

My pain, your thrill.

Anyway, vitriol has apparently been around since ancient times, but came into prominence during the late c19th, owing to its use as a cleaning product. Of course, since it was suddenly considered fine for trying at home, it was easily purchased at your local chemist by every housewife on her weekly shop.

In this context, I’ve always thought of vitriol as a pendant to arsenic, a household poison used for pest-control, cosmetics and suicide (if you’re French, bourgeois and in a Flaubert novel). Particularly suggestible Victorian women would mix this one with chalk and vinegar to improve their complexion, with occasionally fatal consequences for their hapless spouses. History is correspondingly full of tales of malevolent arsenic-armed females, including the eighteenth-century Mary Blandy, who put it in her father’s tea so she could marry her lover. (In a little pendant of my own: she continued to take tea herself in prison – and to receive visitors for tea – apparently unencumbered by squeamishness, or the leg-irons she had to wear as a murderess on death row).

Vitriol throwing in Le Petit Journal - image from http://theatredamned.blogspot.com/

These cases are part of a long tradition of female poisoners going back to Catherine de Medici and the Emperor Augustus’ wife Livia, both politically powerful women who were the subject of (probably apocryphal) rumours of poisonous ingenuity. Livia supposedly killed Augustus by poisoning figs that were still on the tree (the last in a line of such crimes, if you like a bit of I, Claudius. As everyone should.) and that old gossip-monger Alexandre Dumas describes how Catherine de Medici used to poison casual household objects – ranging from books and gloves to lipsticks – to relieve herself of Inconveniences who just happened to be breathing.

The logic behind this tradition seems clear enough: unaccustomed to the brutalities of war and macho posturing, the female murderer is nonetheless skilled in the arts of household management, food preparation and cosmetics. Her arsenal is correspondingly domestic, and widespread reporting of female poisoners presumably relates to a kind of fear of the unknowably deadly potential of the home (and all it represents), not to mention the oft-observed ‘fact’ that the female of the species will tend towards silent attack, backstabbing and general wiliness when settling her battles. The bitch! Thus, like vitriol, poison too has a transferred sense: to be poisonous is to be ‘deeply malicious, malevolent’ – ‘sly’ – in a way which is almost antonymic to simple ‘brutality’.

Don’t look back in anger.

But in the late 1800s something changed, and there was an apparent epidemic of vitriol throwing in addition to arsenic poisoning – so much so, that it got its own verb: to vitriolize was to ‘throw sulphuric acid at a person with intent to injure’. Thankfully, this verb is now ‘rare’ (although on this, see more below), but its usage was overwhelmingly nineteenth-century. Moreover, a cursory look at newspaper records reveals these were overwhelmingly perceived to be female crimes against an erstwhile lover or a rival. A ‘crime of passion’, in fact, in a way that poisoning (slow and subtle) is not. My pal Stewart has recently started resurrecting the Parisian Grand Guignol, a Parisian theatre of horror whose depiction of acid-throwing was only one of many acts of mutilation presented onstage between 1897-1962, and I’m quoting him quoting Anne-Louise Shapiro:

In the 1880s, vitriol began to acquire the symbolic associations traditionally linked to poison; l’empoisonneuse was joined by a new rhetorical (and actual) figure, the vitrioleuse. […] Women who were dangerous through their very domesticity – who transformed the ordinary and the womanly into the menacing – underscored not only female duplicity but male dependency.

Anne-Louise Shapiro, Breaking the Codes: Female Criminality in fin-de-siecle Paris

The Grand Guignol play La Baisir dans la Nuit hinges around a disfigured acid victim exercising (literal) eye-for-an-eye revenge on the lover responsible for his wretched state. This sort of thing is perhaps to be expected in a ‘theatre of horror’, but vitriol throwing also appears in the broadly passion-free Sherlock Holmes stories, most fully in the Adventure of the Illustrious Client (1924) where the crime in question is perpetrated by a Fallen Woman on her Base Seducer – over ten years after the frequency of cases had prompted calls to make the purchase of vitriol more difficult.

Anyway, this ‘Kitty Winter’ is full of vitriol of both kinds: as Watson puts it, ‘there was an intensity of hatred in her white, set face and her blazing eyes such as woman seldom and man never can attain’, and her hysterical ranting and raving against the ‘instrument of her demise’ is – throughout the story – placed in opposition to the calm and aristocratic air of her Don Juan’s next victim. Throughout the story it is made clear that vitriol throwing is the sort of thing possible only for a woman full of a special kind of fury – and, as Watson makes clear, that fury is something ‘man never can attain’. The lambs.

The interesting thing here, of course, is the transition from silent, wily domestic poisons to public acid attacks that hinge around the old adage that ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’ (a misquote from Congreve that endures to this day). This, of course, is a woman armed with vitriol of one kind or another, and the idea was clearly much-repeated, because by the mid-century we also had the word vitriolic, meaning… well… ‘like vitriol’. That said, it is frequently unclear whether this is vitriol in a literal or figurative sense: in 1919 the Sarah Palin of the nineteenth century, Mary Kilbreth (President of the American National Association to Oppose Woman Suffrage), questioned Emmeline Pankhurst’s patriotism on the grounds that Pankhurst and the Suffragettes had led a ‘reign of terror’ that involved ‘bombs, kerosene and vitriol throwing‘, but whether she meant words or household cleaner remains tantalisingly unclear.

Unfortunately, for many around the world today vitriol is all too literal. This article has been interested in exploring the criminal female in history but – in the UK and abroad – acid attacks are still common, particularly (but not exclusively) as part of a culture of ‘honour violence’ directed against women. While it would be disingenuous to suggest exclusivity on either side, it does seem that these are increasingly male-on-female attacks in contrast to the apparent gender-split in the nineteenth century. This article has a rather good summary of the current situation, and recommends places you can find out more, including the Acid Survivors Trust.

NEXT WEEK: W is for Widow