Lost in Translation: Cultural Differences in Horror
Welcome back to Blackwarren Books' weekly blog! A few weeks ago, we touched on some of the queer themes in post-apocalyptic science-fiction narratives. This time around, let's look more closely into horror, specifically how horror stories are portrayed in different cultures - even when the story is from the same source.
I have more than a few friends that believe wholeheartedly that Japanese horror is, has been, and always will be superior to American horror, and that any film adaptation of Japanese horror by an American director will subsequently fall flat on its face. Other than The Ring (based on a horror series by Koji Suzuki) I’d be inclined to agree, but after reading the actual books used to inspire those films I realized that Suzuki’s writing isn’t really adapted well, at least not for the slasher film template that Japanese horror is often forcefully shoehorned into in American cinema.
If anything, I have to subscribe to the idea that American horror is best described as scary while Japanese horror is more along the lines of creepy. Scary will keep you up for a couple of nights, but you can turn the lights on and tell yourself that there aren’t any leatherfaced serial killers armed with flaming chainsaws waiting under your bed for you to get drunk and have sex so they can get on with killing you. Creepy on the other hand is more of a slow burn, and often takes something that was once innocuous and stains it in your mind.
Fear is Relative
This is why I didn’t find Dark Water all that scary. If anything, it was like reading a plot treatment for an episode of The Twilight Zone. The set-up is solid: a single mother and her daughter live in a tiny apartment in a largely vacant building and the mother is struggling to make ends meet as well as get over the memory of her ex-husband. Everything’s relatively normal save the emptiness of the building and the nasty aftertaste the tap water has. Then the weird thing happens, namely an unexplained set of beach toys appearing on the roof, the mother investigates as far as she’s willing to let herself, her daughter starts hearing voices, and eventually the terrible truth is revealed: a little girl drowned in the rain tower and her body was never found, and her decay has trickled into the building’s water supply. There’s set-up, build-up, climax, and twist, just like a classic episode from the Zone. The only thing missing was Rod Serling.
This isn’t a weakness though. If anything, it helps to underline the differences between American and Japanese horror. To begin, Suzuki’s heroes often lack an important trait in horror: stupidity. How many countless people have died in American horror movies for reasons that cause the viewer to yell at the screen? In Suzuki’s stories, Dark Water included, the characters are intelligent, reasoned, and cowardly exactly when they need to be. When presented with paranormal happenings, they do research and investigate as far as they need to. The mother in Dark Water deduces that the dead little girl is in the water tower and promptly calls the police, and then moves out to a place without a dead girl in the water supply. In the American movie version, the mother literally goes into the water tower, into the titular dark water, and confronts the ghost directly.
Proactive Versus Reactive
Essentially, one could argue that in Japanese horror, particularly with Suzuki, characters are more proactive, and weigh action against possible consequences. Ways out are found through sacrifice, such as the mother and her daughter fleeing to an uncertain future in lieu of supernatural threat, or grandparents agreeing to watch the cursed videotapes to save their family and hopefully end the curse with them.
American horror, on the other hand, tends more toward reaction and survival and a firm belief that one will survive despite circumstances making such assumptions foolish, but sure, read the weird book in the cabin, watch the cursed videotape, tell your friend that there’s no way her terrifying ex-husband made himself invisible to torture her further, tell your friends you’ll be right back after you’re told not to, perform a dramatic reading despite some of your friends having been violently murdered in the last 48 hours…
The difference is tension. There’s hardly any in Suzuki’s work. There’s a mental puzzle to be worked out and you never truly feel that the characters are in danger. The mother knows that at any time she can just pack up and go, and in the end she actually does. Only her curiosity keeps her there. Even in The Ring, where the main character has only seven days to live, the tension remains low even on the seventh day, even for the character himself. His investigation continues on with little concern that the clock is literally running out on his life. The idea of the “sunk cost fallacy” never enters the character’s minds to keep them living in an obviously haunted house. Apartments are the domains; abandoned property, places that required no greater financial commitment than a security deposit. There was no danger of this becoming an economic and domestic horror story out of Amityville.
After all, it’s not like the Warrens co-wrote the book.
Maybe this is just an example of the difference between what’s read and what’s seen, how the shock needs to be increased when there are only two hours or less to get the plot finished before the audience gets bored or exhausted. I suppose it could also be a difference between creepy and scary. With scary, there’s a final confrontation or a dramatic escape, or both. With creepy, there’s almost always a definite twist at the end, to the point where it’s practically expected, and the seasoned viewer or reader will be looking for the twist before it’s ever revealed and will be disappointed if it doesn’t occur.
Othered Protagonists in Horror Narratives
The stakes are raised automatically for LGBTQIA+, BIPOC, and othered protagonists in horror, particularly regarding a haunted house scenario, even if it’s just in an apartment. For cis-het protagonists, you can move, sure, and be welcomed in any neighborhood. The financial stakes have to be raised higher to tie the protagonists further to the area, adding tension and desperation. For othered protagonists, entering the dangerous area is either a matter of escaping cruelty, or the chance at finding safe harbor, and the threat comes not from within, but without. The horror and fear come from phobic neighbors or intruding outsiders looking to reclaim safe spaces, the demons making the shower spew bloody ectoplasm is just another log on the fire of the house that’s already had several firebombs thrown at it.
In the Dark Water scenario, the cis-het women take two different tacks: escape the monster or confront it. Both could be considered emblematic of the cultures they are shown in. In Japan, the mother escapes danger and any risk of harm to her daughter, stating “It’s not safe here, we’re going somewhere that is.” In America, the mother confronts the intruding creature to show that nothing is more dangerous, or merciless, than a mother protecting her child, stating “We may find a new home, but you sure as hell won’t.”
In an LGBT+, BIPOC, or othered scenario, escaping or confronting are not often options. Instead, one must not only become a monster themselves but also prove they are more of a threat than the actual monster itself is. After all, othered people are often considered by cis-het society to be monstrous, deviant, or dangerous, and the only way to survive is to embrace the role, and to hell with the security deposit.
Calling All Horror Writers!
Ready to change the playing field when it comes to how queer horror narratives are presented? Got an idea for your own short story? Send us a submission for our upcoming horror anthology today!
