How much do I like horror? I’ll put it this way: I actually enjoy my nightmares.
I can’t even begin to tell you how many of my bad dreams have been variations on the following theme: Some group of individuals or entities is trying to kill me. I must escape, but in order to truly survive I must hunt down and kill my pursuers, lest I be pursued by them forever. In other words, I can’t just run away–it is, quite literally, a kill-or-be-killed scenario.
Off the top of my head, I can think of examples of this type of nightmare in which I’ve been chased through unfamiliar streets by skinheads for having witnessed their murder of an Indian man; snuck a gun into a big Mafia sit-down in order to execute the boss of my family at point-blank range before he can give the order to have me killed; defended my brother and sister from the Aliens-type aliens who were attacking our house; infiltrated a terrorist training camp in Afghanistan only to realize that if I am discovered I must kill any number of jihadis in order to escape; fought to escape the poisonous clutches of 28 Days Later-style zombies intent on killing me before I could bash their heads in; and on and on. I’m reasonably sure other versions have involved burglars, rednecks, Leatherface, Mola Ram’s Thugee deathcult, and the Ringwraiths, though those memories are a bit foggy.
I know what you’re thinking: “Sean, that’s awesome! You dream in the action-thriller genre!” Wait, you weren’t thinking that? You were thinking, “If I had that type of dream over and over I’d be mainlining No-Doz?” Oh, my friends, you’re missing out. Not because these dreams aren’t scary–they are, o sweet jeebus are they ever. I wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, totally convinced that I’ve been fighting for my life–and fighting to kill–for hours at a time. But when I finally do come to my senses and realize it was all a dream, good Lord, it’s an unbelievable rush. It’s like being on the world’s absolute best roller coaster–but thinking you’re actually in a runaway semi on the Jersey Turnpike at the time. You get all the adrenaline, all the fear, all the rage, all the horror of a real-life life-threatening situation, complelty convinced all the time that it is in fact real-life, but realize–only after it’s over–that you were never in any danger at all. If I could bottle that sensation, I’d be mulling over my renovation plans for Bill Gates’s mansion by now.
I’ve never been all that wild about the theory that horror is a way for people to get a vicariously thrilling glimpse into nightmare territory–I mean, I’m sure it is, but that’s never been a big motivating factor for me. But when I think about those nightmares I always have, that sense of complete helplessness in the face of a situation that offers me no choice but to kill or die, one where I must remain close to the object of horror but not so close as to be touched and consumed by it, I see a great many parallels to horror after all. Think of the canoe-trippers in Deliverance, convinced that they have to hunt down the unseen men pursuing them lest they all be killed. Think of the mall-dwellers in Dawn of the Dead, braving the zombie-infested parking lot to get those 18-wheelers they need to guard the doors. Think of Wendy and Danny running through the corridors of the Overlook, trying to find one another yet avoid mad Jack. Think of Agent Clarice Starling journeying into the basement in the final reel of The Silence of the Lambs.
I can’t help but feel that part of my disappointment with the film version of Battle Royale stems from the fact that it devised a situation that replicated the conditions of my nightmares almost to the letter, but for all that failed to get the sweat flowing, the heart pounding, the pulse racing. I get that from my dreams–it seems the least I can expect from my horror movies.