Yesterday (or “yees-tah-dye,” as the guy from New Zealand who made out with my girlfriend in high school would say) I was throwing a few tweets back and forth with a film critic about the differences between Argento and Guadagnino’s versions of Suspiria:
I realize that this is not a careful critique so much as a quick take that requires a mountain of qualification. Plenty of horror is made by highly competent fimmakers at the peak of their craft, and a given film’s deficiencies may have as much to do with the conditions of their production (budget, time, studio interference) as anything else. But I think I’m onto something when I say that certain horror seems to possess its makers (people who know the first thing about academic criticism of horror films, tell me what I should be reading and what degree of shame I should feel for not having read it before throwing my thoughts at this blog), producing something that seems somehow out of control, spilling like bright pink blood from the edges of the work.
There’s more to say on this, but I have no time if I want to keep up with this NaBloPoMo business. More tomorrow, from Ballet Mechanique to grindhouse to Carnival of Souls and beyond.