"Doing Horror" in Manuel Muñoz's What You See in the Dark

Horror as many people know it involves sitting in a dark theatre at the edge of their seats, anticipating splatters of brain matter and blood-curdling screams, and trying not to spill popcorn during an inevitable jump scare. Horror films are an emotional rollercoaster. Why? In his article, “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” Jeffrey Jerome Cohen discusses how people experience horror in the cinema and why they derive pleasure and enjoyment from it. On the other hand, Jack Halberstam’s article, “Skin Shows,” addresses horror in Gothic fiction novels. How can one experience horror in written texts when there is nothing tangible to watch and nothing to hear? How does one “do” horror in film and text respectively? This paper aims to answer this question by analyzing Manuel Muñoz’s What You See in the Dark. In his efforts to “do” horror, Muñoz succeeds in capturing it in a novel in a much more subtle - yet equally terrifying - way than classic horror films.

Experiencing any genre of film is a form of escapism from daily life. Horror, in particular, allows an escape into the hidden, the risky, the exciting, and the dangerous. According to Cohen, one of the main traits of a monster is its tendency to “[awaken] one to the pleasures of the body, to the simple and fleeting joys of being frightened, or frightening – to the experience of morality and corporality” (Cohen 17). Not only can this be applied to watching films in real life, but this concept is also represented in Muñoz’s novel. The beginning chapters of What You See in the Dark, describe couples at a drive-in theatre watching a horror film while having sex in their cars. What prompts this surge of sexual activity to happen during a horror film while a woman on screen is in danger? Cohen states that “the monster is continually linked to forbidden practices” (Cohen 16); the audience watches characters onscreen partake in the forbidden or the dangerous and wants to do the same in some capacity. For them, the “forbidden” or the “dangerous” translates to having sex in a drive-in, excited by the idea of doing something discreet and potentially scandalous with the ever-present risk of being seen. They experience nerves, fear, and excitement, not unlike what one feels when watching a horror film.

People enjoy the experience and thrill of watching a horror film in the cinema because they can insert themselves into the story or witness a life-or-death situation without actually being affected by it; they are merely spectators who can dip their toes in the horror. In Alfred Hitchcock’s 1960 film Psycho, the audience gets to watch Marion tumble over the edge of her bathtub after being stabbed repeatedly. They get to hear her wailing and protests and be in the room without actually being in the room. They have chosen to witness the brutality and the grotesque and take enjoyment out of it because they know they can just take their toes out of the water. For audience members, horror is temporary and nothing more than an escape.

How does horror translate into text? Can it have the same effect as watching a shadowy figure rip back a shower curtain or hearing the sounds of bodies thudding against the ground? As mentioned, many people associate horror with something more tangible and something they can see clearly or experience without having to do the work of imagining it. However, written texts are equally as powerful as films. They also serve as a form of escapism for their audiences, providing the chance to witness horror without being a part of it. Despite this, one question still stands: how can it be possible for media in which you cannot actually see anything that is happening to evoke the same feeling of horror that one experiences when watching a film? According to Halberstam, when one watches a horror film in the cinema, the “visual register quickly reaches a limit of visibility” (Halberstam 3). There is no visual limitation with novels because things are left to the imagination. For the majority of What You See in the Dark, the reader does not see Teresa’s murder. Instead, they get hints of what happened - such as the “side wall smeared with blood” - but not the full picture (Muñoz 23). Muñoz instead uses brief flashes of images to build up horror: Arlene wipes stains away from the steering wheel of Dan’s car using the “inside hem of her housecoat” until it was “tinted with a deep colour” (Muñoz 160-161); Dan admits to killing Teresa, telling his mother that “[she] knows what [he] did” (Muñoz 155). The reader knows the gist of what happened, and that Dan probably killed Teresa. However, nobody knows exactly what he did or how he did it. Muñoz does not explicitly state it. All one can do is imagine what Dan might have done and fabricate their own story, which echoes Halberstam’s argument that “monstrosity seems available for any number of meanings” (Halberstam 2). By leaving the details of the murder open to interpretation, what people imagine as the worst possible thing is subjective and personal, perhaps rooted in each individual’s deepest fears.

How does one “do” horror, especially in film and written text? What makes something horrific? Manuel Muñoz’s What You See in the Dark is an interesting example of how horror is both similar and different in film and written text. Both mediums provide the audience with an escape and the ability to indulge in the forbidden and dangerous. However, film horror greatly relies on exaggeration and excessiveness to create shock value; films ultimately generate more of a physical reaction in their audiences. Thus, horror is much more obvious in this context. On the contrary, written texts – specifically Muñoz’s novel – instead take pleasure in subtlety and the discreet. The reader’s imagination and interpretation of events is the most important part of creating horror in this context; Muñoz provides fragments (like deep red on a steering wheel or Dan’s lack of an explanation) and the reader is allowed to piece together the specifics in whatever way they see as fit.

Photo: University College London, Entertainment Weekly