Torture Porn, page 5
rather than judging each film’s content individually. Measuring change by bloodshed accentuates the gore offered in torture porn films, and that may have led critics to over-emphasise the amount and significance of torture porn’s violence.
Kevin Maher’s (2007) précis of torture porn’s formula – ‘lots of screaming, yada yada yada ... Ultraviolence overkill’ – exemplifies how torture porn is conceived: as an unsettling cumulative trend rather than as a series of discrete films that contain disturbing themes or imagery.
Detractors tend to embellish the amount of violence in individual films because each belongs to the category ‘torture porn’. The quantity of violent films in the subgenre augments the impression that individual films are exceedingly bloody, because each film labelled ‘torture porn’
stands for the whole subgenre. Since the connotations of ‘torture porn’
are prioritised over filmic content in this discourse, critics often link films to one another when passing judgment. Samuel Wigley (2007), for instance, makes comparative assertions such as ‘each entry in this brutal cycle is obliged to outdo the last’. Wigley’s statement submits that filmmakers conceive of their films as belonging to the subgenre, positing that ‘torture porn’ is a movement created by filmmakers rather than the press. The notion that filmmakers seek to out-do each other’s depictions of violence is prevalent in ‘torture porn’ discourse (see Johnson, 2007; Orange, 2009; Puig, 2009). The common parlance for this idea is
‘pushing the envelope’ (Hulse, 2007; Ide, 2009), a phrase that implies both graphic escalation and filmmakers’ shared desire to offend normative sensibilities via their violent imagery.
Highlighting violence in this way insinuates that torture porn’s pleasures are one-dimensional, consisting of ‘test[ing] how much gore you can watch before throwing up’ (Zane, 2010; see also Ide, 2009). Those disdainful judgements about content are complimented by estimations
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of violence’s effect on the audience. Descriptions of violence as ‘repellent’ (Phillips, 2010), ‘nauseating’ (Ordona, 2010a), ‘stomach-churning’
(Lowe, 2010), ‘disgusting’ (McEachen, 2010) and ‘excruciating’
(Anderson, 2009) all involve a leap from portrayals to presumed reactions, which are loaded with value-judgments. This rhetoric interpellates, proffering that most readers will (and should) agree that torture porn’s images are disdainful.
‘Torture porn’ discourse situates torture porn’s violence, imbuing it with connotative meaning. It is melodramatically professed that violence is all torture porn offers (see Muir, 2010a; Slotek, 2009a; Bowles, 2009), thereby painting the subgenre as vacuous. Moreover, torture porn is indicted with including ‘gore for gore’s sake’ (Kermode, 2008a), ‘nasty things ... for the sake of nastiness’ (Fox, 2007), and ‘violence for the sake of violence’ (Ketchum in Kirkland, 2008b). These sentiments are corroborated by the six ‘gr-’adjectives habitually used to describe torture porn: ‘gratuitous’ (Hill, 2007; Phelan, 2011); ‘gruesome’ (Hunter, 2010; Tookey, 2007a; Lidz, 2009), ‘graphic’ (Ordona, 2010a; McEachen, 2010; Williamson, 2007c) ‘grisly’ (Dalton, 2009a; Kendall, 2008), ‘gross’ and
‘grotesque’ (N.a. 2010b; Kermode, 2010; Gordon, 2006: 60). Each intimates that torture porn’s violence is excessive or – as Claire Hill (2007) has it – ‘unnecessary’.
‘When You Think the Worst has Happened ...
Think Worse’:4 torture porn as a fad
Torture porn’s violence is subsequently perceived as replacing narrative depth and characterisation. As Aftab (2009) inveighs, ‘[n]arrative development is a mere inconvenience in these films’ (see also Slotek, 2009a; Dalton, 2009b; Tookey, 2008a). Such supposition is typically utilised to verify torture porn’s cultural illegitimacy: it is claimed that torture porn is ‘pointless’ (Cumming et al., 2010; Muir, 2010b) and ‘meritless’
(Ordona, 2010b). Cashmore (2010), for example, describes the subgenre as a ‘sheer, ruptured-sewage-pipe deluge of gore, mutilation, and general unpleasantness’. The term ‘sewage-pipe’ underscores that violence is equated with worthlessness. The same tactic is apparent where torture porn is described as ‘excrementous’ (Williamson, 2007a), ‘garbage’
(Robey, 2007a), ‘trash’ (Phillips, 2010; Booth, 2008), ‘junk’ (Conner, 2009), and ‘low’ (Robey, 2007a; N.a. 2010e; Lim, 2009). Other adjectives such as ‘daft’ (Edwards, 2007), ‘puerile’ (Maher, 2009b; Tookey, 2008d),
‘infantile’ (N.a. 2007b), ‘crass, silly’ (Bradshaw, 2010), ‘wrongheaded’
(Phelan, 2011), ‘cretinous’ (Cashmore, 2010), and ‘mindless’ (Hunter,
‘Torture Porn’ as Press Discourse 31
2010; Patterson, 2010) consolidate that ethos. These judgements insinuate that anyone who produces or willingly consumes these films is mentally deficient and culturally undiscerning.
In this view, torture porn is indefensible per se. Where positive traits are noted, they are immediately qualified. For instance, Nigel Kendall (2008) states that Untraceable ‘has a surprising amount to recommend it’, his ‘surprise’ arising from the idea that any torture porn film can be recommended. Indeed, enjoying Untraceable is enough to prove its dissimilarity to ‘ Saw and Hostel’ for Kendall: the film cannot be both recommended and be torture porn. Kendall’s qualifying statements attest to torture porn’s ostensible worthlessness then, despite evidence to the contrary. Similarly, Shea Conner (2009) decries the subgenre, and then cites Saw – a film ubiquitously associated with ‘torture porn’ – as one of ‘the few gems this decade [2000–9] had to offer’. ‘Torture porn’
discourse is constituted by such contradictory statements. The label has been widely applied to films that critics do not enjoy, and so if hecklers appreciate individual films, those films become exceptions to ‘torture porn’. Another pundit (N.a. 2010c) sustains the critical narrative that torture porn is valueless in her/his evaluation of the Saw franchise.
Rather than defending torture porn against accusations of one-dimensional narrativisation, the reviewer dismisses Saw’s narrative complexity as ‘baffling’, which implies incoherence rather than sophistication.
Other disparagers declare that torture porn is passé, thereby debunking the subgenre rather than addressing its popularity. Hence, torture porn is presented as a fleeting fad by some detractors (Kenny in Johnson, 2007; Monahan, 2010). To the same ends, others announce that torture porn is ‘over’, or verging on imminent collapse (Barnes, 2009; Safire, 2007; Mundell, 2008). In many articles, the theatrical success of films belonging to other horror subgenres is utilised as evidence of torture porn being ‘replaced’ (see N.a. 2010d; Wloszczyna, 2009; Newman, 2008). This was especially pronounced when Paranormal Activity’s sequels were scheduled for annual October releases, because the Saw franchise explicitly claimed ownership of the October multiplex horror slot. As Saw III’s tagline denoted, ‘[i]f it’s Halloween, it must be Saw’.
Paranormal Activity has been heralded as toppling that monopoly (see Schwartz, 2010: 51; Miska, 2012). Many pundits deem that the release of Paranormal Activity 2 alongside Saw’s ‘Final Chapter’ in 2010 also marked torture porn’s ‘Final Chapter’.
The same point is made by citing disappointing returns made
on Hostel: Part II in June 2007 (Wloszczyna, 2007; Leydon, 2007; Williamson, 2007b; Middleton, 2010: 2). Thomas Riegler (2010: 27)
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pegs the subgenre’s demise even earlier, asserting that ‘by the end of 2006 [torture porn] showed signs of beginning to wane’. Less than a year after the subgenre was named, it was said to be ‘finished’. Such repudiation continues (see Killingbeck, 2011; Middleton, 2010), illustrating that reviewers were premature in pronouncing torture porn’s death in 2007. In fact, the popularity of ‘torture porn’ in the press peaked in 2009, with 308 English-language articles employing the term.5 Although usage has declined since 2009, the label has been utilised more times per year in the period 2008–11 than it was in 2007, when only 205 English-language articles used the term. Press discourse itself evinces that torture porn was far from moribund in 2007.
Such arguments may have aimed to facilitate rather than report the subgenre’s decline. This rhetorical strategy – declaring that torture porn is ‘over’ – consolidates the established critical narrative that torture porn is superficial entertainment. Derogators predicted that torture porn was doomed to faddishness because violent escalation is unsustainable in the long-term (see Zinoman, 2007; Purcell in Zoc, 2008). Such arguments insinuate that the subgenre is not worth becoming too anxious about because it is doomed to transience. The latter assurance is belied by the near-hysterical tone that pervades the press’s denunciation of torture porn, an inconsistency that exposes the flawed logic and reactionary impulses that underpin ‘torture porn’.
Contrary to critics’ persistent proliferation of ‘torture porn’ and torture porn films’ continued production, the impression that torture porn has all-but died out since 2007 is prevalent. That idea is inherent to the ‘torture porn’ paradigm in two ways. First, since ‘torture porn’
is a theatrically-biased discourse, torture porn’s shift to DVD releasing may appear to signal a decline in production, despite an increase in the quantity of torture porn films produced between 2007 and 2010. Torture porn’s reduced theatrical presence has meant its cultural visibility has also diminished. Second, after ‘torture porn’ was established as a category, its characteristics were instituted and became predictable. Grouping these films based on repeated facets and shared attributes may have led audiences and pundits to perceive the material as less exciting than it was initially. That is, torture porn may have become less noticeable because critical discourses defined torture as a standard convention.
Box-office ‘gross’: the mainstream context
The subgenre’s continuing success on DVD post-2007 is of little concern to those detractors who have eagerly proclaimed torture porn’s demise.
‘Torture Porn’ as Press Discourse 33
Even if not explicitly stated, torture porn’s box-office performance is a central problem for press reviewers, and there is more at stake in depreciators’ vitriol than simply an objection to torture porn’s apparently
‘gimmicky’ nature (N.a. 2010b; see also Di Fonzo, 2007). Filmmaking is a commercial industry. Nevertheless, decriers have limned torture porn’s profitability as particularly noteworthy, contending that lucrative entertainment should not be based on violent spectacle. This is not primarily a moral protest against unsuitable filmic content. Rather, opponents take exception to torture porn’s popularity itself. For instance, Rob Driscoll (2007) foregrounds economics over ethics by complaining that Roth ‘mak[es] a mint from producing amoral entertainment’. Similarly, Williamson (2007a) compares Roland Joffe to a ‘pimp’ for directing Captivity (see also Skenazy, 2007), submitting that the director’s greed is immoral. Feeding the critical narrative that torture porn offers vacuous, transient entertainment, it is alleged that torture porn production is driven by superficial motives; ‘[t]here’s a reason for all this torture porn:
[i]t makes money’ (Lacey, 2009; see also Fern, 2008; Collins in Di Fonzo, 2007).
Resultantly, disparagers often amalgamate fleeting descriptions of torture porn’s content with comments about finance. Frank Lovece (2010), for example, interrupts his sparse recap of the Saw franchise’s plot to impart combined box-office figures for the series: ‘The story so far – as some $370.2 million worth of domestic ticket buyers and a total $738.5 million worldwide know – involves a serial-killer mastermind’.
Spuriously mentioning box-office gross in this manner is pervasive (see Schembri, 2010; Anderson, 2007c), sometimes manifesting in terms such as ‘moneyspinning’ (Vaughan, 2007) and ‘cash in’ (Phelan, 2011; Tookey, 2006; Kermode, 2007). Economic success is a focal point that usurps what little content-based consideration is available in journalistic discussions regarding torture porn.
Elsewhere, derogators spotlight that profit comes from movie-goers (Dalton, 2009b). The public are characterised as victims of filmmakers’
‘vulgar opportunism’ (Kermode, 2007) in such arguments. Framing
torture porn as a kind of exploitation cinema allows critics to draw on another pre-existent critical paradigm to scornfully marry torture porn’s
‘vulgar’ content with its financial performance. In this view, the public are duped into spending their money, and filmmakers willingly exploit audience naivety by supplying ‘cheap thrills’ (Gray, 2008). Disparities between production costs and profits are also flagged (Murray, 2008: 1; Kinsella, 2007), corroborating that torture porn is motivated by avarice, and portraying each ticket purchase as part of a cumulative dynamic.
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Movie-goers are rendered culpable for torture porn, and so are asked to
‘[v]ote with [their] feet and [their] wallets’: ‘don’t go to see [torture porn]’
(Heal, 2007). Such suggestions are futile inasmuch as they appeal to those readers who are sympathetic to the authors’ anti-torture porn position.
Torture porn fans are unlikely to be persuaded by the belittling tone these pundits adopt, and readers who agree that torture porn is worthless are not likely to be among the ticket purchasers being addressed.
The instruction is rhetorical rather than persuasive, contributing to the overarching proposal that torture porn should be hindered.
In order to support this case, some opponents interpellate even those press-readers who have not seen any torture porn films. Several of the subgenre’s movies – such as Mum and Dad, wΔz, and Donkey Punch –
were funded by the UK Film Council. Numerous reporters point this out, announcing that the British public unwittingly ‘helped pay for ... pointlessly unpleasant torture porn’ (N.a. 2008b; see also Tookey, 2008b; Platell, 2008). Such argumentation rhetorically holds the entire populace – even non-movie-goers – accountable for torture porn. Doing so creates a sense of majority resistance to torture porn. The strategy holds film funders liable to public-pressure, tacitly stifling torture porn at the root by discouraging funders from becoming involved in torture porn production.
These economically-focused complaints are thus geared towards
pushing torture porn out of the multiplex. The word ‘mainstream’ is habitually interjected into commentary regarding money, pointing to torture porn’s theatrical exhibition as a source of apprehension (see McCartney, 2008; Gordon, 2009; Cochrane, 2007; Hunt, 2007). However, these allusions do not specify why torture porn’s mainstream presence is problematic: it is just self-evidently worrying. Pointing out that
‘[t]orture porn movies play in multiplexes everywhere’ (Johnson, 2007) has a similar effect, underlining that prevalence is a problem without stip-ulating why. Such observations are undermined by assertions regarding torture porn’s decline elsewhere in the press. Much like detractors’ over-inflation of torture porn’s violent content, torture porn’s multiplex presence is also typically exaggerated. As a horror subgenre, torture porn performed well at the box-office, but that is not to suggest that torture porn films are comparable to summer blockbusters in terms of profitability, for instance. When critics such as Driscoll (2007) and Pamela McClintock (2006) express anxiety over Hostel usurping the family film The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe at the top of the American box-office, it should be noted that Hostel’s success does not typify torture porn’s performance as an entire subgenre, particularly
‘Torture Porn’ as Press Discourse 35
given that torture porn has been more widely proliferated on the DVD
market.
That few objections are raised over torture porn’s continued production in the direct-to-DVD context elucidates that theatrical exhibition is a particular problem. For example, more than 80 English language articles in major world publications covered Hostel: Part II’s release in 2007. Most of these consisted of depreciatory opinion. Diametrically, only three short articles (Longsdorf, 2011; Bentley, 2011; and Miller, 2012) – mainly constituted by plot synopsis – immediately followed Hostel: Part III’s direct-to-DVD release. Notably, only one of these articles was printed in a major world publication. Furthermore, these disparities evince that disputes about torture porn are not ultimately concerned with filmic content. Torture porn DVDs are commonly packaged as
‘unrated’ or ‘extreme’, implying that the DVD version contains more explicit violence than the theatrical cut.6 If content were the primary issue, then these expressly uncensored DVDs should alarm reporters more than the cinematically released, R-rated versions. However, the opposite is true in ‘torture porn’ discourse.
Torture porn’s disparagement exposes much about the multiplex’s
significance as a site of cultural power. Critical unease is fixated on torture porn being ‘accepted as the norm’ (Hill, 2007), and horror’s potential to move from the sidelines of film culture into its commercial centre. Most plainly, Aftab (2009) rejects torture porn by complaining that ‘at least [splatter] films knew their place in B-movie theatres’ (see also Lovece, 2010). His explicit reference to location reveals that the torture porn ‘problem’ can be resolved via what amounts to cultural gentrification.
‘ ... like some sort of epidemic’:7 the ‘need’ for restriction Critics’ affront stems less from torture porn’s content than it does the structures via which they are exposed to that content. That is, reviewers frequently object to having to deal with these films. That sentiment is clear in Vicki Brett’s (2007) admittance that ‘my stomach isn’t strong enough for [torture porn]. I’m the one who comes out screaming like the bloodied victims’. Various critics echo her apprehension, positing that they are directly – even physically – affected by their encounters with torture porn. Anna Smith (2010) declares that she ‘would have given anything for release from the gratuitous torture porn of Wolf Creek’, for instance (see also Platell, 2008; McCartney, 2007a). Such personal responses illustrate that reporters find torture porn’s success problematic
