WHY PEOPLE SEE HORROR MOVIES – A RESPONSE TO THE GUY WHO CREATED DILBERT

MySpace bud Elizabeth just sent me this, written by Scott Adams, the guy who created DILBERT, on his blog:

Frightening Little Question...

When I watch a movie, I enjoy it more if I can empathize with one of the characters. I imagine myself in his or her situation: solving a crime, falling in love, wearing a leotard while battling injustice, and whatnot. It's hard to enjoy a movie if I can't relate to how the characters are feeling, even if they are different from me. That's normal, right?

So how the f*ck do you explain the popularity of horror movies?

There are only two kinds of characters in a horror flick: the victims who are dying horrible deaths, and the psychopaths that are doing the killing. My problem with those movies is that I automatically empathize with the victims, and I can feel their pain. When a character gets impaled with a sharp object, I imagine what that would feel like. I think it would hurt. So I steer clear of horror movies. Yet millions of people enjoy that type of entertainment. Here's your frightening little question of the day: Who are horror movie fans empathizing with?

By process of elimination, I assume fans of horror flicks are imagining themselves as the killer, thinking how cool it would be to disembowel attractive teenagers. Jeezus-frickin-christ! There are millions of these psychopath movie-goers. And they look just like normal people.

I wonder how many times in my life I'm at a store, for example, swiping my debit card, and the cashier is looking at me and thinking "It sure would be fun to drive a spike through his forehead and make a vest from his skin." It probably happens more often than I'd like.

Do you enjoy horror movies? If so, what the f*ck is wrong with you?

I don't know about you guys but, to me, the Guy Who Created Dilbert seems kind of like a fucking moron.  People generally go to horror films to be FRIGHTENED.  That would mean they empathize with the victims.  I can't believe I'm going to type the next word – honest to God, I probably haven't written it in at least twenty years, but here the fuck it comes – DUH.    

It's part of our genetic heritage to be afraid of predators.  Fortunately, this is no longer something we have to deal with in our everyday lives.  But we're able to access the part of ourselves that evolved to run from bears and buffalo and tyrannosaurus rexes (My history here is based not upon actual physical evidence, but my 1973 plastic dinosaur play set, where cavemen, pterodactyls, and wooly mammoths roamed side by side, and humans ran from tyrannosaurus rexes on a regular basis.  This isn't completely true, I guess, but slightly more accurate than, say, creationism.)

Anyway, through horror films, our reptilian under-brains are provided with the thrills and chills a life of relative safety denies us.  Our ids are able to experience true fear in a place where our superegos are able to tell us, "Ha ha.  This isn't really dangerous at all" – until something hops out from the side of the screen and our ids, egos, and superegos cry out "HOLY SHIT!" in unison, along with a theater of two hundred other ids, egos, and superegos.  For just a moment, we are one in our fear and Darwinian vulnerability.  And what's more fun than that?

So that is why most of us go to see horror movies, Mr. Guy Who Created Dilbert.  But thank you for your perfect blend of elitism and dumbfuckness which reminds me why I care about horror films.  As I shared in my last blog, I've been feeling apathetic as of late. 

And, by the way, I'm not saying no one ever empathizes with the killer.  I'm just saying that almost all of us empathize primarily with the victims.  However, we're not perfect.  Every once in a while a particularly obnoxious character appears – say a guy who has a Dilbert "Try Rebooting Yourself" poster on his cubicle wall – and we just can't wait to see the dude get mangled in some terrifically gory way.  However, it's the exception.  

Now I'm wondering if the Guy Who Created Dilbert has a hardcore fanbase who are now going to flood my message box with death threats and put-downs.  Hmmm...  If so, bring it on you bastards!  I have the ultimate rebuttal to destroy all your charges –

YOU ARE PEOPLE WHO ENJOY DILBERT.

What the f*ck is wrong with you, indeed.

THE JUDGE

My brother, Sean Gunn, finally has a MySpace page.  You may know him as "Kirk on the Gilmore Girls" or "Alien Orphan in The Specials" or "Sammy Capulet in Tromeo & Juliet" or "that guy who put a roofie in my drink and tried to rape me anally, but it wasn't as bad as you think because his penis is so small."

To which I say: "Still, I mean, that's pretty bad. Rape is rape."

"Yeah, I know.  But being raped by a person with a mini-dick is better than being raped by someone with a large one.  In fact, I think I'm going to start a petition to give less stern sentences to rapists with small penises."

"Really?  That's kind of weird, considering you're a rape victim."

"Yeah, but, you know, it just seems fair."

"But still – aren't there better ways for you to spend your time?  Like, say, doing cancer walks or taking care of homeless kittens?"

"Why are you always judging me?"

"I'm not."

"You are.  It makes me feel bad about myself.  In fact, that low self-esteem is probably why your brother raped me!"

 Uh, anyway… Sean's family and friends call him, in turn affectionately and derisively, "The Judge."  Now you can do so too as one of his very closest MySpace Frenz at www.myspace.com/seangunnthejudge

 Befriend his Stars Hollow ass now. 

BY THE WAY

That rape stuff, of course, isn't true.  But, speaking of penises, this is…

We were in our teens.  My brothers and I were bored, while my parents and sister were trying on clothes.  We got into an argument about who had the biggest penis, so we decided to go into one of the dressing rooms and settle it once and for all.

In the dressing room, we all stood in a circle and whipped out our penises, to figure out whose was the biggest.  I distinctly remember Sean holding his member in one hand and stroking his chin with the other, saying, "hmmmm…"  He was approaching it in a scientific manner.

It was at that moment my Dad came into the dressing room to give my brother Matt a pair of Hawaiian shorts he thought he might like.

"What the fuck are -- ?  What the -- ?  Oh, Jesus!"  My Dad backed out of the booth and we never heard about it again.  I think the situation was too much for the old man's brain, and he just instantly blacked it out in service of his mental self-preservation.

Incidentally, I was second biggest, after Brian.

Mr. Big -- unless he was sporting wood.

THE CABIN

This is where I spent last week writing.  It was pretty incredible. 

I read Thich Nhat Hanh, masturbated, and got a shitload of writing done.  I feel cleansed.  I also cooked for myself, something I never, ever do. It's such a rare occasion that I had to take a photo of one of my meals:

The first one to name the dish wins major props from me.

(edit: Zanny the Tramp has nailed this sucker -- it's creamed spinach and ahi tuna -- the tuna was cooked in butter and Emeril's delicious spices.  And, yes, it was wonderful.)

CONTEST

Win a SLiTHER DVD signed by Nathan Fillion, Michael Rooker, and me.  How?  Well, it's a little contest being thrown by the James Gunn Appreciation Society.  I'll let them tell you all about it here – http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=179141315&blogID=284963337

CHAT

Speaking of JGAS, there will be a LIVE CHAT with me this Friday, July 13, at 6 p.m. Pacific time.  Just become a member at www.jgas.org and then log in to the chat on time at www.jgas.org.chat.html. 

Okay.  I think I've fulfilled my blogly duties.

Go fuck yourselves,

James