Nothing is more terrifying than the truth. Or so reads the tag
line for Hollywood’s newest horror flick, “The
Amityville Horror,” which opens in theaters Friday.
A remake of the 1979 movie of the same title, the film’s
most prominent advertising campaign lies in its claim to truth. The
Web site and trailer both prominently display the words
“Based on the true story.” But how much should reality
play into the creation of horror?
According to UCLA screenwriting professor Richard Walter, the
answer is simple.
“The filmmakers should make the best movie they can
make,” Walter said. “Reality is, for the most part, a
bore.”
Yet, surfing the forums of Amazon.com and IMDb.com, it is hard
to ignore the innumerable complaints of various films deviation
from the “truth.”
“This is NOT the true story”, wrote an Amazon.com
user about “The Amityville Horror” who claims to be
very well-read on the history of the real Amityville tale. “I
hate to burst bubbles, but people should know this movie is not
accurate before they spend their money.”
On IMDb.com, “Amityville” forum topics range from
“What will they remake next?” to “Was Satan
himself in the house?” But perhaps the most intriguing post
revolves around the title “Is whether it’s true or not
really that important?”
From a filmmaker’s perspective, adherence to the
“true story” often takes a backseat to artistic
expression.
“The reality needs not to be about the facts of the
situation, but the emotions experienced by the character and the
audience,” Walter said. “These are completely real.
That is the only reality that has value in dramatic
expression.”
But there is a conflict of interest between the artisans and the
businessman of Hollywood. While filmmakers hope to reach their
audiences through emotional reality, a label of factual accuracy is
an uncomplicated marketing ploy in obtaining a larger audience.
Reality can elicit fear. And when going to a horror movie,
audiences want to be frightened.
“The element of truth definitely adds to the
horror,” said first-year pre-communications student Courtney
Bowman. “Knowing that similar events have occurred in the
past allows you to believe that they could happen to you in the
future.”
For example, writer-director Chris Kentis’ reality-based
thriller “Open Water” (2003) created a rise in fear of
sharks when it was released. Because the film dramatized actual
events, viewers were more inclined to take to heart past and
present warnings of shark-infested waters. Many were even afraid to
enter the ocean for weeks or months after seeing the film.
Arguably, purely fictional horror films can be just as
frightening than those based on true stories. Alfred
Hitchock’s “Psycho” (1960) and Johnathan
Demme’s “The Silence of the Lambs” (1991), for
example, are considered two of the most terrifying horror films
ever made. Both were born out of pure imagination.
“Aristotle, in his “˜Poetics,’ argues that the
(author) should favor “˜the plausible impossibility over the
implausible possibility,'” said Walter. “What
does that mean? Lie through your teeth. Screenwriters should worry
not about what is real but what is reel.”
Walter hopes that screenwriter and UCLA alum Scott Kosar used
creativity in his “Amityville” screenplay as he did
with his 2003 remake screenplay of “The Texas Chainsaw
Massacre.”
“The Amityville Horror” is based on the real events
of a family driven from a house filled with ghosts after murders
occurred in the same house the year before. The idea is terrifying,
but details may have been embellished.
“I don’t know and could care less how
“˜accurate’ it is,” Walter said. “I hope and
trust that Kosar took liberties with it to make it more interesting
and entertaining than it might actually have been.”
And while reality may have a key role in garnishing numbers at
the box office, ultimately it is the concept of truth that must be
questioned. A filmic narrative must be more than a record of
history, because history itself is not as objective as many
claim.
“Most frightening of all is the notion that someone thinks
he knows the truth,” Walter said.