Carla
If reading about others’ trauma (I tried to be as helpful in the trigger warnings as I could) would be a problem for you in any way, do not read this book thinking it would be an interesting exploration of women in horror. It is an autobiography of mental illness and dysfunction, and that is putting it carefully and mildly.
I wanted to rate this one higher. At points I deeply enjoyed it; this shows at the speed at which I listened to it. But the author doesn’t do the best job of explaining why her history of mental illness, domestic violence, and childhood abuse is relevant to share within this topic of female neuroses in horror films. And does she share—to a detailed extent that could be called grotesque. I feel exhausted now, almost like I have witnessed something deeply traumatic happen. I didn’t need to know everything she has thought, felt, and experienced ever that could relate to female hysteria, abuse, and neurosis as portrayed in horror, but I received it anyway in painful, sometimes excruciating detail. There is catharsis in reading and watching horror, there was none here, and I am left feeling like I need a hug or a nap. This should not be.
Remember: I say all this as someone with advanced degrees in psychology and counseling, and post-grad work in Forensic Anthropology and Sex Crimes. So, if I am uncomfortable, it might be a warning. Just something to mull over.
I also have to mention that, a good 80-90 percent into the book, it got worse, because the author casually used the r-word, as in referring to an adult behaving like an r-word child. I should have stopped reading. I regret not doing so.
This is the second supposedly-seminal book about the horror genre that has been painful to read, the first being Carol J. Clover’s Men, Women, and Chainsaws—I DNF that one. Both this year. I’ll just reread Kim Newman’s Nightmare Movies, Alexandra West’s books on French extremity and 90’s teen horror, and Stephen King’s Danse Macabre if I feel the urge for this type of book again. No slurs, no trauma, and no misuse of Freud (Clover—trust me, it became gross).
I think I need to go outside and get some vitamin D.
If reading about others’ trauma (I tried to be as helpful in the trigger warnings as I could) would be a problem for you in any way, do not read this book thinking it would be an interesting exploration of women in horror. It is an autobiography of mental illness and dysfunction, and that is putting it carefully and mildly.
I wanted to rate this one higher. At points I deeply enjoyed it; this shows at the speed at which I listened to it. But the author doesn’t do the best job of explaining why her history of mental illness, domestic violence, and childhood abuse is relevant to share within this topic of female neuroses in horror films. And does she share—to a detailed extent that could be called grotesque. I feel exhausted now, almost like I have witnessed something deeply traumatic happen. I didn’t need to know everything she has thought, felt, and experienced ever that could relate to female hysteria, abuse, and neurosis as portrayed in horror, but I received it anyway in painful, sometimes excruciating detail. There is catharsis in reading and watching horror, there was none here, and I am left feeling like I need a hug or a nap. This should not be.
Remember: I say all this as someone with advanced degrees in psychology and counseling, and post-grad work in Forensic Anthropology and Sex Crimes. So, if I am uncomfortable, it might be a warning. Just something to mull over.
I also have to mention that, a good 80-90 percent into the book, it got worse, because the author casually used the r-word, as in referring to an adult behaving like an r-word child. I should have stopped reading. I regret not doing so.
This is the second supposedly-seminal book about the horror genre that has been painful to read, the first being Carol J. Clover’s Men, Women, and Chainsaws—I DNF that one. Both this year. I’ll just reread Kim Newman’s Nightmare Movies, Alexandra West’s books on French extremity and 90’s teen horror, and Stephen King’s Danse Macabre if I feel the urge for this type of book again. No slurs, no trauma, and no misuse of Freud (Clover—trust me, it became gross).
I think I need to go outside and get some vitamin D.