This is an essay I wrote a long time ago on Burnt Offerings.
Are human beings conscious
agents with free will? Is there such a
thing as freedom? What role does fate play in our lives? These questions have
been the province of philosophers and psychologists forever, and they turn up
as the largely unstated subject matter of Robert Marasco's 1973 horror novel Burnt
Offerings. The film, made a few
years later by director Dan Curtis of TV's Dark Shadows fame, is even
less overtly concerned with these issues and functions more as a pure
entertainment of the supernatural. Bear
with me as we make an incomplete,
roundabout, somewhat fragmented examination of this unusual story whose
title appears in the Bible many times.
Around the midpoint of the
twentieth century the philosopher Frank Sibley published a highly influential,
much discussed essay entitled "Aesthetic Concepts" in which he largely succeeded in recasting some of the
most fundamental ways we talk about our appreciation of the arts. In this paper Sibley sought to distinguish
between two different kinds of concepts.
Let's imagine contemplating a
sculpture. Asked to describe it, we
might say, "It's curved, it's made of wrought iron, and it's about three
feet tall." According to Sibley's
account these attributes are non-aesthetic concepts - any person of
average, normal intelligence is immediately able to identify them. We might equally say of the object,
"It's elegaic, meditative, and displays a real sense of pathos," and
in Sibley's terminology these are aesthetic concepts. Unlike the recognition of non-aesthetic
concepts, recognition of aesthetic concepts requires a certain taste,
refinement and sophistication. The
majority of Sibley's paper goes on to take up issues that delve much more
deeply into technical philosophy than is necessary or desireable here; I bring
it up because I think this story that is what it is specifically because of our
ability to recognize a very particular aesthetic concept that the it exhibits,
and that is the concept of "defamiliarization" aka "making
strange".
This is a notion first written
about by the Russian Formalists of the early 20th century. David Lodge gives a good account of it in his
book The Art of Fiction. Essentially what it means is to put an odd
twist on something well known to us. I
want to suggest that this is is the plan of attack used by Marasco in
Burnt Offerings and also by Curtis in his 1976 cinematic
treatment of the tale - to defamiliarize
the asking of the ancient questions I
mentioned at the beginning. I want to suggest also that there is a sense of oddness
embedded into the tale that makes us nervous and that both Marasco and
Curtis play up this oddness in their different ways, and that this oddness is
what scares the daylights out of us. Burnt
Offerings is viscerally traumatizing, and it is its weird aura that makes
it so more than anything gory or frightening in the story itself (Indeed, on close logical examination, the
story doesn't hold up at all. There are
gaps of reason and probability in it that make it, finally, untenable. But it's none the less interesting for
that.) It is about the loss of control -
something that scares us perhaps more than anything else - but not obviously
so.
The basics of the story are this:
a family rents a house from an eccentric couple for the summer. The house immediately begins to kill them off
slowly, as it has apparently been doing to successions of renters for hundreds
of years. It feeds on guests in
order to remain "immortal" and each group of renters contains a young female
mom who somehow slowly morphs into the matriach, the old lady who lives
upstairs and never comes out of her room. Over the course of two year periods
the house and grounds become fantastically rejuvenated, brilliant, and then
slowly deterioriate back into decepit condition until new renters come along.
This story is said to have directly inspired Stephen King's The Shining
- in fact King says as much in an essay
- and, indeed, especially in the visual device of the photographs of all the
past inhabitants of the house, the resemblance is easy to see.
The novel begins with a long section that doesn't
appear in the film at all. In the
borough of Queens in New York City (the film switches the locale to
California), the Rolfes - Marian, Ben, and their son David - seemed doomed to
spend another summer shut up in their tiny apartment in a hot, noisy, crowded
urban neighborhood. There is a long
windup before they move into the terrifying haunted house, approximately a third of the book, and it
probably wouldn't translate to film form very well at all. This is one of the problems with the film -
it doesn't adequately set up the tension
between Marian's all consuming desire to be in the house and Ben's suspicion
and resistance in the way the book does. Marasco writes carefully and with
subtlety; the text seems to be relatively innocent but there is all manner of
menace underneath that requires perhaps a second and third reading, and
reflection, to pick up on. Really the
book is a kind of examination of the concept of free will in a way the movie
cannot be. Curtis, on the other hand, handles the story with more
spectacularity and excitement than is perhaps possible on the written page, and
quite a few significant details get changed.(This is the way in which the film
is far superior to the book - it's simply scarier. The moody commentative score by Robert Cobert
has plenty to do with that.) I plan here
to briefly pick out a few ideas along these lines of the denial of free will
and the advancement of determinism from the first two chapters of the novel and
then shift to musings about the picture. First let me clarify something I
just said - in spirit, the script tries to stay as faithful to the novel
as possible. A lot of the dialogue is lifted
verbatim from the book - but there are numerous changes of detail, as I
stated Some of these changes spring out
of concessions that have to be made because of the inherent nature of the movie
medium. Others spring out of a need to
have sensationalism in a horror film for purposes of creating box office. Others seem to have been made for no special
reason at all. There are at least twelve
notable changes, and we'll list them shortly.
As well as introducing all the
principal characters, the first couple of chapters are a veritable creative
writing course on foreshadowing, on giving little glimpses of, and making quiet
allusions to, the horror and evil that is to come. The story begins with Marian and David in the
apartment, which is quickly followed by a scene of Ben trying to park his car
in their Queens neighborhood (which must be Long Island City - the
"LaGuardia landing pattern directly overhead" is mentioned); these
two scenes are happening concurrently inside the real time of the fiction. Defamiliarization
starts immediately with two bizarrely formulated words:
"schoolshirt" and "schoolshoes," presented as one word
constructions. Marian pleads with her
son to clean up his room, and after he grudgingly obeys there's an ominous red
signal in the form of her odd declaration, "The only time I get to see you
is when I'm yelling at you. That's why I
yell so much." This blueprint for poor parenting reveals an unease about
her relationship with the boy which her husband Ben will also be seen to share. While he cleans up, Marian's awareness slowly
absorbs the claustrophobia of the building, the area, the noisy neighbors,
everything in the immediate surroundings.
She has a kind of panic attack in stark one word sentences:
Summer. Apartment. Queens.
The overtones were ominous.
Again.
We can make a plausible
case that somehow, some way, the Allardyce House (the haunted house the Rolfes
will soon rent from the brother and sister team of Roz and Brother) is reaching
out to her before she even has conscious knowledge of its existence. Her desire to escape the city is presented
as being extremely strong, and her
particular desire for that particular house, onces she reads the ad for it,
before she even sees it, is unrelenting - Marasco thus dips the story in the
supernatural before we really even know what is going on. The ghosts of the house are contacting her
subconscious. This most definitely is a
kind of determinism - she's helpless to resist it.
Ben, too, is thinking along the
lines of the misery of another crowded Queens summer - in a blunt gestalt - but
on smaller, more immediate terms. The
first words we read the first time we meet him are:
Bus stop,
hydrant, driveway. The goddamn area was
getting worse than Manhattan.
After he struggles to park
the car and walks to their apartment building Marasco inserts a telling scene
which serves to further show how the child, David, is alienated from his
parents (or they from him). Ben waits to
cross the street at a red light. One of the other pedestrians is a little girl
holding a bag. He asks her what's in the
bag and she replies, "Ring Dings," and he doesn't know what Ring
Dings are. This is odd - it has already
been established that his own son David is a lover of Yankee Doodles, a similar
Drake's cake that kids like. It is not possible that a parent who's aware of
what Yankee Doodles are would be ignorant of what Ring Dings are. This suggests
he's deeply out of touch with his son's world.
He's also on a different wavelength
of perception than his wife Marian is, and about some fundamental matters. For example, in regard to the family's
monetary situation, she has the thought, "And they weren't exactly
broke." Shortly therafter Ben makes
a remark to the effect that after nine years of marriage they only have two
thousand dollars in the bank, clearly dismayed.
And he repeatedly insinuates that there is no way they can afford the
Allardyce house.. (Ben is a teacher, a
fact that is clearly and directly brought up a few times in the novel but only
obliquely referred to once in the film. The book mentions that Marian
frequently temps, doing office work, and this is not pointed out in the film at
all.)
Background exposition isn't the
only, or even the main, strong point of this part of the novel. As noted, there is a quiet but defiinite
tension about Marian's attraction to the house.. In order to be concise I'll concentrate now on this one point.
I want to suggest that Marasco is making a point about free will and conscious
agency in a way that definitely invokes the power of thought, mental power,
brain waves, and destiny. It's spirit,
or mind, taking charge of another person's thoughts and actions.
The desire to leave the city is
already planted in Marian, as we've seen.
Marasco begins foreshadowing the horrid events that are to follow almost
immediately, when he brings up the subject of David's bicycle twice in the very
early going. As David is going out to
play Marian says, "No bike on the boulevard, remember..." As Ben is driving home some wild kids swerve
in front of him on bikes and he thinks "Bike lecture. Tonight." These seemingly random, seemingly realistic
little tidbits actually serve a larger function, which is to warn of danger,
and we know this because when the Rolfes go to look at the Allardyce House for
the first time David finds a bicycle in the woods, covered with blood. They make nothing of it, but we get it
- something horrible happened to one of the kids from one of the many previous
renting families. Events are being
foretold, transmitted to the Rolfes in Queens before they even know what the
Allardyce House is. The Oracle of
Determinism is in full play, predicting inevitabilities as surely as a Greek
tragedy.
Another example of forecasting:
"She had dusted just a couple of hours ago and already there was a layer
of soot on the windowsill in their bedroom." Again, this seems like nothing at all...until
we reflect for a moment on the condition the Allardyce house is in when they
first arrive - a wreck, unkempt, weeds, mold, dust, everywhere. Dusting and cleaning are going to be two of
her main activities in the house; it is almost as if she is practicing for
the role she is going to assume in the house.
At another point, after the piano playing of their
downstairs neighbor begins to drive them crazy, Marian makes a joke that is an
eerily accurate description of later goings on in the house:
"There's
no one down there, you know," she said confidentially, "just a piano
playing itself. And feet
above us
that run back and forth. No real people,
just resident sounds".
Shortly thereafter they argue
about whether or not to respond to the Allardyce's ad. He says no, but then: "But of course
he'd go along with her, just as he had for the past several years."
She observes with crazed irony,
"It could be so good for us if it worked out. No worrying about Davey and that damn
bike." At the Allardyce house Davey
falls and hurts his knee badly, is
attacked by his father in the pool in a drowning attempt, almost killed by a
gas heater with a mind of its own, etc.
Marian gets directions from the
Allardyces on the phone; when Ben remarks they're a little hard to follow, and
maybe perhaps they should try one of the other places first, she objects.
Marasco is careful to show us the
Rolfes driving on a dirt lane where "the trees overhead seem to lock
together," and on this lane, later, this will be shown to be quite a
prescient little observation. Ben even
has a twig snap against his arm, which is hanging out of the window.
There is some discussion, when
they first approach the house, as to whether the place being advertised is
indeed the house or the guest cottage.
Marian thinks (italics in the original):
Please let it be the house.
Later, in chapter three, FATE is
specifically mentioned for the first time in regard to Marian's attraction to
the house:
But it
was something close to fate, as much as meeting Ben had been ten years ago.
It was
only a house and it would only last two months, not a lifetime, but the depth
of
her
reaction surprised even her when she thought about it, which was often. Having met Ben
and not
having married him was inconceivable to her in retrospect; the same was true of
the
house.
Interested readers should read
the book closely to marvel at how Marasco uses defamiliarization
to theorize about human freedom and the nature
of personal responsibility for one's actions.
As an aside I also want to point out that Burnt Offerings has a
lot to say about the nature of relationships - about how a woman can gain
psychological power over her - and about
the structure of the family unit. Due to
considerations of space I haven't gone into these at all here.
The
film Burnt Offerings begins with the Rolfe's station wagon cruising
along a winding road as it carries them to check out the Allardyce house for
the first time. This marks the first
departure from the book, where the family car is a Camaro. Here are eleven others:
1. In the book Marian is
mesmerized by a sound in Mrs. Allardyce's room described as a hum; in the film
it's a little music box.
2. While Ben and Marian discuss
the terms of the rental with the Allardyces David, in the book, falls on some
rocks
on the shore and badly hurts
humself. In the film there is no
shore. He falls off a gazebo he is
trying to climb.
3. In the book Ben needs to get
working on his master's degree; in the film it's his doctorate.
4. In the book the bloodied
bicycle is found by Ben and David on their first visit to the house. In the film
this happens after they've
already moved in. Additionally, they
find it in a graveyard full of generations of
Allardyces, a scene not in the
book at all.
5.
In the novel David is eight years old, in the film he's twelve.
6. In the novel the recurring
dream about the hearse driver starts as a result of him being at the death of a
neighbor of Ben's family. In the movie it's Ben's mother who has died.
7. In the film the hearse driver
first appears at the Allardyce house while Ben is clearing the brush around the
road. The bumper of the car is actually described
as brushing the back of Ben's leg. In
the film Ben has stopped
working and is sitting on the
lawn drinking a beer. The chauffeur
smiles at him from a distance.
8. In the penultimate scene when
Marian is driving the car in the rainstorm, in the book, Ben is mysteriously
transported to the back seat when
the image of Marian becomes the chauffeur; in the cinematic rendering he
remains in the front seat.
9. When Ben and Marian are
negotiating the price with Roz Allardyce, she first asks for seven hundred in
the novel,
and Brother angrily tells her to
go back and ask for nine. In the film
she asks for nine right off the bat.
10. In the novel Marian and Ben
have a conversation about the tiles and boards falling off the house whereas in
the
film they do not - he witnesses
it alone.
11. The ways Ben and David die in
the film are contrived, blood and guts, gory movie deaths; in the novel they
expire with less fanfare and
drama.
The house and grounds are
obviously in horrible disrepair, which makes the fact that a handyman named
Walker ( as played by Dub Taylor, he is the only comic relief in the film) who
answers the door says he "keeps everything spic and span" pretty
funny.
Curtis shoots the great majority
of scenes from a low angle, the camera gazing up at the characters; the first
sign that something is seriously wrong is in the person of Roz Allardyce
(Eileen Heckart), who immediately begins acting defensive about the house and
asking if the Rolfes will "love it as Brother and I do." She serves a critical function though. In a scene where she answers the telephone
the camera zeroes in on her hand, and it looks exactly as the hand of her
mother Mrs. Allardyce will look in one of the film's final scenes - a genetic
replica.
After more weirdness with Brother
(the great actor Burgess Meredith), the Rolfes (played by Karen Black and
Oliver Reed with a disquiet chemistry) are about to leave when David runs in,
having injured himself in his fall. In
time we'll find out, along with David, why "children are good for the
place" as the house tries to kill him no less than four times.
The family, now joined by Aunt
Elizabeth (Bette Davis, in one of her last roles). move in. Curtis inserts a shot from a vantage point
that will be crucial later on, from the old lady's window at the top of the
house, looking down at the family car. I
should here state something I haven't up till now, which is that one of the
conditions of the whole rental deal is that Marian bring the old lady Allardyce
a tray with three meals a day up to her room.
She is simply to leave it outside the door. No one ever sees the old
lady, which is one of the great stretches of the film that really doesn't hold
up For an entire week the woman doesn't
touch the tray at all, and after that Marian stops worrying about it because
her psyche has been fully seduced by the house and all its terrible secrets.
And these terrible secrets are
strongly hinted at by the huge collection of photographs on the table outside
Mrs. Allardyce's room - her "memories of a lifetime." They are all headshots, some quite old, of
people who look terrified or disturbed, and they transifix and fascinate
Marian. The last scene of the film tells
us who all these people are.
The first time we see Marian
hypnotized by the music box something else is also going on in the pool, which
somehow has turned from a decrepit shambles into a wonderfully usuable
recreational facility. Ben and David are
swimming, Aunt Elizabeth sits by poolside.
When Ben makes a deep dive he finds a pair of eyeglasses with a cracked
lens at the bottom of the pool. He is
clueless, but we know it's a relic from some past nightmare much as the
bicycle was. In the blink of an eye,
after horsing around a minute with David, he's trying to drown him in the pool,
holding him underwater, while Elizabeth screams in terror on the
sidelines. He only stops when David
bashes him in the face with his diving mask, drawing blood.
That night he has a dream, and
here Marasco in the novel and Curtis in the film are forced to rely on transparently
contrived flashbacks which have to be introduced in order to explain the dream. It's the sort of semi-cheap desperate last
resort we see in hundreds of stories - when you can't coherently explain the
character's current behavior, introduce something disturbing from their past that still haunts
them now. The dream he has is of a
sinister smiling chauffeur the image of whom has tormented him since his
mother's funeral when he was a little boy.
From here on in the pace really starts to pick up and the chillingl episodes accelerate greatly.
I think the film's most serious
depiction of evil and suffering, and of complete helplessness for that matter,
occurs with the character of Aunt Elizabeth.
I'm not sure if this was actually Bette Davis' very last role or not,
but it's easy to see why see is regarded as one of th great Hollywood
icons. There's even one scene where we
clearly see where the expression "Bette Davis eyes" comes from. Aunt Elizabeth has decided to pay a surprise
visit on Mrs. Allardyce, but when she knocks on the door it's opened by
Marian. As they chat about Mrs.
Allardyce Curtis shoots the scene from behind Marian , over her shoulder, and
we see Elizabeth's eyes straining into the room trying to get a look at the old
lady.
The thing about the way the house
kills off Elizabeth is that it's internal, from within her body, like a
sudden super rapidly growing cancer, or something - she is powerless to
fight. In other instances this is not
the case - David has the ability to fight off Ben when he tries to drown him,
Ben is able to carry Davey to safety when the gas heater goes beserk, Marian rescues Davud from the pool when it
suddenly develops high waves, Ben is able to ram the car into the trees when
they try to block his path, etc. But
Aunt Elizabeth has no such recourse. Her
shocking decline is truly gut wrenching - at one point we actually hear
something snap inside of her, a sound that sounds like it might be her bones
cracking.
In the future I hope to complete
another essay on the film alone that will look at it in much more detail, but
for now I'd like to end this one by spelling out something I mentioned earlier,
which was that the story simply doesn't hold together under scrutiny. Here's why: Down throughout the years the
Allardyces have rented the house to seemingly dozens of families, and the house
has killed them all. (In the novel
sixteen family names are mentioned.) The
pictures of the victims are on display in the house. The question veritably screams itself - no
one comes looking for these dead folks?
Nobody back home where they came from misses them, or knows where they
went for the summer and comes to investigate?
No one is going to miss the Rolfes and send the police to inquire at the
Allardyce house? It just seems too
unbelieveable for words that no one would notice the "coincidence"
that hundreds of people have gone to spend summer vacation at this same house
and they've all been killed or disappeared.
So...these have been some of my
opening thoughts on Burnt Offerings. Hopefully
within the next twelve months I'll be able to come up with a more thorough,
more complete examination of the film version of this exceptionally rich horror
tale.