Guilt & Terror Theatre

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Tonight I woke with an idea: Terror Theatre—a showcase for balls-out, over-the-top horror comedies and melodramas. H. Oozewalt, Jr. would present each play (à la Rod Serling) and he would give sole authorial credit to his late father, H. Oozewalt, Sr. The general conceit: H. Oozewalt, Jr. murdered his father for being a superior writer. Hence Jr.’s penance for presenting Sr.’s work. What’s more, Jr. is plagued by Sr.’s ghost. In fact, Jr. is only left in peace when he recites (stages) Sr.’s stories. 

But here’s a thought: What if horror in our printed fiction and projected upon our silver screens allows us to ignore the true horrors of the real world? We close the cover on the horror novel, or exit the multiplex (our nerves drawn taut) as the credits roll, and we breathe a sigh of relief. (That is, presuming the book or the flick did its job.) And then we smile, or perhaps we chuckle, and we remind ourselves that it wasn’t real. And we do so whilst skirting the begging vagabond. Given his wildly unkempt beard, the reek of his unlaundered clothes, and his generally grubby overall state, he has probably spent much of his life dumpster diving and sleeping on sidewalks. Unless, of course, he’s actually a costumed and made-up busker with a bachelor’s degree in theatre. But assuming he’s the real deal, we turn our eyes blind and our ears deaf and our shoulders cold to the actual terror/horror he experiences minute by minute, day by day, year by year. Or is that just me? 

10 & 11 March 2001

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