PIXAR
When I was eight, a strange
thing happened. I was on my way
up the stairs of my old house,
about ready for bed, and heard
my mom gasp from the kitchen.
I looked back to her to see her
clutching her coffee cup with
her eyes somewhat wide. “The
basement light just turned on,”
she said. No one was supposed
to be downstairs. My sister was
next to me, my dad in the living
room. Warily, my parents headed
to the basement armed with steak
knives and searched every corner.
Of course, they found nothing
out of the ordinary. My dad even
trudged out into our snowy
backyard to look for footprints.
He didn’t find any. The whole
thing was silly, in retrospect.
Many of us have memories
that fringe on the preternatural,
that are somewhere between
the almost explicable and the
undeniably spooky. But a place
that nearly everyone has seen
the supernatural at work for
themselves is in film. Film ghosts
are everywhere — they’re not
limited by genre or archetype. In
fact, they span an array of abilities,
personas, and motivations.
Casper:
At
their
shallowest,
and
arguably their most fun, ghosts in
film are odd companions, comic
relief and maniacal antagonists.
Casper the Friendly Ghost, first
created as a cartoon character
in the 1940s, has become our
collective
interpretation
of
how the average ghost should
look like: a cloud-like, white
apparition hovering wherever it
pleases. Casper is the ultimate
“everyghost,”
the
spirit
of
the afterlife most relatable to
the living. His relation to the
supernatural is a giddy and purely
benign one. He shows us that we
don’t have to be scared of ghosts
at all. They may be a little more
translucent and monochromatic
than we are, but that doesn’t
mean they can’t be companions.
Moaning Myrtle:
J.K. Rowling brought to life
a whole new kind of ghost with
the “Harry Potter” series, and
while these ghosts are largely
underrepresented in the film
adaptations of her novels (most
notably Peeves the Poltergeist),
Moaning
Myrtle
steals
the
ethereal spotlight in the second
installment of the series, “The
Chamber of Secrets.” Myrtle is
not simply the wailing tormentor
of
a
decrepit
bathroom
at
Hogwarts; she also provides
the key piece to the story’s
central mystery of unlocking the
Chamber. Behind her hilarious
melodrama, deceptive coyness
and ear-splitting wails, Myrtle is
the ghost with the missing answer
— the solution that has evaded
Harry and his friends from the
beginning. She’s wonderful.
“Beetlejuice”:
Tim
Burton,
a
director
known
for
his
theatricality
and
otherworldly
atmosphere
decided to push the boundaries
of the spirit world with 1988’s
“Beetlejuice,” a film as over-
the-top as it is rewatchable.
Michael Keaton’s full-throated,
comical performance as the film’s
eponymous villain is something
of a twisted delight to witness.
Beetlejuice is both grotesque and
sloppily charming. Of course we
find him repulsive, but there’s
something
uncannily
inviting
about
Keaton’s
exaggerated
gestures, snarky delivery and
clownish affectation.
“Coco”:
At their most profound, ghost
stories provide far more than
goofy
characters
and
visual
spectacle. Ghosts in film have the
capacity to express our shared
human expectations, ruminations
and anxieties about death itself.
Perhaps no movie captures this
depth better than Pixar’s “Coco,”
a poignant journey about a young
boy lost in the land of the dead
with only the assistance of his
departed family members to find
his way home.
“Coco” explores the spirit
world in ways that few other films
have. Not only are the ghosts
of the film benign, but they are
Miguel’s own ancestors, shedding
light on his heritage and the
lost truths that have ultimately
torn the family apart. The film
uses these ghosts so effectively
because they become essential
vehicles to tell the story at hand
as well as unravel more complex
quandaries of grief, detachment
and reconciliation.
“A Ghost Story”:
The most on-the-nose title
for a tale of the supernatural
also managed to become one of
the most heart-wrenching and
philosophical examples of ghosts
in film. “A Ghost Story” is an
affecting story about supernatural
forces that act through the bond
of love. As mawkish of a premise
as that may sound, director David
Lowery (“The Old Man and the
Gun”) maximizes the emotional
impact of the movie in a way
that feels fresh and simplistic.
Rooney Mara’s performance as a
mourning widow is empathic and
legitimately haunting, enhanced
by the invisible presence of her
late husband outfitted plainly
in a white sheet, played by
Casey Affleck. Lowery’s work
is a testament to the simplicity
ghost stories can operate without
losing their sweeping cosmic
implications.
“The Others”:
Unfortunately,
it’s
nearly
impossible to discuss my favorite
ghost story without spoiling
its whirlwind of a conclusion.
Suffice it to say that what “The
Others” does best is to blur the
line between the real and the
ghostly, investigating death as
a process rather than an event.
“The Others” uses a hackneyed
haunted
house
premise
to
take advantage of a viewer’s
expectations, but subverts them
ruthlessly by the end of the film.
What seems like a traditional
horror story on first watch turns
ultimately into a spellbinding
tragedy that might be the single
best example of cinematic ghosts.
It was only much later, years
after my family’s strange incident
with the basement light, that
we realized what had actually
triggered our panic. The pressure
from my sister and I walking up
the stairs had likely disturbed
wiring
above
the
basement,
causing the stairway light to
switch on.
The aspect that differentiates
film ghosts from the supernatural
phenomena
that
we
recall
around campfires and during
thunderstorm blackouts is this:
The ghosts in movies need
no explanation. They can be
make-believe
because
film
itself is an escape from reality.
In real life, we have a tendency
to explain away the initially
inexplicable to feel in control of
our surroundings. But in film,
there is no desire, no necessity to
do such a thing. We can interact
with the supernatural, become
endeared or frightened by it. But
most importantly, we don’t have
to challenge it.
The scary and familiar
image of ghosts on film
ANISH TAMHANEY
Daily Arts Writer
WARNER BROS
“You don’t seem too haunted,
but you haunted,” poet Terrance
Hayes writes in the ninth sonnet of
his collection “American Sonnets
for My Past and Future Assassin.”
In the context of the collection,
this haunted thing is a black body
in modern America (“You will not
assassinate my ghosts,” he writes
at the end of the 13th sonnet). But
literature of the present moment,
too, is a haunted thing that does
not, perhaps, immediately present
itself as such.
There has been a resurrection
in American fiction of a fascination
with the dead, undead, half-dead
and dying. And even when these
texts aren’t filled with literal
ghosts, there’s a hauntedness — an
uneasy feeling that things are not
quite as they should be — that seeps
out of everything I read.
It’s like walking down a dark
hallway late at night in your own
home, which is safe because it’s
your home and monsters aren’t
real. And yet, you feel for a moment
as if something could slip out from
the shadows are grab you. Even
though you are an adult, you feel
it. That’s what reading in 2019 feels
like.
Ghosts are not new, of course.
But this ghost, the modern, literary
ghost is something unlike those
that trolled the halls of Edith
Wharton or Shirley Jackson’s
haunted mansions and wreaked
havoc on barefoot children in
nightshirts. It’s not like Stephen
Dedalus seeing his mother’s grey,
melting face, but it’s also not not
like that.
A ghost is an odd supernatural
being because it doesn’t come with
guidelines. Vampires drink blood,
avoid the sun and (as popular
teen media constantly reminds
us) have sex. Zombies do not have
sex, but they lumber and represent
consumption and capitalism in
their purest, most disturbing forms.
Witches are persecuted because
— for better or worse — they are
women with unchecked power.
But ghosts are a harder thing to
define. Perhaps because they are
(often) noncorporeal, voiceless and
vague: existing literally without
the definition of body or self. Or
perhaps because the thing they
represent—something that was, but
isn’t any long — is more malleable
than fears of sexual “perversion,”
consumerism or power.
A ghost is a reminder that
the past lives, even when we
don’t want it to. In that way, it
can mean trauma, memory, loss.
It’s no wonder ghosts crop up in
narratives of immigration (like Viet
Thanh Nguyen’s “The Refugees”),
sexual trauma (Karen Russell’s
“Swamplandia!”)
and
racist
violence (Jesmyn Ward’s “Sing,
Unburied, Sing”). When people
want to forget, ghosts resolve to
stay. They remind and in that, they
find their fearful power.
There’s the ghost towns (and
supermarkets)
of
Alexandra
Kleeman’s “You Too Can Have A
Body Like Mine,” the campfire-
story-esque spin of the stories in
Carmen Maria Machado’s “Her
Body And Other Parts,” and the
nosy, curious spectors of George
Saunder “Lincoln In The Bardo,”
all of which, in their own distinct
ways, have fun with these dark,
indefinite beings.
Even on the more benign,
domestic level ghosts represent
the things we don’t want to look
right in the eyes. Michael Furey
in James Joyce’s “The Dead” is a
ghost only in that his presence is
felt supernaturally: He represents
the impossible and horrible truth
that the people we love, loved other
people before us. Snow comes down
on the windows like tiny, tapping
hands at the story’s close, and Joyce
maintains narrative reality and
casts a ghostly emotional aura.
Following in those footsteps,
much
of
contemporary
ghost
literature straddles the line of
belief, never letting on wholly what
it thinks is real and not real. In
“Swamplandia!” a teenage girl runs
away with her ghost boyfriend on a
ghost ship. The terms are explicit
and because a child’s point of view
is privileged, belief is everywhere.
But what the characters believe
and what the text believes are
maintained as two seperate things.
Maybe those things meet and
maybe they don’t.
Ghosts need this ambiguity.
Unlike
their
cousins
in
the
supernatural world, ghosts rely on
belief. You don’t believe in zombies:
They exist or they don’t. But you
believe in ghosts, even if you can
never know for sure.
Surprisingly
enough,
ghost
shows — yes, like the “Ghost
Adventures” kind of ghost shows
— operate in the same way. They
present themselves as scientific
investigations with video and
audio and radio equipment. And
regardless of whether they fake the
results these machines produce,
they’re very careful about what
they don’t fake. There’s a reason
we never see a ghost as anything
more that a streak of light. It could
be dust or a lens flare or a glitch,
but we don’t know. If you know. If
you see the transparent child in a
nightgown in the upstairs hallway,
it isn’t fun anymore. Because you
don’t have to believe, you just know.
In literature, the relationship
between knowing and believing
opens up even further the narrative
possibilities. Do we believe in
ghosts? And if we do, do we believe
the character who sees the ghost?
And if we do believe the character
who sees the ghosts, does the
novel? The very convention of ghost
stories denies closure and answers.
Because we can never know.
And, when this endeavor into
belief is done well, it doesn’t feel
anything
like
“Contact,”
that
horrible movie with Matthew
Mcconaughey and Jodie Foster
that equates belief in aliens and
belief in God. In the world of
narrative fiction God is much
more like vampires and ghosts are
much more like aliens. God has
canonical rules and institutions
and customs. Aliens and ghosts are
more indefinite things.
Every new ghost requires new
belief, and every new ghost story
must establish the terms of that
belief.
Casey Affleck being a terrible
person aside, I think “A Ghost
Story” (David Lowrey’s 2017 white-
sheet-ghost film) handles this
question of belief in a particularly
interesting way. The film spends a
long time (perhaps too much time)
on one insufferable man’s nihilist
monologue without ever hinting at
whether it agrees with him or not.
The ghost, when he rattles the light
bulbs at the end, give an indication
of an opinion, but the film does not.
This ambiguity is particularly
powerful in the modern era of ghost
stories because the physical things
many of them represent are real.
Real in a way that negates belief.
But these stories don’t often deal
with the real explicitly, but rather
the less physical, less tangible
effects of the real. You cannot feel
the shape of generational trauma in
the same way you feel the shape of
a bed or a chair, but the characters
of these stories live in it as if it
were a house, carrying with them
the ghosts of their histories and
parents and home countries.
What stays behind is not
something
(sorry
“Ghost
Adventures”) that can be measured
by any device or apparatus, no
matter how strong or advanced.
And that is precisely what makes
America in 2019 the haunted place
that it is. We can’t see or feel or
know everything that is here. But
that doesn’t make it all less here.
Ghost stories remain strongholds
of the literary canon because, to be
sentimental and a little reductive,
history is itself a kind of ghost
story. To live in the world is to walk
through a minefield of ghosts that
both belong to and because of you
and your people and where you
come from.
The permanence of ghost
stories in the imagination
B-SIDE: FILM
MADELEINE GAUDIN
Daily Arts Writer
B-SIDE: BOOKS
A24
FACEBOOK
Ghosts need this
ambiguity. Unlike
their cousins in
the supernatural
world, ghosts rely
on belief.
4B —Thursday, February 7, 2019
b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com