Dicks-in-buns, Bloodsucking Freaks, and the political economy of castration

This is edited extract from Splatter Capital, a new book by Mark Steven on the political economies of gore, and a guide to surviving the horror movie we collectively inhabit – out now. 

A confession: no matter what justifications I try to give it, the decision to write a book about splatter is, perhaps more than anything else, the result of my own puerile taste in movies. That taste seems to have been shaped by prolonged exposure to the genre during a potentially misspent adolescence in peri-urban nowhere on the east coast of Australia. To have started watching movies there in the mid-1990s, years before access to the internet, meant my first encounters with horror were all mediated by video rental stores – and, specifically, by floor-to-ceiling shelves of heroically sensationalist box art. This is how I first gained access to all sorts of visual atrocity, provided it could find commercial distribution in the wake of restrictions brought on by the so-called “video nasties” spat in England and against Australia’s lastingly draconian system of film classification.

As a valiant surveyor of the aisles I was drawn to the very worst of whatever was on offer: namely, splatter, which was part of a horror section that always seemed to occupy the same space as porn. The marketing for these films, many of which barely made it through the censors unscathed, mined a similar affect to the trailer with which this book began, throwing down a challenge for the dumb and daring. With a truly demented cover image, a catchy tagline, a triptych of screenshots, and some snappy copywriting, the box art alone would fuel the imagination of movies infinitely more horrendous than anything that was available at the time. The films themselves consistently turned out to be the ugly assemblage of these representative part-objects, awkward in the intercalation of their own marketing materials, which we can only presume came after and not before the realized film. Continue reading Dicks-in-buns, Bloodsucking Freaks, and the political economy of castration

The Great Digital Swindle

Mark Fisher

Who dares dissent from the gospel according to Silicon Valley? There is – we are insistently told – no alternative to the invasion of capitalist cyberspace into all areas of consciousness and culture.  Anyone who expresses even the mildest scepticism about social media and smartphones is roundly denounced as nostalgic.  The old, desperate not to seem out of touch, rarely dare question the young’s compulsive attachment to their smartphones. Anti-capitalists join with
tycoons to celebrate the potentials of network society. In article after article, conference after conference, the “new” is routinely equated with “the digital”, to such an extent that is now difficult to remember a time when “technology” wasn’t a shorthand for communicative software.  When mobile phones entered the marketplace, they were the object of mockery: who could be so self-important as to believe that they needed to be contactable everywhere and anywhere? Now, everyone is required to act like some cross between a hustler always on the make and an addict jonesing for contact.

But how has this model of progress, in which history culminates in the glorious invention of iPhones and apps, become so uncontested? And, if we attend closely, isn’t there a desperate quality to all this cheerleading? Addicts always rationalise their compulsions, but the desperation here belongs to capital itself, which has thrown everything at the great digital swindle. Capital might still swagger like some data cowboy, but iPhones plus Victorian values can only be a steampunk throwback.  The return to centuries’ old forms of exploitation is obfuscated by the distracting urgencies of digital communication.  Continue reading The Great Digital Swindle