Splatterpunk, although retrospectively seen as a relatively cogent literary movement, did not suddenly come into existence. This horror fiction subgenre gradually gathered momentum after David J. Schow christened it at the Twelfth World Fantasy Convention in 1986.1 It roughly blossomed from 1985 to 1990 through the work of the self-professed Splat Pack, which included John Skipp and Craig Spector, Joe R. Lansdale, Richard Christian Matheson, Ray Garton, Robert R. McCammon and Schow himself amongst others, and the aggressively violent and extremely visceral novels of cult horror writers Edward Lee or Jack Ketchum, especially the latterās Off Season (1981) and The Girl Next Door (1989). Group pictures abound, even if some of its practitioners have afterwards distanced themselves from the movement, and splatterpunk could be said to have gradually disappeared after 1990, even if successful novels such as Poppy Z. Briteās Lost Souls (1992) could still be connected to it. In fact, it could be argued that the reason why āsplatterpunkā is no longer used as an adjective to define a specific type of fiction is because the extremity it once came to define has been more widely assimilated by the horror genre.2 Splatterpunk aimed to shock, generally through displays of corporeal transgression encompassing anything from extreme mutilation and transformation to mutation or severe body modification and graphic sex. Whilst I am not suggesting that splatterpunk was the first instance of gothic writing that sought to exploit corporeality for reading affect ā as I have argued, I see this as an ineluctable aspect of gothic horror more broadly ā it is a testament to the relevance that corporeality has gained in the construction of spaces or zones of affect for contemporary writers. Although splatterpunkās settings (cemeteries, derelict abbeys, slums), characters (vampires, zombies, tyrannical villains), tropes (hauntings, invasions, incarcerations) mostly adhere to the canon, this chapter turns to the way in which its constituting fictions have actually developed, rather than followed, the gothic tradition.
Gothic fiction in the 1970s had obviously already entered graphic territory, but only sparingly and often with a degree of caution. James Herbertās The Rats (1975), a splatterpunk novel avant la lettre, takes place in a London ridden with a mutated species of rodents. The novelās episodic structure is mostly driven by short vignettes set in the gloomier quarters of the city that eventually reveal themselves as murder set pieces more typical of 1960s and 1970s exploitation films. Herbertās novel received heavy criticism for its graphic depictions of violence, which included homeless people being eaten alive. The Rats had been preceded by literary works that had been very different in their nature and tone, and which pointed to a very different taste in gothic fiction. The most successful horror novel of the previous decade, Ira Levinās Rosemaryās Baby (1966), used the subtle construction of atmosphere and the trappings of the suburban gothic to generate fear, and Robert Blochās Psycho (1959) had, only a few years earlier, depended largely on suspense and warped psychologies.3 Herbertās visceral novel proposed a break with the work of previous writers by emphasising the affective potential of explicit descriptions of mutilation and death. As the author explained, although the decision to be graphic was not necessarily the result of a dissatisfaction with the current state of the genre, it still managed to perceptively anticipate changes in readerly expectations. Herbert saw his early novels as
The Rats and Herbertās similarly visceral The Fog (1975) were published just after Stephen Kingās first novel, Carrie (1974), had started gathering attention. The work of this most successful contemporary writer also showed an obvious urgency to portray corporeality in viscous and carnal detail. This preoccupation with āthe effectiveness of ā¦ imagesā, in conjunction with the use of specific gothic tropes or stock characters, would be taken up and articulated by splatterpunk a decade later.5
Herbertās remark about the state of horror in the mid-1970s perspicaciously encompasses both readers and moviegoers. A fond allegiance to a cinematic tradition is crucial to a full understanding of the ethos behind the splatterpunk movement, not the least because it is partly named after splatter films. The most obvious examples are Joe R. Lansdaleās The Drive-In: A āBā Movie with Blood and Popcorn, Made in Texas (1988) and The Drive-In 2: Not Just One of Them Sequels (1989), and the edited collection Silver Scream (1988), which purposely brought together writers and directors, and sought to explore the symbiotic relationship between horror and cinema. Clive Barkerās āSon of Celluloidā (1984), a short story in the third volume of his Books of Blood, features a virus that transforms into Hollywood actors to attack the audience and thus anticipates the filmic meta-horrors of Lamberto Bavaās Demons (1985). If the spatial boundaries between spectator and screen had already been pushed by director William Castle and his various theatrical gimmicks ā a glowing skeleton descending on the audience in House on Haunted Hill (1959), vibrating seats in The Tingler (1959) ā splatterpunk would cement these affective concerns.
Much like Herbertās The Rats distinguished itself from previous gothic writing, splatter cinema has been constructed as a departure from the more restrained cinema of directors like Val Lewton.6 John McCarty defines splatter films as āoff-shoots of the horror film genre, [which] aim not to scare their audiences, necessarily, nor to drive them to the edge of their seats in suspense, but to mortify them with scenes of explicit goreā.7 Finding its roots in the more overtly exploitational gore cinema of Herschell Gordon Lewis and gaining popular appeal through the reputed B-movie Night of the Living Dead (George A. Romero, 1968), splatter cinema was distinctive because it featured increasing levels of explicit violence and because the camera refused to look away. The prevalence of serial killers in subgenres related to splatter such as, for example, the slasher cycle, has driven attention away from the potential gothic qualities of works like Friday the 13th (Sean S. Cunningham, 1980).8 As a result, there has been little engagement with these texts as staples of gothic cinema and they are notoriously absent from surveys of gothic horror film.9 It should not be forgotten that it was the gothic period pieces of Hammer Studios, spearheaded by the successful Technicolor adaptations of Frankenstein and Dracula that first injected a dose of gore into the history of horror cinema.10 In fact, even the grand Guignol and the EC Comics traditions, usually cited as a direct influence on splatter cinema, often found inspiration in the gothic tales of writers such as Edgar Allan Poe.11 Splatter cinema makes the corporeality inherent to the gothic tradition its main spectacle, and it foregrounds pace, sometimes at the expense of narrative logic or continuity. The focus therefore shifts from the creation of suspense or a specific mood or atmosphere ā still important ā to the display of special effects.12 In short, splatter cinema illustrates the shift towards a gothic tradition that can recreate particular corporeal sensations through detailed stagecraft. Contrary to more modern gothic, splatterpunk, as a particularly virulent horror subgenre, often relishes the histrionics of corporeality and makes the most of the excesses that have come to define it.13
Such a shift towards an uncomfortable and transgressive form of the gothic translated almost directly into fiction. John Skipp and Craig Spector, who co-authored six splatterpunk novels, wrote a preface in their influential zombie anthology Book of the Dead that reflects on splatterpunkās desire āto stretch the boundaries of modern horror fictionā and to āgo too farā.14 According to the authors, horror had thus far been constituted by the work of certain writers that are now firmly established within the gothic canon, namely, H. P. Lovecraft, Arthur Machen, Edgar Allan Poe, Richard Matheson or Robert Bloch.15 Although splatterpunk should not be envisaged as an anti-gothic horror movement, but as an engagement and extension of that tradition, there is a clear sense in which its practitioners sought to bring fiction into a territory that was self-evidently, and packaged as, visceral. In a sense, the experience of excess that they were seeking to generate has much in common with some of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth-century gothic novels I mentioned in the introduction. It should not be surprising then that, like their filmic counterparts, the excesses of splatterpunk would suffer from censorship. Ray Gartonās Crucifax Abbey (1989), which included a very graphic birth scene, famously had to be excised and the novel published in an expurgated version. Similarly, detractors of splatterpunk soon made their voices heard in a manner that echoed the reception of canonical gothic novels such as The Monk.16 Writer William F. Nolan, for example, complained about what he perceived as āthe Vomit Bag School of Horror, whether on screen or on the printed page ā books and stories and films featuring gore for goreās sake, designed strictly for the purpose of grossing out an audienceā.17 As Skipp and Spector note, critiques of splatterpunk as an āovert modeā were so preoccupied with reducing it to ācheap sensationalismā that they remained blind to the subgenreās preoccupation with making the unknown known.18 Actually, as Skipp and Spector explained, splatterpunk is multi-levelled:
This is the aim of splatterpunk and, more generally, of body gothic: to recreate and exploit a moment of āmeat meeting mind, with the soul as screaming omniscient witnessā.20 Whilst the spiritual side of this encounter between affect and corporeality is something that preoccupies my latter discussion of Clive Barker, it is important to note that splatterpunk understands itself as not merely an exercise in pushing boundaries, but as an illuminating materialist and empirical experience. Splatterpunk writers appeal to the affective part of the reader/spectator and thus foreground the role that their bodies play in the fictional transaction.
The second noun in the word āsplatterpunkā, although also a wink to the then popular cyberpunk movement, very consciously refers to a rock music genre similarly linked to transgression and anti-establishment politics. Although the connections between punk and the extreme fiction considered in this chapter are not always overt (i.e. there are very few punks in these novels and stories), more general rock music permeates both the literary moods of the works and even their method of writing. As Sammon suggests in the introduction to his second anthology on splatterpunk, a general picture of this subgenre would be incomplete without āthe screaming guitar licks of the worldās greatest heavy bandsā.21 Not surprisingly, the last chapter in this anthology is dedicated to a long list of music that most definitely does not include āone single fucking Madonna recordā.22 Splatterpunk fictions such as Michael Sladeās Ghoul (1987), David J. Schowās The Kill Riff (1988) or Philip Nutmanās āFull Throttleā (1990) feature doomed music starts or delve in the radical aspects of specific urban subcultures such as punk.23 In the case of Richard Christian Matheson or Skipp and Spector, splatterpunk writers may even be former or practising rock musicians themselves.24 These writersā incorporation of successful or struggling musicians was not groundbreaking as such. Gothic novels such as Anne Riceās The Vampire Lestat (1985) had already explored rock stardom. But whilst hers was an isolated instance, splatterpunk consistently exploited the transgressive and political aspects of rock and brought the term into the graphic territory of its fictions. Music in splatter-punk exceeds representation and filters through the writing method to grant it a sense of urgency.
If the role of musical subcultures to this type of gothic fiction will be further explored in chapter 3, it is important, at this stage, to recognise the disruptive and revolutionary aspect that these texts identify in alternative communities. The punk in splatterpunk is more than just āa mocking echo of cyberpunkā, as Ken Tucker proposes.25 Radical lifestyles abound in splatterpunk because, like its fiction, they defy the status quo with ācourageā and a āno-bullshit attitudeā.26 This rebellious approach to life is what, according to writer Craig Spector, made rock so appealing to splatterpunk.27 In the same way that goth has often found inspiration in gothic literature and imagery, splatterpunk found in rock a language through which to articulate a countercultural message. Anya Martin notes that this is not coincidental: