Cat Walsh on Writing Horror for the Stage
Cat Walsh
Playwright in the Springboards Festival
When I was five, my father let me watch The Creature From The Black Lagoon. It was the middle of the afternoon, and not a particularly scary movie, so I imagine he thought “How traumatized could she be?” As I’m told the young people say: hold my beer. For weeks after watching it, I’d be curled up in bed, my eyes squeezed shut, imagining what I’d see if I opened them— a pair of scaly legs standing right next to my bed, dramatically side-lit by my nightlight. And although I could never bring myself to do it, I knew what I’d see if I looked up: the hideous fishy face of The Creature, ready to attack me as I went scuba diving, or drag me out of my boat, or inflict any number of watery deaths. I was legitimately scared of this happening… but I kind of liked to imagine it all the same. I kept playing it back: the legs, the realization of what I’d see if I dared to look up, the terror of it coming true this time. I was scaring myself, but it was also kind of thrilling.
So it’s no surprise that I grew up to love horror movies— the good, the bad, the schlocky, the bizarre. And no surprise that when I started writing plays, there were elements of horror in them. I don’t always sit down to include those elements (I don’t consider most of my plays to be purely horror-based), but it seems to be the way my brain works. And why not? Those elements are powerful— the supernatural, fear of the unknown, fear of death (and the dead). And they can create dread, tension, surprise, and sometimes even fear.
One of the first things people will tell you when you mention horror and theatre in the same sentence is: theatre is not film. And they’re absolutely right— theatre and film are two different animals. But one thing where theatre has the advantage over film is that we as an audience are sharing the same physical space as the actors. There’s an immediacy, an urgency there— what might happen to the characters might also happen to us.
When I was in theatre school, I was very taken with the idea of Stanislavski’s “Magic If”, a technique to help actors relate to their characters. I realized that when I write, I’m almost starting from a “What if” place as well:
• What if my kid’s imaginary friend isn’t so imaginary?
• What if I accidentally ended up at a suicide cult’s final meeting?
• What if God killed a child to answer my prayers?
• What if I found myself becoming untethered from time?
I think about why do we care about these characters? What is the unknown and the invisible in this world, and why might we be afraid of it? When does the audience know more than the characters, and when are they making discoveries along with the characters? When should I subvert audience expectations, and when should I give them the satisfaction of knowing all along? It’s not that different than writing any other play.
I work in a world where ghosts, gore & strange resurrections just happen— I like a little magic realism. I like it because it’s a world where anything can happen, where everything and anything are accessible. How can you turn that down? The dead are resurrected and sometimes even speak, ghosts make strange noises in the night, monsters lurk in the attic. In my plays these things are real— the characters don’t question that they exist. I don’t worry too much about justifying why these things happen, it’s just the way the world works. And there’s a lot of freedom in that.
By the time you’re reading this, I sincerely hope I’ll have finished my new play. It’s a romantic comedy with some blood. Well, a lot of blood. Actually, the set and all the characters are drenched with blood by the final blackout. “What If” is powerful. And funny. And thrilling. And a place where anything could happen.
