From Cynical Accomplice to Empathy-seeking Interviewee: the Change of the Gothic Monster Representation in the Parricide Tale and Interview with the Vampire

Topic: From Cynical Accomplice to Empathy-seeking Interviewee: the Change of the Gothic Monster Representation in the Parricide Tale and Interview with the Vampire
By Gong Lei（江離）
 

In traditional Gothic literature, the figure of monster has long been utilized as an instrument to strengthen the boundary between self and other. It is the prime source of the horror and terror that the genre had conventionally relied on to captivate its audiences. For horror, as Ann Radcliffe suggests, it provokes disgust from people, as it is most likely to be caused by actions that are utterly at odds with our usual moral norm; while for terror, as Fred Botting elaborates, is actually a means to help people to attain “the pleasures of imaginatively transcending fear and thereby renewing a sense of self and social value”.[1] In short, both of them are the stereotypical techniques that are widely employed by Gothic writers, and they are both using an artificially-constructed Other in order to help reconstituting the watchers’ identity.[2] However, despite the prevalence of the standardized Gothic novels in which the monster is always constructed and applied as an Other for our “fear-conquering” entertainment throughout the centuries, there are also some exceptional cases that the monster figure in their stories is not merely served as a fear-inciting agency, but is also a disquietingly relatable creature which could question our presumptuous sense of self and thus forcing us to reexamine our identities as well as positions. And for the stories that I would discuss in this paper, namely the Parricide Tale written by Charles Maturin in 1820 and Interview with the Vampire, a movie directed by Neil Jordan in 1994, they have both presented an alternative image of monster among the other relatively mainstream Gothic literature, and I would argue that although their storyline and ambiance are underpainted and constantly haunted by an unrelenting sombreness and pessimism, both of them have manifested a kind of empathetic attitude toward the monster figures that they created. Their only difference is that the former’s empathy is more likely stemmed from a recognition of morality and common grievance, as for the main villain of the story, which is not the parricide but the medieval Catholic Church, its oppressive nature should be self-explanatory to everyone’s understanding; while the latter’s empathy is often owing to a realization of common sin and weakness which are also universally possessed by the human nature, given that to become a vampire is more or less because a person has been unable to resist the temptation of immortality. The most distinctive characteristic of this kind of “alternative” monster, is that they are usually depicted as not just a threat to its counterpart human, but also as an “experienced sufferer” of the cruelty in the world, who can explain the latter’s hardship with profound insights and give advice (though radical it might be) to the humans who are still the “amateurs” in suffering. And because of empathy and also this sense that “we might actually be able to learn something valuable from the monster”, the conventional boundary between self and other gradually dissolves, as now we are wondering what kind of revelation could the monster offer, though however illusory or lethal it might be.

 

In the Parricide Tale, the empathetic attitude of the author toward the monster that he created is best embodied in the cynicism that he had deliberately designed in the latter’s discourse. Remarkably, the “monster” of the story is not really an enigmatic supernatural being, but rather is just a human with a twisted mindset. He is called a monster not because he was damned or to have any aberration in his human body (unlike the monster in Frankenstein), but only because the protagonist (who listens to his story) has deemed that he simply lacks the most basic sympathy that a normal human should possess toward the suffering of the others. In other words, his monstrosity is not stemmed from his physicality, but rather is stemmed from his “immorality” in other people’s point of view. However, as mentioned before, if we are really attentive to the subtext of the story (especially the self-vindications made by the parricide), its main villain is never the parricide but the Catholic Church. The tale is actually an extract from the long fiction Melmoth the Wanderer, and as scholar Jack Null points out, it can actually be seen as a religious statement made by its author Maturin, who was a Protestant cleric in the Catholic Ireland.[3] The motif of religious persecution is evident even in such a short part of the story, as Null also mentions, the whole book actually represented Maturin’s plea for a more religious tolerant society as well as his warning against “the life of empty routine and listlessness” to which in his view was engendered by the Church’s belief of abstinence.[4] And according to Maturin’s own words written in the preface, his story was actually trying to make “the misery of conventual life depend less on the startling adventures one meets with in romances, than on that irritating series of petty torments which constitutes the misery of life in general”. Therefore, it is not hard to see how the monster of his story was utilized as a tool for him to convey both his social and religious opinions, as well as to reflect the “petty torments” in life of which he emphasizes, given that the story opens and ends with the parricide tormenting his listener (Monçada) with his horrid story when they were entrapped in the vault of a convent. The story he told is about betrayal and sadism, and though he is not the root cause of evil here, he does help carrying out the evil and take it to an extreme. As he brags about his mentality when he knows that he is authorized to oversee the newly-arrived young monk,

 

“from their ordering me to attach myself to him, I instantly conceived I was bound to the most deadly hostility against him. The friendship of convents is always a treacherous league—we watch, suspect, and torment each other, for the love of God.”

 

And to justify the seemingly irrational malice that he has toward an innocent stranger, he then further elaborates on the “benefits” that he would gain so as to make his behavior sounds “reasonable”, as he says that “the remission of our own offences depends on the discovery of those of others”, and he “wished to witness guilt that palliated mine, at least in the opinion of the convent”. So what is antagonized here is clearly no longer the parricide but the clergies of the religious institution. Yet, some people might still argue that as it is after all his own choice to make himself to become an accomplice of the Church’s evil, so it is still fair to dub him as a monster, that is, to regard him an absolute Other, since his “philosophy of life” is unquestionably at odds with our human moral norms. However, for people who hold this view, they might actually have overlooked the cynicism that the parricide displays in many of his discourse. As being cynical, is in fact one of the most human characteristic (and reaction) whenever one feels powerless against an inequitable suppression. The most cynical remark that he made throughout the whole story is perhaps the following line, which is said after he was accused by Monçada as a “monster”,

 

“Deluded wretches! You boasted of having hearts, I boast I have none, and which of us gained most by the vaunt, let life decide.” 

 

Therefore, the story is indeed about betrayal, as it is the young monk that the parricide has betrayed, yet the latter’s cynicism has also betrayed his self-proclaimed evilness. Admittedly, sometimes when a person feels that there is really no way out and no hope left in the reality, cynicism might become the only option that left for one to express his existence. And in the parricide’s view, it would be that if one could not repel evil, at least he should repel hypocrisy. We might not agree on the method that he took to alleviate his own desperation, yet it does not impede us from understanding the grievance that he bears, and thus finding common ground between the monster and us in face of the injustice of reality.

 

While the sense of morality (no matter how faint it is) was still able to serve as a kind of commonness between the self and the monster in the early 19^th century, things was probably not the same anymore in the late 20^th century, as our link with the latter, as reflected in the movie Interview with the Vampire, was characterized now more by the feelings of sin, lost, and uncertainty. Ironically, the monster’s story in the Parricide Tale was actually needed to be forced upon its listener (given that they are trapped in the vault) as otherwise it was likely that no one would ever want to listen to it; yet about one and a half century later, the monsters’ story was already presented in the format of interview, as people were now fascinated by its antiquity and uncanniness, and thus actively seek out their stories. And in face of the danger of being “objectified” by the human gaze, even the vampires had to retreat back to the shadows that were not yet encroached by the former’s spotlight (As what Lestat complains at the end of the movie, “They make the night brighter than the day!”). Ambivalently, though their perennial spiritless lifetime had already rendered them hopeless toward any possibility of redemption, they still wanted to make contact with the current modern world and to seek empathy from some of its exceptional loners. And the most unsettling fact for us, is that throughout the Gothic history we can indeed find certain commonness that we can identify ourselves with the monster. Only that during the time of which the Parricide Tale was written, the commonness was more about the mutual suffering and hardship in life; while at present, it seems it becomes more and more connected to the miscellaneous sin and unbridled desire in the modern capitalist society. Yes, we might say that vampires prey on human, but isn’t human also prey on each other in their society as well, most commonly in the name of “competition”? So to say fairly, neither species could actually claim itself to be superior to its counterpart in terms of morality. And to be a bit more cynical, it could be said that the interaction between human and monster is now like a relatively naive sufferer trying to learn from a more mature (but also utterly pessimistic) sufferer, while unaware that he simply has nothing spiritually-valued to offer in exchange for the latter’s “wisdom”. Human might be optimistic about the monster, but the monster has already become so pessimistic toward both mankind and itself, and thus leading to the spiritual stagnation of both species. Yet, here is something remarkable and novel about the movie, which is the innate quality of “vulnerability” as presented in its protagonist Louis’ character. Unlike during the parricide’s time, in which “suffering is always an indication of weakness,—we glory in our impenetrability”, evil is now blended with a completely new sense of vulnerability, which was somehow absent in the previous Gothic era. As when Louis asked Armand what had made him so precious comparing to the other vampires in the latter’s eyes, he replied,

 

Louis: But the vampires in the theater?

Armand: Decadent... useless.They can't reflect anything. But... you do. You reflect... its broken heart. A vampire... with a human soul. An immortal with a mortal's passion. You... are... beautiful, my friend. Lestat must have wept when he made you.

 

While this quality of character had caused inestimable anguish to its owner, it has also brought new possibility of change to the dreariness in reality. And as Botting concludes in his book Gothic, using the 1992 movie Dracula as an example, that although “sympathizing on the monster” has seemed to become a trend for the reinvention of Gothic stories, the movie has also “mourns an object that is too diffuse and uncertain to be recuperated”.[5] Intriguingly, as if we look back at the ending of Interview with the Vampire, that although Louis was once again frustrated by the reporter’s stupidity in wanting to become a vampire, and lamented that he had failed again, we might be surprised that the story’s tone is in fact not as pessimistic as what we would have thought especially when the song “Sympathy for the Devil” rises up in our ear. As when the camera zooms out to reveal the modern infrastructures and the dawning harbour that both the human and vampire are situated in, which is a stark contrast to the bleak old world that had sustained throughout the earlier part of the movie, we might then suddenly realize that it is exactly because of the arise of fresh evil, there is now new possibility of understanding what we had not grasped in the past, and thus revitalizing the dreary and near-lifeless atmosphere in the movie, as well as the whole waning Gothic genre in the closing of the second millenary.

 

10 May 2021

 

 [1] Botting, Fred, Gothic, Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London, 1996, p.6.

[2] Ibid.

[3] Null, Jack, Structure and theme in 'Melmoth the Wanderer', Papers on language & literature, Vol.13 (2), Edwardsville, Ill: Southern Illinois University, p.136-147, 1977, p.141. Botting, Fred, Gothic, Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London, 1996, p.69.

[4] Null, Jack, Structure and theme in 'Melmoth the Wanderer', Papers on language & literature, Vol.13 (2), Edwardsville, Ill: Southern Illinois University, p.136-147, 1977, p.140, 147.

[5] Botting, Fred, Gothic, Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London, 1996, p.117.

 

Bibliography
 
Botting, Fred, Gothic, Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London, 1996.
 
Null, Jack, Structure and theme in 'Melmoth the Wanderer', Papers on language & literature, Vol.13 (2), Edwardsville, Ill: Southern Illinois University, p.136-147, 1977.
 
Robinson, P. Stuart, Tamed Monsters and Human Problems in Cinema’s Interview with the Vampire (1994), Nordlit, nr. 42 (November):103–122, 2019.