Weird Methods of Escapism in 2020 - Hannah Latham

Mark Z Danielewski's House of Leaves

Surprisingly, I read little ‘weird’ fiction in 2020. I mainly found myself drawn towards large-scale fantasies like Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time, longing to escape the world by delving into something completely unreal. However, what I did do was re-read House of Leaves, a text I deal with in my thesis. It’s difficult to know where to begin on Danielewski’s first novel. An interwoven narrative of multiple voices, it centres around the space of the House on Ash Tree Lane, inhabited by the Navidson family. The way Danielewski utilises the gaze, space, and typography blend together into a hypnotically terrifying tale that heavily features the mythological concept of the Labyrinth. Its voice is a parody of academia, each concept or symbol never what it seems, and even if it is, it rallies against interpretation to the point of obsession. Reminiscent of internet searches and the way information searching can spiral, Danielewski’s novel is a fragmented narrative that shows how deeply the mind can be affected by the space around you, but when that space is a dark labyrinth under the ground of the house you believe yourself safe in, the monster within becomes a complex reflection of all we think to be true, but know nothing of. 

The Children Who Chase Lost Voices (Makoto Shinkai, 2011)

I never deliberately go looking for katabatic narratives for my thesis; most of the novels, games, or movies I’ve utilised have been stumbled across or recommended. The Children Who Chase Lost Voices is one of these. The brain child of Makoto Shinkai, known for his recent award-winning endeavours of Your Name and Weathering With You, The Children Who Chase Lost Voices follows a classical heroic, katabatic quest of a journey into an underground realm to reclaim a lost soul. Asuna, the film’s protagonist, must battle otherworldly creatures and the trials of young love to eventually find herself at The Gate of Life and Death. The film is visually stunning, the plot and characterisation heartwrenching. 

Berserk (Naohito Takahashi, 1997) 

After trying to pick this anime up in 2018, I decided to retry two years later and man, am I glad I did. Often hailed as one of the best fantasy mangas/anime of all time, and especially the darkest, Berserk adapts Kentaro Miura’s decade-spanning series beautifully. The series follows the tale of Guts, a mercenary with a dark past and marked by the hands of Gods, and Griffith, a man drawn by power on a twisted quest for heroism, who forefronts the Band of the Hawk as they navigate a landscape of royalty and demons. The designs of the demons are reminiscent of later works like Devilman Crybaby, infantile creatures with distended bodies and tongues, or large, Gothic wings. The relationship between Guts and Griffith is overtly homoerotic, though entirely accidental, and makes for one of the most interesting dynamics in anything I’ve read or seen lately. Griffith’s downfall is nothing short of beautiful, and the devastation of the Eclipse will be hard to beat. One of the worst things about the series is the way that it ends. The anime only covers a portion of the manga’s opening arcs, and its bloody finally is so magnificently divine and horrific that it leaves you stunned. I would pay a ridiculous amount of money to adapt the rest of the arcs in the same style. 

The Magnus Archives (Rusty Quill, 2016-)

I only recently hopped on the bandwagon of podcasts. Breaching the gap between the swathe of political, historical, and social material and a narrative audiobook, The Magnus Archives is a fresh, fantastically terrifying tale following a set of characters in the mysterious Magnus Institute. Each episodes features a recorded tape following some aspect of uncanny interactions between strangers and ‘monsters’, but soon enough they start blending together and an overarching narrative of eldritch otherworldliness starts seeping through. Interacting with the critical fields of the uncanny and spaces, it’s thoroughly entertaining and just the right amount of horrific to listen to alone. 

The Music of Susumu Hirasawa 

Hirasawa’s music is not something new to me. Having composed the soundtracks for most of Satoshi Kon’s filmography, one of my favourite directions, I have always been drawn to his transcendental, nightmarish sounds. Hirasawa is able to create worlds with his music, mixing together various tidbits in a way I’ve never heard before. His albums - particularly Paprika and Berserk - have been the backdrop to my novel writing in the year 2020 and now. His work is transportive, slightly sinister, and sometimes maddening, a genre in and of itself, of which he is the master.