Horror's Answer to Black Mirror?: Clive Barker's Books of Blood.

​Adaptations of Clive Barker's written works have, historically, tended towards the problematic. From the aborted 1990s BBC adaptation of Weaveworld to the numerous unfinished Hellraiser sequels, from efforts to adapt Imajica for TV to the purportedly enormous deal with Disney to produce a film franchise based on Barker's Abarat novels, the last three decades are littered with failed efforts to bring Barker's unique brand of surreal horror and fantasy to screens both large and small.
 
Even those that reach completion often suffer so much in the way of uncertainty or pure poor luck, the results are far from worthy of the source material: relatively large-scale projects such as the cinematic adaptation of The Midnight Meat Train serve to make a story that is compellingly econimical in its prose, brilliantly nauseating in the elaboration of its imagery, grey and prolonged; an example of the very worst of cinematic sins, in that vast swathes of it can only be described as dull, dull, dull.
 
Compared and contrasted, we have smaller-scale affairs such as the film adaptations of Dread and The Book of Blood, both of which spectacularly fail to capture the ethos and philosophy inherent to the original short stories.
 
Part of the problem of adapting Barker's work derives from its tendency to eschew or deliberately lampoon tradition. Whereas the likes of Stephen King's fiction is innately cinematic and therefore more readily adaptable to visual media, Barker's stories tend to be far more abstract, literary and ideological in terms of both their narratives and imagery, which makes rendering them in filmic terms highly problematic. Even the least of his stories boasts elements that are far beyond genre template or easy categorisation; subjects and images that are wholly abstract and problematic to render in visual terms. For example, how does one take the William Blake-like flights of metaphysical fancy rendered in Weaveworld and make them abslolute, as a visual image or effect? Given their highly abstract and idiosyncratic natures, one might argue that the effort is misguided; they are not meant to be rendered in such terms but to remain in the realm of symbolism and metaphor, where they are fluid and unique within the imaginations of each individual reader. 

​The Scourge, for example; a force of metaphysical annihilation that believes itself to be Uriel of the Principalities (the angel that stands guard at the gates of Eden), is variously described in Barker's prose as an immense figure of light and fire, a metaphysical engine of burning wheels upon which numerous fiery eyes blossom. It is, by its nature, an inconstant and impossible-to-render entity; it shifts and transforms depending on its circumstances and the preconceptions of those who see it. Rendering such an entity in the absolute terms of a TV or cinema special effect would necessarily limit its potential and power by applying parameters to the image.
 
Nor is this an uncommon phenomena in Barker's writing: liminal, transforming and inconstant entities are almost de rigeur, barely a tale told in which there is not some form of transformation, both abstract and actual, metaphorical and physical. Entities split and peel out of themselves, mutilate and re-write one another, slough off the tatters and filth of their former selves and emerge as something entirely other. This is before we even begin to get into the highly abstract, surreal conditions Barker often paints; the other-realms and states of being that often defy easy description and defeat assumptions of state altogether, in the manner of Lovecraft describing the non-euclidian dimensions in which his various demi-gods and deities reside.
 
They are designed to engage the reader by urging them to test the limits of their imaginations; to abandon what parameters that faculty operates under and transgress into new contexts. Visual media, by its very nature, is the antithesis of that: it provides the image, it imposes the character, the state, the condition upon its audience and informs them that such is such and will always be thus. This is in direct antithesis to what Barker attempts in his fiction, the parameters he pushes with his florid and poetic descriptions of states and entities and phenomena that exist outside of the realms of human experience and understanding: they are designed to be transcendent, idiosyncratic, to the point whereby they consciously utilise the preconceptions and imaginative conditions of certain characters to inform themselves (inviting the reader to do the same by proxy). 

​ 
 
Likewise, Barker's characters are strange within the genre of horror: they are, like the entities and phenomena they encounter, metamorphic: very often, they begin with certain assumptions of themselves, of reality and end having those assumptions blasted apart, leading them to states and conditions they could scarcely imagine. This form of internal evolution is easy enough to render in prose (albeit difficult to do so effectively), as characters have internal monologues, can be described as experiencing this or that, but is massively difficult in visual media, in which such devices can often be leaden and expositional.
 
That is not to say such cannot be rendered visually by deft enough hands and sufficiently inspired creators, but the general state of TV and cinema is such that doing so is highly problematic, almost impossible outside of the realms of highly niche experimental and art-house arenas. 

​ 
You can therefore understand the pervasive ambivalence regarding the announcement of a TV series based on Barker's early works, The Books of Blood.
 
Amongst Barker's earliest published experiments, The Books comprise several volumes of short stories, each exploring Barker's peculiar views and philosophies on various subjects (this is a rare, rare instance in which you will find Barker stories that comment directly on politics and social subjects) and/or consciously lampooning certain genre-assumptions of the era, making them amongst some of the most deviant, outre and downright transgressive published works available. Even now, some thirty years later, the stories read like the work of a man who is operating on levels of perception and imagination that make most of us that operate in similar playgrounds look like we've been hibernating throughout. They are so far and removed from equivalent tales, the works of Barker's contemporaries, that their classification under simply “horror” often becomes problematic.

​These are, sincerely and without compunction, meta-narratives; they seek to explore not only subjects such as politics, philosophy, existentialism, but serve as commentaries upon the nature of stories themselves. This is extremely rare for popular or even cult horror stories of the era, which tend to be more traditional in their forms and philosophies and is still rare even now, especially given how beautifully and trenchantly Barker dissects genre fiction, mythology, oral tradition, all the while allowing gallons of vitae and buckets of viscera to spill from the pages.
 
These elements are more readily expressed through written fiction than they are visual media; as concepts, they are difficult to communicate, without a particular serendipity regarding the creators involved, the freedom they have to express themselves. Barker's stories are so powerfully deviant, so unassumingly profound in terms of what they have to say and how they say it, they demand creative teams who understand them in their most intimate details and powerful implications; not someone who simply sees potential for a gore-laden visual feast of horror (which the books can be, if read on a purely surface level).
 
The natural restrictions and pressures of a TV format often result in the hamstringing of written works in the interests of studio agenda, political bias, moral restrictions etc etc. Barker, as a writer without any such pressures, was allowed to simply let his imagination run wild. Hence, we have images such as can be found in The Age of Desire, a deconstruction of both horrific and erotic fiction that blends the two principles until they become indiscernible. This is Barker's commentary on male sexuality and the sexualised nature of our discourses; how desire without restraint and application is not only destructive but also naturally its own bane; the fire that burns itself out by consuming too rampantly. The story is graphic both in terms of its sexual elements and the horrific subjects it presents (not least of which are various forms of rape). Concerning a fairly non-descript protagonist who blithely volunteers to be a guinea-pig for an experimental treatment designed to be both the ultimate aphrodisiac and a cure for impotence, he finds his perceptions slowly warping such that all things become unbearably erotic, the impulse to fuck overriding all reason as he finds himself assaulting not only any human being within reach (regardless of sex, gender; any and all condition), but also inanimate objects such as crevices in brick walls etc (the latter resulting in some notably Barker-esque ruminations on what species of troll-children he and the wall might sire together).
 
The story, by its nature, needs to be graphic on all levels in order to effectively communicate itself. Within the constraints of the printed page, that is possible. However, how would one render the same in a televisual format without incurring censorship, moral condemnation etc? The fact that much of the nudity on display here is uncompromisingly male makes that even more problematic, given that, despite Game of Thrones and its ilk, culture at large still expresses enormous neurosis concerning the rendering of male anatomy.
 
Beyond that, any adaptation also has the simultaneous problem of capturing the story's wider implications and resonance whilst clothing itself (a ha) in the aesthetics of horror and eroticism. This is exceptionally difficult, especially when dealing with such controversial material. A significant wedge of the audience will react superficially; with horror and revulsion to the images on display, which is a difficult reaction to then use as a means of pushing them into deeper or further realms of consideration (Barker himself has managed this on certain occasions with his own adaptations, such as the original Hellraiser and Nightbreed).
 
By their natures, the stories within The Books of Blood present screen-writers, story-boarders and directors hosts of problems. At a base level, many of the stories require the rendering of creatures and phenomena that are fantastical, monstrous and bizarre; subjects that are very difficult to realise and then to balance in terms of their on-screen ethos: certain images certainly have the potential to either be horrific or utterly absurd, to the point of diluting their horror and profundity to the state of gory comedy.
 
Take, for example, one of the most infamous: The Body Politic, a bizarre story in which the hands of humanity rise up against the tyranny of the body entire, murdering their host anatomies in various inventive, almost slapstick fashions before hacking themselves free with whatever implements come, well, to hand. Far from being some form of psychosis, the hands demonstrate that there is some supernatural element occurring as, when free of their host bodies, they continue to mass and wreak havoc, becoming a swarm of liberating vengeance that sweeps across humanity's kingdoms, inspiring bizarre and murderous revolution until the impetus of the uprising is blunted by the very man with whom it starts.
 
This story functions on numerous levels: the initial concept is so bizarre that it borders on absurdity, and Barker knows it. Occasionally, there is grim humour to be had here, as well as some truly terrifying implications (the effort to make the reader paranoid about their own bodies is written large at the story's conclusion, in which Barker invites them to consider what other elements of their anatomies might be secretly plotting rebellion, what that would look like). There is also an undercurrent of political commentary, in that the hands consider themselves slaves to an oppressive regime that mistreats and routinely abuses them. The two that spark the rebellion even refer to one another as “left” and “right,” both of whom evince qualities and characteristics derived from their relevant political wings, and only through a confabulation of the two does revolution occur.
 
In televisual terms, the danger is for all such nuance to be missed or abandoned in favour of the more superficial, visual elements of the story which, whilst striking, are in danger of being more grotesquely humorous than horrific, especially shorn of any greater commentary or wider significance.
 
Then there are tales such as In the Hills, The Cities, which, apart from featuring the extremely unusual gay narrators, also includes concepts and imagery that are so bizarre as to be potentially ludicrous:
 
Whilst on a travelling holiday through some unspecified, Eastern European country, the pair encounter an extremely strange tradition: two towns that, once every so many years, bring their citizens together, every man, woman and child, to form immense, communal giants that stride around the countryside, enacting a mock-battle before disincorporating again. In this instance, however, one of the towns accidentally murders the other, resulting in the polyglot “giant” to go mad, striding around the countryside aimlessly in torment, without purpose or direction.
 
Again, the story includes a rare political and socio-cultural commentary from Barker on the nature of communities, cultures; their innate and enshrined lunacies, but also includes scenes of horror on a near-genocidal scale (everyone that comprises the fallen giant dies in its toppling, an entire community wiped out in an instant, their broken, mutilated corpses scattered across leagues and miles).
 
The danger here is very similar to that of The Body Politic; rendering the central image with enough majesty, sufficient magnificence, without it becoming absurd to the point of hilarity. Barker walks a fine line throughout these stories between both of those abysses, occasionally dipping into one or the other before returning to the median point. The story has the potential to be unlike anything we have ever seen on television, to provide the viewer with imagery they can scarcely imagine or assume, but in that also lies the danger of alienating with strangeness or inspiring laughter rather than awe.
 
Arguably, of all Barker's works to adapt, The Books of Blood include the most easily rendered subjects: many of the stories here, whilst highly abstract and ideological, are also more grounded in a sense of reality than later works, which dive wholesale into the surreal metaphysics that has become synonymous with Barker's name:
 
Stories such as Dread, by contrast, are somewhat more sedate in their imagery and subjects (Dread itself being that rarest of species: a Clive Barker tale that has no supernatural elements whatsoever), but incredibly trenchant and profound in terms of their commentary. As the recent, small-budget attempt to convert Dread into a cinematc format demonstrates, there is a tendency for the profundity and implication of the written word to be lost or deliberately glossed over in favour of standard set-pieces, shocks and visuals, which reduces the tale to little more than a by-the-numbers slasher flick.
 
Rendering the original story in all of its complexity, its psychology, is a thankless task: exposition is often death in visual formats, except in very, very rare circumstances (Quentin Tarantino films, in which the dialogue smoulders with subtext, for example). Yet, to communicate the themes and deeper resonance of stories like Dread, some degree of subtle communication is necessary. Only the most deft and eloquent of visual storytellers will ever manage it.
 
And that's the rub when it comes to adapting works such as The Books of Blood: potentially, the project might become the horror equivalent of Charlie Brooker's Black Mirror, redefining what audiences expect of televisual horror in the same manner as that show does science fiction. However, the potential for the opposite to be true is just as profound: in the wrong hands or simply over-pressured or interfered with by external influences, they could end up being risible messes, as schlocky, dull, absurd or overly abstruse as the film adaptations of Rawhead Rex or The Midnight Meat Train.
 
For my part, I pray to every demon, dark demi-god and undefined, extra-dimensional thing that might hear for the project to succeed. This could be the work that puts Barker's name back on the map, that potentially spawns an entire slew of new adaptations (and maybe even original works).
 
Meat hooks crossed, ladies and gentlemen.