Stacey Abbott

“I Want to Do Bad Things with You”: The Television Horror Title Sequence

An extreme close-up of a mosquito perched on a human arm followed by a jump cut to a close-up of the arm as a hand comes down and swats the mosquito; red splatters of blood twist and swirl in fluid patterns against a pristine white background; an underwater close-up of a catfish as the camera cranes up above the water to reveal a swamp, accompanied by the opening guitar riffs to J ace Everitt’s now iconic “I Want to Do Bad Things”. These are the distinct and gripping opening images in the title sequences for Dexter (2006–2013), Hannibal (2013-present) and True Blood (2008–2014). Completely different in tone and style, each of these shots, along with their distinct musical accompaniments, is designed to hook the audience and draw them into the television series, whether through the shock of Dexter’s mosquito swat, the hypnotic quality of the blood red swirls or the seductiveness of Everitt’s unsettling musical rhythms. These three sequences also introduce the audience to three completely different approaches to television horror. The opening title sequence, an area that has only recently come under scholarly scrutiny, serves as an entryway into the narrative. For such examples of television horror, however, it also serves to establish a series of expectations about the programme’s approach to the genre. The aim of this chapter is therefore to consider the role of the title sequence within contemporary television production contexts, but more importantly to examine how it serves to establish generic expectations for each series’ new aesthetic approach to the construction of horror.

From madman in the basement to self-sacrificing champion: The multiple faces of Spike

Towards the end of Season 6 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Spike undergoes an identity crisis and leaves Sunnydale in search of a solution. ‘Neither a monster nor a man’, Spike yearns for reconciliation of his divided self. The answer comes in the form of the return of his soul. This article explores how the return of Spike’s soul does not deliver a reconciled Spike but rather one which has been exponentially fragmented. In a show that prides itself on complex character development, Spike undergoes the most dramatic character arc of anyone on the series, taking place in one season in an almost schizophrenic fashion. Through close analysis of mise-en-scène and narrative structure this article demonstrates how each of these personas is presented as distinct and explores how identity in this season is not defined by growth and evolution but rather the recognition that we are each made up of a multitude of selves.