Knoxville Horror Film Fest 2014: Finding Your Tribe

By Jeffery X Martin
Photos by Hannah Martin

There are two different stories in horror: internal and external. In external horror films, the evil comes from the outside, the other tribe, this thing in the darkness that we don’t understand. Internal is the human heart.
—John Carpenter

They stare at us as they leave, that smug crowd of assholes leaving the theater. Art movie snobs, still dabbing away tears caused by The Hundred-Foot Journey, the white guy with the neckbeard talking out of the side of his mouth to his Asian-American girlfriend about how he is so far above the real message of Dear White People that he didn’t actually like the movie, but it’s OK.

We’re horror fans. We’re sitting outside in our black clothes, shirts adorned with logos and symbols some people would not recognize. Inside, the Knoxville Horror Film Fest has taken over one side of the lobby, and one single auditorium in this theater, but we are obviously encroaching on their turf. The old women stare at my Lords of Salem T-shirt as if I had carved a pentagram into my chest with a kriss blade. We are obviously bloodthirsty and depraved, fans of violence, anarchists in the streets, the antithesis of the Merchant-Ivory movies they keep on VHS, playing it only after they’ve had enough box wine, feebly rubbing one out with one arthritic hand, moaning in a bad British accent as a single tear rolls down Anthony Hopkins’s cheek.

I stare back the same way, with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. Who are these people? I don’t know how they can claim to understand film as an art form, yet have never seen a Dario Argento color scheme. They’ve never experienced the subtle, violent glory of a Fulci eyepoke. These are the people who constantly complain about mainstream cinema and how J.J. Abrams uses too many lens flares; they wouldn’t make it through a single John Carpenter film. They see us as red-headed stepchildren, right up there with Star Trek fans and Thalidomide babies, lower than groundlings, mewling and grumbling, eyes agog at the slightest sight of blood or female nudity.

Well, fuck them.
And fuck us, too.
We all love what we love, to our own damnation.

The Regal Downtown West 8 has seen better days. At the very least, it is due for the same kind of retrofit other cinemas in the area of undergone. The seats are small and stationary, the floors are approaching that layered sheen of uncleanable spillage, the Permafrost of soda and candy, and the carpets are a bit worn. The dinge is coming. It is not here yet, but it is on the way.

This is not a complaint. Far from it. The Downtown West is the perfect place to show horror films. You’re already uncomfortable, and that physical discomfort makes you ready for whatever on-screen shocks are to come.

People are milling about the lobby wearing costumes. Purple wigs. Sugar skull make-up. Devil horns.

These are my people. I have found my tribe.

Honestly, that’s what the main thrust of the Knoxville Horror Film Festival seems to be. The feature films are great, of course, and it’s always fun to see movies before everyone else does. I’m a huge short film fan, also, and I got to cram 28 short movies into my eyeballs in three days. Some of them worked, some of them didn’t, but that’s an insane amount of information to attempt to process. That’s not even counting the Grindhouse Grindout, in which local filmmakers have a set amount of time to create a movie for a fake exploitation film. The entertainment factor of that alone was worth the time spent attending the festival. [If the trailer titled The Fingering ever comes online, I will link you immediately.]

Festival Director William Mahaffey stands stage left in the auditorium, speaking into a wireless microphone. “Does everyone have their pitchforks?” he asks. Someone made a run to Dollar Tree and bought up some Halloween glow-sticks in the shape of Devil pitchforks and Jack O’Lanterns.

Mahaffey is an affable guy, obviously trying to keep things organized, but not so much that he’s forgotten how to have fun. His smile is devilish and contagious, and his joy at watching all these movies along with the audience is palpable.

“Whenever you see something on screen that you think Satan would approve of, like gore or nudity, I want you to thrust your pitchforks high into the air,” Mahaffey says. “It’s all about the thrusting.”

The turnout is good. It’s not a packed house, but it’s not far from it. The second night yields better attendance. Day three is at a different venue, a smaller place, and only the hardcore seem to show up for that. That’s to be expected. That’s what the hardcore folks do. They are there all day, every day, first to come, last to leave because that is how you prove your mettle to the tribe. Those of us who did all three days are warriors.

Attendance matters, surely, if only for financial reasons and as a means of spreading the word, but the people who are here, for any showing, are those who have been called, as if by a dream or an epiphany. Advertising for the thing is done mostly online. One of their biggest supporters, Knoxville’s alternative newspaper, Metro Pulse, was suddenly shut down in a vicious corporate move that stunned everyone, leaving an enormous void in the city’s media and culture. A successful IndieGoGo campaign this year fully funded the Fest. Other events throughout the year keep the name out there, keep some funds coming in. There’s talk of a Christmas event and big hopes for next year.

Let the faithful bring in the sheaves.

We have to be honest here.

Knoxville does not always do well on the world stage.

On a windy night downtown, you can still smell the scorchmarks the 1982 World’s Fair left on this town’s soul. Banks failed, reputations were marred, and we were left with the love-it-or-hate-it Sunsphere as part of our city skyline.

We’re never going to be in contention for the Summer Olympic Games. We’re not going to be an irresistible tourist destination. Hell, we’re never even going to be Nashville, which is OK. I don’t believe we want to be Nashville. We don’t do extravagant. It’s not our way.

We’re tenacious. We are polite, we are friendly, and we have exceptional manners. Even our Big Ears music weekend, which is world-renowned and highly eclectic, is still low key. And by the Elder Gods, we can put on a horror film festival.

I didn’t get to hobnob with famous movie stars or get to do a Q&A with a revered film director, but that’s not what I was out to do. The Knoxville Horror Film Fest provided the perfect atmosphere for solid blocks of creepy entertainment. The staff smiled when I approached them. They made sure everyone had fun. And even if I didn’t catch everyone’s names or haven’t gone over to their house to watch all the Cold Prey movies, it doesn’t matter.

I found my tribe, and that’s one of the best accolades I can give to an event like the Knoxville Horror Film Fest.

For more on the Knoxville Horror Film Fest, check out the website.