Jump Scares and Why I'm Sometimes Jealous of Movies

We’ve all been there, right? You’re sitting in a living room with some good friends watching a scary movie. Everyone is biting their nails, faces twisted in expressions of pain as they anticipate what’s coming next. You’re sitting there with your leg drawn up so your knee is actually blocking the TV, but it still looks like you’re watching the movie. What? That’s just me? Anyway, a simpleton wanders the seemingly empty house calling out “Hello!” and other such nonsense. Satisfied that the house is indeed empty and the loud footsteps heard upstairs were simply the wind, our hero begins preparing a meal. They stop cutting their carrots, shake their head as if to scold themselves for forgetting something, and open the fridge. The camera cuts to a wide profile shot where we see the hero open the fridge, effectively blocking the background with the open fridge door. They bend down to get something from the bottom shelf, and the camera cuts to a tight shot on the profile of their face with a little of the refrigerator door behind them. They close the door and OH MY GOSH there’s a monster/alien/murderer/best friend playing a prank standing right there. The music simultaneously blares into ear-bleeding territory, and every bit of food in your lap goes flying into the air (except mine because all I saw was my knee, but I still look calm and collected to my unsuspecting friends).

Ah, the jump scare. Possible to pull off with a rabbit or a green, plastic army man as long as the music is loud enough and the close up is close enough. You know, the shot that plays on our natural instinct to jump away from something shoved in our face much like our eye blinks when someone jabs their finger towards it and laughs.

In general, it feels cheap. Like someone who acts as if they are going to punch you and then mocks you for flinching. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, this gimmick isn’t possible in writing. You can’t jump scare someone in writing. In fact, there are many things that don’t translate well to the written page. Maybe you have read a book that says something like, “All of a sudden, a face popped into the window.” Hm. Scary. Or maybe it’s action. “Then the man shot the gun. The other man shot his gun, too. The bullets hit stuff and made a real mess. Then a guy on a motorcycle crashed through the window. He was also shooting.” Riveting stuff. It’s hard! Do you know how hard it is to write a compelling car chase? I’m not sure myself, because I don’t know if I’ve actually accomplished that yet. Or what about the montage—that awesome scene with cool music and different scenes that show a passing of time and some sort of change or progression? “He didn’t know how to shave; it was just shaving cream everywhere and several bloody nicks. But he got better. There was less blood, less of a mess, and his face got smoother. His friends laughed at him. Then they didn’t laugh at him. Then a girl at school walked by him and caressed his face as he stared back at her stupidly. Yes, he had mastered the art of shaving.” Man, I wish montages did well in books.

All I’m saying is that it’s hard to shock someone in a book if it hasn’t been masterfully building to that specific point. There are obviously cheap and clichéd ways to write (first-person is one of my least favorite, but we’ll save that for another post), but it is a lot harder to manufacture cheap thrills in written form. No music, flashy cuts, no sound effects. I love both mediums immensely, but there are times when I am jealous of the filmmaker. There are great jumpscares in movies but only because they are skillfully introduced and play upon the building dread. Surprise can only happen when you least expect it, and the best story teller acts as magician, deceiving and misdirecting. Next week we’ll look at some amazing examples in literature of building suspense until the story blindsides the helpless reader.