2016: A Horror Story

In 1960 Janet Leigh was one of Hollywood’s biggest stars, mixing interesting genre pieces (Touch of Evil) with epic productions (The Vikings), all the while married to one of Tinseltown’s favourite sons, Tony Curtis. When cast in Alfred Hitchcock’s latest tale of horror and suspense in 1960 she was presumed to be the lead; a classic Hitchcock blonde to be terrorised by the famously demanding director. That she dies 47 minutes into the film is one of horror’s biggest twists, and turns the film away from a caustic morality tale into a cerebral slasher.

In 1996, Scream pulled the same bait and switch but even earlier as Drew Barrymore, the focus of much of the marketing for Wes Craven’s meta-horror, was offed within the first ten minutes of the film. It’s a trope that has since been trotted out by a host of pale imitators letting you know that, in this story, no one is safe. No matter how big the star, they can all be taken down. So stay on your toes.

2016 got the jump on all of them. The year was only ten days old when the rug was pulled from under the audience and it was announced that David Bowie had died. This came days after a new album and video were released, with the man who was Ziggy Stardust back to his best – causing the knife to twist just that little bit more. Four days later they killed off Alan Rickman. A left-field choice but nonetheless shocking, and this one-two punch meant you couldn't know what to expect from 2016. Who would be next? It seemed no one was safe.

We tiptoed through the year until April for the next spate of killings, while television screens flickered in the background with debates on both sides of the Atlantic. There was a sense of foreboding that the big death of 2016 would be that of common sense. But we were still months away from that when they finally killed off a black guy. (A departure for horror films, as they are usually the first to go.) Prince died at the age of 57 and seemed to fulfil horror’s lust for the death of someone who's just had sex. And Prince always looked like he'd just had sex, or was about to have sex. Or was having sex at that moment – and it was better than anything you could possibly imagine.

Someone who just oozed sex appeal and has never been bettered in entwining sex and music in one dizzying dance? 2016 knew he had to go. Prince was in the same vein as Bowie; they seemed more like ethereal muses who couldn’t die, just take another form. But die they did and 2016 moved swiftly on to its next victim. Comedy. Specifically women in comedy. Like it wasn’t already difficult enough?! The death of Victoria Wood was announced the day after Prince, taking nothing away from the grief for either but multiplying the outpouring of consternation that 2016 could be such a terrible bastard.

In early June they offed the jock with the death of Muhammad Ali, a sports hero with depth beneath his bluster, opinionated and expressive. A force of nature inside and out of the ring. It was no surprise that Ali left us – he had struggled with Parkinson’s disease for some time – but his death made us look at the important stances he had taken for the black man in America, and the echoes of injustices that still take place today showed 2016 for the truly dark and unlovable place it is.

In July, 2016 decided that Victoria Wood wasn’t enough, that it would also have to deprive comedy (and indeed the North) of another of its brightest stars: Caroline Aherne. She was 52. This of course came just a week after Britain was at a loss to describe how it had cut its nose off to spite its face, Se7en-style, with the decision to initiate a ‘Brexit’ (2016 also gave us this word, proving itself further as history’s greatest monster). Brexit brought with it the death of any kind of fact-checking or responsibility in campaigning, but that was just a taster for the main event coming later in the year.

Childhood wonder took a dint with the passing of everyone’s favourite enigmatic uncle, Gene Wilder, at the tail-end of August. Though inactive for some time, he would always be remembered for inspiring creativity and honesty with his incarnation of Willy Wonka. Another nail in the coffin of whimsy and a fresh dose of nostalgia for simpler times, as the childhood most had left behind was reflected in those kind eyes beneath Wonka’s top hat. Pure imagination was taking a beating.

Then it came. It had been building, but it couldn’t possibly happen. It was too obvious. And too cruel.

2016 had been softening you up for it all year. All the heartache, all the pain, just to see a grotesque, silver-spoon slurping, pussy-grabbing, immigrant-hating, inside-out pumpkin of a human being once again getting everything he wanted. Because 2016 quite frankly doesn’t give a shit about you or what you stand for. It’s here to crumple up the past and the future without even blinking. Two days after the election of Donald Trump as President the death of Leonard Cohen was announced, kicking many while they were down. The small mercy was that Cohen had died the day before Trump’s ascension, and was spared such terrors.

The US Election result spurred on the kind of racist rhetoric that was evident when 52% of the people of Britain voted to leave the European Union. It’s important to point out that not all those who voted for Trump or Brexit are racist, but all racists voted for Trump/Brexit, legitimising something odious. The mandate that racism has received in the wake of these two votes echoes newer horror films such as The Purge in that, now, people feel they are vindicated in being appalling human beings. Social media was quickly awash with what used to be the inner thoughts of a silent minority, and what now felt like a loud clanging bell calling all xenophobes to arms.

Throughout all of this, 2016 also included the cruel murder of MP Jo Cox and picked off Johan Cruyff, Terry Wogan, Bert Kwouk, Paul Daniels, Anton Yelchin, Garry Shandling, Ronnie Corbett, Lemmy, R2-D2’s Kenny Baker and, well, too many to mention. It had been a terrible year in so many ways, but it was nearly over. Surely the run up to Christmas would offer some respite? We’ve made it to the police station. They’ve put a blanket around us. But damn it if they didn’t further ape the modern obsession with overkill.

It started with Carrie Fisher suffering a heart attack on a trans-atlantic flight. Surely it couldn’t take Princess Leia from us? Surely women had been shit on enough this year without losing a global feminist icon? While her fate hung in the balance Christmas continued as usual. And by usual we of course mean that George Michael died on Christmas day. An easy punchline from the grim reaper taking the man who sang of Last Christmas ending his life on such a holiday. Then, on 27 Dec, the inevitable happened: Carrie Fisher died. One day later her mother, Hollywood icon Debbie Reynolds, followed suit, presumably of a broken heart. 2016 showed no mercy. As the ball was to drop on 31 December we assumed we were finally safe. But of course, there’s a twist. There’s always a twist.

Article 50 is yet to be activated for Brexit to truly take place, Donald Trump doesn’t take office until 20 January, and all of your favourite celebrities are only getting older. 2017 looks like it’ll be more of the same; the continuation of a horror franchise no one asked for but everyone deserves, making us wish that this truly was a hackneyed old movie with a surprise twist at the end. An old lady spots you in the woods, turns you around and lets you know you’ve been dead the whole time...

If only.