What do cute versions of monsters tell us about horror?

When my first nephew was born, I started paying more attention to cute, cuddly toys that would make nice gifts. As soon as I found out about Uglydolls, I knew I had to get him one. They're monsters, but cute! Babo (pictured above) is the first one I bought. Two things are worth noting here: 1) the Uglydoll monsters aren't just not-scary--they're positively cute, and 2) much of their cuteness derives from the very features that identify them as monsters. In Babo's case, the usually-fearsome horns and teeth are made to look small, harmless, even silly by how wide the head and mouth are, and of course by being more rounded than pointy. Also, their placement seems to form a line down Babo's face that emphasizes how far apart his wide-set googly eyes are.

Uglydolls are a notable example, but far from the only one, of monsters being depicted in a cute, funny, or silly way designed to make us smile or laugh rather than be afraid. Jim Henson's Muppets, the monster cereals, the Rankin-Bass tv special Mad Monster Party?, and the Monsters, Inc. movie all fit the bill.

The first time I heard of Cthulhu plush toys, I couldn't help smiling, because the very idea of a Cthulhu plush toy seems so ironic and incongruous. How could anything ever described by H. P. Lovecraft be cute and cuddly? And yet:

Again, it's not just that this monster fails to be scary--he succeeds at being cute. And the facial tentacles that identify this as a monster, and specifically as Cthulhu, here take on the quality almost of bunny ears. ThinkGeek's product description nicely plays the horror of the Cthulhu we've come to know and loathe off of the obvious cuteness of the toy:

From "The Call of Cthulhu," by H.P. Lovecraft, we learn of a gigantic creature. It has existed for longer than memory, and has traveled between the stars. It can never die, and its very existence puts all that we know or think we know into question. It is truly alien, viewing humans and our society the same way we would view tiny insects. Cthulhu is a mass of tentacles and claws and feelers and scales. It is truly a vision of a nightmare, which, of course, means it would make a perfect addition to your home or office!

As a charming plush, this cute little monster will be happy to glare evilly at anyone – just for you. Look at that tentacled face – absolutely, other-worldly adorable. Come on; give that widdle, cuddley-wuddley, widdle Cthulhu a kiss. You know you want to. And if you are really nice to this small plush version of Cthulhu, when the real one wakes up…it might not eat you.

Now, why is all of this so appealing, and does that tell us anything interesting about horror? I posed this question to my horror blogger compatriots in LOTT-D, and they've certainly risen to the occasion! Here are the roundtable discussion contributions so far (I'll update as more roll in):

Monster Magazine World
TheoFantastique
Vault of Horror
Cinema Suicide
Classic Horror
Dr. Gangrene

A few themes seem to be emerging from this discussion. A picture seems to be resolving into view. No one participant hits on all the following points, but they do seem to add up to an interesting composite. There's a fairly broad consensus here that we turn to imaginary horrors to help us cope with real ones. A number of participants noted that these imaginary horrors no longer serve that function when familiarity makes them less scary. Nostalgia gets cited as a reason we hold onto them anyway. And consumerist popular culture takes advantage of that by repurposing and repackaging them in a cute form that will appeal to older collectors, and that parents will feel comfortable sharing with their children. That squares pretty well with what I've said on the topic before:

I actually think that cutesified monsters, like these plush Lovecraftian characters (via Bibi), tell us a lot about the fundamental appeal of horror, even on the other extreme, such as the current "torture-porn" cycle of movies. Cute, funny monsters are the endpoint of an instinctive and damn-near inexorable progression that begins the moment we're exposed to something frightening. The initial encounter provokes an instantly aversive response that gives way, in time, to approach and exploration, as I mentioned in my Horror Myths post, and as illustrated by the case of Darwin's monkeys. Konrad Lorenz, though, traces the full arc of this progression, as he observed it in ravens:

'A young raven, confronted with a new object, which may be a camera, an old bottle, a stuffed polecat, or anything else first reacts with escape responses. He will fly up to an elevated perch and, from this point of vantage, stare at the object literally for hours. After this, he will begin to approach the object very gradually, maintaining all the while a maximum of caution and the expressive attitude of intense fear. He will cover the last distance from the object hopping sideways with half-raised wings, in the utmost readiness to flee. At last, he will deliver a single fearful blow with his powerful beak at the object and forthwith fly back to his safe perch. . . .' In the end 'he will grab [the object] with one foot, peck at it, try to tear off pieces, insert his bill into any existing cleft and then pry apart his mandibles with considerable force. Finally, if the object is not too big the raven will carry it away, push it into a convenient hole and cover it with some inconspicuous material.' [quoted in Arthur Koestler's Act of Creation]

I'd venture the suggestion that all horror falls somewhere on this continuum, and functions as part of this process of domesticating what scares us and making it our own. It's no use for people whose tastes run to one end of this continuum deploring or pooh-poohing the tastes that run to the other end, because they're all doing essentially the same thing, just at different points along the way. It's no use deploring the process itself, either. Considering that we share the instinct with ravens, it has to be an extremely ancient and deeply ingrained part of our evolutionary heritage. What's more, it probably is what makes possible our enjoyment of horror in the first place. The appeal of something like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre may very well be conditional on the fact that it's simply one moment of a gesture that terminates in something like Boo Berry (if it weren't, I'm arguing, I doubt it would hold any appeal for us at all).

I'd love to hear your thoughts about all this, Groovy Agers. Please feel free to join in the discussion!