Female Sexuality in Dracula

Lucy Westenra and Mina Murray are two of my favorite characters of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, in part due to how they illuminate the text’s perspective on female sexuality. Vampirism, in Dracula, is metaphorically linked to a number of socially frightening images, from ethnic stereotypes to a growing fascination with blood-sucking creatures. Sexuality is another such frightening image, and there is a notable contrast between how human women and vampiric women act. Dracula vampires, in general, are creatures of overt sexuality and lust. Dracula himself reflects the vampire tropes of Bram Stoker’s time, including the pervasive fears of foreigners preying on local women; Dracula has multiple female vampires at his estate that he has turned undead and kidnapped. 

As for how the women act after becoming vampires, their desire to feed bears strong resemblances to sexual desire. When Jonathan Harker encounters them while staying at Dracula’s estate, it is because of his failure to follow the Count’s warning to only sleep in his designated room. By failing to heed this warning, Jonathan opens himself to the insatiable lust of these women, an attribute so strong that they might find him anywhere in the estate to indulge themselves. They are described with starkly white teeth and unnaturally red, “voluptuous” lips, and Jonathan describes himself as feeling not only fear, but “ecstasy” at the touch of the women (Chapter 3). The women’s “voluptuousness” is a clear reference to their sexuality, but it is not the attractiveness of these women that is seen as frightening, is it that Jonathan describes their sensuality as “deliberate” (Chapter 3)—in other words, purposefully acting untoward and improper. In addition, the women awaken these sexual feelings in him unwillingly, something uncharacteristic of an ideal gentleman. In combination with their violent feeding habits, the sexuality of vampiric women is part of what makes them monstrous, as they represent unwanted parts of 1890’s society. 

The stark differences between human women and vampire women are seen most plainly through Lucy. In her letters, she is innocent and polite enough that the men of Dracula are tripping over themselves courting her. She is comfortable in her attractiveness, and teases about it—she jokes with Mina about her indecision between suitors by saying, “Why can’t they let a girl marry three men”—but never blatantly inappropriate. Even this comment causes her to take back her words, noting them as “heresy” (Chapter 5). But when Lucy is turned to a vampire (spoilers!), she is purposefully using her allure. In fact, she has a bottomless sexual appetite, and is said to pose a threat not only to human lives, but in diminishing the self-control of men (Chapter 16). 

However, vampirism is not a surefire path to a woman’s sexual corruption. Rather, vampirism represents (for women) the threat of becoming unclean or impure, something that has the potential to cause their inhibitions to vanish. Mina Murray, for example, is never fully vampiric, and is returned to humanity at the end of Dracula. Throughout the novel, she has remained even “purer” than Lucy. She is the ideal Victorian woman: she never expresses any sexual thought, need, or suggestion, not even in the privacy of letters. Additionally, she has a strong desire to be of use to her husband, Jonathan. Despite her intense sympathy and kindness (she mentions the progressive “New Women” of England, and demonstrates an understanding of them), she is also dutiful, and remains a conservative housewife. Because of this dramatic escape from vampirism at the end of the novel, the binary of vampiric women is not entirely strict. Women such as Mina, who are paragons of Victorian womanhood, have the capability to resist this fate. Additionally, women in the novel are seen as important for upholding the morality of society, allowing vampires to represent multiple “evils.” Dracula is attempting to access and turn the men of England through the women he targets, painting Mina as an important figure not just in containing her sexual impulses, but in her empathy, her intelligence, and other positive qualities. 

Additionally, the text’s perspective on male sexuality complicates the notion that only female vampires are sexually ravenous creatures. Men, too, are seen to fall prey to impurity, as demonstrated by Dracula’s plan to tempt them, and Jonathan’s attraction to the three vampires at the Count’s estate. 

 

Works Cited:

Stoker, Bram. Dracula. New York, Grosset & Dunlap, 1897.

Me and Dracula: the mythological origins, the “other,” and the journal entry

My first experience with Bram Stoker’s Dracula was in middle school, watching the 1992 Dracula film with my mom. Despite not being a fan of spooky movies, my mom likes Dracula, both the book and the media inspired by it. Considering I have, since my youth, been a total fan of the macabre and ghastly, I fell in love with the film and aspired to read the book, which I promptly found a copy of. Since then, I have read the physical copy twice, and listened to a full audiobook once. Once in a while, my mother and I will rewatch the 1992 film.

Dracula intrigues me for a number of reasons, one of which I share with my younger self. It had significant influence on the development of the general trope of the “vampire” and its popularity—shaped in Europe “by an intersection of Enlightenment misunderstandings and misinterpretations from the Romantic period” (Bohn 1). I possessed a deep interest in knowing why vampires might act, think, or exist the way they do in Dracula and other vampire media. The idea of the vampire as a form of violent, undead creature originated in Eastern Europe in Bulgaria. Lots of creatures actually predate the notion of the vampire in wider western culture, as it was an exclusively Slavic myth. Additionally, early vampires did not drink blood; the connection between vampires and the “vampire bat,” as well, are complex, and there is much debate on when, exactly, the separate fear surrounding bloodsucking bats and the myth of the vampire merged (Dodd 110-111).

And now that I’ve aged, I have a more detailed understanding of the progression of the vampire into wider western myth. Tales of vampires were often built from a number of inspirations, including the Slavic folk legends—however, other influences were misinterpretations, whether by pure mistake or more sinister cultural assumptions (Bohn 2-3). By this misinterpreted point, non-Slavic peoples considered the vampire to be basically this: an undead being that sucks the life out of others. It further transformed over the Romantic period into a “Slavophobe cliche” (Bohn 3), indicating a strong fear of ‘the other’—an unsurprising development after having always been somewhat intertwined with stereotyping. This history is especially prevalent in Bram Stoker’s Dracula, racial and ethnic stereotyping intertwining with its fantastical version of real-life. 

Stereotyping, culturally fearful and ignorant origins are not uncommon for many of today’s popular spooky monsters. Also common is an intersectionality within this fear of ‘the other,’ in which ethnic and racial lenses intertwine with feminist and queer theory. This is what intrigues me most about the text and its related literature currently. I am now able to put a finger on the relationship between my complex feelings about women, ‘foreignness,’ and sexuality in Dracula, and marry it with my appreciation of its format. 

The book is told through letters and journals, enabling a wide range of character perspectives and a few unique lenses from which to piece the story together. This stylistic choice is not only effective from a horror or gothic perspective, but also deeply laced with the intricacies of the ‘otherness’ I’ve been speaking of. The form of letters and journal accounts plainly mirrors early misinterpreted and stereotype-based western Enlightenment writings inspired by the original vampire myths. Additionally, whose writings have been curated and collected from the fictional world of Dracula raises important questions of who has been denied a personal point-of-view, or even of the included writers, whose points of view hold the most merit and importance. What is left out of letters or journals within the book, or how the more disturbing encounters with vampires are described, also points to questions of sex and sexuality. The stylistic chapter formatting of the book that first intrigued me is intricately woven with the origins of the western vampire that interest me and its strategic cultural usage, punctuated by consistent fears regarding gender and sexuality. In other words: my interest in deconstructing Dracula has only increased since my childhood, and the deeper I go, the more complicated (and therefore, perhaps, scary?) it gets. 

 

Works Cited

Bohn, Thomas M. “Introduction: The Vampire as an Imperial Category.” The Vampire : Origins of a European Myth. Translated by Francis Ipgrave, Berghahn, 2019, https://doi.org/10.1515/9781789202939.

Dodd, Kevin. “Blood Suckers Most Cruel: The Vampire and the Bat In and Before Dracula.” Athens Journal of Humanities & Arts 6.2 (2019): 107-132.

Works Referenced

Popa, Ileana F. “Cultural Stereotypes: From Dracula’s Myth to Contemporary Diasporic Productions.” VCU Scholar’s Compass, 2006, scholarscompass.vcu.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=2344&context=etd. 

Domínguez-Rué, Emma. “Sins of the Flesh: Anorexia, Eroticism and the Female Vampire in Bram Stoker’s Dracula.” Journal of Gender Studies, vol. 19, no. 3, 2010, pp. 297–308, https://doi.org/10.1080/09589236.2010.494346.

The “Biography” of a Study of Zombies

(***After writing all of this, I realize now that the blog post prompt is not nearly as limiting as I first perceived—but I hope that this contains enough substance regardless!)

Author and professor Peter Dendle has produced a high volume of works surrounding the zombie and its history, including a chapter of Monsters and the Monstrous titled “The zombie as barometer of cultural anxiety.” It considers the varied significance of the zombie in media, depending on location and time: and depending on what widespread cultural fears are present. Dendle possesses an extensive body of work on the zombie beyond this individual chapter, however, and demonstrates such variety that NPR has featured his work on zombies. I recently read it, so it was on the brain as a portion of my reading list I wanted to explore; though I struggled to find reviews on the author’s work or biographies of the author, I wanted to evaluate some of the range of his work and how his previous writings form a sort of “biography” of his study of the zombie.

Included in his works is “The Zombie Movie Encyclopedia,” an overview and analysis of over 200 zombie movies from 16 countries—Amazon’s description lists the book as the “first exhaustive historical overview of zombie films” (“Amazon”). Some similar material from this book is (rightfully) included in “The zombie as a barometer of cultural anxiety,” including in-depth analyses of a number of Western zombie films. The film “White Zombie,” for instance, is discussed in detail as not only the first “zombie movie,” but for its connections to the West African folklore that majorly shaped the composing of our contemporary concept of the zombie. Dendle highlights the use of the zombie as a laborer forcibly robbed of their soul and free will, specifically to work in a sugar cane factory (46). He moves in chronological order, additionally exploring Depression-era, wartime, Cold War, consumerist, and even September 11th 2001-adjacent zombie films. He does not assign solely one metaphor or symbol that the zombie stands for to each time period, instead exploring (as the films have) multiple avenues by which the zombie stands in for relevant cultural anxieties: for example, the movie Ouanga contains themes of labor as well as themes of race and slavery, both of which are explored by Dendle (47).

Considering Dendle cites his book The Zombie Movie Encyclopedia within “The zombie as a barometer of cultural anxiety,” their structural similarities make perfect sense. In both, Dendle uses chronological order of historical events, and his respective analyses of prominent anxieties that incorporate a number of secondary sources, to explain the popularity of selected zombie films and argue for the zombie as a method of exploring forms of dehumanization and the loss of individuality. In “The zombie as a barometer for cultural anxiety,” he instead narrows his focus to Western zombie films, especially those that became particularly popular, explaining their popularity by relating “cultural anxiety” to the films’ times of composition and release. The Zombie Movie Encyclopedia features a compilation of movies with objective information, such as the director, cast, and release date, then followed by Dendle’s impressions and review of the film. His book chapter seems to condense the summary portion of these films, and perhaps expand upon the review and analysis portion—a fitting choice in getting across his claim of the zombie as reflective of societal fears, for which an author must expand upon a multitude of analyses of a film.

Peter Dendle’s book and article even focus on similar time frames: around 1930 to 2000. The main difference in terms of chronology is that “barometer of cultural anxiety” goes beyond the year 2000 into the most recent resurgences of zombie media, even briefly mentioning videogame franchises and their prominent role in the larger collection of zombie media. Reviews of The Zombie Movie Encyclopedia mention confusion regarding the exclusion of these more recent films or franchises from the book (“Goodreads”), leading me to wonder if there is some sort of connection between that exclusion and the following inclusion of 2000s-era zombie films in “Zombies as a barometer of cultural anxiety.” This “outdatedness” is the most common complaint among reviewers, while the most common compliment is in favor of Dendle’s personal analyses of each film, and his lengthy introductory criticism and overview of zombie-history. This strength is what forms the basis of “a barometer of cultural anxiety,” allowing Dendle to expand upon selected films. 

I don’t want to reduce the book chapter to simply an offshoot of or response to the book, considering their multitude of differences and Dendle’s extensive experience writing about zombies (and a large number of other popular “monsters”). I am interested in the connections between these two works and how these connections speak to what each work aims to do: the book as a general overview linked closer with film-specific study, and the book chapter as a direct argument for the importance of the evolution of the “zombie.”

“Amazon.Com: Peter Dendle: Books.” Amazon.Com, www.amazon.com/Books-Peter-Dendle/s?rh=n:283155,p_27:Peter+Dendle. 

Dendle, Peter. “The zombie as barometer of cultural anxiety.” Monsters and the Monstrous. Brill, 2007. 45-557.

Dendle, Peter. The Zombie Movie Encyclopedia. McFarland & Co., 2001.

“The Zombie Movie Encyclopedia.” Goodreads.Com, Goodreads, www.goodreads.com/book/show/903305.The_Zombie_Movie_Encyclopedia.

Reading List (Updated)

Primary Sources:

Stoker, Bram. Dracula. Penguin, 1979.

Secondary/Theoretical Works:

Walter, Brenda S. Gardenour. Our old monsters: witches, werewolves and vampires from medieval theology to horror cinema. McFarland, 2015.

Hoffman, Andrew J. Monsters. Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2016.

Domínguez-Rué, Emma. “Sins of the Flesh: Anorexia, Eroticism and the Female Vampire in Bram Stoker’s Dracula.” Journal of Gender Studies, vol. 19, no. 3, 2010, pp. 297–308, https://doi.org/10.1080/09589236.2010.494346.
Bohn, Thomas M. The Vampire : Origins of a European Myth. Translated by Francis Ipgrave, Berghahn, 2019, https://doi.org/10.1515/9781789202939.
Hughes, William. Bram Stoker’s Dracula : A Reader’s Guide. 1st ed., Continuum, 2009, https://doi.org/10.5040/9781474211277.
Burns, Stu. “Vampire and Empire: Dracula and the Imperial Gaze.” Etropic, vol. 16, no. 1, 2017, https://doi.org/10.25120/etropic.16.1.2017.3563.
Bray, Joe. The Epistolary Novel: Representations of Consciousness. 1st ed., Routledge, 2003, https://doi.org/10.4324/9780203130575.

Academic Journals: 

Horror Studies. https://www.intellectbooks.com/horror-studies 

Journal of Dracula Studies. https://web.archive.org/web/20190801094056/http://kutztownenglish.com/journal-of-dracula-studies-archives/

Gothic Studies Journal. International Gothic Association., and International Gothic Association. Gothic Studies. Manchester University Press, 1999.

Keywords/Terms: 

Vampires, Bram Stoker, epistolary/epistolary narrative/epistolary fiction, gender/women’s studies, queer/LGBTQ/sexuality studies, myth/mythology/folklore, medieval studies, 19th century. 

Updates:

Changes to my reading list include, majorly, a change in my intended primary source(s)—I have switched horror tropes from zombies to vampires, intending to focus on Dracula as the main text. My secondary readings and journals, therefore, have switched to reflect this. I have found a journal discussing the idea of the “gothic” as well as a Dracula-oriented journal to add to my horror studies journal journey. Additionally, I have tried to include secondary readings that will narrow down my ideas about Dracula. I am interested in female sexuality, queer sexuality, mythological origins of vampires, and the epistolary format of storytelling, all of which, I believe, intersect with one another in the ways they interact in Stoker’s book. This is why I’ve included secondary readings on each of these sub-categories. However, I will draw the link between epistolary forms, the “monstrous,” and sexuality myself.

The Gender Binary, Gendered Violence, and Junji Ito’s Tomie

A certain binary that comes up repeatedly in horror texts I consume is that of “feminine” versus “masculine” violence—in other words, violence perpetrated on either side of the gender binary often containing differences. Coming back to Tomie by Junji Ito from my previous post, the character of Tomie is known as a “femme fatale” or “seductress character”—she is described as such in the book’s English translation description, and enacts violence by manipulation and sexuality. She possesses the ability of immortality/duplication, which allows her to come back after death, as well as the ability to make any man or woman obsessed with her to the point of insanity. This immortality is important because this “insanity” results in men killing her in increasingly horrific ways: the men who become obsessed with her, in other words, always resort to intense physical violence and even mutilation. Meanwhile, Tomie does not usually directly commit violent acts, only playing on other people’s jealousies and other emotions. 

 

On top of this, women in Tomie react differently to Tomie’s manipulation. Their jealousies do not lead to intense violence or mutilation of Tomie, and instead, they become manipulative and intensely angry in their obsession. This creates a clear gender binary in how those around Tomie react to her seductions, speaking to gendered violence and the confines of heterosexuality. This binary is almost entirely consistent throughout Tomie, pushing a distinct portrayal of what Tomie’s powers reveal about bringing out the worst in people through attraction and affection. While Tomie is villainous, taking over the minds of the men she seduces and manipulating their actions, their violent outbursts are consistently shown not to be a part of her conscious plans. Tomie consistently reacts fearfully in her body language and facial expressions towards the violence directed at her, and the men she renders obsessed with her consistently resort to mutilation due to their jealousy and obsession. Though this allows more pieces of her to spread and regenerate, perpetuating her curse and reinforcing her nature of torment, the fear she feels in these moments is evident. The gender binary shown, then, paints both parties as villainous: Tomie’s emotional manipulation is painted as evil, but male protagonists do not get off the hook for their violence, as Tomie and readers are disgusted again and again by it. 

This is the root of what is horrifying about Tomie—her effects on those around her. Readers and characters are terrified of the concept of someone, especially a woman, being able to get revenge and justice for herself even after death, and her ability to haunt them for the rest of their lives. Men in the story, specifically, are terrified by their own insecurities: fears of rejection, fears of lacking control over Tomie/other women, and their fears of not being able to control their own insecurities. Tomie as a character and a supernatural entity is an avenue for Ito to showcase the worst parts of each side of the social gender binary: the weaponization of emotions that many women resort to in place of physical violence, the mutilation that women risk facing by heterosexual men, and the perpetration of violence and insecurity by these men.

Citations:

Itō, Junji, et al. Tomie. Complete deluxe edition. San Francisco, CA, Viz Media, LLC, 2016.

Rosenwasser, David, and Jill Stephen. Writing Analytically. Eighth edition., Cengage, 2019.

Power, Powerlessness, and Perhaps, Womanhood (in Horror Books)

Though I’m unsure what exactly I will write about yet, I’d like to take a moment to experiment with writing about a pattern I notice in many of my favorite horror stories: helplessness, or more specifically, powerlessness. It may seem straightforward that being powerless is a form of horror for many people, fictional characters included, but what is interesting to me is that it can be experienced both by oppressed characters as well as oppressive characters in different ways. I’ll start with Uzumaki by Junji Ito which translates simply to “spiral,” a horror manga about a town that slowly spirals into an ancient curse, cut off from the outside world. The main character and her boyfriend, spoiler alert, are the final survivors, quite literally trekking across a sea of warped and tangled bodies of their former neighbors with no way out—Ito makes it abundantly clear that the two main characters are completely powerless to escape, and that their only option is to embrace death together. The satisfaction that the reader gets by finishing this work is not that of success, it’s finally knowing what is happening to the town and knowing that the lovers have one another for comfort. The powerlessness here is that of pure victims of the situation, and the satisfaction comes from that small reclamation of power: companionship. 

 

In Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart,” the powerlessness is that of the oppressor, the murderer, and the beating of the heart beneath the floor is a form of protest that the killer is entirely powerless to stop. Readers still feel the horror of being unable to stop something from happening, with the caveat that they might feel the killer “deserves” it. It also turns the power dynamic on its head: you might imagine that the killer exercised power by ending the victim’s life, but the victim reclaims a voice regardless.

 

In Junji Ito’s Tomie, powerlessness and power can go hand-in-hand as well. The character of Tomie is a seductress who can woo any man to do her bidding, and she takes pleasure in doing so. However, it comes at a cost of extreme violence towards her by these same men as they become more jealous. In this way, she is both taking some of the free will of these men, but also experiencing gendered violence from them, and is powerless against her eventual, repeated death despite her looks and influence. Tomie is especially interesting due to the gendered aspect of this violence, where Tomie is simultaneously morally corrupt and a victim of misogynistic violence against her will. The horror of being powerless for her victims is the fact that their life is ultimately consumed by thoughts of this woman, Tomie. But the aspect of powerlessness for Tomie is an inevitable, brutal, physical death—something that readers never feel is “deserved,” no matter her seduction. It begs the unsettling question of whether Tomie’s manipulation came first, or whether it is a coping mechanism for her repeated trauma. Readers experience unease both from her power, and her powerlessness. 

 

Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper” has a similar duality in terms of powerlessness and power: and womanhood. The speaker of the story, due to the highly gendered affliction of “hysteria,” is isolated, rendering her powerless. However, she finds a form of power in companionship with a “woman” in the wallpaper of her room, believing she can free her. In this way, what makes the story tense is both the character’s isolation, as well as the frantic nature of her pushback and coping mechanisms. 

 

In each of these examples, the dynamic between powerlessness and a reclamation of power plays on the human fears of isolation, oppression, and mortality simultaneously. It suggests that these three fears are intimately connected. Thinking of feminist theory, and its use in interpreting sets of horror texts, it lends itself well to the connection between these three fears. For example, Judith Butler’s concept of gender as “performance” lends itself well to Tomie’s character. Additionally, how does the terror in all of these woman-centered stories compare to “The Tell-Tale Heart,” in which the speaker is a man? To what extent is it a different kind of fear: the beating heart of an old man, versus how the resistance of a woman victim would feel? How do I experience this second-hand desperation differently as a woman reader? Does feminist horror produced in Japan differ from feminist horror in the United States? These are all questions raised by this pattern, leading me into a feminist, queer, tentatively Western interpretation of popular horror literature. How I might expand my understanding may depend on what other stories I pull from. Will I pull from Japanese analyses of Ito’s manga as well as American, and see what differences there are? Will other cultural horror tropes make an appearance?

 

Citations:

Itō, Junji and Yuji Oniki. Uzumaki. VIZ signature ed. San Francisco, CA, VIZ Media, 2007.

Poe, Edgar Allan. “The Tell-Tale Heart.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature, edited by Nina Baym and Robert S. Levine, shorter 8th edition, Norton, 2013, pp. 714-718.

Itō, Junji, Naomi Kokubo, and Eric Erbes. Tomie Complete deluxe edition., Viz Media, LLC, 2016.

Gilman, Charlotte Perkins. The Yellow Wallpaper. Virago Press, 1981.

Butler, Judith. Gender Trouble. Routledge, 2006.

Rear Window’s Single Room

Rear Window’s Single Room

The fact that the film Rear Window takes place in a single room is part of what makes it so intriguing—this has been said by many viewers, I’m sure, but their reasoning behind the statement varies. It is the aspect of connection to our main character that intrigues me in particular.

For the entirety of Rear Window, Jeff is confined to only his living space. By setting the entire film in one room, with only the rear window and other characters as ways to experience the outside world, viewers share in Jeff’s predicament and his experiences. What viewers see is what Jeff sees—this is additionally reflected in the unique camerawork when it comes to certain shots, as viewers focus in on what Jeff is looking directly at. Take, for example, when Jeff uses his binoculars: the shots while he uses his binoculars are seen through his eyes. (40:38-40:54). The binocular view is only interrupted by Jeff’s expressions, his reactions to the information he is seeing. This, too, connects us to him and his struggle to piece information together, as we likely share in his frustration, his panic, or his confusion as his facial expressions manifest. Perhaps we, as viewers, are making similar expressions to him at the time that his reactions are shown! 

A similar example of the camera focusing on what Jeff sees in his confinement, and how it leads the viewers attention in a similar way to his current experience, are his interactions with other people in his home. His tense interaction with Lisa while she first visits, when they discuss his job, is full of subtle details. While he attempts to push her away from him due to his lifestyle, the camera is very stagnant—alternating between still shots of him and Lisa (27:16-29:30). This represents Jeff’s current position on the matter, a stubborn one. Lisa even asks him if either of them could ever change, and he replies, “Right now, it doesn’t seem so” (29:50-30:01). After, however, the camera begins to follow Lisa’s movement as she makes her way out (30:05-31:08)—she is making a move at this moment, simply saying “goodnight” while Jeff begins to regret his stubbornness with her. The camera moving to follow Lisa reflects his focus on her, as well as the nature of her movement away from him. Viewers suddenly become quite conscious of her movement, just as Jeff is. 

Greg M. Smith’s “It’s Just A Movie” talks about the idea that “films are not telegrams”—that there is no single message to “get” about a film. I think this idea applies quite clearly to Rear Window, where there are numerous different aspects that instantly prompt the viewer to think. The one-room-choice is one of these things: if a common effect that this film choice has on viewers is bringing them closer to Jeff, is the film attempting to imply that he’s the most important protagonist to understand? My answer to that question would be “no,” while keeping Smith’s ideas in mind. That the ideas of the filmmaker and the audience are equally valid is a complex mindset, but I believe a necessary one when considering questions such as these. Personally, I believe Lisa is by far my favorite character, and I feel more sympathy for her than I do for Jeff overall. This does not mean that I don’t think Jeff is a worthy character to feel connected with throughout the film as well, because seeing the film through his eyes is compelling. It alerts us to his character growth and the events at hand in a different way than it would have looked through Lisa’s eyes, for example. Jeff’s perspective is only a single, rich, complicated perspective. My enjoyment of the movie’s suspense was enhanced by the closeness I felt to his perspective, despite his lack of relatability to me. This could vary for another viewer, who felt connected to his personality, hence why they were compelled by this closeness in perspective.