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Dead bodies in movies creep me out. Or make that dead bodies played by live actors, since CGI corpses, freeze-frame stiffs, dearly departeds the other characters talk about or cry over that never appear on-screen, because some wise, observant director/cinematographer/film editor has judiciously cut them out of the frame, etc, I can deal with well enough. It’s the stiffs that phenomenologically aren’t that set the eyes darting and the skin crawling, that create tension for at least one viewer—like “O no, not another chest cavity subliminally heaving again.” Or microscopic twitches in face and neck, skin in its natural respiration state, that even an accomplished actor (assuming it’s about acting at all) can’t always camouflage, teeny-tiny indicators to remind you that, yes, ladies and gents, this putative pine-box candidate is actually alive and not just rigor mortis kicking.
