Tag Archives: uncanny

Uncanny Valley and the Creepy Clown Craze

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Published by Huffington Post and Strathclyde Telegraph.

Clown sightings, the world’s current epidemic of excitable rumour and panic – which seems to be gaining more and more momentum just in time for Halloween – began when a young boy, the son of Donna Arnold, and a small group of children, spotted two clowns in the woods in Greenville, South Carolina. According to Arnold, the clowns dressed in bright colours and frightful makeup tried to lure her son into a house hidden away behind woodland.

Since this bizarre incident of the first clown sighting in August this year, many have adopted the white-faced red-nosed persona to chase and terrorise unsuspecting civilians across America and beyond. So far, around 48 states in America have reported clown sightings and several arrests have been made. The craze has even spread to the UK where the authorities are condemning the pranksters for wasting police resources and have even issued a teenager with a fine of £90, the first person in the UK to be fined for scaring children.

There seems to be a common thread of unease with almost everyone: we just don’t like clowns. But why are we so scared of them? Why is it so terrifying to see someone who we know is just a person playing a hoax in oversized multi-coloured clothes and silly makeup? How does something we know is irrational, absurd and, most importantly, not real, become so unsettling?

The fear of clowns, coulrophobia, was epitomised in public consciousness by Tim Curry’s iconic portrayal of Pennywise the Clown in the 1990 film Stephen King’s It. Since then, the standard image of clowns has transformed from a comic performer associated with laughter, tricks, slapstick, mime and children’s parties into a terrifying, almost otherworldly entity who stares mindlessly with dead eyes and a wide devilish grin.

Although there could be many possible explanations behind our collective dislike of Pennywise lookalikes, the crippling fear caused by this creepy craze could be due to uncanny valley, a term first coined by Japanese roboticist Masahiro Mori. The uncanny can be defined as the psychological concept, thought to be first established by Sigmund Freud in his journal Das Unheimliche, whereby something is strangely familiar rather than just mysterious. Uncanny valley, however, is a hypothesis which is widely disputed among scientists and refers to a dip of negative emotional response caused by the anthropomorphism of robots, 3D computer animated characters, lifelike dolls and, in this particular case, clowns.

Mori hypothesised that these forms of human duplicates which appear to be almost exactly but not quite identical to humans evoke a feeling of unease, eeriness and even disgust among viewers, particularly when the creations begin to move in an unnatural or mechanical way.

During his research, Mori found that as a robot or humanlike creation appeared more human, some observers had an empathetic and positive emotional response. This was the case until the point where the creation began to look too similar to a human and then a response of revulsion and unease was recorded. On the flip side, Mori also found that as a robot’s appearance became less similar to that of a human being, the viewer’s response became positive again.

Cited causes of this hypothesised phenomenon include: artist Kevin Kirkpatrick’s real life models of Beavis and Butthead, AIST robotics, engineer Hiroshi Ishiguro’s identical twin ‘humanoid’, I, Robot (2004), The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008), and children’s films Night of the Headless Horseman (1999), The Polar Express (2004) and The Adventures of Tintin (2011).

Part of the reason it is thought that uncanny valley causes a sense of revulsion is because we are unsettled by the notion of ‘the other’. The other is a concept very prominent in today’s mainstream and social media with the uncertainty and otherness associated with terrorism and even Donald Trump (is he really human?). And it is this mix of something that appears both human and not human simultaneously that seems to worry us the most. Guardian writer Matthew Teague recently summarised Charles Dickens thoughts on clowns by saying that ‘what fascinates us is not the exaggerated painted face, or the dull face of a man underneath. It’s the tension between the two. The dissonance between what is and what appears to be.’

Thinking along the same lines as the Jekyll and Hyde ideology of the duality of human nature, clown expert David Kiser recently theorised that: ‘…clowns hold up a mirror on society, so we can see the absurd in ourselves. So to be afraid of them is ultimately to be afraid of yourself.’

Like Kiser suggests, maybe our fear doesn’t come from the mask of frightful makeup, big clown shoes, red nose and the colourful wig. Perhaps the image of a clown mirrors a strange, hidden, socially unacceptable part of ourselves. It could be that that the clown face is not a mask at all but it is what we reveal when we take the mask off.

What do you think of uncanny valley and the killer clown craze? Let me know in the comment section below.

Sugar and Salt (Poem)

Sugar and Salt

     The street at the top of the park hill

was an endless row of The Identical;

as if mirrors were aligned along the tarmac

on the road, reflecting the same seemingly ordinary,

seeming tangible, towering brown house over and over

into the infinite vanishing point.

     Before we could play, we had to call in to see

Lucinda in that beige house on that beige street.

She was like a grandmother we were obliged to

visit. But we weren’t related to her, not at all; nobody was.

The outside of the house was a Monet painting.

From far away, it was almost normal, almost pleasant to

look at if you squinted your eyes and tilted your head; but

as you stepped closer, it morphed into a toy house made of clay.

Like the houses you seem on film sets; those cardboard

cut-out constructions that you just know aren’t real.

     Her garden was pristine; picture-perfect. The flowers in the hanging

baskets looked natural but somehow like plastic at the same time.

Impeccably arranged – they didn’t dare move even slightly

in the chilling wind. Her gnomes lined the path to the front

door in identical proportion. Each one of their porcelain faces

had smiles so wide, they threatened to crack and split

their painted rosy cheeks wide open at any moment.

     Lucinda opened the door and ushered us in

straight away; she never crossed the threshold.

The inside of her two-dimensional house matched the

pathological perfection of the outside. Her varnished

Russian dolls lined the mantel piece in descending order;

equal gaps between them. The china display plates

mounting the cabinet were shiny and glazed; like her eyes.

Her mossy green leather couch of equal gloss, covered in plastic

that squeaked as you sat down. A strong chemical smell radiated from it;

a scent made your nose twitch, your eyes sting, and your head ache.

There was even something about the families of Wally dugs around

the fireplace; staring at me with inky black saucers for pupils.

     She gave us orange juice in her finest pretty pink china tea cups.

My hand trembled as I lifted the cup from the saucer to my lips;

sipping the juice that was so sweet, so concentrated; it was acid on

the tip of the tongue. Thrusting peanut butter chocolate bars

into our hands, she gestured for us to eat. The crunchy sugar and salt

granules of the chocolate filling souring; and crumpling our little faces.

     All the windows were locked tight; like she was afraid

of any fresh air seeping inside. The living room was stifling with heat;

humid, sticky warmth that would bead your forehead with a thin, slimy

layer of sweat. And the house stank: a pungent, overwhelming,

overbearing lemon that you could taste; that you could almost see

travelling in a gauze through the clammy, wavy air.

     Lucinda, herself, looked slightly different ever time

you saw her. A large head and upper body but small,

pin legs with fluffy pink slippers stuck on the ends.

Her googly eyes, even her toothy smile, were magnified and puffy;

out of proportion, and she moved with the edge of a ventriloquist dummy.

     The more I watched – studying her abstract expressions, observing

her peculiar motions – the more I thought of The Witches who used to

climb out the TV screen; frightening me as a small child.

As she towered over us, bestowing more chocolate and orange juice,

I was waiting for her to turn into one of them. With the prickly

sensation of ‘uncanny valley’ seeping to my bones, I waited

for her sickly skin to creep off; for her teeth and gums to

fall out in great chunks and smoulder on the perfect

pink carpet – and for her to turn into a monster.


As part of my creative writing class, we are assigned tasks each week to write a short story, poem or dramatic scene based on a prompt given in class. This week, our prompt was to write about the uncanny; essentially, to write an embellished creative non-fiction piece based on a place, a memory, that gave you the creeps. I wrote about a strange house and the old lady who lived in it who my friend and I visited as kids. This all stemmed from the strange smell in her house and as a child –  and even now as an adult (am I an adult?) – I let my imagination run away with me. I’ve always been fasincated by the idea of the hypothesis ‘uncanny valley‘ so I tried to incorporate that creepy feeling of something synthetic looking almost, but not exactly, real into the poem as well.

If you have any thoughts on this piece, please let me know in the comment section below!


Featured image courtesy of Flickr. Edited by Sophie McNaughton with Canva.