Chapter 1: The Intriguing Story of 'Red Tide'

The initial episode of the tenth season of American Horror Story offers a compelling look at the intricacies of artistic creation.

In a series as ambitious as American Horror Story, it’s fitting that the peculiar vampire narrative of Red Tide unfolds in its tenth season. This season marks a first for the show, as it features two distinct segments. The initial part intertwines themes of vampirism, substance abuse, and the creative impulse. Its muted color scheme not only mirrors the bleak portrayal of Provincetown, Massachusetts, but also invites reflection on the mundane lives of the vampires residing there. In this transformed existence, all the familiar joys of life seem to have been drained away (forgive the pun).

The story introduces us to Harry (Finn Wittrock), his expectant wife Doris (Lily Rabe), and their daughter Alma (Ryan Kiera Armstrong), who relocate from New York to this coastal town for three months to focus on their creative endeavors. They soon discover that sinister individuals inhabit the town, but they will soon confront far more formidable foes: those who must consume blood to fulfill their artistic ambitions. What begins as a straightforward horror narrative morphs into a meditation on the inherent selfishness of the writing process, a theme that resonated deeply with me as I reflected on my own creative journey.

Harry encounters two artists, romance novelist Belle Noir (Frances Conroy) and playwright Austin Sommers (Evan Peters), who introduce him to a mysterious pill. Upon taking it, he experiences a surge of creativity that obliterates his writer's block, allowing him to produce an entire season's worth of scripts in a matter of days. However, this newfound inspiration comes with a cost; he soon discovers that only raw meat in liquid form can satisfy his growing hunger. It becomes evident that this pill has initiated an irreversible change, compelling him to consume the blood of the living to quench his thirst and satisfy his creative cravings.

In the first video, "An Untalented Person's Recap of American Horror Story: Double Feature," the narrator humorously recounts the key elements of this gripping season, shedding light on the show's unique take on creativity and the dark paths it can lead to.

The appeal of this plot may vary for those less invested in artistic creation, yet I found Harry's creative turmoil both captivating and somewhat embarrassing. When I encounter a project that stalls—whether it’s a short story, poem, or screenplay—I don’t just agonize over it; I often begin to question my own worth as a writer. Given the significance of writing in my life, this leads to a dip in my self-esteem. Conversely, experiencing those bursts of creativity, where words flow effortlessly, feels almost euphoric.

Observing Harry's journey is mesmerizing, but it also highlights the egocentric nature often associated with the creative process. Creating art can consume one’s identity, making them insufferable at times. The pills Harry ingests only work on those with genuine creative talent; those without are left as mere shells, devoid of ambition or personality. Through their art and addictions, they become trapped in a cycle of consumption.

For Harry and his peers, there’s a temporary escape from this life, but those who have become "zombies" are ensnared in mediocrity and consumption. This narrative taps into the narcissistic tendencies that can accompany creativity. During a productive writing session, I often feel like the greatest writer to ever live—though I know that’s far from the truth. In those moments, it’s nearly impossible to detach from the overwhelming pride in my abilities.

By taking the drug, Harry sidesteps the pitfalls of creative writing, where self-validation is often fleeting, relying instead on his instincts post-ingestion. He can indulge in pride, believing he was talented enough for the drug to work. This constant feeding of narcissistic thoughts comes with the downside of an unquenchable hunger.

I also relate to Harry's struggle with the inherently vampiric nature of writing. As Belle notes, he insists he’s just seeking one more hit, one more project, but like any chronic addict, he’s in denial about his cycle of dependence. I often find that despite feeling inspired, a sense of emptiness follows each project, similar to the letdown after finishing a beloved TV series.

In the second video, "AHS: DOUBLE FEATURE Episode 6 Breakdown, Theories, and Details You Missed!" the creator dives deep into the nuances of the episode, exploring themes of addiction and the creative process, making connections that resonate with viewers.

As much as I enjoy writing about film and television, I don’t invest in those pieces with the same fervor as my personal projects. The brevity of these pieces means I immerse myself for a short time, leading to a feeling of emptiness once they’re completed—much like the void left after a series finale. Then comes the search for the next creative high, which often doesn’t arrive as quickly or easily as I’d like. This leads to a creeping anxiety that, if prolonged, can morph into low self-esteem.

This emotional rollercoaster can easily foster disdain for other creatives. Throughout Red Tide, a recurring theme emerges where characters focused on their craft deride those lacking similar talents, disregarding their contributions to the world beyond art.

While I strive to empathize with others’ emotions in my creative writing and critiques, I too fall prey to this mentality. For instance, when I analyze a piece of art, I consider its intentions and how it impacted me. In contrast, it’s challenging not to dismiss the opinion of someone who hastily critiques a work, devoid of any reflection.

These negative emotions are best not lingered upon, as they only breed bitterness. Even if these feelings may sometimes be justified, they often stem from projecting my own insecurities. In Red Tide, both Harry and local resident Mickey (Macauley Culkin) grapple with profound self-doubt regarding their writing skills. Harry’s writer’s block leaves him feeling hollow, while Mickey hesitantly admits he has aspirations to write, only revealing his confidence when directly questioned.

Despite their self-doubt, both men possess a deep passion for their craft. This fervor becomes an obsession, leading them to sacrifice their humanity for creative fulfillment. Belle articulates that her writing is a compulsion she will pursue, even at the expense of her marriage and financial stability.

Much like an addict in search of relief from their turmoil, writers striving for success often believe they deserve a reprieve from their struggles. Similar to addiction, they chase the euphoric sensations that writing can provide. However, unlike many substances, the joy derived from writing can be experienced repeatedly with the same intensity.

The catch lies in the inevitable periods of self-doubt between projects—akin to an addict's sober phase as they rebuild tolerance. There’s also the self-doubt that can strike during writing itself, for which no magical remedy exists.

Those who consume the pill in Red Tide but lack genuine talent find themselves in a precarious position, becoming unrecognizable in their pursuit of greatness. This serves as a depiction of the direst outcome for creatives with lofty ambitions—discovering that their efforts ultimately amounted to nothing.

Of course, there’s no definitive measure of artistic talent since art is inherently subjective, offering a glimmer of hope, albeit insufficient to fully quell feelings of insecurity. Ultimately, my creative journey resembles a cyclical process, where I can only aspire to hit the highs along the way, hoping for a day when no pill tempts me to consume others for the sake of effortless creativity.