American Horror Story or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

American Horror Story is not a perfect show. Far from it. I don't even think it's a good show. But I'll be damned if I'm not hooked.

I was honestly not expecting it. After all, this is a show from the creators a Glee, a show that was fun for a few weeks until every episode ended in a cliched lesson about acceptance or tolerance, wrapped up in a saccharine musical number. Remember back in the days when we all though it was going to be Freaks & Geeks meets Election with the occasional pop number? Sigh.

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Anyway, the conceit of AHS is that the Harmon family (Connie Britton, Dylan McDermott, their teenaged daughter, Taissa Farmiga, and their Mogwai dog) move to LA to start anew after she has a miscarriage and he has an affair. They move into a gorgeous Victorian with a darkly colorful past (don't they all?), and meet a few other characters with histories entangled in the house – the neighbours, Jessica Lange and her daughter with Downs Syndrome, Jamie Brewer; the troubled teenaged boy, Evan Peters; the housekeeper, Frances Conroy; the man with the burned face, Denis O'Hare. Cue mayhem.

AHS suffers from a lot of things. It suffers from terrible writing, with some pretty sexist ideas and a boring, thickskulled couple at its core. It suffers from an over-reliance on referencing the horror movies before it, with all the subtlety of a kid begging for a gold star. It's all over the place and moves too fast. Dylan McDermott sucks.

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But when it gets it, it nails it. The scares are played straight (unlike the campiness of a show like True Blood) and can be genuinely unnerving – the second episode, "Home Invasion", scared the hell out of me with its sense of malice and unease. They don't always go for the easy jump scares either, drawing reference to modern American horrors like Columbine with an unexpected degree of both sympathy and terror. I had a hard time getting to sleep after marathoning the first four episodes, half expecting the black latex gimp to appear in the doorway. Even the grinding sounds of the title sequence are really unsettling.

The most refreshing thing about it is how I can never predict what's going to happen in a given episode. It's so batshit insane, with such a crazy mishmash of horror tropes, that every episode is a crapshoot. Is someone going to get an axe to the gut? Are we going to see that clawed thing in the basement again? Is the gimp going bang Mrs. Coach? Who the fuck knows, but I'm so there.

Plus, there's something really great about how this show loves to skirt the edge of good taste. So many, too many shows feel so sanitized, so whitewashed by network cronies that all the punch is taken out. We are ADULTS, people. This show has already had: someone frankensteining their child; a mother being deeply, unspeakably cruel to her disabled daughter; a woman romancing herself with a little masterbation; a few rapes; an abortion treated without judgement; a woman having her boob eaten off by her kid; lots of babies in jars. And we're only at episode 7! Hurrah!

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And the actors are actually really good, for the most part. Connie Britton's part only works because she's the one playing it – in a lesser actress's hands, she would become the shrill, one-note shrew wife that's written. Jessica Lange is magnificent, all plotting poise and sinister graciousness, and so multi-dimensional and capable of anything, she almost feels part of a different show. The most realistic relationship is actually between the two teenagers, who would normally be the most insufferable, but I think that's mostly due to Taissa Farmiga's believability – she's often given the least motivation for her actions, but somehow, she sells it, and has become the audience's most relatable character to boot. And I LOVE the character of Moira, how her dual appearances lend every scene she's in with a dark charge of instability. (Actually, the strength of its actresses really carries this show – it's too bad the writers seem to want to centre their storylines on being screwed over by men.)

The best comparison I've heard (I think via The AV Club) is that it's a cross between The Amityville Horror and Lost, which is pretty apt, especially considering how the house really is the star (like Lost's Island was). The plot lines dedicated to the house's history are usually where the show starts really clicking along organically, and fans of stories with elaborate mythologies (again, like Lost or even Twin Peaks) will enjoy trying to piece together what's happening.

Really, I can't believe a show like this hasn't been done before – the best horror films are ones where the information is parcelled out slowly, building tension and a prickling sense of the rug being pulled out from under you – a perfect format for TV. Now, granted, this one is moving much quicker than that (they've been trying to sell the house since episode three), but at this point, I don't want them to move any slower. I want them to keep piling on the crazy and light it on fire. I want this to be a twisted funhouse of a haunted house. Sure, it won't last long that way (and it's renewed for a second season), but really, watching it get set to detonate is too much fun.

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