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How Can Horror Help Us Cope with Tragedy?

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Our world in 2022 is scary. There’s so much worldwide tragedy right now that some people wonder why on earth anyone would want to engage with horror content. But the horror genre is as popular as ever. Squid Game (2021) made a HUGE splash, and many Sandra Oh and horror fans alike are pumped about the release of Umma (2022) this past month. There’s a reason why horror helps us cope with tragedy, trauma, and disaster. However, there are important conditions horror must meet to be enjoyable and helpful for everyone.

Can Watching Horror Movies Help Us Cope With Tragedy?

There is a science to why people love horror, and benefit from consuming it. The thrill and excitement horror can cause produces natural opiates in the brain and spurs dopamine production. It’s hard-wired in our nervous systems for us to want another rush! But horror can only be enjoyable for the viewer if we feel safe. That’s when the combination of the fear reaction in the brain and the relief that the fear isn’t a true threat come together to produce a chemical concoction we keep wanting more of.

These chemicals help us escape the pains of our everyday lives. When we’re in that state of fear, our conscious, worrying brain turns off. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think about my student loan debt when I’m running through a haunted house.

When we watch horror with our friends, family, or partners, and we share that chemical experience that comes with the combination of fear and safety, it brings us together. We’re in a great mood because of the controlled fear, and we associate that feeling with the people we’re with.

The Science Behind Horror’s Thrill

Science also tells us that the sense of accomplishment we experience after watching a horror film makes us feel strong, and further connects us with those around us. It’s like we all went on a journey together and came out unscathed! What could be a better bonding exercise than that?

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So of course horror is cathartic! It actually does something in our brains to help us cope in a healthy way.

But wait—it’s not that simple. Science isn’t the only factor here. The ideas perpetuated by the horror genre can range from fear-mongering to justice-oriented. This can make all the difference for marginalized people.

The Political Nature of Fear in Horror

There’s a lot at stake here. Horror has a huge impact on our society’s beliefs about fear and danger. It’s the genre that helps us determine what it is we’re scared of, what is threatening to our livelihood, and what we can do to stay safe. Fear is political. Controlling someone’s fear is a great way to change their behavior and shape how they see the world.

So, what do I mean by fear-mongering horror? It’s when the film presents a message aligned with the capitalist, racist ideology of our society. It places human beings in a hierarchy with a singular ideal at the top. Anyone who differs from the ideal, whether in race, sexuality, gender identity, social class, or physical ability, is deemed less than and seen as a threat. In these films, danger equals difference.

It’s no secret that the LGBTQIA+ community and people of color are historically underrepresented in horror, and doubly so when those identities intersect. When they are present, their characters are often reduced to stereotypical tropes like the black man lusting after and violating the white woman—like The Birth of a Nation (1915) and Candyman (1992)—and the male serial killer who dresses in women’s clothing—like Psycho (1960) and The Silence of the Lambs (1991). Other times, they’re simply there to be the victim of a gruesome murder that the pretty white girl watches in terror before escaping unscathed at the end of the film—like Scream 2 (1997) and Wrong Turn (2021).

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Fear-Mongering Horror and Its Harmful Tropes

That fear-mongering message aligns with the real-life horrors faced by queer youth across the country. In Texas, Governor Greg Abbott sent a letter to Texas State Health Agencies claiming gender, citing medical procedures as “child abuse” and calling for doctors, nurses, and teachers to report any parents who help their kids receive this life-saving care to the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services. In Florida, the “Don’t Say Gay” bill sits on Governor DeSantis’ desk, waiting for his approval. The sentiment is spreading. Currently, there are fifteen proposals in nine states that discriminate against LGBTQIA+ students.

Contrary to public (predominantly white) opinion, racism and police brutality are ever-present threats to people of color in the U.S. Brianna Taylor’s family STILL has yet to receive the justice they deserve. Hate crimes against Asian Americans rose by an astounding 339% in 2021 due to scapegoating Chinese people for causing the COVID-19 pandemic. Queer and trans people of color are even more likely to face violence and are less likely to receive the help they need.

So how can horror help us cope when it’s othering us and propagating dangerous, hate-filled messages? Now more than ever, we need the horror genre to switch thematic gears. Instead of spreading fear-mongering rhetoric that hurts minorities, horror can be a tool for social justice and equity, as long as it portrays stories that humanize historically underrepresented people and critique the evils of our society.

The Rise of Justice-Oriented Horror

The best type of horror doesn’t see difference as a threat. Instead, justice-oriented horror portrays diversity as an asset. What the viewer is meant to fear in these films are the oppressive, violent systems that harm anyone who doesn’t fit the traditional American ideal: a white, straight, cis, able-bodied man. Danger equals systemic oppression.

Luckily, the shift towards justice-oriented horror is in full swing. Jordan Peele’s films Get Out (2017), and Us (2019), along with his modern-day twist on the 1950s sci-fi show The Twilight Zone (2019), are hugely influential in changing the face of horror. Jordan Peele is a HUGE deal in the horror industry. His films are some of the most popular modern horror films in existence. These aren’t little niche films. They’re box-office legends. Justice-oriented horror proves time and time again to be a hit. Peele’s films humanize black and other marginalized individuals and make it clear that the true evil of the story is white supremacy.

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My favorite horror podcast is Nightmare Magazine’s podcast, edited by Wendy Wagner. Each week, they share a new horror story from their publication, read by award-winning voice actors and audiobook narrators. They only publish the best of the best, focusing on sharing justice-oriented horror stories with the world. They feature stories by a diverse set of horror authors like W.C. Dunlap, Maria Dahvana Headley, Seanan McGuire, and Caspian Gray.

Horror’s Role in Shaping Societal Beliefs

When horror movies highlight evil as society itself, marginalized people feel heard and are able to feel that chemical rush that creates a sense of catharsis. It allows us to take a step back and see the movie as fiction rather than a perpetuation of our very real traumas.

On a sociological level, this thematic shift in horror can shape the beliefs of our nation. As we continue the fight for justice and equity in our society, we need all of the help we can get to make it there. Because horror films are so directly connected to our society’s collective idea of what is scary, it is pertinent that these stories educate us about the very real dangers in our society instead of upholding traditional racist, homophobic, and transphobic ideology that serves only those clinging to hierarchical power.

ADDITIONAL VIEWING: Documentary Film, Horror Noire: A History of Black Horror (2019) on Shudder.

That’s why it’s so important that horror in the United States is finally turning away from the idea that otherness is evil, and instead embraces diversity and difference. It’s time for the dominant narrative to shift and present racism, sexism, and other systems of oppression as the true evil. That way, the horror genre can help more and more horror fans cope and find some enjoyment in this dark world.

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*Special thanks to Lauren Zou, my intelligent, beautiful, horror-obsessed girlfriend, for helping me conceptualize and write this complex, sensitive article. I couldn’t have done it without you!

Hey! I’m Maya, a snarky, queer freelance writer, horror enthusiast, and history nerd. My hope is that my writing both entertains my readers and provides educational commentary on human behavior & society. In my spare time, I love to eat food, hang out with my girlfriend, and needle felt little monster sculptures.

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Editorials

Finding Gender Freedom in ‘The Curse of the Cat People’ (1944)

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“I’m going to make a deer hunter out of you,” my father told me right after I was born. This was by way of my mother, of course. I had just popped into the world, and already, I was slapped with gender stereotypes of what it means to be a “man.” My father would become woefully disappointed when he later learned I hate hunting. Instead, I played with Barbie dolls, choreographed dances to Britney Spears, and generally did everything a boy or man wasn’t supposed to do. Although I don’t mind fishing and love camping/hiking, the point still stands: I didn’t turn out the way my father (or society) wanted me to. That’s perhaps why I gravitate so much to 1942’s Cat People and its genre-swerving sequel, The Curse of the Cat People (1944).

Exploring Gender Roles in The Curse of the Cat People

Far more drama than horror, The Curse of the Cat People picks up a few short years after its predecessor. Where Cat People explored queerness, the follow-up dove deeper into gender roles and how one little girl learned to embrace herself despite her father’s demands that she be more like the other kids. Irena’s (Simone Simon) tragic death behind them, Oliver (Kent Smith) and Alice (Jane Randolph) move into a posh suburb of Tarrytown, New York, with their adoring daughter Amy (Ann Carter).

Amy is an outsider, ostracized by the other girls, and turns to animals and insects for companionship. Her peculiar behavior not only draws attention from the teacher but her father, who, as we’ve learned already, adheres to strict societal expectations. A young girl should be happy, skipping down the street–gleeful and popular–not detached and “strange.”

One afternoon, Amy wanders down the street and stumbles upon a looming three-story house. Inside are aging socialite Julia Farren (Julia Dean), whom the local kids claim is a witch, and her daughter Barbara (Elizabeth Russell). Julia is just so different, much like Amy. That’s why Amy accepts Julia’s gift of a handkerchief and a wishing ring, on which Amy wishes simply for a friend. Her wish comes true through the manifestation of Irena as a cloaked woman who appears in Amy’s backyard garden. No one else can see her, and Amy finally has the human connection she’s so desperately needed. Through their relationship, Amy comes to understand that self-acceptance is her gateway to personal freedom. She breaks those shackles that have long tied her to Oliver and society’s archaic gender roles.

Growing Up Different: My Own Gender Identity Journey

It took time for me to come to such a realization. I grew up in your typical country town where machismo and camo were rewarded, while femininity was frowned upon. My friends were predominantly girls, and our play-pretend frequently saw me taking on roles of female characters, including Kelly from Saved by the Bell and T-Boz from TLC. I no longer have shame in that. But I also played with trucks, cars, and Power Rangers. There’s a duality that’s always been integral to who I’ve been. Much like Amy, I didn’t fit what society expected of me. My father never had a sit-down with me about how I was acting–except one summer, he forced me to play baseball, where I was bullied by a kid named Chance. The godawful experience taught me who I wasn’t and that there were shades to my identity.

The two decades that followed proved to be tricky. In 2006, when I first came out as a gay man, we didn’t have terms like non-binary. I accepted what society told me about identity; I’ve always landed somewhere in between male and female. I’ve felt a strong sense that my slider scale, so to speak, pushed tightly on the side of womanhood. It wasn’t until 2015 that I began questioning my transness, after seeing the controversial film, The Danish Girl, starring Eddie Redmayne. The way he caressed fabric, an electricity rocketed through my body. “That’s me!” I said to myself. It wasn’t exactly accurate, but I felt a certain type of way.

I was living in New York City at the time, and I can recall every single detail about that night – the way the street smelled on the walk home, the crispness in the winter hair, and the suffocating inner tension that nearly snapped in half. My body, once broken, felt renewal wash over my bones and flesh. The blurriness of my self-portrait became crisper, more detailed, and less fuzzy. 

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Finding My Truth: The Power of Queer Representation

But my journey was far from over. In 2017, I was doomscrolling on Twitter when I stumbled upon a piece actor/producer Natalie Morales had written for Amy Poehler’s Smart Girls, in which Morales came out as queer. “I don’t like labeling myself, or anyone else, but if it’s easier for you to understand me, what I’m saying is that I’m queer,” she wrote. “What queer means to me is just simply that I’m not straight. That’s all. It’s not scary, even though that word used to be really, really scary to me.”

Queerness comes in fractured neons. Each ray scatters a million particles, and all you can do is collect up the pieces that fit and move on. Much like Morales, “I thought I was sick. I know I thought something was really wrong with me,” she continued. “I was ashamed, and I thought I was dirty. I knew that the church said it was wrong and that God said it was wrong (even though I couldn’t exactly figure out why, if it wasn’t hurting anyone).”

I was practically in tears after reading such brutal, self-exposing honesty. It shattered me. Society’s skin-cutting chains rusted through and fell to the ground in that moment. Morales’ queer confession then sent me down a long, winding rabbit hole until I came across the term, genderqueer, or non-binary as it’s also called. There it is, I thought. That’s what I am. I’m both genders at once, existing in a once-non-existent space between the two that has now opened up like a gushing waterfall. All of it, my entire life, came crashing down upon my head, and everything I had ever felt made sense.

Lessons from Amy: Self-Love and Breaking Gender Norms

I suppose that’s the journey Amy took, too. In defying her father, who described her as having “too many fancies and too few friends” and how that wasn’t “normal,” worried that she’d turn out just like Irena, Amy forged a new path forward. With ghost Irena’s help, she learned that not only was she normal, but it was the new frontier. Self-love and acceptance are beautiful things. I’d like to think Amy lived the life Irena wasn’t able to, one step closer to completely decimating society’s backward belief system that’s killed more people than not.

Every time I watch The Curse of the Cat People, I’m always reminded that my identity journey is never really over. I’m just happier now than I was yesterday. Baby steps. Like Amy, I’ve stepped into the sunlight for the first time. My face grows warm by the soft, golden radiance, and I can finally discard everything society has ever had to say about gender. I no longer need those misguided, harmful words filling up my heart and mind. In their place, I’ve fit new puzzle pieces together – gratitude, hope, compassion, love, and freedom – and each day offers exciting possibilities. Dear Amy, I hope you’ve lived a life you had only dreamed of, and that you’re happy. We all deserve to be.

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Editorials

The Evolution of Female Cannibals in Horror Films and TV

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[This article contains spoilers]

Prior to the disestablishment of the Hays’ Code, filmmakers had to make depictions of cannibalism more palatable, diluting the depravity of the act with humor by concealing body parts in pies. Cannibal horror didn’t truly emerge as a subgenre until 1972’s Man From The Deep River drew controversy and intrigue alike. This film jumpstarted the trend of cannibal films centering on your so-called “civilized man” venturing into desolate, often foreign landscapes, only to be cannibalized by the natives. Modern cannibal media has pushed beyond this cliché narrative, depicting sophisticated cannibals that cook their food like fine dining or turn the horror of the act into something frighteningly sexy. But the kinds of cannibalism we see in film differs significantly depending on the cannibal’s sex.

Evolution of Cannibalism in Horror Media

From Grotesque to Sophisticated Cannibals

Cannibalism media used to be a genre divided into extremes. Your cannibal either had a grotesque, animalistic habit like Leatherface or a deviously delicious and sophisticated palate like Hannibal Lecter; however, as we’ve entered the 21st century, this binary has become more of a spectrum. Audiences don’t want to watch the same reveals of flesh furniture or dinner parties that serve human flesh to unknowing guests. They want cannibalism as metaphors, cannibalism as erotic fixation, and even cannibalism as a connection to the supernatural.

Male Cannibals: Power and Brutality

Be it Hannibal Lecter, Alfred Packer, or a member of the Sawyer family, the first cannibal you think of is likely a man. While most cannibal media has departed from stereotypical portrayals of cannibalism as indicative of some non-Christian barbarity, sterilized, almost surgical cannibalism has become more common but not the norm. Wes Cravens The Hills Have Eyes (1977) present cannibals as inbred savages, trapping and tearing apart whoever comes across their path, yet films like Antonia Bird’s Ravenous (1999) and Jonathan Demme’s The Silence of the Lambs (1991) portray cannibals as calculated, intelligent, and capable of seizing power despite their brutal actions. The sheer number of cannibal films centering male cannibals has allowed more opportunity to test the boundaries of the genre, but that doesn’t mean we should discount the more recent wave of female-centered cannibal movies.

Rise of Female Cannibals in Modern Media

Female Cannibals in Yellowjackets

Female cannibalism is just now hitting the mainstream as Yellowjackets (2021-present) captivates its audience as it tells the story of what happened to a girls’ soccer team lost in the wilderness. However, while Yellowjackets lets its female protagonists be ravenous and brutal, female cannibals in film are often portrayed as sympathetic and less monstrous than their male counterparts.

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Sympathetic Portrayals in The Hills Have Eyes

In Wes Craven’s The Hills Have Eyes (1977), a family of desert-dwelling cannibals feed off stranded tourists with the male family members brutally attacking, assaulting, and defiling the bodies of their victims; however, Ruby (Janus Blythe), the young daughter of the clan, is characterized as kind and having an aversion to her family’s violent ways, even going as far as opposing her family’s attack and sacrificing herself to protect the tourists’ baby.  Female cannibals like Ruby are often portrayed as self-loathing and disgusted by their actions, unlike their unsympathetic male peers.

Cannibalism as Metaphor in 21st-Century Film

Raw: Cannibalism and Sexual Awakening

As we enter the 21st century, cannibalism in literature and film has evolved, often being a stand-in for sex as a character consumes the flesh of another to satisfy a deep, carnal appetite. Julia Ducournau’s Raw (2016) tells the story of a first-year veterinary student and long-time vegetarian Justine (Garance Marillier), who finds herself with an insatiable hunger for meat after a hazing incident gone wrong.

As she navigates the sexual and ritualistic traditions of the program, Justine often finds her new cravings for flesh, coinciding with sexual pleasure as she attempts to consume her sexual partners. The version of cannibalism created by Raw is sympathetic, humanizing Justine by creating parallels between an obscene act and one that is normalized and commonplace in our society.

Jennifer’s Body: Cannibalism as Revenge

Karyn Kusama’s Jennifer’s Body (2009) takes a supernatural approach, recounting the tragic story of Jennifer (Megan Fox), a teen girl who is sacrificed to a demonic entity only to be resurrected as a man-hungry succubus. When Jennifer rises from the dead, her acts of cannibalism invert the power dynamic imposed on her human body earlier in the film when a band drugs and sacrifices her body to gain a deal with a demonic entity.

Jennifer then seeks revenge on the male sex, consuming them in ways that are just as destructive as the way they imposed themselves upon her. Her cannibalism is an inversion of the violence she suffered as the band overpowered, bound, and sacrificed her to reach musical fame.

Exploring Cannibalism in Yellowjackets

Season 1: Power Dynamics and Survival

As Yellowjackets has completed its third season, the show has attempted to explore cannibalism in relation to queerness, psychology, and pack dynamics. In the show’s first season, we see the formation and shifting of power dynamics within the social structure of the girls’ soccer team, as captain Jackie (Ella Purnell) finds herself ousted from the group’s cabin by Shauna (Sophie Nélisse), resulting in her death. As the Yellowjackets begin to starve, cannibalism is thrust upon them as Jackie’s corpse becomes engulfed in flames, breaking the animal part of the teams’ brains and causing them to feast on their teammates’ flesh. After this shocking finale, the group finds themselves at a crossroads, having to choose their humanity or their survival, with most choosing the latter.

However, Assistant Coach Ben (Steven Krueger) refuses the ritual consumption of Jackie’s flesh, putting him at odds against Shauna and the other Yellowjackets. In this case, cannibalism becomes a rite of passage, drawing a line between those who are willing to survive by any means necessary and those who would rather die than commit such an act.

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Seasons 2 and 3: Guilt and Pack Dynamics

Yellowjackets’ second and third seasons lean further into the sort of Lord of the Flies-esque nature of the show’s premise, exploring the relationship each of the adult characters and their teen equivalents have to the cannibalistic events of the first season. Shauna internalizes and hardens around the guilt surrounding Jackie’s death, displaying a clear crack in her composure as she finds herself tormented by illusions of Jackie.

In some ways, the consumption of Jackie serves as a means of keeping her at the forefront of Shauna’s attention, her guilt corrupting and turning her into a more cruel, violent version of herself to align with how she is portrayed in the show’s adult timeline. In some ways, this psychological effect of cannibalism mirrors that seen by more sophisticated cannibals such as Hannibal Lecter in the TV series Hannibal.

While Shauna isolates, the group finds themselves battling with the nature of their survival, with the other girls conspiring to create a method for fairly determining who they’ll have to cannibalize next. The group settles on a game of cards, where one unlikely drawer will be hunted for sport by the group, either ending up the groups’ next meal or successfully escaping into the freezing wilderness.

This kind of organized game displays a unique example in the context of female cannibalism, marrying the more cerebral decision-making seen in other female cannibals with the pack dynamics seen in movies like Texas Chain Saw Massacre.

Queerness and Cannibalism in Season 3

The show’s third season dives deeper into the inherent queerness of cannibalism in the Yellowjackets universe, as Taissa (Tawny Cypress), an ousted politician who struggles to hold her family together as the events of the wilderness impact her behavior, re-explores her relationship with fellow lover and Yellowjacket Van (Lauren Ambrose).

As Van struggles with a cancer battle, Taissa finds her mind drawn back to the wilderness, wondering if a sacrifice of blood is what is needed to prevent the nebulous entity known as the Wilderness from claiming Van’s life; however, while this theory proves at least somewhat correct, Van dies by another Yellowjackets’ hand, but the grief-stricken Taissa performs one last sickening act, consuming one of Van’s raw organs in almost a means to remain ever close with her now lost love. 

Redefining Female Cannibals in Horror

Justified Violence and Human Complexity

Female cannibals in film are often justified in their violence, slicked in gore, but excused of the filth of the act. They don’t often get to keep heads on plates in their freezers or wear a necklace of their victims’ ears. The brutality of their acts can’t be reduced to shock value, because these films acknowledge that there is a human component to their violence. They aren’t animals reduced to eating human flesh for the sake of it. They make the decision to do so.

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While there aren’t many female cannibals that lean into the filth of the act, maybe it is better that way. This archetype of a disgusting, subhuman cannibal who savors the act and displays heads on sticks is one based in historical assumptions of what it meant to be a cannibal. There is a racial component to attributing cannibalism to a foreign savagery, contradictory to the fact that many classic cannibal movies like The Hills Have Eyes are based on American or European accounts of cannibalism. Reducing cannibals to caricatures turns them trope-y and repetitive.

Modern cannibal stories, especially those centering on female characters, push the boundaries of the genre. Cannibalism can also be a trauma response, a devastating outcome to an unfortunate circumstance, or something that empowers and flips power structures. While the cannibal subgenre may be looked down upon due to its history, modern filmmakers continue proving that cannibalism isn’t as simple as eating human flesh. 

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