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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.

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.

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.

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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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 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.

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

The Evolution of Black Religion & Spirituality in Horror

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Jobs for Black actors were scarce in the early days of Hollywood, but that didn’t mean there weren’t Black roles in the films being made. The silver screen had a ceiling for Black actors but not for our culture. White audiences got a gag out of the Black caricatures that white actors portrayed whilst the dehumanizing regurgitation of our culture was used for plot development. Thus, one of the very first Black tropes was born: the magical negro. The early media depictions of Black spirituality were a tool to villainize the community off-screen. Some could say we’ve come a long way since then. I would say we still have a ways to go. The progress is still worth reflecting on, though.

Christianity is one of the largest faiths practiced in the Black American community. But before the missionaries spread the good Lord’s word, most enslaved people aligned with West African religious practices: using herbs, charms, and other metaphysical tools. Tituba, an enslaved Afro-Caribbean woman, was one of the first women accused of witchcraft during the Salem Witch Trials— except they identified it as ‘hoodoo’ or Vodou. It was later demonized as the seed that sprouted the uprising of enslaved Haitian people. With these stepping stones (and American imperialism in Haiti), white screenwriters had fuel for a genre on the rise: horror.

White Zombie (1932) is one of the earliest examples of Vodou in horror and, considerably, the first zombie movie. It isn’t the most harmful, though. Black Moon (1934) made history for a few reasons: being violently racist and starring the first Black American actress to sign a film contract. There’s too much irony in that.

The depiction of voodoo in Black Moon, like many other common Black tropes, reinforces black inferiority to their oppressors and makes a monster out of Black men. It wasn’t until 1941 that audiences saw an authentic portrayal of a different Black religion: Christianity. The Blood of Jesus (dir. Spencer Williams) stars an all-black cast and follows a woman on her journey between heaven and hell. It was a turning point for Black cinema as a whole.

Narratives such as this, Def By Temptation (1990), and, most recently, The Deliverance (2024) depict the liberation that Black Christians often find in their religion. They draw a direct connection between identity and virtue. Ganja & Hess (1973), however, takes a different approach. Director Bill Gunn doesn’t offer the Christian God as an entity of power capable of salvation. The ending is representative of the religious guilt that weighted Hess Green (played by Duane Jones). Neither vampirism nor religion can save him from the trauma he’s running from. 

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Almost any Black film that I’ve seen, Tyler Perry included, involved Christianity to some extent. 2023 was the first time I saw a Black religious practice given proper respect on screen. Stay with me here– The Exorcist: Believer (dir. David Gordon Green). Rarely have I seen a positive opinion on this extension of the franchise. Unfortunately, DGG left a bad taste in horror fans’ mouths with his Halloween films. I don’t think it’s so much of his style rather than the loyalty that fans have for these franchises. They have high expectations that very few people can meet. I admired the way he represented the beauty of Haitian culture, though. Particularly, hoodoo was an integral part of the story in a way I haven’t seen in mainstream horror. It wasn’t evil nor was it dramatic. The rootwork healer isn’t crushing bones or conducting blood sacrifices. Its authenticity was commendable compared to the genre’s predecessors that have demonized this very spiritual work for decades. 

The late, great Tony Todd added to the list of authentic Black spiritual horror films this past year with The Activated Man (dir. Nicholas Gyeney). Todd stars as a lightworker, named Jeffrey Bowman, who helps the main character defeat an evil, fedora-sporting spirit. He’s dripped out with a rose quartz bracelet and a mala necklace. Though the movie suffers in its respective areas, it’s a tick in the timeline. It’s one of the few times that a Black character has helped to defeat evil with a spiritual practice and faith that isn’t Christianity. Like The Exorcist: Believer, its depiction of Bowman isn’t an unstable practitioner leading with dramatics. It’s easy to get lost in the fine details– some movies won’t live up to our expectations. However, even the most disappointing watch can shift the trajectory of cinema. Where Black characters were once monolithic religious apostles, modern cinema is more willing to diversify Black characters beyond those tired tropes. 

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Editorials

The Art of Politicizing a Dumb Killer Clown Movie

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“Horror is not political” is a recycled firestorm on the internet. The smoke smells the same as it did before, the burn isn’t that bright, and the outcome is always the same: we’ve done this dance before, and we will do it again.

Damien Leone has joined the club of Joe Bob Briggs and dozens of others who have voiced that very hollow opinion that “Horror is not political”. Because I do, I think above all else, above the very clear negotiation with the part of his audience who got angry, the very clear fear of backlash for actor David Howard Thorton’s admonitions of the current Trump administration and his support for the LGBTQ+ community, is…

Hollowness.

“Horror is not political” is not an opinion.

It’s an absence of opinion. It’s a platitude; it’s meant to appease people. It’s a free dessert for the person raging in the restaurant that their soup was cold and that they won’t stand for it. It’s bargaining.

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Are the Terrifier films Political?

Mind you, this is not a call-out of those people angry at the concept of political horror, and I doubt you could call it a call-in post either; chances are you’re not reading this if you feel that so strongly. The goal is to do what I always do: talk about movies and what they mean, and this current firestorm is a very convenient way of doing that. It’s a well-timed way to toast my analytical marshmallow (promise, that’s the last fire metaphor).

So, what are the politics of the Terrifier films that Damien Leone wants to put away while the irate hotel guests are here? The Terrifier movies are political beasts by their nature, and their killer, the beloved jewel of the Terrifier franchise Art the Clown, is just as political as his actor’s commentary on current-day America. Because through and through, Art the Clown is a monster carrying with him the shadow of sexual violence, a harbinger of how truly despicable that kind of violence is, and shows how the world is not set up to help its victims.

And Leone has said as much to support that.

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After all, he believes he’s tackled sexual violence quite well in the films. In an interview with Rue Morgue, he goes on to elaborate why he believes just that:

“I think I’m just so comfortable [tackling sexual violence] because I was raised by all women that I don’t think about those things when I’m doing it. […] I’m not trying to offend, so there’s really nothing I’m not afraid to show. There’s things I won’t show; There’s lines that I try not to cross, believe it or not. No matter how grotesque and intense these scenes get, I always keep it in the back of my head like, ‘How far can we push it [..]?’

And I find it fascinating, because no matter how much negative space Leone leaves in terms of explicit sexual abuse on Art the Clown’s part, that negative space speaks just as loudly as if it was actually on screen.

The Politics of Clownery

On a meta-textual level, the extremity, the explosive and sensationalized nature of violence in the Terrifier films, the draw that most people go to see at the theatre, puts sexual violence on a pedestal of shame. It makes it untouchable. Horror is the genre that explores the violation of bodily autonomy, the violation of human life, most freely. In making a spectacle of the wildest and most nauseating kills most filmgoers will ever see, turning the killer into a Bugs Bunny-esque monster that’s always pushing the envelope alongside the filmmaker orchestrating him, and then setting boundaries on what Art won’t do, Leone has made a political statement about the truly reprehensible nature of sexual violence.

Art the Clown is bad, but he’s a surreal type of evil. He is jokes and gaffs at the expense of chainsawing couples and bashing people with spiked bats, not the mutants from The Hills Have Eyes, or the hallway scene from Irreversible. He is not the sobering, disgusting kind of evil most people run into in the real world. He is evil incarnate, sans sexual violence. Because if it’s too far for Art, it has to be a special kind of unthinkably cruel.  

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On a textual level, I think the enduring and surreal violence Sienna and Jonathan endure throughout the series is a perfect metaphor for continuing through life after an assault of that magnitude and cruelty. The aftershocks of violence that permeate your whole being, long after society expects you to have just “gotten over it”. To walk through life, afflicted by paranoia, self-doubt, and self-hatred. To navigate being around other people after having experienced that, and more importantly, living without justice for the crimes done to you, is unthinkable.

True Crime and Horror Collide

And the way that the Terrifier franchise mocks a true crime culture that trivializes that suffering, something a lot of horror fans have to decry as the space tries to worm into the horror genre at large, gives another layer of credence and reality to the misery of Arts victims. Victims who have to see their pain commodified and treated as a tool, something many victims of sexual assault themselves have been forced through thanks to true crime.

And despite each film seeming to end off worse than the last, Leone highlights the grace of a victim escaping that pain and trauma by giving Sienna the means to fight back. Supernaturally granted or otherwise, it is a perfect encapsulation of victims’ desires to overcome seemingly unending suffering, that will to live, to thrive, that burns bright in all victims. It’s a glimmer of hope in a mostly hopeless franchise, and it serves as a mirror to the light at the end of the tunnel many sexual assault victims strive to reach.

At the end of the day, artists don’t really get to buy in or buy out of how political their art is, the same way you don’t get to buy in or buy out of living in a political system. Much like Art’s random and unpredictable violence, it sort of just happens to you. It happens whether it’s the high concept art film horror, or what most people see as a bog-standard dumb killer clown movie. But to embrace that political nature is one of the most important things you can do as an artist.

To leave that meaning behind, to try and void art of the political messaging people might find in it, is to do a great disservice to the people who found comfort and joy in that message. Because once that vessel has been emptied of the love people can find in it, the hate people had isn’t going to stay inside of it for long.

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That hollowed art won’t be overflowing with a new audience of people. It will simply be empty.

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