Oct 29 JDN 2460247
Since this post will go live the weekend before Halloween, the genre of horror seemed a fitting topic.
I must confess, I don’t really get horror as a genre. Generally I prefer not to experience fear and disgust? This can’t be unusual; it’s literally a direct consequence of the evolutionary function of fear and disgust. It’s wanting to be afraid and disgusted that’s weird.
Cracked once came out with a list of “Horror Movies for People Who Hate Horror”, and I found some of my favorite films on it, such as Alien (which is as much sci-fi as horror), The Cabin in the Woods, (which is as much satire) and Zombieland (which is a comedy). Other such lists have prominently featured Get Out (which is as much political as it is horrific), Young Frankenstein (which is entirely a comedy), and The Silence of the Lambs (which is horror, at least in large part, but which I didn’t so much enjoy as appreciate as a work of artistry; I watch it the way I look at Guernica). Some such lists include Saw, which I can appreciate on some level—it does have a lot of sociopolitical commentary—but still can’t enjoy (it’s just too gory). I note that none of these lists seem to include Event Horizon, which starts out as a really good sci-fi film, but then becomes so very much horror that I ended up hating it.
In trying to explain the appeal of horror to me, people have likened it to the experience of a roller coaster: Isn’t fear exhilarating?
I do enjoy roller coasters. But the analogy falls flat for me, because, well, my experience of riding a roller coaster isn’t fear—the exhilaration comes directly from the experience of moving so fast, a rush of “This is awesome!” that has nothing to do with being afraid. Indeed, should I encounter a roller coaster that actually made me afraid, I would assiduously avoid it, and wonder if it was up to code. My goal is not to feel like I’m dying; it’s to feel like I’m flying.
And speaking of flying: Likewise, the few times I have had the chance to pilot an aircraft were thrilling in a way it is difficult to convey to anyone who hasn’t experienced it. I think it might be something like what religious experiences feel like. The sense of perspective, looking down on the world below, seeing it as most people never see it. The sense of freedom, of, for once in your life, actually having the power to maneuver freely in all three dimensions. The subtle mix of knowing that you are traveling at tremendous speed while feeling as if you are peacefully drifting along. Astronauts also describe this sort of experience, which no doubt is even more intense for them.
Yet in all that, fear was never my primary emotion, and had it been, it would have undermined the experience rather than enhanced it. The brief moment when our engine stalled flying over Scotland certainly raised my heart rate, but not in a pleasant way. In that moment—objectively brief, subjectively interminable—I spent all of my emotional energy struggling to remain calm. It helped to continually remind myself of what I knew about aerodynamics: Wings want to fly. An airplane without an engine isn’t a rock; it’s a glider. It is entirely possible to safely land a small aircraft on literally zero engine power. Still, I’m glad we got the propeller started again and didn’t have to.
I have also enjoyed classic horror novels such as Dracula and Frankenstein; their artistry is also quite apparent, and reading them as books provides an emotional distance that watching them as films often lacks. I particularly notice this with vampire stories, as I can appreciate the romantic allure of immortality and the erotic tension of forbidden carnal desire—but the sight of copious blood on screen tends to trigger my mild hematophobia.
Yet if fear is the goal, surely having a phobia should only make it stronger and thus better? And yet, this seems to be a pattern: People with genuine phobia of the subject in question don’t actually enjoy horror films on the subject. Arachnophobes don’t often watch films about giant spiders. Cynophobes are rarely werewolf aficionados. And, indeed, rare is the hematophobe who is a connoisseur of vampire movies.
Moreover, we rarely see horror films about genuine dangers in the world. There are movies about rape, murder, war, terrorism, espionage, asteroid impacts, nuclear weapons and climate change, but (with rare exceptions) they aren’t horror films. They don’t wallow in fear the way that films about vampires, ghosts and werewolves do. They are complex thrillers (Argo, Enemy of the State, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, Broken Arrow), police procedurals (most films about rape or murder), heroic sagas (just about every war film), or just fun, light-hearted action spectacles (Armageddon, The Day After Tomorrow). Rather than a loosely-knit gang of helpless horny teenagers, they have strong, brave heroes. Even films about alien invasions aren’t usually horror (Alien notwithstanding); they also tend to be heroic war films. Unlike nuclear war or climate change, alien invasion is a quite unlikely event; but it’s surely more likely than zombies or werewolves.
In other words, when something is genuinely scary, the story is always about overcoming it. There is fear involved, but in the end we conquer our fear and defeat our foes. The good guys win in the end.
I think, then, that enjoyment of horror is not about real fear. Feeling genuinely afraid is unpleasant—as by all Darwinian rights it should be.
Horror is about simulating fear. It’s a kind of brinksmanship: You take yourself to the edge of fear and then back again, because what you are seeing would be scary if it were real, but deep down, you know it isn’t. You can sleep at night after watching movies about zombies, werewolves and vampires, because you know that there aren’t really such things as zombies, werewolves and vampires.
What about the exceptions? What about, say, The Silence of the Lambs? Psychopathic murderers absolutely are real. (Not especially common—but real.) But The Silence of the Lambs only works because of truly brilliant writing, directing, and acting; and part of what makes it work is that it isn’t just horror. It has layers of subtlety, and it crosses genres—it also has a good deal of police procedural in it, in fact. And even in The Silence of the Lambs, at least one of the psychopathic murderers is beaten in the end; evil does not entirely prevail.
Slasher films—which I especially dislike (see above: hematophobia)—seem like they might be a counterexample, in that there genuinely are a common subgenre and they mainly involve psychopathic murderers. But in fact almost all slasher films involve some kind of supernatural element: In Friday the 13th, Jason seems to be immortal. In A Nightmare on Elm Street, Freddy Krueger doesn’t just attack you with a knife, he invades your dreams. Slasher films actually seem to go out of their way to make the killer not real. Perhaps this is because showing helpless people murdered by a realistic psychopath would inspire too much genuine fear.
The terrifying truth is that, more or less at any time, a man with a gun could in fact come and shoot you, and while there may be ways to reduce that risk, there’s no way to make it zero. But that isn’t fun for a movie, so let’s make him a ghost or a zombie or something, so that when the movie ends, you can remind yourself it’s not real. Let’s pretend to be afraid, but never really be afraid.
Realizing that makes me at least a little more able to understand why some people enjoy horror.
Then again, I still don’t.