So many films, particularly American ones, tell us that we can be whatever we want to be, and that people who don’t achieve their desired self-actualization are freaks. Murnau’s Nosferatu? He makes for quite the presence, but his hungers ultimately lead him to oblivion. What is the imposing creature at the dark heart of F.W. Success also ultimately eludes Leatherface, as well as the socially stunted lost souls of Kurosawa Kiyoshi’s Pulse.
What are Norman Bates and Jack Torrance besides eerily all-too-human monsters? Failures. There’s an explicit current of self-loathing running through this amazing collection of films. A more interesting question: Why do we flock to films that revel in what is, in all likelihood, our greatest fear? And why is death our greatest fear?Ī startling commonality emerges if you look over the following films in short succession that’s revelatory of the entire horror genre: These works aren’t about the fear of dying, but the fear of dying alone, a subtlety that cuts to the bone of our fear of death anyway-of a life unlived.
That’s akin to saying that all an apple ever really symbolizes is an apple, and that symbols and subtexts essentially don’t exist. Inarguable, really, but that’s also too easy, as one doesn’t have to look too far into a genre often preoccupied with offering simulations of death to conclude that the genre in question is about death. One of the most common claims made about horror films is that they allow audiences to vicariously play with their fear of death.