Watching horror during a pandemic — what could go wrong?
I am a sucker for a good horror story, a cheap date for a horror movie—by which I don’t mean a slasher movie where you forfeit half the price of the ticket by closing your eyes.
No, I mean a story or a film that just gives you the creepycrawlies. The British author M.R. James wrote a seminal bunch of scary stories. “The Oxford Book of English Ghost Stories” is the ne plus ultra of UK horror. Shirley Jackson, Stephen King and — yep — Edith Wharton contribute unnerving creepiness in the American genre — to say nothing of Conrad Aiken’s “Mr. Arcularis,” Dennis Lehane’s “Shutter Island” and Sarah Shun-lien Bynum’s worrisome short story “The Erlking.” “The Haunting” (the Robert Wise one, forget the newer one) for the umpteenth time. I watched “The Haunting of Hill House” series—loosely based on the book from which “The Haunting” is drawn. I was creeped out by “Get Out” and drawn in by “Us.” I got blinded by “Behind Her Eyes” and had a frisson of horror watching “Chalet,” in which a lot of really pretty French people have sex and get killed while isolated in the Alps.
But I have also discovered a strange breed of horror film. It’s the not-fun horror film. It’s so dystopian that it makes “Shutter Island” look like a vacation getaway. I loved director Ari Aster’s “Midsommar.” I mean, I almost
did. It’s visually lovely. Mostly. Except for the gore. Except for the anguish. And the vengeance.
Not to be dissuaded, I watched the same director’s debut film, “Hereditary” with the ever-watchable Toni Collette. If you think your family is dysfunctional — well, all I can say is: Steer clear of treehouses.
I felt unease with “Unsane” and got lost in “Vivarium.” “The Wicker Man’s” blend of campy, comedic and cruel meant that the sex, though plentiful, was performative, the scenery, though beautiful, felt staged and the characters, though folkloric, were as hollow as the Wicker Man itself.
After I watched “Vivarium” I began to posit a theory: There are some horror films so nihilistic as to rule out catharsis. You can’t watch these movies and come away wanting a milkshake or some pie and coffee. You just want to go to bed. With some Ambien.
In our present circumstances — or at least in my present state of mind, which has been shaped or maybe warped by circumstances — that form of entertainment is an anti-antidepressant. We have been so long in bitter thrall to pandemic that the claustrophobia of “Unsane,” “Vivarium,” “The Wicker Man” and “Hereditary” seem to mirror our own circumstances — that for so long we have had nowhere to go because we could go nowhere.
If, when, as we emerge from our pandemic (you see, I’m using the possessive pronoun) I wonder how many of us will experience a kind of agoraphobia or localized xenophobia, not trusting in the public square and not trusting our neighbors to be well-masked, vaccinated and cautious.
Like everyone else, I want to re-emerge. But if I am honest, I only want to reemerge into what gives me life and energy. I don’t want to go back to the old certainties and verities: hard work, a work ethic, a homeowner’s responsibility, a parent’s guilt, the obligations of leadership.
Some of us will emerge with a nomadic spirit entirely at odds with the current claustrophobic zeitgeist. The challenge will be in finding out how to carefully, compassionately and creatively break free.