Horror movie hangover

By AMEARA DITSCHE
Arts Editor

Horror movies have long been considered a quintessential Halloween tradition. And usually even by now we’ve tucked old DVDs back to a forgotten shelf, or seen our Netflix recommendations flooded with snowy Christmas movies. The films everyone adored for the past month reduced to cheap holiday gimmicks—only enjoyed in costume while in a sugar coma. But horror has evolved from slapstick gore and formulaic structure. It is just as, if not more, advanced as a genre, as drama. Horror is no longer just about startling you and grossing you out, or making up a monster to be feared. Instead, horror targets you from within and rattles you. It is more disturbing than outright scary. You don’t feel the fear when you’re watching it with the lights off, you feel it when someone walks into the supermarket with a certain coat. Horror takes the most mundane, brightly lit corners of our world and deepens them. It doesn’t necessarily manifest the monster within the shadows; it points out that you’ll never really know what exists in darkness. Then it reminds you of the different types of darkness, those going beyond physical absence of light. It shows you secrets and societies. It shows you ugly truths and their consequences. It shows you humanity.

It is expected for horror movies to be dark with grimey imagery. That’s why “Midsommar” was so groundbreaking. It juxtaposed peaceful and vibrant imagery with sinister themes. “Midsommar” centers around a young woman named Dani taking a trip to Sweden with her boyfriend and his friends following the loss of her entire family to a murder-suicide. Dani is profoundly alone within the first minutes of the film. So it is no surprise when she is fascinated by the tightly knit community the Hargas have. The Hargas are a commune of people in northern Sweden, isolated from the rest of society. They follow a specific set of beliefs and way of life, culminating in ritual suicide at the age of 72. Our first taste of gore in this film is Dani and her companions witnessing this ceremony, called Attestupa. Several of the visitors react poorly, including Dani who quietly excuse herself when people are leaving. She is comforted by Pelle, the one character we see act as a friend to Dani. he uses kind words to bring her in. “Does he feel like home to you?” By asking this he further isolates Dani from what she knows, making her more susceptible to cult indoctrination. The most unsettling thing about “Midsommar” is the reminder that this can happen to any of us. That evil, when wrapped in an appealing enough package, is irresistible.

Like in “Midsommar,” “1BR” delivers horror with smiles. This film is about a girl named Sarah, who recently moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career in costume design. Angsty phone calls to her far away father show that once again, our main character has no one on their team. Sarah finds a too good to be true apartment in a complex populated by people almost overly friendly. Our suspicions are raised and we fall into Sarah’s anxiety. Fears are made true when her neighbors and building manager kill her cat and kidnap her. She learns that the complex is actually a cult that has a strict set of values they violently enforce on residents. Instantly we think these people are evil, they’re hurting this girl and holding her against her will. Sarah is tortured into obedience then given a role in their so called community, and similar to Dani, she is subjected to gruesome events, lowering her defense and making it easier for the accept them. Then they spend the entire movie convincing you otherwise. Their values are about creating a Utopia. They genuinely seem to think they’re helping people. They call the torutre conditioning, reiterating that residents who follow rules don’t receive these harsh punishments. Then all of a sudden it occurs to you how their way of life doesn’t seem that bad for those who submit to it. We find ourselves entranced and in a way victimized. They got us. The best horror movies are the ones you wouldn’t survive.

“Green Room” does stick to the tried and true dark moody lighting and lots of bloodshed, but sticks to the humane theme. The villians in this film are Neo-Nazis, a group that actually exists. Rather than create a monster, they reminded us of the ones we already live with. They used dramatic affect and narrative to expose how this evil can destroy anyone. Before the protagonists, a broke punk band, heads to the venue where they meet their end, they’re told of what’s to come. Radio host Tad sets them up with a gig and informs them it’s a skinhead venue. Skinheads are a subculture that emerged from working class youth in Great Britain in the mid 20th century. When the culture came to America it became cross wired with the alt right movement and resulted in the skinhead we know today. The red laced boot wearing Nazi ruining concerts. The band agrees, brushing them off as a non-threat. “There’s some at every show,” says one band member. “Green Room” serves as a reminder for the grim reality we live in. Why create a universe of supernatural magic or impossibly talented serial killers, when our society is already posioned with racism, murder and reltentless persecution of the other? We don’t need horror movies to create something unknown to remind us that humans reject the unknown, we have the news for that.

These abilities, combined with advancements in technology that allow for more sophisticated cinematography have helped make horror movies a real art form. Working with the ugly is a challenge, making the result that much more impressive. Watching a good movie about bad things is so much more of a journey than a good movie about good things. There is more depth to them that provides an artistic experience. Not only that, but films like “Midsommar,” show that horror can be pretty too. Aesthetically pleasing imagery distracts us from the horror, making it that much more thrilling when it sneaks up on you.