It sounds like quite an obvious statement, but it bears repeating—the horror movie genre focuses on fear.
A good horror film seeks to induce fear in its audience by playing through their fears, which takes them through an emotional journey as their bodies react to the fictional threat on screen. It mimics the “rush” of extreme exports and other dangerous situations but safely and non-threatening way.
With horror movies, the body triggers the “fight or flight” instinct and induces a cocktail of hormones—cortisol, the stress-inducing hormone associated with fear; adrenaline, a brain-stimulating hormone that prepares your body for a potential threat; and eventually dopamine, the pleasure and reward hormone that creates satisfaction after you’ve survived the challenge.
In short, a good horror movie plays on the audience’s fears by presenting them with a threat within but eventually rewards them by allowing the protagonist to overcome it all. Since the protagonist’s journey is the one the audience follows, it is a stand-in for the audience’s emotions. Therefore the reward for the protagonist’s heroics efforts is felt by the audience by proxy.
At least, that’s what the white experience on horror films has been like for the past century. For Black people, horror movies feel quite different.
What scares us?
If a good horror movie induces fear, the filmmakers need to understand their target audiences. Once covered, the film’s topic should be one that addresses common and uncommon terrors from said audience in a way that allows them to experience them and metaphorically “defeat them” by the end of the film.
When it comes to terrors and fears, Keith Grant (2010) describes two types, according to their origins: timeless and universal taboo fears and historical and cultural anxieties within a context.
Timeless and universal fears usually involve aspects of human nature, taboos, and biological threats—death, sex, self-reflection, the unknown, and the darkness. In this category, you find horror movies centered on the afterlife, the inner manifestation of darkness lurking within the human soul, sex and desire becoming tools for damnation, and supernatural-oriented films. These topics are mainstays in horror films because they trigger primal instincts that cannot be separated from the human condition. Therefore, they are a reliable source of fear for a vast audience.
On the other hand, cultural anxieties have a narrow range since they usually exist within a particular context in time and space. While they may overlap with some of the primal fears described above, they address specific fears associated with the population’s current living circumstances.
While every country may experience different generalized anxieties according to their current sociopolitical context, this type of horror quite often features two aspects: disruption of a favorable status quo or what is perceived as the natural order, or the threat of a group of “others” against the target audience. For example, within the United States, the post-WWII was dominated by nuclear anxieties (disruption of a favorable status quo) and the fear of communism (others).
While a horror film can choose between these two types of fear as the core message of their production, they are most commonly a package deal. And while it is easy to determine humanity’s primal fears, establishing cultural anxieties requires further study of the target audience the film is meant for, therefore narrowing it down.
As it turns out, most of the American film industry’s horror films within the last 100 years have been made to address the white, heterosexual, American man’s anxieties. Subsequently, this means that horror films focusing or featuring cultural concerns discussed the disruption of a status quo favorable for the white heterosexual American man and involved the othering of those that could challenge said status quo—black people, queer folk, foreigners, and women.
Black people in horror: The monsters.
Each of the groups mentioned above has been present in horror films as “monsters” or threats to the white heterosexual American man. However, Black people are undoubtedly the most prominent victims of this systematic othering.
Although not a horror film per se, The Birth of a Nation meant to portray Black people—through white actors wearing blackface, no less—as far more than villainous, monstrous, inferior, and dangerous. A threat to white women, and subsequently, a threat to the white, American man’s status quo. By all means, the first feature film epic in the United States set the foundation stone for the use and codification of Black people as the monsters to fear.
Post-WWII, the othering of Black folks exacerbated to unforeseen levels. The desegregation and the slow and steady integration of Black people within society threatened the status quo favorable to white people, mostly the aforementioned white heterosexual American man. Subsequently, demeaning and fetishizing stereotypes regarding Black men became rampant, specifically designed to oppose the white man’s status quo—they were Black, therefore impure and inferior to the so-called “intellectual superiority” of whites. This “primal” stereotype also carries a sexual component, implying Black men’s sexual prowess would take away white women, subsequently emasculating white men.
This specific type of cultural anxiety for white men and women would dominate the film industry from the 30s through the 60s and fell in disgrace by the 70s. In the horror genre, through this era, it would merge with the aforementioned universal fears to create the primitive monster subgenre that would thrive in A and B movies that define the concept of horror that prevails from that time. King Kong (1933), Bride of the Gorilla (1951), The Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954) are just a few examples of this type of codification. The fear of “monsters” and the unknown would merge with cultural anxieties regarding Black people, creating films that discuss the threat of these “primitive creatures” against order and civilization, particularly by targeting white women and always with an underlying sexual connotation.
But let it be known that this type of codification does not mean Black men and women could not enjoy the films. Many Black folks grew with these films’ influence, and these implications—while egregious—were sometimes ignored. However, experiencing these films could never be the same for both segments of the population. When the parallels were particularly evident, it was typical for the othered segments of the population to sympathize with the “monster” and its plight.
Black people in horror: The reclaiming of classic horror stories.
Through the 60s, the cinematic industry shifted. With the availability of filming equipment and the widespread possibilities for amateur and experienced filmmakers, the exploitation genre of films thrived. It was a series of small-scale films, done with a limited budget and intended for particular audiences by exploiting certain niche or specific topics.
This proved to be a spectacular opportunity for Black filmmakers to display their talents and tell stories relevant to the Black struggles within America’s racist institutions. For the first time in the country, the Blaxploitation genre reflected stories that were told, starred, and meant for Black audiences.
The horror genre was not an exception.
George A. Romero, although not Black himself, clearly set a precedent when he cast the African-American Duane Jones as Ben, the male lead and hero of his then-groundbreaking, now legendary Night of the Living Dead. Having a Black hero was rare enough, but to have him actively fight against white characters and become the one the audience was supposed to root for was unprecedented in 1968. For the first time, Black people were the heroes and not the monsters.
The Blaxploitation subgenre soon upped the bet. Blacula, released in 1972 and directed by William Crain, became the first horror film released under this trend, and it proved to be revolutionary on its own. A Black-focused parody of the classic Bram Stocker work starred William Marshall as an African prince named Mamuwalde, who would be turned into a vampire by Dracula himself after attempting—and failing—to ask for his assistance in stopping the African Slave Trade during the 18th century. He then awakens in Los Angeles where he unleashes his thirst for blood.
Although the film can be seen as having a certain kitsch charm nowadays, it’s crucial to establish its precedents for horror films. Since it was meant for Black audiences, the types of cultural anxieties it approached were specifically resonant within them, in a way that other segments of the population could not understand.
The inclusion of the slave trade and Mamuwalde’s role as a Black prince trying to save his people casts him positively to the audience. However, his eventual transformation into a vampire by Dracula (a white “man”) can be seen as the process of emasculation and subjugation Black men were subjected to at the hands of slavers and white men. Subsequently, he turns into a being of rage that seeks to recover his lost life, power, and ego by enacting justice against white racists and seducing and victimizing innocent Black women.
In short, Blacula was a film exploiting Black-centric cultural anxieties and fear—racism, inter-Black violence, justice against oppression, and the violence and victimization against Black women. Another film directed by Crain would continue these themes. Dr. Black and Mr. Hyde would also discuss racism, privilege, prejudice, and even consent during medical studies and procedures, an explicit callout to the general anxiety created by the unethical Tuskegee syphilis experiments.
Although revolutionary, Blaxploitation horror films were not perfect. It was clear that the target audience was the Black man, and in turn, Black women were often relegated to the side or used as sexually-attractive props. Due to the small budget, limited release, and smaller target demographics, the movies had to rely on stereotypes and concepts to draw audiences in, limiting the stories that could be told. In fact, most horror Blaxploitation films were explicit parodies or retelling of stories already created. These were well-known and, therefore, would guarantee the most significant revenue without any risk.
Likewise, it furthered the establishment of certain stereotypes that were not favorable to the further de-stigmatization of African-Americans. However, it gave the spotlight to Black-centric issues, provided a platform for Black creators to express their creativity, and, most importantly, considered African-Americans as valid audience members who deserve to have stories told.
Black people in horror: the victims.
Exploitation films died out as the blockbuster became the staple cinema experience. Instead of releasing multiple films meant to many different niches and audiences, film studios’ goal was to release one film that would appeal to everyone—or almost everyone.
While the core audience for these films kept being the average white American man—and sometimes white women, depending on the movie genre—studios sought to maximize each blockbuster’s financial gain by casting a wide net and luring in a diverse audience. The representation of African-Americans in films stopped being niche, and they couldn’t be the monsters anymore.
So, they became supporting roles.
This era saw the rise of many modern stereotypes for African-Americans in cinema—the magical negro¸ the angry black woman, drug dealers archetypes, and many more. Whether benign or malign, these tropes in a film would relegate Black characters to secondary roles meant to either support the white protagonist’s journey compassionately, serve as foils to highlight the better traits or the hero of the film, or become disposable stepping stones towards the final goal. Horror films would not be an exception.
In the horror genre, the famed slasher films became the first blockbusters to rise in popularity, and with them, the much-discussed Disposable Black trope. It has become a widespread—and often parodied—belief that, in any given horror film, “the Black guy dies first.” Whether or not this trope is literally true is up for debate, but it was undeniable that, through that era, it was nearly impossible to find a single black character who survived to the end of a horror film.
This disposable nature of Black characters in horror answers to two main motivations, both with racist undertones.
First, the target audience. Although blockbusters now seek to attract the most audience for their screenings, films remain done by and for white Americans. Subsequently, the protagonists of said films are always white, and the “diverse” cast members are accessory. As such, they are disposable, and the killing of the Black character means there is little to no need to develop them further or add dimension to their characterization.
Second, the “Black Guy Dies First” acts to show the audience that the main villain or adversary force of the horror film is a real threat to the protagonist. This aspect ties in with the rise in prominence of the stereotype of Black people being “physically gifted” or “naturally stronger” than their white counterparts. Subsequently, killing the Black character early on acted as a wordless way to show the audience that the menace was dangerous by taking out a “strong” force. However, the white hero would always overcome the threat by the end, therefore showing better qualities in the face of adversity.
This one-dimensional “diversity” was transparent enough that, by the late 90s and through the 00s, the trope was already discredited and parodied in multiple films that addressed it in a show of self-awareness. Scream 2, Halloween: Resurrection, and the Scary Movie franchise mocked the stereotype but didn’t provide an alternative.
Many people may cite 1992’s Candyman as an exception, but the film’s polarizing opinions display its contradictions. The titular Candyman—whose name we never learn—is a historical victim of racism and lynching but turns into a perpetrator, a haunting monster. While this indeed parallels the tragic origins of many slasher serial killers, there is something unsettling in seeing a victim of institutional racism turned into a perpetrator and a threat to a white woman’s security.
Of course, this is a mostly unkind opinion—Candyman is considered one of the best slasher films of the era and remains a cult classic. Regardless, this is not a Black horror story.
Black people in horror: The creators.
With the arrival of the new 10s came a revival of the horror movie genre. The 00s were a dark age for the genre, with most mainstream films forgetting to add depth to the psychological aspects of terror and instead relying on gore, shock value, and other elements that made the moviegoing experience a superficial one. Similarly, the industry relied on the remaking of successful foreign horror films that lost quite a big portion of significance when adapted outside of their context while scary on their own.
However, the release in 2011 of the film Cabin in the Woods changed everything. The film was a horror-comedy that cleverly addressed, mocked, and subverted each trope associated with horror films until then, therefore laying the groundwork for the horror genre to be born anew afterward. The cinematic industry had realized something needed to change.
In this context—and after years of additional sequels to horror franchise and remakes of foreign films—the industry realized they needed a fresh vision for the horror genre. Decades of approaching the fears and anxieties of a narrow target population had depleted the industry’s possibilities, and it was necessary to provide a different outlook.
Subsequently, Black creators finally got their opportunity to design, create, tell, and star in their own horror stories in the mainstream film industry. Likewise, their instant and widespread success was the final proof needed to show that Black horror—despite having a particular cultural context to it—could still enjoy mainstream success outside of the focal target audiences.
And discussing this fact would be pointless without mentioning the success of Jordan Peele’s Get Out and how it revolutionized the widespread conceptions of horror within America. Not only was it a Black-centric film consisting of existential fears coupled with Black-focused contextual anxieties, but it also did something no major horror film dared to do—explicitly villainized white people.
Get Out’s horror does not rely on overt expressions of racism. Instead, Peele’s chosen poison is microaggressions and subtle discriminatory and segregation beliefs most often found in liberal, progressive white households. It is directly meant to shatter the conception of racism as a thing of the past, making its brand of horror particularly strong for both audiences, in quite different ways.
Without venturing in spoilers territory, in Get Out, cultural subtleties expressed by Black characters are small indicators of something being deeply wrong in the context of the film. Although these cues may go over the head of non-Black audiences, they are clear and explicit for Black moviegoers, therefore settling that sense of fear and cultural anxiety from the start. It’s unapologetically black.
Peele’s second horror film, Us, also provides a reflective view on Black issues through the lens of classic horror tropes and existential dreads.
In fact, the success of Us relies on how well it understands one of the core elements of contextual anxieties mentioned beforehand—the “othering” of a segment of the population, and the fears derived from that conflict between “us” against “them”. However, instead of othering a particular group, Peele cleverly addresses the current marginalization and classism found within America, specifically against African-Americans and Blacks in general, through the profoundly biological doppelganger fear.
Another Black film that bears mentioning is His House, the debut film of writer-director Remi Weekes. In this horror-drama masterpiece, Weekes approaches the African asylum seekers’ experience arriving in Europe and running away from the conflict, starvation, and death of their war-torn home country Sudan, as they seek to start a new life in a country that isn’t too keen on receiving them.
The film tackles assimilation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), sacrifice, and racism through the lens of a haunted house experience. It’s raw, powerful, and deeply personal. Although the film can be enjoyed by—and terrify—all audiences, the proper layers of the horror hidden within can only speak Black immigrants to the core. It was created by a Black-British man for the African refugees in Europe and, to a lesser degree, for the general audiences to understand a plight through horror.
These three films, each exceptional in their own right, reflect the core difference between other types of horror and Black horror.
Black Horror: The plight of the marginalized.
At the start of this article, it was specified that contextual anxieties exploited in horror films usually answer to two different types of cultural threats: the danger posed by a group of “others” and the subsequent disruption of a favorable status quo. However, this applies only to white audiences, the focus of horror cinema within the United States in the past century.
Black horror is, by its very definition, radically different.
Contextual anxieties in horror films meant for Black audiences cannot target them with the othering aspect of terror because Black audiences have been the “other” for as long as they’ve been in Europe and America. Subsequently, exploiting that othering fear in Black audiences requires a certain degree of self-awareness and social commentary about the target audience’s segregation in real life. This is the main reason behind the success of Us.
Likewise, Black horror often struggles to establish fear by disrupting a favorable status quo because Black audiences have never had one. As an oppressed minority crushed by a systematically racist structure, the status quo’s transformation hardly causes the same type of fear it may impose on the majority enjoying the benefits of privilege. In fact, frequently, the change in the status quo is a favorable outcome for said audiences.
As such, horror films meant for Black audiences address cultural fears and anxieties that are intrinsic to a Black person’s life in countries that diminish, belittle, oppress, and attack Blackness. The horror of real life is turned into an instrument for power and works as tools for liberation and strength.
As stated at the start of this article, a good horror film seeks to induce fear in its audience by playing through their fears, which takes them through an emotional journey as their bodies react to the fictional threat on screen. However, for Black people, fear is part of everyday life, so it takes a brand-new approach to horror to mimic this experience. It’s not about fear. It’s about the victory at the end.
In short, Black horror is about empowerment. It turns the everyday horror into a tool that can and will be defeated.
Subsequently, by their own structure, Black horror films defy the conventional tropes of horror found within the mainstream film industry. They provide a fresh outlook at what it means to be scared and what it means to be the last one standing.
“And I see America through the eyes of the victim. I don’t see any American dream; I see an American nightmare.”
— Malcolm X.
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