In Hereditary, bugs crawl from decapitated heads, ghosts lurk in the shadows and an artist tries to communicate with the dead. But the most jarring moment of this terrifying new movie might be when Annie, a mother played by Toni Collette, tells her son she never wanted to have him and tried to induce a miscarriage. Then she wakes from this nightmare, unsettled by the thoughts rattling in her subconscious. Parental guilt is the real monster here.
Moving into the territory of prestige dramas, horror has never been more bankable and celebrated than it is now. While evil clowns and serial killers at sorority houses still haunt young viewers (and make tons of money), weíre in the midst of a golden age of grown-up horror. Hushed and character-driven, this mix of indie fare and blockbusters works ferociously on adult anxieties in an age of dislocation.
These movies confront liberal racism, economic worries and family dysfunction; and while horror has always reflected the social and political concerns of its day, if you had to pinpoint a unifying theme that distinguishes this renaissance, itís the ominous danger of overwhelming grief. A character coping with the death of a loved one is the new car of teenagers heading to a cabin in the woods. Itís the starting point of Hereditary, Goodnight Mommy and Pyewacket, to name just a few movies from the past three years. Then thereís the subgenre of apocalyptic movies (like It Comes at Night), whose narratives revolve around coping with the vanishing not of one person but possibly all of them.
A Quiet Place, the horror blockbuster of the year, belongs to both categories. Directed by John Krasinski, itís an end-of-the world movie about unstoppable monsters that appear to have wiped out most of humanity, but the engine of the story is a siblingís ill-advised decision that leads to the murder of her brother, fracturing and haunting the family. Get Out, Jordan Peeleís triumphant debut of 2017, does not begin with mourning, but the inability to process grief is a critical theme. Although liberal racism is the source of the main characterís terror, what allows him to be hypnotized, rendered helpless in "the sunken place," is the memory of his motherís death and his guilt over not doing more to save her.
None of these movies are sequels or remakes, and most of them come from the singular perspective of writer-directors pursuing their vision, not a studio pumping out product. They feature the usual preoccupations of horror ó supernatural evil, gore, creepy basements ó but they also evoke poet Anne Carsonís answer to the question: Why does tragedy exist? "Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief."
For most of its history, horror was considered kidsí stuff. The reputation of scary movies started to change in the late 1960s and ?70s, when a new breed of ambitious filmmakers pushed to make them darker, more realistic and mature. (See The Exorcist or Donít Look Now.) While many of the films from this era explored the tensions of the generation gap, they were typically on the side of the younger counterculture. The poster for Wes Cravenís The Last House on the Left (1972) warned: "not recommended for persons over 30."
In the following decades, the business of horror expanded and became more diverse, as the genre shed its disreputable image, gaining more respect from critics and even attention from the Academy Awards. These days, the scary movies that dominate the discussion in popular culture are more likely to try to make adults tremble than children giggle.
Hereditary, which opened June 8, is the apotheosis of this trend, a visually ambitious and ruthlessly disturbing supernatural story that is also an intricate meditation on mourning. It begins with a family late for the funeral of its matriarch. Everyone appears dry-eyed if not indifferent about the passing, the first sign something is off. After delivering a halfhearted eulogy for her mother, Annie asks her husband (played with grave unease by Gabriel Byrne): "Should I be sadder?"
Like comedy, horror is drawn to transgression, as both a short-term shock and a cathartic outlet for repressed emotions. Thereís no one right way to mourn the death of a loved one, but this movie provides a litany of wrong ways.
A quirk of most horror is that people tend to move on from violence quicker than they do in real life, in part because they need to (no time to pay your respects when a sociopath is chasing you) but also because of the mechanics of scary movies: Horror directors like to keep frights at a brisk pace. But Hereditary turns the teenagerís denial into the subject of the scare, making the lack of sustained response to death appear chilling, even another kind of death.
Something seems inexorable about the miseries that befall this family. Annie is an artist who creates tableaux in miniature houses, which the camera lingers on, at one point segueing seamlessly into a scene of the real house. The implication is clear: These people are minor players in a drama they have little control over. Children are familiar with this kind of helplessness, but this movie suggests that adults have just as little agency and works on the fear that has set off so many midlife crises: the sense you are turning into your parents.
Hereditary is an apt companion piece to The Babadook, the terrific debut of Australian director Jennifer Kent that more than any other film sparked the ascendance of grown-up horror.
That 2014 movie presented another mother in tumult, haunted by the death of a loved one, in this case, her husband, who died in a car crash just before she was to give birth to their son. In another performance that veers from vulnerable to terrifying, Essie Davis plays a woman whose resentment of her boy manifests itself in something existentially menacing. Itís a movie that turns on the unspoken anxiety that you donít love your own child.
For a genre that has been dominated by male directors, there are more female directors leading scary movies than ever before. Kent and Julia Ducournau, who directed the lurid French cannibal tale Raw, are two of the most exciting new voices in the field. In the first horror movie to speak to the #MeToo era, Natalia Leiteís M.F.A. (2017) applied a gritty realistic view to a story of sexual assault on campus, while Coralie Fargeatís new Revenge has turned a stylish female gaze on the rape-revenge genre.
Part of the reason horror has long targeted young viewers is that itís harder to scare adults. We have seen too much, including other scary movies. But that experience can be used against us. H.P. Lovecraft famously wrote that the strongest kind of fear was that of the unknown. But the older you get, the less unknown there is. Vampires, werewolves and zombies donít frighten like they once did. But ghosts still do ? when they remind us of what we have lost.