Arts & Entertainment

D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation (1915) may as well be considered a Black horror film. While perhaps not in a contemporary sense, the portrayal of newly emancipated slaves both during and after the Civil War—notably by white actors in blackface—as bestial, depraved, coniving threats to the purity of a white nation and the purity of that nation’s white women, as well as the blatant displays of lynching and other violence against the Black characters by white people—usually the Klu Klux Klan—can easily be described as horrific. Of course, in the context of the movie, the monsters were not the racist white mob, but the Black characters, and by extension, Black Americans in real life. With this negative portrayal of race, The Birth of a Nation is widely credited with the revival of the KKK. 

One can only imagine that some white audiences felt a sort of catharsis in seeing a fantasy in which the Black American was the true collective enemy of America, and seeing that enemy get their comeuppance. Griffith was fully aware of this collective fear in the white consciousness at the time, which is why he knew his movie would sell; Griffith was not a confederate-apologist, nor did he have particularly strong stances on race. He instead was capitalizing on Black pain for a white audience.

Similar movies followed in the years following The Birth of a Nation that played on a similar fear of the Black individual—or perhaps the Black collective, as they were often seen as a monolith during this time. One such movie is Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Shoedsack’s King Kong (1933). In the words of American columnist Jim Pinkerton, “…for this movie to have been made in 1933 about white people going over to the Third World to capture a large, black being with a flat nose and bring him back in chains was sort of powerful then.” Although King Kong’s focus is not explicitly on representing Black people as egregiously as possible, like the aforementioned The Birth of a Nation, there are clear comparisons between the bestial, depraved, sexual threat to white women that is Kong and how Black people were represented in Griffith’s movie—it is still a large, black ape that is conquered by white colonial powers. The goal might have been to capitalize on audiences’ fascination with exotic, jungle-centered movies at the time, but this subconscious fear of Blackness nonetheless manifested itself in the monster, just as it had done previously. This is not just a coincidence, but a pattern.

Despite there being countless examples of subconscious (as well as conscious) negative portrayals of Black people in horror films, literature, and media, I do believe that it is important to draw the line somewhere, to ensure that we are not attributing all qualities of monsters to inherent Blackness. Some have pointed to works such as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein as an example of racism in horror, arguing that Victor Frankenstein’s monster has traits associated with Black slaves and indigenous people—a sort of Kong-like character, as in my previous example—with a “horrid” complexion and “black lips.” They also argue that Victor’s fear of his monster is associated with a fear of Black people, since one of the reasons for his fear is that he is no longer able to control a creature that he believed himself to be superior to, both physically and mentally. 

Although one can imagine that the fear of losing control over colonized people and slaves was prominent in the white consciousness at the time, I believe that a deeper understanding of Frankenstein—and by extension, any piece of media we are examining for harmful racial representation—is crucial before we say that any fictional monster is contributing to racism in horror. Shelley portrays the monster as extremely sympathetic, with the latter half of the book containing chapters from the monster’s perspective where he monologues with self-awareness about his nature and the pain that Victor had caused him. It is through the monster’s eyes that it is revealed that he is simply a reflection of Victor himself, the direct consequence of his hubris. Frankenstein’s monster, as a character, is treated with the same respect as Victor himself, rather than as an animalistic enemy that the white protagonists must subdue. And though it isn’t unreasonable to assume that Shelley was inadvertently influenced by the fears of her surrounding society, it’s also important to be intentional with what we are critiquing. If we are to appropriately map the trajectory of anti-Blackness throughout the horror genre, our critique should be centered on more overt examples of anti-Blackness, rather than attributing potential anti-Blackness to an example.

As we move into the 1970s, the movie industry shifts from blatant anti-Blackness in its storytelling, instead attempting to cater to minority audiences (a largely untapped market at this point in time) with the development of blaxploitation films, and later what will be considered the beginnings of Black horror. Blacula (1972), Night of the Living Dead (1968), and other such movies, while cheaply made and specifically created to pander to Black, urban audiences by white studios, still hold a special place in many people’s memories. The movies were fun, and this time, the catharsis spurred on by seeing a Black actor star in a horror film was for Black audiences in particular. It was cathartic to see Duane Jones in Night of the Living Dead valiantly fight his way through zombie hordes, although he was shot by police at the end of the film—must we always meet the same end? However, there was still room for growth, and for Black directors to finally take control of their own narratives.

2017 ushered in Jordan Peele, arguably one of the most influential figures in the Black horror genre. One does not have to speak on the overwhelming success of Get Out (2017), Us (2019), and Nope (2022), all of which artfully combined real Black experiences, social commentary, and classic horror elements into compelling and entertaining narratives. Get Out in particular was monumental in sparking nationwide interest for Black horror, signaling to Hollywood executives that there needed to be more Peele-like films. 

2021 then followed suit with the release of Nia DaCosta’s Candyman, a reboot of the 1992 movie of the same name. However, despite Peele being a co-writer, Candyman was met with mixed reviews, with many of the critiques being about the film’s heavy-handedness in conveying its political message. Themes about gentrification and racial justice are dumped onto audiences through expository dialogue, which begs the question: Who was this movie for? 

Earlier in 2020, Christopher Renz and Gerard Bush’s Antebellum, a story about a Black woman who was kidnapped and enslaved on a mock-plantation in a Civil War reenactment park run by Confederates, begged the same question. Though clearly trying to make a statement on systemic racism and confronting past oppression, the majority of the film consisted of visceral scenes of enslaved Black folks as they are brutalized, tortured, and ridiculed. And with it not being revealed that all of this is part of a reenactment park until the very end of the movie, audiences are left with Black trauma porn for more than an hour of runtime rather than true Black horror. 

The answer is the same for those movies as it was for the movies which came out decades earlier, like The Birth of a Nation: they were made for white audiences. Although Candyman, Antebellum, and other contemporary Black horror films may not contain harmful portrayals of Black people , their content is certainly not for the catharsis of Black audiences. In the words of American author and educator Tanavarie Due, “Black History is Black Horror.” Black people do not need gentrification and racial justice explicitly explained to them, like in Candyman, because they have already lived it by virtue of being Black in America. Black audiences do not experience catharsis from seeing the horrors of slavery—of which they are already well aware—played out on screen with high-quality cameras and lighting. We cross the line between horror and trauma porn when the narrative begins to mirror reality too closely. 

This line is also crossed when horror utilizes Black trauma as a source of education for the benefit of white audiences. Them (2021), an Amazon Original show, follows a Black family and their experiences living in a suburban American town in 1953, where they are subject to extreme racism, along with supernatural hauntings. The show is almost hindered by its inclusion of the supernatural, as in an effort to weave in paranormal activity with very real social issues, the discussion of race relations in suburbia remains largely superficial. It is nothing that Black people do not already know and are not continually aware of—and could be living in right now. Thus, it stands that the only audiences to whom this horror would be novel are white audiences. Black horror, in this context, becomes an educational tool to perhaps evoke sympathy, or maybe remind viewers that things like systemic racism, slavery, and gentrification were bad and continue to be bad well into the twenty-first century. 

Though it’s incredibly important for people—especially Americans—to be educated on the history of their country, these films take away one of the greatest appeals of Jordan Peele’s movies and Black horror as a genre, which was that they were made for Black audiences. In an alternative ending of Get Out, the main character, Chris—played by Daniel Kaluuya—is arrested by a police officer. However, in the current iteration of the film, Chris’s TSA friend, Rod, comes to save him from his horrific situation. Peele said on the matter, “It was very clear that the ending needed to transform into something that gives us a hero, that gives us an escape, gives us a positive feeling when we leave this movie.” Peele understood this need for catharsis, especially for the Black audiences who are meant to be centered in these films. The failure of modern Black horror films is that in trying to bring Black narratives to light, they forget to make the film enjoyable for the people whose narratives they are showcasing. 

One can still have a compelling exploration of race in a horror film without simply expositing horrors that Black people have already witnessed. In this way, not only are people outside of the Black community able to absorb racial themes and lessons, and Black audiences are able to relate and experience catharsis through the characters on screen, but also the film serves as an enjoyable horror movie in its own right. Black horror is at its fullest potential when it is, in earnest, made for Black audiences again.