Cult Corner: High-stakes horror

I haven’t kept up on horror movies as of late, to the point that a friend recently asked me, “Do you even like horror anymore?” Upon reflection, I realized it’s because we’re living in the age of the A24 Bummer Fest. Allow me to explain.

I sat stunned as the end credits of “Hereditary” (2018) began to roll. The film, a tale of a family’s unraveling after unimaginable tragedy, had done its job, and then some. The screen had been a window into the fictional lives of others for the  film’s run time, but, just as the fate of the lone survivor was revealed, I realized I’d been looking into a mirror.

Such was the impact of my first and, to this day, only viewing of “Hereditary,” that I devoted an entire column to it back in 2020 (bit.ly/cultcornernightmares). Since then, A24, the studio behind that film, has become a powerhouse in the movie industry. Search up “cinephile starter pack” memes, and there’s sure to be a mention of A24. The brand is synonymous with arthouse films done at lower budgets by directors with a singular vision (auteurs). Though the studio also produced successful films in other genres, it is most synonymous with horror, not just because of “Hereditary,” but films like “The Witch” (2015), “Under the Skin” (2013) and “X” (2022).

A24’s commitment to a certain type of horror film, though, has given rise to an age in horror movies where there’s little to no sense of fun. Part of the studio’s horror brand takes a cue from “Hereditary” in that seemingly every one of their films has a social commentary element, and the subtext of every film is some kind of real-life trauma. To be fair, every good monster has its roots in something that truly exists, but horror is an offshoot of fantasy. A24 ties its horror films too closely to reality and usually drains the protagonists of anything but a traumatized, 1,000-yard stare. Hence, the A24 Bummer Fest. Other studios have jumped on the Bummer Fest formula in films like “Smile” (2022) and “Longlegs” (2024).

I’m not calling for a return to the dumbest depths of the ’80s slasher boom, where all filmmakers needed were some good-looking women, a tall guy in a mask and a gimmick for the killer, but these films, even some of the worst ones, are beloved for a reason. They’re comfort food and, despite the dark subject matter, they’re clearly not designed to be taken seriously. Horror could use a dose of escapism about now.

The best horror, though, lets the audience know that the movie screen isn’t only a window, nor is it only a mirror — it’s a two-way mirror. “The Texas Chain Saw Massacre” (1974) is one of the finest examples of this. Sure, it’s rooted in the terror of post-Vietnam America, but it’s more than that. Leatherface and his family possess a kind of eternal horror that translates to its own brand of rural eldritch terror.

So join me for a screening of this absolute masterpiece that deserves to be mentioned in the same breath as “The Godfather” when discussing the greatest films of all time. I’ll be introducing the film at the Kenworthy Performing Arts Centre, along with Russell Meeuf, horror scholar and film professor at the University of Idaho, at 7 p.m. Wednesday.

Meeuf believes my academic credentials (see right) don’t hold up, so we’ll have a debate, of sorts, as we introduce the historic and cultural significance of the film. If my defense doesn’t pass muster, the folks at the Kenworthy say they won’t have me back. I don’t begrudge the Kenworthy wanting to uphold their standards in the face of intense scrutiny, though it’s easy for him to throw verbal punches behind the screen of his ivory tower on campus. If he wants a one-sided “loser leaves town” match, then so be it.

Regardless of the outcome, one thing will remain true — the saw is family.

Thompson, VHS.D, holds a doctorate of cult media in pop culture from University of Maine at Castle Rock. He delivers lectures on movies and other pop culture topics under the moniker Professor VHS. You can find him on Instagram as @professorvhs and reach him via email at lcvrecordswap@gmail.com.