As “team bonding,” my club gymnastics coach used to force our whole team to participate in Fright Nights—a weekly ritual where we would gather after practice to watch a horror movie and then attempt to leave the gym without being scared to death by each other’s pranks. My teammates and I spent those nights gripping each other’s arms tightly and screaming at any sudden movement. I used to dread them at first, but after a couple of years, I realized they'd become something I looked forward to. I don’t think I could say that I loved watching those movies … but I did love the adrenaline–induced stupor that they left me in.
Years later, I eagerly seek out horror films, and so, it seems, does the rest of the public. In 2025 alone, horror was the third top grossing genre in the North American film industry. Weapons had a phenomenal audience reception, scoring a 93% on Rotten Tomatoes. Sinners, released earlier this year, is already one of the highest grossing original horror films of all time. But if cinema is meant to be an escape, why do so many people choose to subject themselves to gore, violence, and fear? What is it that keeps us coming back?
Part of horror’s appeal lies in its ability to expose society’s deepest anxieties through metaphor and shock. But at what point does this fascination cross into “violence porn,” where the gore takes over and the story gets lost? Maybe audiences are drawn to gore because it tests the limits of our humanity; how much pain, fear, or cruelty can someone endure before turning away? In the end, horror shows us what we fear most and dares to ask us how much of it we can stomach.
Perhaps the most important quality of horror films is their ability to exploit society’s greatest fears and immerse audiences. Everyone has something in their lives they're afraid of, and horror films are uniquely equipped to establish a link between personal fears and societal problems. Through the imaginative freedom of fiction, horror can symbolize, exaggerate, and distort real–world problems in ways that feel both intimate and universal. Monsters, ghosts, and killers become stand–ins for deeper fears like disease, inequality, and corruption, allowing viewers to confront these issues in a controlled, even cathartic way. In doing so, horror transforms collective unease into a personal experience, where the boundaries between fantasy and reality blur just enough for the terror to feel real.
As naturally curious creatures, humans crave stimulation and knowledge—two things that the horror genre provides in abundance. Even if the adrenaline rush from a jump scare isn’t an overtly positive feeling in the moment, it still triggers a dopamine burst that makes you laugh about how scared you were in the moments right after. Danger is terrifying in real life, but when we experience it from the comfort of a movie theater recliner, it’s thrilling.
It seems counterintuitive, but just as rom–coms distract us by showing us the ultra positive, horror distracts us with the ultra negative. With the world constantly throwing new crises at us—pandemics, politics, climate change—there’s something oddly grounding about watching fake disasters unfold. Horror reminds you that your actual situation, no matter how bad it is, could almost always be worse. At the same time, the classic rom–com has faded, which might say something about our present moment. Maybe we don’t want to escape anymore. Maybe we want to face the mess in front of us, but in a way that feels safe. Horror movies let us do exactly that—they give us chaos we can control, a nightmare we can walk away from.
Film creatives are drawn to them for a reason too. Their relative ease of production allows for lower budgets, and they tend to build popularity through atmosphere and narrative instead of expensive CGI and star power. In fact, while movies of every other genre only gets more and more expensive to produce, the budget for horror films has actually decreased. Their reliable audience is also a pull—as long as there are adrenaline junkies, there will be horror fans.
During times of societal upheaval, horror is uniquely equipped to deal with sensitive topics precisely because it isn’t meant to be comfortable to watch, which gives it a unique freedom to explore society’s deepest fears. The genre transforms real anxieties into monsters, plagues, or curses that reflect our collective fears. For example, Godzilla, born in 1954 from atomic–age terror, embodied humanity’s guilt and dread over nuclear destruction. A giant monster awakened by the radiation from Hiroshima seems like a timely response to that fear. In 1976, Carrie turned the repression of female anger into explosive violence during a decade of feminist awakening. In 1992, Candyman used supernatural horror to confront generational trauma and the racism that polite society preferred to ignore. Each of these films became a phenomenon not despite their exaggerations, but because of them, offering a safe yet cathartic confrontation with the fears that defined their respective eras.
Today’s horror continues that tradition. 28 Years Later, released this year, grapples with the effects of a deadly virus spreading throughout the world. Sound familiar? 2024’s The Substance chronicles a woman’s desperation to stay young by injecting herself with a dangerous chemical, critiquing society’s obsession with maintaining youth and beauty, particularly with regard to famous women. Him explores mental health in the world of professional sports, which have been relevant recently as real athletes struggle to maintain themselves in competitive environments. These films succeed not by repeating headlines but by bending reality just enough to make our world feel uncanny—a reminder that horror’s escapism comes from watching our worst fears safely amplified on screen.
In this landscape, Him producer Jordan Peele has emerged as a defining voice of “intelligent horror,” using genre conventions to critique systems of power rather than relying on cheap shocks. Get Out, Us, and Nope established a new model in which the true monsters are cultural ideas like racism, classism, and exploitation. His first film, Get Out, sent shockwaves through the U.S. and forced people to think about the racial divides in our country, especially the prejudice that attempts to hide under a smiling exterior. In his new style of horror, Peele doesn’t just give us monsters. He sets up a complex framework that eventually leads us to believe that the ultimate villain is society. Many directors have followed his lead, blending fear with social commentary. But more traditional, jumpscare horror hasn’t disappeared. There remains a loyal audience for films designed purely to startle and entertain. Perhaps that balance—between thoughtful, “intelligent” horror and unapologetically sensational horror—is what has kept the genre alive. Whether a film makes you think or simply makes you scream, there's a place for it in the modern horror landscape.
Yet this also raises questions about what happens when suffering becomes entertainment and traumatic stories become a hobby for moviegoers. Does horror help us process collective pain or actively numb us to it? In some ways, the genre gives us a safe outlet by letting us confront our fears without actually living through them. But when those same violent experiences are turned into stylized thrills, they risk feeling detached from reality. Horror both reveals and twists the truth, making us confront our fears while also threatening to detach us from them emotionally. But that ability to both confront and distort the truth is precisely what keeps the genre so compelling.
The horror genre will keep adapting to changing times and different generations. In the past, monsters and jump scares gave audiences pure escapism—a chance to see evil made visible and then destroyed. Today, people seem to want something deeper. “Smart horror,” exemplified in the work of directors like Jordan Peele and Ari Aster, pushes us to think about the social and psychological forces behind the terror. These movies don’t just scare us, they stay with us, forcing us to reflect long after the credits roll. Even so, audiences will always have a taste for the classic horror that celebrates chaos, gore, and survival. This contrast is what keeps the genre alive. We don’t watch horror only to escape our fears or to analyze them, but to experience the darkest parts of reality in a way we can control. As long as there are problems in our world, horror will find a way to emphasize our fears, showcase them on the big screen, and make people flock to the theater—even if they know they’ll have nightmares when they go home.
