Horror is perhaps one of the most provocative genres of entertainment today. The genre focuses on magnifying and studying the taboo, on pushing the limits of human will and sanity and, above all else, eliciting a visceral reaction from its audience. While the nuance of human emotion leaves room for a whole range of feelings to be contained in the “horror,” genre the fact is that the end of every horror movie — a good one, at least — leaves the audience feeling disturbed or afraid, or at least somewhat unsettled. The appeal of the “scary movie” is widespread and obvious: It entertains and critiques in equal measure, providing provocative imagery and material for productive discussions in one fell swoop. This isn’t to say that other categories of film entertainment can’t do the same, but horror is undoubtedly the most effective out of all of them. From bloody slashers (“Saw,” “Scream,” “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre”) to that of the unsettling and mystifying (“Annihilation,” “Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me,” “Midsommar”), horror can wear many different clothes and yet fundamentally accomplish the same goal. Yes, horror frightens and disturbs, but it can also serve as a magnifying glass aimed at studying the underbelly of what it means to be human, examining the lengths one will reach to survive In this desire to be the winner, to be one’s own salvation, lies the undoubtedly Romantic ideal of humanity being its own destroyer and savior. Horror combines two seemingly opposed ideas and uses them against the audience — first, the eternal fight between good and evil — and second, the idea that in order to triumph over evil, that which is framed as “good” must itself become a little monstrous in the process. The heightened emotion, contradictory themes and allegorical possibilities that horror presents can be traced through the literature from centuries past from Stoker’s “Dracula” and Shelley’s “Frankenstein” all the way to Kubrick’s “The Shining” and Aster’s “Hereditary.” 

Although “An Andalusian Dog” was made a few decades too late to be called the very first horror movie, it was nonetheless among the first films that ventured beyond the boundaries of social taboos. Bunuel and Dali’s collaboration was apparently so upsetting that its first screening created an uproar. Beyond the film’s initial scandal, it quickly became so popular that it ran in theaters for eight months, and is now hailed as one of the most masterfully surreal films of all time. “An Andalusian Dog” is a prime example not only of the prestige of horror’s origins but also of the Romanticism inherent to the genre. While Dali and Bunuel’s film may be hard to decipher plot-wise, its surreality doesn’t take away from its enticing exploration of desire and instinct. The aspects of this film that make it uncomfortable at times can be likened to the gore of “Evil Dead” or the creeping apparitions of “It Follows”: The qualities that make horror so perennially fascinating as a genre lie in its ability to productively disturb and unsettle the viewer. This fact has been true since the genre’s inception, but “An Andalusian Dog” brought the disturbing to the limelight for the first time, urging audiences to engage in the unnatural. In its unnerving appeal we can find the intent behind horror years and decades moving forward — horror may aim to unsettle, but at its core the genre focuses on breaking down and dissecting aspects of humanity that we’d prefer to ignore. This fact is what makes horror, in my opinion, not only the most diverse of all genres but among the most beautiful. A prime example of this fact can be found in the depiction of one of the most pervasive feelings in literature and entertainment of them all: love. 

Although love is mostly thought of as sweet and gentle in nature, throughout history many poets and writers have depicted it as a force to be reckoned with — monstrous, demanding and vicious in nature. From the tragedy of “Romeo and Juliet” to the tumult of “Wuthering Heights,” the most gripping love stories inexorably intertwine love, sacrifice, devotion and tragedy together. It’s telling that the stories told across centuries and analyzed years after their initial publication contain themes that toed the line of social acceptability — and if not that, themes that depict love as a consuming ailment rather than a delightful feeling. 

This is true even today — Curry Barker’s “Obsession” focused on the idea of an all-consuming love, in the process delivering a commentary on unfair societal expectations and modern dating. The 2025 movie “Companion” intertwined a discussion of what healthy relationships should look like with one about the dangers of AI. As we can see, though tropes in horror have existed for centuries, their poignancy remains, especially combined with issues that modern inventions have introduced. The most far-reaching trope in horror media is the naive protagonist who begins the story as relatively sheltered and slightly naive, yet staunch in their morals. We leave this character as a slightly corrupted version of themselves — a person willing to do what they need to do to survive. Their purity is tainted and their naivete is ruined by the ugly ways of the world. Depending on the genre, this slow “corruption” is one that may or may not result in a happy ending for the protagonist, but is nonetheless a recognized mark of horror media, and additionally functions as a feature that can be used for different ends. 

Art allows for infinite methods and avenues of expression. Whether you’re making something for entertainment or for commentary, you are still expressing yourself through art — a uniquely human act. Horror is among the most flexible of genres. From slashers to meta-slashers, from thrillers to surrealism, you can contort and shift common tropes to fit whatever you want to accomplish. The genre bears impressive similarity to the unrestricted emotion and spontaneity of the Romantic era, often using nature and flawed protagonists to serve the core narrative. The tendency of the Romantics to relate human emotion to the violent and tumultuous ways of nature has led to deeply insightful stories. The Romantics, as well as horror enjoyers, share a proclivity to conflate love with violence, devotion with bloodshed and happiness with obsession, further using these relationships to explore and expand on familiar tropes of their respective oeuvres. Many writers and poets have compared their writing process to opening old wounds, relating their personal explorations of human nature to a feeling of personal cleansing. Perhaps this is what we find so compelling about horror through the ages: Watching characters shed old personas for new, less inhibited ones is something quite riveting and cathartic. The everyday emotions we all feel — happiness, sadness, anger — can often feel gigantic, and the unflinching acceptance that the Romantics and horror enjoyers alike take toward this fact is perhaps what makes audiences so endlessly fascinated with the Emily Brontes and David Lynches of the world. We have yet to explain human consciousness, but horror tries less to explain it and instead ventures to understand and accept it even in all of its ugliness. Perhaps this is all we need.