Horror is for Girls
Trigger warning: sexual assault
During undergrad, my movie watching drastically increased as a means to distract myself from school. My binging led me down a rabbit hole to lesser known titles and introduced me to the most innovative storytelling thus transforming me into a cinephile. I opened myself up to so many new genres, but for all of my exploration I continued to hold horror at arm’s length. I could handle horror-comedies like Shaun of the Dead, at best I could watch American Horror Story with my friends, I just simply could not see a fragment of myself in horror. One day, exactly four months into quarantine, I finally realized I had been sexually assaulted the prior year. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment I lost control. I tried picking apart my memories for answers only to be more frustrated than before. Paranoia began creeping into my life. Maybe it was an accumulation of small moments that I ignored, because I believed the worst could never happen. This wasn’t unfamiliar territory for me, dealing with sexual harassment from coworkers and total strangers had become commonplace in my life, especially once I entered my 20s. This time hit close to home since the culprit had been a romantic partner, someone who knew I had boundary issues from previous bad experiences, who used my silence as a means of harm. I didn’t feel safe in my body anymore, I shut down, stopped communicating, fixated on the pain, rationalized to find answers. I came up empty handed and kept reopening my wounds nonetheless. It occurred to me true insanity is when you keep returning to the memory of the trauma, knowing it will never grant you peace, but you keep doing so, because you can no longer see yourself outside of the hurt. Once more I returned to my refuge of movies, maybe I would find exit to end the cycle of madness. No exact film triggered my interest, but I do know my newfound obsession with the horror genre wasn’t gradual, but a wave that engulfed me and while I can’t say if I found perfect clarity, I did find a strange calmness. I began with newer films like Us, Hereditary and worked my way backward towards the early slasher flicks of the 70s. The more I watched, the more I became mesmerized how horror granted me the right to be angry, to be sad, to be scared, to acknowledge the strange cross section of vulnerability and defensiveness given unto survivors, particularly women.
Historically, horror has never been kind to women, a genre that revels in their brutalization. While it can be arguable that horror equalizes everyone through death, when women are notably tortured and take longer to kill it almost feels like the world (or at least the director) has a vendetta against you. Yet horror readily gave me a female protagonist quicker than any superhero movie franchise ever could via the Final Girl, the girl who was wary enough to outsmart the monster. The infamous term coined by Carol J. Clover, in her book Men, Women, and Chainsaws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film in which the Final Girl is defined as the lucky survivor who knew well enough to get away, or better yet was granted the right to keep on living, because she never gave in to the vices of sex and debauchery. She’s placed in opposition, not to just the monster, but to any woman who isn’t her. She’s bookish, but not worldly; a girl on the cusp of adulthood. She’s Laurie Strode in Halloween, the babysitter with her cardigans and pencil skirts. Jess Bradford from Black Christmas, the sorority girl whose college education can grant her independence from her boyfriend. Their stories are different, but the theme remains the same: conventionally attractive, educated women in the apex of their youth, who happen to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. They don’t invite the danger into their life; however, they have to be ready for when it happens. I am frustrated by them, but yet I sympathize with them. I want to love the Final Girl for acknowledging women could fend for themselves, only for my admiration to sour into despair at realizing a truth I have known since puberty: to be a woman is a balancing act of femininity and self defense. I recall all the times I was warned to watch my drink, pay attention to my surroundings, carry some sort of small weapon if the situation became too drastic. Then I remember how I was taught never to be difficult, to be pleasant, always smile, minimize myself as a means to hide. However, to have my fear recognized made me understand I was never wrong to defend myself whether it meant fighting back or staying silent. The Final Girl, despite all her archaic flaws, gave me a shred of hope that fighting back is worth the effort and her reward is continuing to live, but I still wonder how one goes on living after being traumatized? How long until the killer returns and she has to fight again? It’s a brutal introduction into understanding womanhood, that cautions to the dangers of the world lest you become the dreaded victim, but there is another victim often forgotten in the horror genre, which is the monster.
The monster is not always delegated to a man, the monster could also be a woman. When the monster is a man we relish in his killings and take a morbid delight at the possibility of his survival and that’s where the line is drawn. Unlike the Final Girl, the monstress never survives, not because she lacks intelligence or strength, but she must be punished. Monstresses tend to be young women, like Carrie White from Carrie, the poster child of terrifying teenage girls. I hold sympathy for Carrie even right up to her own self-destruction. She’s a victim, a victim to her mother’s abuse and her classmates bullying. She gains her powers once she starts her period, an event that isn’t celebrated, but condemned and is even punished by being dosed in pigs blood for what exactly? She lashes out at her abusers, realizes she can’t control her powers therefore kills herself along with her mother. Who among us can say they wanted to cave into themselves after being hurt? I think about my own angry outbursts thrown at bewildered friends and family. The many intentionally ignored, concerned texts. The overfeeding, underfeeding, the intentional over extertion of my body, hoping I could twist it back to normalcy. Carrie is a victim and victimizer, but her story gives us something anti-heroes of the past are granted and that is sympathy for the villain. Along with the creation of the monstress came the happy accident of the anti-heroine. She’s trapped within a paradox that ensnares young women when they come of age, a paradox that dictates naivete and youthfulness is the ideal feminine, but knowledge of sex and power can lead to eradication of the self. If the notorious prom scene is any indication, Carrie goes from being a virginal sweetheart to a blood drenched terror; there is no in between. Maybe that’s why some women choose to stay silent, instead of fighting back. Looking back, it’s why I chose to be quiet, because I was too afraid to be perceived differently. There are many contemporary reiterations of Carrie-like stories such as Ginger Snaps or Jennifer’s Body. Stories of teenage girls, both awkward and popular, who play their parts of the high school weirdo or cheerleader, who are victimized, suddenly granted power, only to be painfully brought down. Subversive and unintentional, the message still reigns: women walk a tightrope of societal expectations to survive.
Through both the monster and Final Girl, a dual perspective was created, because it was shared between the two archetypes. Horror films will often start from the monster’s point of view only to shift over to the Final Girl once her life was in immediate danger. This back and forth exchange to keep audiences on their toes was used to induce anxiety and fear for the protagonist thereby establishing the power of the monster. Between these two perspectives a roar of primal emotion emanates whether it’s a scream or a cackle, it’s clear there’s a dark absurdity to being a woman. It’s the same absurdity that makes Sally Hardesty maniacally laugh in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, as she narrowly escapes Leatherface or Megan Fox’s garish snarl in Jennifer’s Body before she kills. How often have I tried to laugh off my own pain only to eventually become brittle? It makes sense to laugh or find some meaning as to why we were hurt, so at least some good can be salvaged by our trauma. At the end of the day, pain is pain, it doesn’t have to make sense, but it is nice to have it recognized for what it is: something unfair given unto us beyond our control, warping our behavior until we are no longer recognizable. After all, is the monstress not a survivor in her own right just like the Final Girl? Lately, it feels as if horror films have caught onto this by blurring the lines between the two archetypes. The result is a darkly, complex female character that transcends the boundaries of monster and survivor, she’s finally a person with glorious, terrifying faults and I love her. I recall back to the final scene of The VVitch with the young protagonist Thomasin, finally liberated of her family and Puritan faith, she joins a coven of witches, rising into the obliterating darkness of the unknown. She ushers in a new era of women through a laugh that crescendoes into a full on joyous screech its maddening to think anyone could make such a noise.
After months of constantly revisiting my assault, I can finally look outside of that one moment and craft an ending. It’s not pretty and neat, but realistically I knew I was never going to be given absolute closure. I know it’ll never rectify the pain I’ve had to process. I know I cannot always prevent future harm, just as I know it won’t be my fault if I’m hurt again. I do know I can choose to live my life deliciously and that is a much more satisfying ending.
