Scene from Split (Copyright Universal Pictures International France)

“I see dead people.” This chilling line, whispered by a terrified young boy, became one of the most iconic phrases in film history. In the fall of 1999, The Sixth Sense took the world by storm. Eleven-year-old Haley Joel Osment earned an Oscar nomination for his haunting portrayal of Cole Sear, a boy tormented by visions of the dead. Meanwhile, Bruce Willis, known for his tough-guy action roles, delivered one of the most nuanced and emotional performances of his career as psychiatrist Dr. Malcolm Crowe. But who was the mastermind behind this groundbreaking film? Who crafted its original, spine-chilling story and directed it with such precision and restraint?

At the time, few knew his name. He was simply referred to as “that Indian director with the impossible-to-pronounce name.” His name was Manoj Night Shyamalan. With The Sixth Sense, he didn’t just redeem a struggling film career—he became an overnight sensation, a Hollywood prodigy, and one of the most talked-about filmmakers of his generation.

Indian Roots and a Spiritual Upbringing

Manoj Nelliyattu Shyamalan was born on August 6, 1970, in southwest India to Nelliate C. and Jayalakshmi Shyamalan. However, within a year, his family returned to the United States, where they had originally emigrated in the 1960s, settling in Philadelphia. Raised in a household of accomplished medical professionals, Shyamalan grew up in a stable and privileged environment, benefiting from a highly disciplined education. He attended private Catholic schools, first Waldron Mercy Academy, then Episcopal Academy, where he underwent a rigorous academic upbringing. Despite the Christian influence in his schooling, his family also introduced him to Hindu spiritual traditions at home. This exposure to two distinct religious philosophies shaped his worldview early on.

As film scholar Bernd Zywietz noted in Film-Dienst:

“It seems that this religious interplay has turned Shyamalan into a wanderer between worlds: the search for destiny and higher knowledge are his themes.”

Indeed, this duality of spiritual, metaphysical, and existential exploration would later become a hallmark of his filmmaking, defining the core themes of many of his most famous works.

Shyamalan at the Tisch School of the Arts in 2007

Shyamalan’s early cinematic influences included Spike Lee, Alfred Hitchcock, and Steven Spielberg. Inspired by these filmmakers, he began making short films at the age of twelve. By the time he was seventeen, he had already completed 45 home-produced films—an early testament to his unwavering passion for storytelling.After graduating from high school, he pursued film studies at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts, earning a bachelor’s degree. It was during this time that he met his future wife, Bhavna, with whom he now has three daughters. After completing his studies, he made a significant personal and professional decision: he changed his name from Manoj Nelliyattu Shyamalan to M. Night Shyamalan.

A Difficult Start in the Film Industry

In 1992, while still a student, Shyamalan directed his first feature-length film, Praying with Anger, financing it primarily with his own savings and funding from the American Film Institute. The film, a semi-autobiographical drama about an Indian-American student who travels to India to reconnect with his heritage, received praise and was even screened at the Toronto International Film Festival. However, it remained a small, independent project and did not launch him into mainstream Hollywood.

His next film, Wide Awake (1998), proved to be a major setback. The comedy-drama followed a young boy grappling with religion and embarking on a search for God—a premise that failed to resonate with both audiences and critics. The film was a box office disaster, and Hollywood quickly lost confidence in the young director.

At a crossroads in his career, Shyamalan faced a defining moment. It was then that he had an idea: “Maybe I should just turn the tables—A boy confronted with religion but haunted by ghosts.” From this thought, he began writing what would become his breakthrough screenplay—The Sixth Sense.

Between Recognition and Rejection

Shyamalan’s breakthrough came in 1999, when Walt Disney Company purchased his script for The Sixth Sense for $3 million, also bringing him on as director. No one could have predicted the film’s meteoric success—the psychological thriller became a global phenomenon, grossing $672 million worldwide and earning six Academy Award nominations.

Dubbed a “gentle, subtle horror”, The Sixth Sense cemented Shyamalan’s reputation as a master of atmosphere and storytelling twists. Bruce Willis, who played the lead role, was so impressed that he immediately signed on for Shyamalan’s next film, Unbreakable (2000). The superhero thriller, while not reaching the same cultural impact as The Sixth Sense, was well-received and has since gained a cult following.

Shyamalan’s next big hit came in 2002 with Signs, a science-fiction thriller starring Mel Gibson, which grossed over $400 million worldwide. However, as his distinctive storytelling style became more recognizable—slow, atmospheric pacing with sudden moments of shock—critics began accusing him of repeating himself.

His 2004 film The Village became a turning point. While commercially successful, critics were deeply divided. Some praised its poetic cinematography, while others ripped apart its plot structure and ending. The backlash only intensified with Lady in the Water (2006) and The Happening (2008), both of which were harshly criticized and commercial disappointments.

His biggest career setback came with The Last Airbender (2010), an adaptation of the beloved animated series Avatar: The Last Airbender. The film was universally panned, particularly in the U.S., where fans and critics alike rejected it outright. The sci-fi adventure After Earth (2013), starring Will and Jaden Smith, performed slightly better at the box office but was again slammed by critics.

After this string of failures, Shyamalan made a bold decision: he returned to his roots, financing his own films and focusing on smaller, creative projects. His found-footage horror The Visit (2015) was a surprise success, combining dark humor with psychological thrills. He followed this with Split (2017), an indirect sequel to Unbreakable, which was both a critical and commercial triumph. This paved the way for Glass (2019), the final installment in his Eastrail 177 Trilogy, which performed well at the box office but received mixed to negative reviews from critics.His recent films—Old (2021), Knock at the Cabin (2023), and Trap (2024)—were all self-financed, proving his commitment to creative independence. Though divisive among critics, they were moderate box office successes, ensuring that Shyamalan’s films never lose money. Despite the ups and downs of his career, he remains one of Hollywood’s most unique and unpredictable filmmakers.

One-Hit Wonder or Underrated Genius?

Critics of M. Night Shyamalan often dismiss him as a “one-hit wonder”, arguing that The Sixth Sense was a fluke rather than a testament to his talent. They claim that he has never truly replicated its success and that his directorial style is out of sync with mainstream expectations. Some even suggest that he should hire a screenwriter to improve his storytelling.

However, this argument is inherently paradoxical. If Shyamalan were to outsource his screenplays, his films would no longer be his own vision. His distinctive storytelling—marked by slow-burn suspense, atmospheric cinematography, and subtle psychological horror—would be lost. Additionally, critics frequently label his films as “too predictable”, claiming that The Sixth Sense’s twist ending was obvious and that The Village’s climax could be easily foreseen.

But the predictability debate misses the point. The real question is not whether his twists are shocking, but whether his stories are engaging, well-crafted, and thematically rich. By reducing his work to mere plot twists, critics overlook his true strengths—his ability to build tension, explore profound existential themes, and create deeply immersive cinematic experiences.

Furthermore, the claim that Shyamalan is commercially unsuccessful is demonstrably false. His first four major films—The Sixth Sense, Unbreakable, Signs, and The Village—collectively grossed $1.6 billion worldwide, an astonishing achievement for original films not based on established franchises like Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings, Spider-Man, or Batman. If we include his entire filmography (from Wide Awake to Glass), his movies have earned over $3.2 billion globally, not even counting DVD or Blu-ray sales.

But does this make him a visionary filmmaker ahead of his time? Perhaps the more fitting description is that Shyamalan is a master craftsman with a distinctive cinematic language. Unlike many modern directors who rely on overblown CGI, relentless action, and formulaic horror tropes, Shyamalan takes a subtler, more artistic approach. His films are characterized by methodical pacing, unsettling sound design, and expressive cinematography, drawing audiences into his eerie, dreamlike worlds.

Moreover, his films are rarely just straightforward horror or fantasy stories—they are often deeply philosophical and thematically layered. His works explore themes such as faith (Signs), self-discovery (Unbreakable), fear and isolation (The Village), mythology (Lady in the Water), and even moral dilemmas (Knock at the Cabin). His approach to horror and suspense is intellectual, avoiding cheap scares in favor of psychological unease and thought-provoking narratives.

Yet, despite this, some critics fault him for not being more explicit in his themes and metaphors. They argue that his films require too much interpretation—a strange complaint, given that the joy of cinema often lies in its mysteries and open-ended symbolism. Should films really spell out every message on the screen? The very idea seems absurd.

Scene from Lady in the Water, which was included in the TOP 10 Films of 2006 by the well-known Cahiers du Cinéma (Copyright Warner Brothers Pictures)

Interestingly, even films that were initially dismissed by critics have gained recognition in artistic circles. Lady in the Water, which was panned upon release, was included in Cahiers du Cinéma’s Top 10 Films of 2006, a prestigious honor. The highly regarded film scholar David Bordwell even wrote a defense of the film. Likewise, The Village, Split, and Trap have all appeared in Cahiers du Cinéma’s annual top ten lists, further cementing his status as a filmmaker with aesthetic and philosophical depth.So, is Shyamalan truly a genius? Perhaps. But it might be more accurate to call him a master of his craft. Just as Woody Allen is a master of human relationships and David Lynch a master of surrealism and absurdity, Shyamalan is undoubtedly a master of subtle, atmospheric storytelling—a filmmaker whose work lingers in the mind long after the credits roll.

Reversing Genre Conventions

M. Night Shyamalan stands apart from Hollywood’s mainstream formulas, consistently developing a distinct cinematic style that defies the conventions of fantasy, horror, and science fiction. While his films are often categorized within these genres, he actively subverts their traditional rules, creating stories that blur the lines between expectations and artistic reinvention.

For example, Unbreakable, Split, and Glass are commonly labeled superhero films, while Signs is classified as science fiction. While these films retain some classic genre elements, such as the good vs. evil narrative seen in superhero films like Batman, X-Men, or Spider-Man, they fundamentally differ in execution. Unlike the fast-paced, action-heavy spectacle of conventional superhero movies, Shyamalan’s approach is slow, introspective, and psychological.

Film scholars frequently reclassify his works, calling Unbreakable a melodrama or mystical thriller and Split a psychological thriller rather than a traditional superhero film. Similarly, Signs is more accurately described as a thriller infused with existential and emotional depth, rather than a sci-fi blockbuster. The Village, often mistaken for a horror film, is just as much a period drama and a love story, as Shyamalan himself has described.

Scene from the “anti-disaster film” The Happening (Copyright 20th Century Fox)

This genre-defying tendency extends further—The Happening (and, to some extent, Knock at the Cabin) has been interpreted as an “anti-disaster film”, turning the typical apocalyptic thriller inside out. Meanwhile, The Last Airbender was Shyamalan’s highly personal take on a Hollywood blockbuster, blending spiritual themes with CGI-driven spectacle.Hans-Georg Rodek, writing for the German newspaper Die Welt, summarizes Shyamalan’s distinct approach:

“The Village confirms Mr. Night Shyamalan as an outsider in the mainstream, as someone who paints feelings with a fine brush instead of suffocating the screen with overloaded effects.”

A Hollywood Rebel

Shyamalan’s approach to filmmaking is fundamentally different from the fast-paced, hyper-edited style that dominates modern Hollywood. While most contemporary blockbusters rely on rapid cuts and high-energy sequences, he prefers a slow, deliberate rhythm, allowing tension to build naturally. His use of long takes and minimal editing gives scenes a sense of realism and emotional depth, enabling actors to fully immerse themselves in their performances.

A key example of this contrast is the way Shyamalan structures his shots. While many Hollywood films use thousands of different camera perspectives to create a sense of urgency and movement, his films contain far fewer. The Sixth Sense, for example, has fewer than 700 different shots, Signs just over 500, and Unbreakable barely over 300. Compared to the two to three thousand shots found in most modern blockbusters, his films feel much more restrained and meditative. This stylistic choice allows audiences to engage more deeply with the characters, focusing on their emotions and psychological states rather than being overwhelmed by excessive visual stimulation.

This distinction became especially apparent in the summer of 2010 when The Last Airbender and Christopher Nolan’s Inception were released. Both films were positioned as high-concept, effects-driven blockbusters, but their execution could not have been more different. Shyamalan’s film was slowly paced, visually elegant, and focused on a spiritual message, while Inception was an adrenaline-fueled spectacle filled with rapid-fire action, loud, pulsating music, and constant exposition. Nolan’s film, despite its innovative premise, was often criticized for being too frantic, overloaded with complex mechanics, and leaving little room for emotional connection. In contrast, The Last Airbender, though flawed in its execution, at least attempted to create a sense of depth and serenity within its world, making it stand out as a more introspective take on the blockbuster formula. Shyamalan’s resistance to Hollywood’s obsession with speed and spectacle sets him apart from his contemporaries. Instead of chasing trends, he remains committed to his unique vision, crafting films that unfold at their own rhythm, emphasizing atmosphere and character over relentless action. While this approach has divided audiences and critics alike, it has also made him one of the most distinctive voices in modern cinema, a filmmaker willing to challenge the industry’s expectations while still working within it.

Shyamalan: An Outsider Within Hollywood

Despite his unconventional approach, Shyamalan continues to work within the Hollywood system, partnering with major studios while retaining his independent creative vision. His career embodies a paradox—he is both a Hollywood filmmaker and an industry outsider, pushing against the very system he operates within.Ultimately, Shyamalan isn’t just a director who defies expectations—he is an agitator, a filmmaker determined to challenge Hollywood’s increasingly formulaic approach to storytelling. In a landscape dominated by franchises, CGI spectacle, and fast-paced editing, he remains a rare cinematic rebel, carving out a space for slow-burning tension, emotional depth, and thoughtful storytelling.

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The post M. Night Shyamalan: Hollywood’s Rebel Filmmaker first appeared on Adrian Gmelch.

Kiernan Shipka in The Blackcoat’s Daughter (© Koch Media GmbH)

Who still remembers the extraordinary marketing campaign for Longlegs? The cryptic trailers that revealed almost no information, mysterious posters that only displayed a date, and a mysterious phone number people could call—all of this generated immense curiosity. The campaign was one of the marketing highlights of 2024. This clever approach sent anticipation through the roof even before the film hit theaters. And the campaign paid off: with a worldwide box office revenue of $127 million on a budget of less than $10 million, Longlegs became the highest-grossing independent film of the year. For Osgood “Oz” Perkins, the film marked the pinnacle of his career so far. It not only earned him widespread recognition but also once again showcased his unique artistic signature.

Before Longlegs, Perkins created three fascinating films, each with its own poetic and unsettling language: The Blackcoat’s Daughter (2015), I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House (2016), and Gretel & Hansel (2020). These works established him as one of the central voices of modern “art horror”—a movement that uses the genre not just for entertainment but as a vehicle for profound, emotional, and artistically ambitious storytelling. Like his directing peers Ari Aster (Hereditary) and Robert Eggers (The Witch), Perkins is a filmmaker who sees horror as an art form and enriches it with a distinctive vision.

Predestined for the Horror Genre?

Was Osgood Perkins (*1974) destined to leave his mark on the horror genre? As the son of Anthony Perkins—who made film history with his role as Norman Bates in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960)—and actress and photographer Berry Berenson, this assumption seems quite plausible. Even more so when considering that Perkins was named after his grandfather, Osgood (1892–1937), who was also an actor and appeared in Scarface (1932), among other films.

However, Perkins’ career path was far from straightforward. It wasn’t until the age of 41 that he truly began to shape cinema from a new perspective—as a director. He sees it as his destiny, as he explained to a journalist: “It was my father’s business. As some children go into banking because their fathers are bankers, and some people become dentists because their fathers are dentists, one of my ways of connecting with my old man — who I couldn’t always connect with — was through the fact that he was an icon in this genre.” We’ll return to this personal, autobiographical dimension later on.

Portrait of Osgood Perkins (Public Domain)

His entry into the film world initially began in front of the camera. As a teenager, Perkins briefly appeared as the young version of Norman Bates—his father’s iconic character—in Psycho II (1983). However, it wasn’t until a decade later that he took on more acting roles, including playing a police officer in the horror film Wolf (1994) by Mike Nichols. The renowned filmmaker, a close friend of Anthony Perkins, took care of the 18-year-old Osgood after his father passed away in 1992.

Osgood recalls: “He was at my dad’s side when he was sick. And when I was pulling my head out of the sand at age 38 or 39, and wanting to commit myself to writing and making movies, it was Mike who had the most salient advice and the most revelatory thinking.”

Indeed, after his father’s death, Perkins was somewhat directionless. It wasn’t until the early 2000s that he reappeared in films such as Legally Blonde (2001), Secretary (2002), and Dead & Breakfast (2004). In the 2010s, he turned his focus to screenwriting. He gained his first experience as a co-writer for horror films and thrillers such as Removal (2010), Cold Comes the Night (2013), and The Girl in the Photographs (2015). For all three films, he collaborated with director and writer Nick Simon. It wasn’t until 2015 that he finally took the step behind the camera on his own, making his directorial debut with The Blackcoat’s Daughter.

However, he occasionally still appears as an actor, for instance, in Nope (2022) by fellow horror filmmaker Jordan Peele, or in his own upcoming film, The Monkey (2025).

Gruesome Images Wrapped in Poetry

Osgood Perkins is, alongside Ari Aster and Robert Eggers, one of the most significant representatives of the art horror genre—a style where horror is not an end in itself but a tool, a framework for telling deeply personal and often introspective stories. For Perkins, horror is merely a means to convey the essence of his films.

A prime example of this is The Blackcoat’s Daughter. Disguised as a “classic” horror story about demons and possession, the film ultimately explores the profound grief of a girl struggling with the loss of her parents.

“Can I situate the viewer in a possession story while I’m really creating a sad, mournful portrait of this girl?” Perkins asks rhetorically. “I wanted to use demonic possession as that kind of abstraction I was talking about before, where what I’m really talking about is loss and emptiness, but I can suggest that through the possession idea. Because people understand what that means; they understand that to be demonically possessed is essentially to lose yourself. It’s a loss of your life, and an alienation and a distancing from all that’s familiar.”

Ultimately—and this applies to all of Perkins’ films—the horror genre is used as a lens to depict life as it truly is, to capture what it feels like when it is filled with sadness and fear.

Horror Films as Poetry

This approach shapes all of his works: Perkins’ horror films are like rhythmic poems, where repetitions, refrains, and subtle variations dictate the narrative flow. As a result, they become meditations on negative emotions such as grief, loss, and loneliness.

“A movie can be a poem,” he explains. “I tend to utilize repetitions and refrains, while reprising visuals or sounds or feelings or even scenes. It feels more like a song to me than it does a story.”

The Blackcoat’s Daughter visually conveys the feeling of a long, creeping nightmare in poetic form, while I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House—a film about a caretaker who discovers that her patient’s house is haunted—incorporates poetic elements through carefully crafted monologues and an almost lyrical visual style.

In Gretel & Hansel, the poetry emerges in multiple ways: through the geometric shapes of the sets and the meticulously composed framing, which creates a dreamlike, hypnotic atmosphere, but also quite simply from the fact that it is, at its core, a fairy tale.

Horror Films as Fairy Tales

At its core, Longlegs (2024)—which on the surface is a “simple” story about an FBI agent delving into the disturbing case of a serial killer whose crimes seem to be driven by supernatural forces—also follows an archetypal fairy tale structure: A mother, willing to sacrifice everything to protect her daughter, makes a pact with the devil. But, as is often the case in fairy tales, this deal comes with a fatal price, ultimately leading to the mother’s downfall.

This narrative reflects the classic structure of fairy tales, where choices, sacrifices, and dark consequences are central themes. The surreal imagery—such as the black smoke seeping from the heads of hand-crafted dolls—and the profound moral conflicts create an atmosphere that shifts between fairy tale and nightmare.

Like the stories of the Brothers Grimm, Longlegs demonstrates that the fairy tale realm can also be cruel and unforgiving. The moral of the story? Beware of Mama’s lies!

The doll with the shattered head from Longlegs (© Neon)

In Perkins’ films, horror unfolds slowly, almost hesitantly, creating an unsettling, often dreamlike atmosphere. The horror is never obvious or excessive but rather subtle, almost subconscious (yes, even in Longlegs). His works do not rely on triggering immediate fear responses from the audience but instead evoke a deeper, existential unease—which is precisely why they leave such a lasting impact.

Notably, every one of his films incorporates the supernatural, often as a metaphor for the inner conflicts and fears of his characters: demons in The Blackcoat’s Daughter, ghosts in I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House, witchcraft in Gretel & Hansel, and Satan himself in Longlegs.

Perkins even included a direct connection between his first and latest films: both feature a scene in which a character exclaims, “Hail Satan!” In this sense, with Longlegs, Perkins brings his cinematic horror quartet—begun with The Blackcoat’s Daughter—full circle.

Autobiographical Inspirations

In his films, Perkins explores his own past and family experiences. His stories are often rooted in autobiographical events, which he interprets through the lens of the horror genre and transforms into metaphorical imagery. One of the most intimate examples is I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House (2016). The film is dedicated to his father, as indicated by the dedication: “For AP, who gave me an old house.” “AP” refers to Anthony Perkins, whose shadow looms over his son’s entire career, as we saw at the beginning of this portrait.

In an interview, Osgood Perkins described the film as a way to continue exploring his complex relationship with his father after his death: “That film was deliberately pointed at my relationship with him. I was trying to reconcile my inability to know my father. That is what that movie is about, ultimately.”

Inside the House from I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House (© Netflix)

Additionally, the film includes a clip from Friendly Persuasion (1956), the movie for which Anthony Perkins was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor. The role of Polly was played by Paula Prentiss (*1938), a close friend and contemporary of his father, who even came out of retirement specifically to take part in the film.

The Blackcoat’s Daughter is also deeply shaped by personal pain. The film, which portrays the grief and despair of a girl who has lost both parents, is rooted in tragic events from Perkins’ own life. His father, Anthony Perkins, died in 1992 from AIDS after struggling with his sexuality for decades, keeping it largely hidden from the public. His mother, Berry Berenson, was killed in the September 11, 2001, attacks on the World Trade Center. At just 27 years old, Perkins had become an orphan.

These losses, which struck him at different stages of his life, heavily influence the melancholic tone and the existential sorrow in The Blackcoat’s Daughter. The film channels this grief through its supernatural element—demonic possession—turning it into a metaphor for loss and isolation.

Female-Driven Horror

Perkins sets himself apart from many of his peers through his unique focus on female perspectives in the horror genre—going far beyond the classic ‘Final Girl’ trope. He places female protagonists at the heart of his stories, adopts their perspectives, and delves deeply into their psychology. That makes the difference. While women often take on leading roles in horror films, their characters tend to remain superficial, frequently serving merely as vessels for experiencing and embodying fear. They are often two-dimensional, but with Perkins, they gain depth and become multifaceted, complex characters. Directors like Ari Aster (Midsommar) and Robert Eggers (The Witch) have taken similar approaches, but Perkins goes even further. This choice is no coincidence; it is a deliberate stylistic and narrative element that runs like a red thread through his entire body of work.

Sophia Lillis as Gretel in Gretel & Hansel (© Orion Pictures Corporation)

His films tell the stories of women who must assert themselves in extreme situations. They are at the center of the narratives, often as vulnerable yet multifaceted characters confronted with dark forces—whether it’s Emma Roberts and Kiernan Shipka in The Blackcoat’s Daughter (2015), Ruth Wilson in I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House (2016), Sophia Lillis in Gretel & Hansel (2020), or Maika Monroe in Longlegs (2024). This approach is particularly evident in Gretel & Hansel, as reflected in the title itself: the traditional fairy tale (Hansel & Gretel) is deliberately reversed to highlight the female perspective. Gretel is not only the central figure but also the driving force of the story, radically altering the classic tale’s traditional roles. In Longlegs, Maika Monroe’s character faces the challenge of breaking a satanic curse. Given Perkins’ previous films, the question of whether she, as a woman, is up to the task feels almost rhetorical. His female characters are complex, layered, and often far stronger than those around them are willing to acknowledge.

In a conversation, Perkins explains his inclination toward female protagonists by pointing to the emotional subtlety he believes the horror genre requires: “The horror genre relies so much on the complexity of the emotional and the subtlety of the emotional and the subtlety of perception. To me, those are all very sort of feminine qualities, you know? The hammer of maleness feels far too aggressive — like it breaks the shell. And I think that what we’re trying to do with these pictures is we’re trying to build an atmosphere of dread and suspense and curiosity and longing … and that feels feminine to me. And so, for whatever reason, it tends to pass through protagonists.”

New Paths: Longlegs and Beyond

With Longlegs, Osgood Perkins has taken a bold step in a new direction without sacrificing the essence of his previous works. While the film clearly bears the poetic and introspective signature of the director, it also features elements that set it apart from his earlier films. Perkins himself stated in an interview with DEADLINE – Das Filmmagazin (Nr. 106, p. 33): “My intention with Longlegs was primarily to offer the audience something fresh, new, and unexpected.”

One of the most striking differences is the comedic undertone, which played little to no role in his previous films. Despite its dark premise, Longlegs carries a sardonic sense of humor. The film doesn’t always take the satanic curse looming over the story entirely seriously. The characters often seem like puppets in a mocking, devilish game where no one is truly in control.

Pop culture references, such as the use of songs by T. Rex, reinforce this ironic layer, creating an atmosphere that, in the end, leaves the audience feeling strangely satisfied—perhaps even grateful—despite all the horror. Yet, the visual and emotional depth that defines Perkins’ earlier works is still ever-present in Longlegs. The film is not just an expansion of his existing body of work but also a clear sign that Perkins is ready to explore new narrative directions.

His upcoming film, The Monkey (2025), in which Perkins returns to a classic horror story, further confirms this direction. The film is based on a short story by Stephen King, and once again, Perkins makes it clear that he will incorporate humor. He describes the film as a kind of comedy with exaggerated, almost cartoonish violence, drawing inspiration from movies like Gremlins (1984) and Death Becomes Her (1992). There’s plenty to look forward to.

The post The Films of Osgood Perkins first appeared on Adrian Gmelch.

A Cinematic Masterpiece: Visuals and Sound

A Film That Feels Like a Painting

One of the most striking aspects of The Village is its painterly quality. Unlike many films that anchor the audience to a single protagonist’s perspective, The Village immerses viewers into the world itself, making them feel like another villager, observing the unfolding events from an omniscient yet intimate viewpoint.

Cinematographer Roger Deakins enhances this effect with slow zoom-outs, pulling away from close-ups to reveal the characters within their surroundings—a technique reminiscent of classic paintings. The natural lighting choices further emphasize this effect:

• Interiors are lit by windows or flames, creating an organic, timeless feel.
• Outdoor night scenes rely on oil lamps, adding to the rustic realism.
• The use of autumn light enhances the film’s haunting, melancholic atmosphere.

This careful attention to visual composition directly reflects the work of American painter Andrew Wyeth, whom Shyamalan cites as his primary influence: “Andrew was the main inspiration for the look of the movie. The grays, the minimalism, and the light—that’s all from Andrew.”*

Wyeth’s paintings (left) compared to scenes from Shyamalan’s The Village (right)

Like Wyeth’s paintings, The Village evokes a subdued, misty aesthetic that feels both eerie and poetic.

Building Atmosphere Through Sound

Beyond its breathtaking visual artistry, The Village masterfully uses sound design to deepen its atmosphere and heighten tension. Every auditory detail serves a purpose in storytelling, immersing the audience in the film’s unsettling world. Shyamalan expertly employs natural sounds to tap into primal human fears—the howling wind in Ivy’s terrifying journey through the forest adds a sense of vastness and isolation, while the creaking trees subtly unsettle the audience, especially when the young villagers test their courage at the forest’s edge. Through these soundscapes, Shyamalan proves that fear doesn’t always need a visible monster—sometimes, the suggestion of danger is more powerful than the danger itself.

To reinforce the film’s visual and acoustic cohesion, Shyamalan collaborated with composer James Newton Howard, making a bold and inspired choice: featuring renowned violinist Hilary Hahn as the centerpiece of the soundtrack. This decision was nothing short of brilliant. Hahn’s haunting, fragile violin solos act as the emotional core of the film, floating between sorrow and mystery. Often, her violin is the sole musical accompaniment, allowing its melancholic strains to evoke the village’s isolation, unease, and quiet beauty. The result? One of the greatest film scores of all time—a composition that is delicate, eerie, and emotionally resonant. The soundtrack’s complexity mirrors the ambition of the film itself, making it an integral part of The Village’s lasting impact.

Exploring Core American Themes in The Village

Back to Nature, Back to Innocence

The villagers’ way of life in The Village draws strong parallels to the philosophies of Henry David Thoreau (Walden) and Ralph Waldo Emerson (Nature), two of the most influential figures of American transcendentalism. These 19th-century thinkers mistrusted modern society, believing that humanity had lost touch with the purity of nature. They saw the natural world as something spiritual and untainted, offering wisdom and serenity that civilization often corrupts.

Shyamalan’s film embodies this idea: Walker, the village elder, creates an idealized world, one that is both romanticized and mythologized. The villagers view themselves as chosen people, existing in a state of preserved innocence, isolated from the chaos of the modern world. Their retreat into nature is not just a physical separation—it is a philosophical statement, an attempt to construct a utopia untouched by the failures of contemporary society.

Another major inspiration for the village’s structure is the Amish community, a deeply American phenomenon. Predominantly found in Pennsylvania, the Amish embrace a simplistic, agrarian lifestyle, deliberately distancing themselves from technological advancementsand modern influences. Their culture is built on strict family roles, communal values, and religious devotion, all of which are mirrored in Shyamalan’s fictional village.

However, The Village does not merely celebrate this form of isolation—it questions it. Shyamalan presents Christian-American fundamentalism as an ideal that can only survive through strict isolation, deliberate naivety, and the suppression of internal conflicts. As the story unfolds, this “New Jerusalem” begins to feel less like a natural order and more like an enclave of misplaced hope, frozen in time. The film subtly critiques the fragility of idealism, suggesting that no society, no matter how carefully constructed, can remain untouched by reality forever.

The Village as an Allegory for Post-9/11 America

Shyamalan has acknowledged that The Village was influenced by the fear that permeated the U.S. after 9/11: “After September 11, 2001, there was fear in the air everywhere. It’s still in the air, and we’re living in really scary times. I reacted as everyone else would—by putting my emotions on paper. And that gave rise to The Village.”

The film reflects how fear shapes societies, mirroring the Bush administration’s anti-terrorism policies and, later, the political climate of the Trump era. Walker, the village leader, manipulates fear to maintain control, just as political figures have historically done in response to external threats.

Yet, The Village is not merely a political commentary—it’s a study of fear itself. The film shows that isolation and repression can become just as dangerous as the external threats they aim to guard against. The village’s existence is built on a lie, but it is fear that sustains it.

Shyamalan masterfully critiques the use of fear as a unifying force—one that protects, but also traps.

Conclusion: A Lasting American Classic

With The Village, Shyamalan fully embraces the power of cinema—using visual poetry, masterful sound design, and deeply rooted themes to create a film that remains as relevant today as it was in 2004. More than just a brilliantly crafted thriller, The Village is a deeply American film, drawing inspiration from historical, philosophical, and contemporary fears. Its legacy has only grown stronger over time, solidifying its status as one of Shyamalan’s finest works and a true American classic.

*Shyamalan quoted in Conn, Steven: Metropolitan Philadelphia: Living with the Presence of the Past, 2006. P. 230.

Photos: flickr.com, curiator.com, commons.wikimedia.org

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The Many Faces of Kevin Wendell Crumb

One of the most intriguing and psychologically complex characters in M. Night Shyamalan’s cinematic universe is undoubtedly Kevin Wendell Crumb. A man with 24 different personalities, his mind is a fragmented battleground, shaped by trauma and survival instincts. But what truly sets him apart is not just his Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID)—it’s the emergence of his ultimate form, The Beast, that transforms his story into something deeply philosophical and hauntingly powerful.

A Psychological Thriller Rooted in Trauma

Kevin’s character serves as a manifestation of Shyamalan’s deep fascination with psychology and psychiatry, themes that have been woven into his films since The Sixth Sense (1999) and The Visit (2015). In Split (2016), we follow Dr. Karen Fletcher, a psychiatrist trying to help Kevin manage his many identities. These therapy sessions provide a fascinating glimpse into DID and lay the foundation for Kevin’s internal struggles.

By Glass (2019), the psychological aspect is even more pronounced, as much of the film unfolds within a psychiatric institution. Here, Dr. Ellie Staple attempts to rationalize the seemingly supernatural abilities of Kevin, David Dunn, and Elijah Price, further blurring the line between mental illness and extraordinary human potential.

Kevin’s past is tragic—his father died in a train accident, leaving him to be raised by an abusive mother, who enforced extreme punishments for any lack of cleanliness or order. As a result, his mind splintered into 23 distinct personalities, each serving as a protector from his trauma. Among them:

• Dennis – A rigid, obsessive-compulsive personality who enforces cleanliness and discipline.
• Hedwig – A 9-year-old boy with an unpredictable nature and a penchant for impulsivity.
• Barry – A creative and stylish alter with a passion for fashion and design.
• Patricia – A sophisticated and authoritarian figure with strong control over the other identities.

Each of these personalities exists to shield Kevin from further harm. But then there is The Beast, a figure that transcends the boundaries of DID and emerges as something greater—and far more dangerous.

The Beast: A Prophet of Suffering

The most captivating aspect of Kevin’s character is The Beast and the philosophy he represents. When The Beast takes control, Kevin’s aura changes, always dressed in yellow, a color strongly reminiscent of the mustard-colored cloaks from The Village (2004)—a nod to monastic robes, reinforcing his almost religious presence.

The Beast is more than just another personality—he is a prophet, an evangelist, spreading his belief that the broken are the more evolved. For him, those who have never suffered remain impure, unaware of the true nature of life. His philosophy suggests that only through suffering do people gain strength. The more one endures, the more resilient they become. This belief challenges conventional notions of weakness and trauma, instead framing suffering as a path to enlightenment and power.

What if broken people where the better people? Trauma as catharsis?

Shyamalan’s Genre-Defying Twist

The Beast’s philosophy flips traditional horror tropes upside down. As Shyamalan himself explains:

“In a horror movie, normally if you’re going to get killed, it’s because you had sex. Here, you’re going to get killed because you are good. It’s the reverse. (…) We often label people as ‘broken’ after trauma, as if they are now ‘less’ or no longer whole. But is that true? Are they really weaker? Or are they possibly stronger?”

This philosophical reversal makes Split and Glass stand out. The victims in most horror films are punished for their indulgences. But in Split, The Beast spares those who have suffered and eliminates the “impure” ones—those who have lived protected, unchallenged lives.

Kevin: The Tragic Hero of the Eastrail 177 Trilogy

While Glass presents David Dunn as the traditional hero, Kevin emerges as the most compelling and emotionally resonant character. Unlike Dunn, who simply punishes villains, The Beast actively seeks to protect those who have suffered. His actions blur the line between villain and savior.

Nowhere is this clearer than in Kevin’s heartbreaking bond with Casey Cooke, another survivor of abuse. Their connection is one of the most touching aspects of Glass—two wounded souls finding solace in each other’s pain. Casey is the only person who truly understands Kevin, and when he dies, she is devastated. This emotional depth makes Kevin far more compelling than the conventional hero archetype.

The Beast’s Purpose: A Guardian or an Avenger?

Through Kevin’s character, Shyamalan explores a profound and rarely told story about trauma survivors. In his world, normality is the true danger, while those deemed “abnormal” are worthy of protection.

The Beast embodies this belief—but at a terrible cost. He not only protects the “broken” but also exacts revenge on the “impure”. Is this violence a necessary evil? Or does The Beast need his cruelty to truly fulfill his role as a protector?

One thing is certain—Kevin Wendell Crumb is one of the most thought-provoking, multi-layered characters in modern cinema. His story challenges us to rethink the nature of trauma, strength, and human evolution.

Or, as The Beast himself would say: “Rejoice!”

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But there are plenty of other video games that are also ambitious and well-made. So what sets Fahrenheit, Heavy Rain, Beyond: Two Souls, and Detroit: Become Human apart? The answer lies in two words: interactive storytelling!

The Power of Player Decisions

In every Quantic Dream game, player choices play a crucial role. The decisions made throughout the game not only drive the story forward but also reveal a lot about the player’s own personality. Ultimately, players discover more about themselves through the game.

When decisions must be made under time pressure, there is little room for overthinking—intuition often takes over. It’s fascinating to see where a player’s instincts can lead them, sometimes into unexpected moral dilemmas. Quantic Dream games put the player’s personality and moral beliefs to the test. Many players are shocked by their own choices, as few other games engage with the player’s psyche in such a profound way.

An Unparalleled Level of Immersion

Quantic Dream video games offer an intensely immersive experience, where life and death decisions are placed directly in the hands of the player. How the player interacts with the characters determines their fate. In Heavy Rain and Detroit: Become Human, for example, main characters can permanently die if players fail to act carefully. Unlike many games where death is reversible, Quantic Dream titles often feature permadeath, adding emotional weight to every decision.

This level of immersion is further enhanced by Quick-Time Events (QTEs), which require high concentration and precision. Although sometimes criticized as an “improper gameplay mechanic,” QTEs in Quantic Dream games heighten engagement and intensify the experience. Players are driven to avoid mistakes, pulling them deeper into the game’s atmosphere. These events vary in pace and difficulty—some are sudden and brief, while others are long, challenging, and nerve-wracking.

According to David Cage, Quantic Dream’s visionary creator, the player becomes the real author of the story in interactive narratives. Every choice shapes the outcome, making each playthrough unique:

“The level of immersion is different because they make the decisions, see the consequences and it becomes their story. It’s crazy to see how personal it becomes.”

Engaging Stories Brought to Life by Real Actors

Deep, Emotional, and Cinematic Narratives

One of the standout features of Quantic Dream games is their complex, emotionally powerful, and thrilling storytelling. The strength of these narratives is what makes player choices and Quick-Time Events (QTEs) so impactful—without a compelling story, these mechanics would feel meaningless.

Quantic Dream’s advanced motion-capture technology breathes life into its characters, creating deeply immersive performances. Players will always remember Jacqui Ainsley (Madison Page) from Heavy Rain, Ellen Page (Jodie Holmes) and Willem Dafoe (Nathan Dawkins) from Beyond: Two Souls, or Jesse Williams (Markus) and Bryan Dechart (Connor) from Detroit: Become Human. The decision to cast renowned and experienced actors in leading roles has paid off tremendously, making Quantic Dream’s games stand out for their exceptional acting performances.

Multi-Perspective Storytelling

Another reason these stories are so compelling is their multi-perspective storytelling, allowing players to experience the narrative from different viewpoints. As David Cage explains:

“I really enjoy telling stories from different points of view, and I don’t know why other people don’t do that as much. Because it’s fun, especially when you tell stories that start separately and later interlace.”

By merging Hollywood-level performances with interactive storytelling, Quantic Dream has pushed the boundaries of narrative-driven gaming.

Interactive Storytelling: An Art Form

For Quantic Dream and its founder David Cage, video games should be recognized as an art form, just like films and books. The goal of Cage’s games is to evoke real emotions—empathy, sadness, guilt, or anger—rather than just frustration and competition, which are common in traditional games.

Titles like Heavy Rain and others appeal to both gamers and non-gamers alike, as they view video games as an artistic medium on par with literature and cinema. Just like books or films, these games leave a lasting impact on the player.

David Cage explained this philosophy in an interview:

“When you talk about video games, there’s the word game. There’s a notion of fun, of casualness. Games are not supposed to address a certain number of themes, because there are things you can’t have fun with, because it’s too serious. It’s not my conception of interactivity. Interacting is not necessarily having fun, in my opinion. It’s to live something. It can be nice but it can also be dark, sad.”

By redefining storytelling in gaming, Quantic Dream pushes the boundaries of what video games can achieve emotionally and artistically.

Conclusion

Quantic Dream creates video games first and foremost to tell stories. Storytelling has been a fundamental part of human civilization since the beginning of time—everyone craves stories. But David Cage takes this a step further. He doesn’t just tell stories; he invites players to actively participate in them.

Instead of passively watching a movie or quietly reading a book, players find themselves gripping their controllers, sweating, reacting, and fully immersed in the experience. This is the essence of true interactivity—a perfect blend of immersion and storytelling that makes Quantic Dream’s games truly unique.

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Image: © 2004 Warner Bros.

A New Visual Style for the Harry Potter Film Series

It wasn’t until director Alfonso Cuarón took the helm that the Harry Potter film series adopted a more serious tone. The slightly kitschy children’s films by Chris Columbus were quickly forgotten. From this point on, the third film set the atmosphere and visual style for all future Harry Potter movies.

Cuarón crafts Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban with a sophisticated visual approach: instead of the bright, somewhat kitschy colors of its predecessors, the film is dominated by monochrome gray tones with deep blacks. The highly exaggerated contrasts further distort the events on screen, making themes of darkness and danger even more tangible. Additionally, most scenes are filmed using a handheld camera, giving them a naturalistic yet slightly restless feel. Many shots are also held for an extended time without cuts, allowing longer uninterrupted sequences. Through these techniques, Cuarón gave Hogwarts a far more immersive and palpable atmosphere.

A Work of Art in Its Own Right

Cuarón achieved something that very few directors can: his film stands as an enduring work that exists independently of its literary source. This means that Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban is not entirely reliant on the original novel, nor does it desperately try to stay as faithful as possible. Unlike many adaptations that get lost in gimmicks, Cuarón’s Harry Potter film does not aim for mere replication. Instead, he successfully breaks free from the stage of “submissive, slavish visualization.” This film is an independent artistic creation—it lives, it breathes—something its two predecessors never quite achieved.

The book was radically condensed, distilling its essence for the first time. The Harry Potter franchise suddenly became a universal coming-of-age story, one that dared to explore nuances and real threats. The film brilliantly captures the often dark and perilous atmosphere of the narrative, elevating it with a striking sense of mood and cinematic artistry.

Elements That Showcase the Film’s Originality

Cuarón and his team introduced several fascinating elements to the film and the Harry Potter universe. They also made significant, highly creative changes. Here’s an overview that highlights the brilliance of their work:

• The Hogwarts Choir: It was Cuarón’s idea to have a Hogwarts choir perform as the students entered the school. He suggested using Double, Double Toil and Trouble from William Shakespeare’s Macbeth. This eerie choral piece significantly enhances the film’s atmosphere.
• A Unique Werewolf Design: In the books, the werewolf is described as resembling an ordinary wolf with minor differences. However, the film takes a more original and terrifying approach—Lupin’s werewolf form appears gaunt, humanoid, and hairless, with a coyote-like face and no tail, making it a far more haunting creature.
• The Shrunken Head in the Knight Bus: Cuarón introduced the idea of a Shrunken Head in the Knight Bus, a detail that wasn’t in the book but feels perfectly at home in Rowling’s magical world.
• A New Architectural Design for Hogwarts: The entire layout and structure of Hogwarts, including the surrounding grounds, were redesigned for this film and remained largely unchanged in the subsequent movies. With The Prisoner of Azkaban, Hogwarts expanded significantly—this was the first time audiences saw the courtyard and the now-iconic wooden bridge.
• A Stronger Romantic Hint Between Ron and Hermione: Cuarón emphasized the romantic tension between Ron and Hermione more than the book did, giving more attention to the emotional development of all three main characters.
• Casual Clothing for Students: Instead of always wearing Hogwarts uniforms, Cuarón allowed the students—especially Harry, Ron, and Hermione—to wear casual clothing more frequently. This subtle change helped to showcase their personalities and made them feel more relatable.

Cuarón’s creativity and originality were so profound that Rowling herself admitted getting goosebumps when she saw several moments in the film that unknowingly foreshadowed events in the final two books. Rowling said:

Alfonso had a very good sense of what would work and what wouldn’t. He included elements in the film that, without knowing it, foreshadow events that would happen in the last two books. So I actually got goosebumps when I saw some of these elements, and I thought people would look back at the film and assume they were deliberately added as clues.

If you’re curious, you might find out here what these clues could be. One of them is undoubtedly the conversation between Harry and Lupin on the bridge. And yes, you guessed it—this scene is not in the book! Another testament to Cuarón’s deep understanding of the Harry Potter universe.

The scene not only provides insight into Harry’s parents, which later becomes relevant after Snape’s revelation, but it also ends with Lupin’s words: “You’re more like them than you think, Harry. Over time, you’ll see just how much.” This subtly foreshadows Harry’s ultimate sacrifice in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

The post The Best Harry Potter Film: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban first appeared on Adrian Gmelch.

An example showing the visual influence of the lithographs on the third season of Twin Peaks

What Is a Lithograph?

A lithograph is a type of print created through the process of lithography, which involves drawing an image with a greasy substance onto a smooth surface like limestone or aluminum. The surface is chemically treated so that ink adheres only to the greasy image, while the rest repels the ink but attracts water. The image is then transferred to paper through the application of pressure, usually with a printing press.

What About David Lynch and Lithographs?

Filmmaker and artist David Lynch began working with lithography around 2006/2007. He has been collaborating with the Paris-based fine art print studio Idem Paris to produce his lithographs. Lynch’s works in this medium are extensions of his broader artistic vision, sharing thematic or aesthetic similarities with his films and other visual art. His lithographs often explore surreal, dreamlike, or otherwise unsettling subjects, much like his movies and paintings. Core themes and motifs are: Factories, women, electricity, curtains, stage scenes, deformations, heads, bodies, etc.

Lynch even made a documentary about the atelier in Paris:

Twin Peaks: The Return & Lithographs: An Observation

It’s really exciting to see the extent to which the various lithographs influenced the visual aspect of Twin Peaks: The Return. The longer you think about it, and the longer you compare the works to the images in the series, the clearer the connection becomes. In the end, an almost universal connection between Lynch’s various art forms crystallizes. Lynch is an artist who virtuously combines his various works and art forms.

Here is a visual illustration in 3 parts:

All lithographs above are copyright David Lynch / All Screenshots are copyright Showtime

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Art-Horror: A New Wave of Horror Films

Over the past decade, the horror genre has experienced something of a renaissance in cinema. This revival began with films like It Follows (2014) by David Robert Mitchell and The Babadook (2014) by Jennifer Kent. In both movies, horror serves less as a conventional scare tactic and more as a stylistic choice—used to heighten the emotional impact of their narratives. These films set the stage for a new wave of horror, inspiring works like The Invitation (2015) by Karyn Kusama, The Blackcoat’s Daughter (2015) by Osgood Perkins, and It Comes at Night (2017) by Trey Edward Shults.

Yet, within this modern horror movement, two filmmakers stand out above the rest. Robert Eggers stunned audiences with his atmospheric folk horror film The Witch (2015), only to raise expectations even further with the eerie, surreal The Lighthouse (2019). Meanwhile, Ari Aster left moviegoers shaken with his psychological horror-drama Hereditary (2018). Just a year later, he took audiences on a disturbing, sun-drenched nightmare with Midsommar (2019).

Critics were overwhelmingly enthusiastic, and while these films achieved moderate box office success, they often divided mainstream audiences. This is evident in their CinemaScore ratings (a U.S. audience grading scale from A+ to F). Hereditary received a D+, Midsommar a C+, and The Witch a C-. Other films like It Comes at Night (D) faced similar reactions.

However, for film enthusiasts and progressive horror fans, these independent directors were a breath of fresh air—rejecting Hollywood’s commercial horror formulas in favor of bold, original storytelling. As I argue in my book Art-Horror (2022), horror has never been this inventive and compelling.

Horror as a Means to an End

Another defining trait of these films? The director and screenwriter are often the same person. These (mostly young) filmmakers want complete creative control over their stories, shaping them from start to finish. Each of them wrote their screenplay alone or collaborated with a co-writer, a testament to how deeply personal these films are. And when you watch them, that personal touch is unmistakable. Their stories feel raw, intimate—almost as if the directors themselves have lived through these experiences and are now sharing them with an audience that doesn’t yet fully exist. Often, this is done with an astonishing, sometimes unsettling attention to detail.

Speaking of detail—there’s one crucial aspect that sets these films apart: The story and its themes take precedence over traditional genre conventions. These filmmakers aren’t simply making horror movies; they’re using horror as a tool—a flexible framework that they adapt, reinterpret, and mold to serve their unique artistic visions. They are both selfish and creative, unbound by genre constraints. For them, horror is nothing more than a stylistic vehicle—a means to tell deeply personal, often unconventional narratives.

Why “Elevated Horror” is the Wrong Term

The term “elevated horror” first emerged in the early 2010s, introduced by Simon Oakes, CEO of the revived Hammer Films (established in 2006). It was meant to describe this new wave of horror films, but the label quickly became controversial.

Horror fans were outraged, viewing it as yet another attempt to dismiss the genre as lowbrow or unrefined. To them, the term implied that mainstream critics despised horror so much that, whenever they unexpectedly enjoyed a horror film, they had to categorize it as something else. Thus, “elevated horror” became a convenient way to distance these films from the genre’s supposed inferiority. Many saw this trend as nothing more than another condescending insult to a genre that has long been misunderstood and undervalued.

And they weren’t wrong. The word “elevated” inherently suggests that other horror films are lesser, inferior, or artistically lacking. Over time, even critics began to recognize the problematic nature of the term and started moving away from it.

Art-Horror – A Definition

Horror films can generally be divided into two broad categories:

1. The thrill rides – from Halloween (1978) to Final Destination (2000), designed to shock, entertain, and keep audiences on the edge of their seats.
2. The subtler, Arthouse-style experiences – including the new wave of horror films that gained traction in the 2010s.

The key term here is “Arthouse”, which is a far more accurate descriptor than “elevated horror.” This distinction is not meant to suggest that classic horror films are inferior; rather, the intent behind these films is simply different—and that should be acknowledged by both fans and critics alike. That’s why the widely used term “elevated horror” is misleading and should be replaced by “Art-Horror.”

These films are Arthouse horror at their core, replacing cheap jump scares with existential dread and prioritizing psychological unease over immediate thrills. It’s no longer just about fearing monsters, demons, or supernatural entities—instead, it’s about crafting an oppressive atmosphere that lingers long after the credits roll.

My Definition of Art-Horror: Art-Horror blends intellectual concepts, psychological narratives, and striking visual aesthetics with unconventional storytelling, unique acting styles, and experimental camerawork. These elements are framed within a horror setting that either:

• Evokes fear and dread in a classical sense or
• Shocks with extreme violence, surrealist imagery, or even absurdist-comedic undertones.

However, the core theme is not necessarily horror itself—it often stems from a deeper thematic foundation, which the horror elements serve to amplify.

For those looking to explore Art-Horror further, my book Art-Horror: The Films of Ari Aster and Robert Eggers (2022) offers a deep dive into this still-emerging genre. Aster and Eggers stand as the genre’s defining filmmakers, pushing horror beyond its traditional limits and into uncharted artistic territory.

Order now

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