In the current cultural landscape, horror reigns supreme. Films such as Coralie Fargeat’s body horror The Substance, Sydney Sweeney’s blood-soaked performance in Immaculate, Ti West’s MaXXXine, Oz Perkins Longlegs, and Tim Burton’s long-anticipated Beetlejuice sequel have left indelible marks on both the horror genre and culture at large. Upcoming releases like Scott Beck and Bryan Woods’ Heretic and Robert Eggers’ reimagining of the vampiric classic Nosferatu have cemented this year as a gruesome parade of gore and jump scares. By highlighting the disturbing tension between human frailty and societal ideals, the genre of horror continues to reflect modern anxieties: from being stalked, fearing God, bodily vulnerability and ageing.

Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of horror’s cinematic popularity lies in the paradoxical allure of the genre itself: why do we find comfort in discomfort, retreating from our already difficult lives into even more unrest and panic? According to forensic psychologist Dr Glenn Walters, there’s a fairly straightforward biological reason behind our love of horror. “Horror activates the fight-or-flight response, leading to an adrenaline rush that viewers experience as excitement,” Walters explains. The relief which follows an adrenaline rush then engages the brain’s reward system, making watching a horror film feel like a cathartic release.

But why is horror trending now, specifically, at a time when the world is still recovering from the impact of a deadly pandemic; wracked by violent conflict; and staring down the barrel of climate emergency? Horror’s enduring popularity in uncertain times underscores its dual function: it not only entertains us, but also provides a space for us to grapple with contemporary anxieties. In other words, audiences seek out horror not just for the thrill, but for the opportunity to confront our fears during moments of collective unease. Structured horror narratives – with their rise in tension and eventual resolution, whether tragic or redemptive – offer a way for viewers to cathartically process their fears in a controlled environment.

In the context of late capitalism, technological alienation, and environmental collapse, there is a pervasive sense of unnatural forces – both technological and social – existing where they shouldn’t, alongside an impenetrable feeling of loss, which is perhaps why we enjoy horror content so much. It feels more familiar than we realise, reflecting our real-world concerns while simultaneously providing a reprieve from them.

The relationship between horror and societal upheaval isn’t new – the theatrical landscape of Jacobean England was deeply infused with a pervasive sense of dread, a reflection of the turbulent political and existential anxieties of the era: plays like Macbeth and King Lear are rife with bloodshed and supernatural elements mirroring societal fears about treachery and the instability of power from events at the time, such as the Gunpowder Plot of 1605. The audience’s appetite for violent theatre was not just for entertainment, but a way to process the very real fears that dominated the public consciousness.

In film, some of the most iconic horror movies and literature emerged during times of great distress. In the 1930s, when the world was reeling from the Great Depression, films like Frankenstein (1931) and Dracula (1931), became cultural landmarks providing audiences with a way to externalise their fears of poverty, instability, and death.​​ Frankenstein’s creature – a ‘grotesque’ amalgamation of discarded limbs, resurrected from death — stands as a haunting metaphor for a fractured society, fragmented by economic collapse, pieced together in a desperate attempt to impose order upon chaos.

More recently, the recent resurgence of folk horror, as seen in films like Starveacre (2024), Midsommar (2019) and The Witch (2015), has tapped into contemporary fears about the loss of tradition, communal identity, and our alienation from nature. Midsommar, for example, has been described as a mediation on the “impending eco-fascism” coming in the wake of the climate crisis: “In his book Four Futures Peter Frase predicts ‘exterminism’ as one of the possibilities in the age of climate change: a world of exclusivist elite communes. For early evidence, see Marine Le Pen and her concern-trolling contrast between prudent settlers and careless nomads”, journalist Mazin Saleem wrote in Tribune following its release. In its various forms across the arts, horror, and scary films have long served as a mirror to society’s most deeply entrenched cultural anxieties, from political instability to environmental catastrophe, ‘scary subjects’ are allegorised into supernatural or fantastical terms.

Dr Steven Gerrard, a scholar of horror cinema, adds that horror provides a necessary psychological outlet during periods of societal instability. “Horror allows us to confront our anxieties in a controlled space, where the boundaries between reality and fiction are firmly drawn,” he says. Horror gives us the ability to engage with fear without actual danger, a phenomenon described by psychologist Paul Rozin as “benign masochism”. Rozin argues doing this enables audiences to process complex emotions, including anxiety and grief.

It’s ultimately no surprise horror is trending: it’s always been a popular genre, but especially so during fraught, turbulent times. “Horror is a way to give form to the formless anxieties of the time,” surmises Dr Alison Peirse, an expert in horror cinema and gothic fiction. “The genre’s ability to evolve with societal fears is what gives it enduring appeal.” In these uncertain times the psychological appeal of being scared is not merely a desire for adrenaline, but a deeply embedded cultural practice to navigate the complexities of fear, identity, and survival within our ever-changing world.