For decades, the horror film has both disgusted and fascinated viewers alike. Parents and elders have found its gruesome, childish terror second to pornography. Children and teens have found ambivalent curiosity in its mature, otherworldly aesthetic. Dennis Giles, the author of “Conditions of Pleasure in Horror Cinema,” defines a good movie as one that provides “simply a satisfying…experience” (Pulliam 39). With prominent themes of death, mutilation, and dementia, is it possible for a horror film to elicit pleasure in a viewer? Ultimately, yes. But why? Surprisingly, it is not the horror itself that satisfies the viewer; it is the absence of horror. The pleasure that one gets from watching a horror film is more associated with scenes where the monsters presence is assumed but not actually visible than those that boast its presence. By taking an anticipatory approach, the horror film toys with the absence of vision to reveal fetishism towards the horror that remains out of view and at the same time flirts with one’s natural insanity to create a satisfying experience.

Generally when people think of scary movies, they associate the gruesome terror in the movie with the monster present: Frankenstein with Frankenstein, Psycho with Norman Bates, A Nightmare on Elmstreet with Fred Krueger, Scream with Ghostface, et cetera. For decades, kids have gone trick-or-treating on Halloween dressed as these familiar Hollywood super-killers. With such popularity, many believe that these monsters and the scenes in which they are visible are the sole source of entertainment in such a film. Noël Carrol, the author of The Philosophy of Horror or Paradoxes, believes that scenes in which the monster is directly terrorizing its victims provide the most satisfaction for viewers (Hills 14). Carrol claims that proponents of the horror film are interested in the physiology and physiognomy of the monster, especially in action, and also in the emotions that the victims exhibit. In horror films, the audience is meant to mimic the emotions expressed by the victims as a reaction to the monstrosity (Urbano 895). An example of such a scene would be in the movie Alien when the monster explodes out of the chest of the human it was growing in or in The Exocist when the woman possessed by demons begins to levitate in her bed during the exorcism scene; however, who would truly find themselves satisfied after they experienced similar emotions to the victims of either of these attacks? The extensive use of these horrific scenes lures viewers away from the film and for this reason Stephen King calls them “gross-out” scenes (Pulliam 41). According to Carrol, these “gross-out” scenes are intended to elicit pleasure in the viewer, but the overuse of his desired scenes virtually transcends that notion by driving viewers away. And if viewers are being driven away, then the blatantly horrific “gross-out” scenes, in which the monster is present, are obviously not what keep viewers satisfied.

Not only have these scenes driven viewers away, they have literally tormented the minds of many viewers. Since the release of The Exorcist, a number of moviegoers have been diagnosed with what psychiatrists call “cinematic neurosis.” Cinematic neurosis has been defined as “the development of anxiety, somatic responses, dissociation, and even psychotic symptoms after watching a film” (Ballon 211). Often, these symptoms are triggered after the viewing of such scenes that Noël Carrol considered desirable. One man, Mr. Lyle H., a twenty-four year-old black male, was treated with psychiatric care after experiencing symptoms of cinematic neurosis.  

He was so upset during the movie that he had to walk out, and afterward he was frightened, feeling that the Devil “would come.” He had immediate insomnia, 15-pound weight loss over the past month, and numerous nightmares of vampires chasing a woman with himself interfering. He could not look people directly in the eye for fear he might imagine them to be devils. (Bozzuto 45)

For Lyle—and many others—just viewing the horrific “gross-out” scenes in The Exorcist led to serious psychiatric problems. If these “gross-out” scenes are capable of detrimentally affecting viewers, it seems very reasonable that they are also capable of affecting viewers in minor ways as well (i.e. nightmares, insomnia), and with widespread effects it seems unreasonable that the most gruesome scenes also provide the most pleasure.

The pleasure that one gets from watching a horror film does not come from the visible brutality that often makes its way into these films. Instead, the scenes that are most fascinating to the viewer are those in which the monster is absent; these scenes deny expected vision and create a longing for what is hidden. Another possibility for why people like horror films is that they instigate our inner insanity; a persona that every viewer has but that is often kept out of daily life.

Unlike Carrol’s theory, it is not the monster itself that provides the most pleasure, but the scenes in which the monster is held just out of view; the scenes in which the audience feels a presence but is left instead with absence: “Seeing through not seeing; vision refused through vision given. The most fascinating aspect of ‘everyday’ cinema is the way in which it denies the pleasures it promises, while delivering them through the back door” (Pulliam 48). This denied sense of viewing is most apparent in suspenseful scenes. There are three main “groups” of anticipatory vision: when the unseen monster is attacking the victim, when the victim is slowly filmed as they approach the monster, and when the audience knows that the monster is not present in the scene, but the way in which the scene is filmed leads the viewer to believe that the monster is in fact present (Pulliam 43).

Together, the three components of the anticipatory vision lead the viewer to “look less at what is seen than at how it is seen” (Pulliam 45). By focusing the gaze off of the horrific monster itself, the audience longs to be shown the entire vision of the scene. The scene prepares them to expect a great horror, but often the viewer is denied that horror. In being denied that horror, viewers almost prepare themselves for what is to come. After careful repetition of this effect, the film is able to develop, in the viewer, a sense of fetishism towards the undisclosed brutality (Pulliam 48). Through this fetishism, the viewer gains pleasure towards the horrors that remain hidden to them; a strange yearning towards something that is so utterly inhuman it’s sickening. But by literally denying the viewer of the graphic scenes, the anticipatory vision is also protecting them from the appalling mutilation that would otherwise be shown (Pulliam 48). And by protecting the viewer, the film is able to create pleasure without tormenting the viewer. People attend horror films expecting to be scared—after all, it is a “horror” film—but a film with constant bloodshed and ferocious monsters and demons would not leave the viewer with a satisfied feeling; and there would be nothing for the viewer to yearn for: no fetishism. The anticipatory vision creates a balance between horror and non-horror to maintain this fetishism while also discerning a veil that protects the viewer from excessive horror.

In addition to the notion of anticipatory vision in horror films is idea that the film exfoliates an already insane part of every viewer. It toys with a preexisting insanity that every living person, good or bad, naturally contains. Think—those strange quirks that everybody has that only emerge in the absence of others, such as talking to oneself, fears, or sexual fetishes. Stephen King believes that one goes to see horror films to satisfy this mental insanity; as an appropriately gruesome analogy: “The potential lyncher [sic] is in all of us…[and] the horror film has become the modern version of public lynching” (2). The horror film doesn’t develop insanity in the viewer; it perpetuates it. This idea of the horror film works with the absence of pure horror to refine the chaotic self. While it allows this persona to “scream and roll around in the grass,” it also contains this persona (in a cage more or less) similar to the way that anticipatory vision protects the viewer from excessive horror (King 2). Thus, the persona is being satisfied while creating a limit on its power. King analogizes this idea as “lifting a trap door in the civilized forebrain and throwing a basket of raw meat to the hungry alligators swimming around in that subterranean river beneath” (4). The horror film satisfies an insane part of every viewer but also controls its presence and provides a safe satisfaction.

Often, people find lions to be interesting creatures. When one goes to the zoo, they stand behind the comfortingly solid cage and marvel at the lions. The lion seems to embody many things that the intimate world lacks: ruthlessness, danger, and excitement. But one would not find the lion so engaging if they were thrown into its cage; they would be mortified. Petrified. Even traumatized. The idea of the lion without the protective barrier as insulation would be frightening and utterly pleasureless. In much the same way, the horror film works like a cage to establish a pleasurable distance between appalling mutilation and the audience. It flirts with preexistent insanity and allows the viewer to stare rivetingly at the horror without feeling dismayed at its ridiculous themes; simply put, it keeps the viewer happy.