Understanding public responses to coronavirus: a role for the horror genre?
Tim Aistrope and Stefanie Fishel
The ongoing coronavirus pandemic was not a surprise to those who experienced past outbreaks such as SARS-CoV-1 and H1N1. Human interaction with, and intrusion into, the biosphere guarantees changes, and with that comes increased risks for disturbing viruses and bacteria that are undiscovered or as yet un-mutated.
Pop culture has often expressed humanity’s fear of the unknown and especially the invisible, whether manufactured in a lab or uncovered by melting permafrost. The recent movie Color Out of Space, based on the book by H. P. Lovecraft, follows a family forever transformed by an alien organism that is revealed to them only as a colour; a cosmic force that drives them to madness and transformation. The horror comes not from an evil menace, but rather being vulnerable to that which is unknowable and beyond our control. To paraphrase Foucault, the cosmic does not turn a legible face toward us.
Nor does the viral.
For those not previously immuno-compromised, suddenly we contemplate a world overrun by an invisible danger, entailing the possibility of death. We are vulnerable while doing the most normal things, and safety can only be found in physical distance, even if we have revealed the ability to be virtually close to our loved ones than ever before.
We touch on this horror scenario in our recent article in International Affairs, noting the upswing of ‘fast’ zombie movies, which took their real word impetus from the first SARS epidemic and later the Ebola outbreaks. COVID-19 has again bared a visceral fear of sickness and death, emptying the streets. Life will never be the same, collectively or personally. Weeks on, doctors still do not know how this virus is killing us. COVID-19 is a slippery, quickly mutating medical mystery. Suddenly, perhaps, the characters in horror films might not feel as alien to us, their reactions more understandable. Of course, unlike for the many who have had their lives torn apart by horrific calamities such as war or forced migration or another horrific calamity, the rest of us are only just learning to cope and survive after lives of relative security. We can no longer ask ‘when will we return to normal?’ because, as Aisha S. Ahmad writes, ‘the answer is never’.
In our article, we focus on the way representations of apocalypse in the horror genre can help scholars as much as everyone else better understand the human suffering, fear and danger at the heart of global calamities. We argue that the horror genre is at once an access point for ethical engagement with the human consequences of extreme violence and a complex terrain where dark imaginings can be politically loaded and culturally specific. On the one hand, the horror genre foregrounds dramatically the abhorrent consequences of violence. It is visceral and candid. It captures not just physical harm, but also crippling fear and psychological collapse. We highlight the way the horror genre invites audiences to step outside of their own viewpoint and suggest that this in turn facilitates empathetic encounters with the dire experiences of others.
On the other hand, the horror genre expresses our deepest anxieties about the societies we live in and the futures that confront us, borne out in monstrous proportions. Horror represents the despicable other, but also impulses that are familiar yet uncomfortable. In this sense, while the horror genre offers an opportunity for ethical encounters, it also draws forward the sometimes problematic dynamics that help constitute our reckoning with existential threats.
When we were asked by International Affairs to write this blog, our discussions ranged from giving a straight recapitulation of the article to writing nothing at all. It felt oddly wrong to capitalize on any ‘real world’ comparisons. In thinking through our reservations, we remembered that the original impetus to write about the horror genre was rooted not in its appeal, but in feelings of discomfort and unease. Those feelings were generated in the first instance by the distressing experience of watching the nuclear apocalypse films, The War Game (1965) and Threads (1984), we went on to analyse, which seemed to put us in the position of its victims and their horrific circumstances. In doing so, the films connected policy debates on nuclear weapons (a discourse that often talks in abstract terms about millions of deaths) with the devastating implications for everyday people and asked us as scholars and individuals to think about what such devastation would mean for us.
In recent days there has been no shortage of abstract modelling and macro-economic analysis, as public health officials and policymakers balance risks for entire populations. At its most horrific, some have even suggested that the old and weak should be sacrificed for the greater good. Yet, as we all surely know, these analyses extrapolate away from the human experiences of suffering and fear, loss and heartache. Engaging with cultural representations of horror offers a way to access those experiences and crystallise them; to draw close without being damaged in real life, and to think empathetically about what is taking place in the lives of many globally. If we remember our vulnerability and mortality we are better equipped to respond to and care for our communities, globally and closer to home. And keeping devastating personal tragedies at the forefront of our minds will lead to more informed and ethical decision making on COVID-19 and many other issues with violence and degradation at their base.
Tim Aistrope is Lecturer in International Relations at the University of Kent. Stefanie Fishel is Lecturer in Politics and International Relations at University of the Sunshine Coast.
Their article ‘Horror, apocalypse and world politics’ is published in the May 2020 issue of International Affairs.
