Even through the blood and guts, horror generates empathy better than any other genre.

“Movies are like a machine that generates empathy.” Of all his opinions, those eight words comprise Roger Ebert’s most profound proclamation. Movies put us in someone else’s shoes and not only ask what we would do if they were our laces to tie but also answer the most fundamental question regarding understanding and relating to our fellow flesh bags: why? Why turn left instead of right? Why run after someone they love rather than live with that whole “it’s better to have loved and lost” idea? The medium’s most effective tool is the lens in which it frames these choices made under pressure while making a captive audience feel something as a result of those decisions. Horror takes that to another level by putting characters through unfathomable life-or-death scenarios. It demands knowing how we’d react to the unthinkable while illustrating all the complexities of being human. At a time when empathy seems in short supply everywhere around us, horror’s unique ability to produce understanding and awareness make it the most indispensable genre in film today.

Scary movies rarely dabble in simple categorizations. Victims, as we usually think of them, are rarely just that. And those who live to tell the tale don’t usually fit perfectly into any heroic mold we may prescribe. Abigail, Radio Silence’s recent vampire flick, could paint its characters in broad strokes, but it opts for backstories that create interior lives for everyone; they’re more than just common crooks on a job. Radio Silence’s script ensures everyone has a firm motivation. Whether you agree with their reasoning for thieving is a different discussion; the point remains that they exist as full-fledged humans with unique perspectives before they become a ballet vampire dancer’s dinner. Movies like Abigail that feature protagonists who toss aside white or black hats for a shade more in the middle emphasize the fact that everyone has a story to tell, and that the saying about what not to do with books and book covers remains sound life advice.

The more horror interrogates those stories, the better we understand why the people on screen do what they do. Or even why they fall into tropes. It’s easy to eye-roll and sigh when Sidney (Neve Campbell) momentarily beats Ghostface in Scream 2 but takes a beat to peek under the mask. However, that moment becomes understandable when the person under said mask made her life hell during high school and college. Even more so when armed with the knowledge that her attacker is someone close to her. Context is everything; it colors intention and behavior in ways nothing else can. It takes the general and makes it specific to a person or place while putting faces on senseless tragedies. This understanding, rooted in empathy, allows us to connect with the characters on a level beyond who lives and who becomes part of the body count.

Ask anyone reading this if they’d double back to see the boogeyman’s face, like in Scream 2 or any slasher flick. The smart money is on them giving an emphatic “nah,” accompanied by a colorful four-letter word. But add some trauma to the equation. Throw in some loss with a dash of revenge mixed with a healthy dose of justice, and it’s a good bet those answers shift. Perspective is everything in storytelling, and horror is routinely the most consistent at providing it to its audience.

Perspective isn’t just about eliciting an emotional response for someone who does things we might ordinarily think are silly at best and incredibly stupid at worst. It’s also about seeing ourselves in someone who we may share next to nothing in common. The need to ensure every voice at the table echoes with the same weight is at the heart of any discussion about diversity in the genre. At a time when men dominated leading roles more even than they do today, horror put women front and center. Yeah, not always for honorable reasons, but as filmmaking and filmmakers evolved, so did those roles. With that growth came more specific insights about being a woman. From nuanced details like how to hold car keys when walking through a parking garage alone to the more obvious ones like giving them more to do than run for their lives when face to face with the killer.

You’re Next remixes the “Final Girl” idea and makes her the hunter. Scream and Sick feature female leads breaking horror’s “rules” yet seeing another sunrise. The Babadook has enough unmitigated audacity that it features a mother (Essie Davis) who, at times, openly confesses her complex feelings towards her young child because of the trauma wrapped around his birth. She’s easy pickings for the titular grief monster because —surprise— the parenting roadmap isn’t a straight line. That’s one thing these films and others have in common: Living up to the impossible standards societies thrust onto women’s shoulders is far from easy. Olympic power lifters couldn’t carry that much weight if they tried. The world has rules for women that genres, sometimes happily, are all too willing to abide by. Horror creates sympathy and understanding by showing the truth: Women who don’t live their lives by those stereotypes not only exist, but they thrive. Sporadically, throughout its history, but especially as of late, it’s taken that same approach with race.

Get Out’s final moment with a Black man, a white woman, and a police car is effective because Jordan Peele waved a magic wand and helped entire audiences see the world through Chris’ (Daniel Kaluuya) eyes, no pun intended. At that moment, almost everyone, regardless of race, understood what grizzly fate might await this guy because we know how this story ends typically when the blue and red lights pull up on a scene like that in real life. But also because the flick conveys the tension and danger surrounding Chris at every corner while getting viewers familiar with frighteningly unfamiliar environments. How would you feel if a stranger approached you and started feeling your bicep? Or if every single person you talked to at a party thought that famous people who share your skin color were the only topic worthy of your two cents? Get Out filters racial scapegoating, gaslighting, and fear of “the other” through a relatable piece of art that never forgets its point of view.

Let’s keep it real: For some people, Black men and women will always be the beings they see on TV. Their only interaction with anyone melanated comes from entertainment, be it negative or positive. Movies like Get Out matter because, unfortunately, there’s still more of the former than the latter. Besides centering its story on a Black person, it shows how toxic stereotypes often are. Sometimes, they’re even deadly. When everything builds to that last scene, the movie asks how the audience would feel rather than what they would do. That’s a higher level of emotional intelligence that those working in horror routinely hit with ease.

Get Out conveys specific cultural fears rather than general bumps in the night. The same goes for Kwaidan or Ju On: The Grudge. How Japanese culture views ghosts and how Americans see them isn’t apples to apples, nor is it apples to oranges. It might be closer to apples to elephants or any other fruit-to-animal comparison. The two movies and a litany of Japanese titles in the subgenre bring the rest of the world into Japanese folklore and tradition, where ghosts represent warnings, protection, or complex spiritual beliefs rather than beings solely out to scare us to death.

Those tenets inform every reaction on screen and make even the subtext more meaningful. At that point, they become more than just films. They teach those outside of Japan’s borders about their culture. Some may never leave their neighborhood block, much less board a flight to another country. But Japanese ghost stories, much like Italian Giallos or the New French Extremity movement, show the much larger world beyond our doorstep. Sometimes, the “why” behind someone’s decisions has as much to do with their cultural surroundings as their personal history. That’s when the story demands a choice, and the specific becomes universal from that messy solution.

We experience life as others do for a few hours, complete with heightened trials and tribulations. We understand why someone faced with kill or be killed chooses the latter, even if we’d skin the cat differently. Horror accounts for those dissenting beliefs, philosophies, and every decision tree imaginable by stripping characters down to their most elemental humanity. Those choices burrow so deep into our subconscious that we see ourselves in those we never met and view people as individuals rather than groups. That’s an incredible feat for movies disrespected and disregarded by high-minded types who believe they offer society nothing worthwhile.

The filmmakers and aficionados always understood that the scariest thing imaginable isn’t a psycho with a mask, a demonic presence, or even the neighbors. It’s what happens when we stop treating those neighbors as we hope and pray they treat us.

‘Abigail’