I haven’t seen Skinamarink, though there’s no doubt it’s going to be one of 2023’s most talked about horror movies. Kyle Edward Ball’s liminal debut has already been a profound accomplishment, joining the ranks of, yes, Winnie the Pooh: Blood and Honey as an online sensation whose fervent interest generated a theatrical release. Sure, it’s a wide release in a limited window (though that didn’t stop the Wrong Turn reboot), but that’s still nothing short of incredible. It’s especially true for a movie whose legacy seemed uncertain just last month. Amidst a torrent of piracy concerns, some big name horror influencers opted to illegally access the film rather than wait for its actual release (though that’s another story entirely).
As Skinamarink steamrolls ahead, it has since entered the hallowed halls of “overrated” movies. While the disparaging label is applied to all manner of art house horror (not “elevated” horror, that isn’t real), audiences seem most keen to apply it to critically acclaimed horror movies where a kaleidoscope of sensory triggers is prioritized over a strict adherence to narrative norms.
While claims that Skinamarink is either the best or worst horror movie ever are undoubtedly overblown, there is at least some merit in the sudden upward trajectory of a once-unknown indie into the stratosphere of horror classics. Some of that is innate to the festival circuit. There, critics, eager to have dispositive voices on any forthcoming release, might feel inclined to embellish in anticipation of marketing materials (see: every pull quote for The Witch). The Witch is incredible, no doubt, and it’s aggressively moody, dour, and haunting. That can be true without suggesting it’s akin to a movie so dangerous, no one should be watching. But that isn’t the strict point of this piece.
The horror landscape, both digitally and theatrically, is abounding with narratively familiar (and accessible) releases. Smile is good, and it follows a pretty conventional plot trajectory. Scream was an awesome reboot (and my favorite movie of the year). Its plotting was strictly of the A to B to C variety.
Narratives are sensemaking. They are opportunities to identify with the characters on-screen, however ephemerally. One is easily able to invest oneself in the artifice of the cinematic world. The narrative paradigm functions principally on narrative rationality. Within are two core components. There’s coherence, the degree to which characters behave as an audience would expect. Then there’s fidelity, the degree to which a film extols the values an audience believes to be true. In effect, every story is part of a larger ecosystem of stories, and those antecedent ones set precedents. There are conventional structures, plot schemas, and recognizable arcs that audiences come to expect. It’s where the idea of tropes and cliches stem from. They’re not used because creatives are lazy—they’re used because they’re successful. Stray too far from the narrative rationality an audience comes to expect and risk withering away into nothing.
Ostensible “elevated” horror titles (and again, I use that term loosely) fall victim to audience frustrations most often. Some titles are keener than most to eschew convention and try something new. Possum, one of the scariest movies in recent memory, has little plot to speak of. There’s a rough outline there, an undercurrent of crime and abuse. Yet principally, director Matthew Holness wants the audience to feel uncomfortable, narrative structure be damned. David Robert Mitchell’s It Follows is consciously obtuse. There are enviable, anachronistic shell phones, a deliberately goofy final confrontation, and an overarching dreamlike state that penetrates every frame, every character beat.
While Skinamarink is considerably more sensory than either aforementioned title, it’s part of a lineage of horror that prioritizes mood over all else. And that isn’t a bad thing. As noted, there is plenty of accessible horror available. If every scary movie was the same scary movie, then nothing would really be that scary, would it? It can be a reductive take to identify something trying to subvert expectations as boring or elevated or bad or, in the most extreme of cases, the worst thing ever (that honor belongs to Clownhouse, and I can comfortably say that without having seen it).
Movies like Skinamarink and Men and Luca Guadagnino’s Suspiria remake don’t need to make sense narratively because they aren’t about sense. It’s not a contemporary trend, either. Bava and Argento’s best Giallo features don’t withstand much narrative scrutiny. Some horror is meant to evoke a feeling, not logic. It’s those feelings that lend horror its haunting quality. It’s why the perennial logic of what’s not seen being scarier holds true.
Everyone remembers The Conjuring’s Bathsheba, but scarier is whatever was hiding behind the door in Christine’s room. While sensory, mood-based horror isn’t for everyone—it took me half-a-dozen watches before I actually liked The Blair Witch Project—when it works, it works remarkably well. That Skinamarink might well be the most popular horror release of the year is a testament to that. Last year’s festival delight Mother Superior is another. When the lights go up and the jolts are over, it’s the mood—the rattle of the senses— that endures.
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