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Blogpost #6

This weeks we discusses two devastating black horror stories, "The Devil in America" by Kai Ashanti Wilson and "Please, Momma" by Chesya Burke . The Devil in America is a ruthless story that left me with a feeling of fear. It was difficult to follow with its non-linear structure that resembled the random and irrational essence of the racial violence it portrays. The literal devil incarnate that arrives as a Confederate soldier is not the only horror of the story, but the vicious circle of hatred that he is the embodiment of. It is even more painful than the reality that the horror is associated with real historical atrocities, such as the Tulsa Massacre or the tale of Emmett Till. The saddest of all scenes is the one that changed the point of view during the epilogue when the main character, Easter, and her brother transformed into dogs that are always being hunted. The latter image is a wild metaphor of the truth that the lives of the black people have been dehumanized and erased in history, their lives have turned into a mere unclear and painful legend.

In contrast, "Please, Momma" turns inwards to the horror of unresolved grief. The disembodied, argumentative voices in the car create a feeling of mystery, and later tells us the ugly reality that one of the sisters is a ghost and the grief of her mother is a literal parasite eating her. This monster connects itself to the hopeless, suffering individuals and so it is the reason a mother would mistreat her living daughter. In the state of unprocessed trauma, it is not a passive experience since it is an aggressive force that feeds on an individual and hurts all people surrounding them.

This week I have learned that Black horror provides structure to the pain that has no shape. whether it is the massive, historical evil of the Devil in America or the personal, parasitic grief of the Please, Momma, but in any case, the genre is an expression of these abstract traumas which is makes the real and, above all, visible. This is not a monster under the bed, but the grief and the pain that we are not ready to let go.

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Blogpost #5

The original Candyman (1992) tells the story of Black trauma through the eyes of a White man. It is worth asking what the film is trying to tell us when a white graduate researcher enters a predominately Black housing project and conducts what might be called a slum safari. The film places her as an empathetic outsider who is more concerned about the situation than the actual tenants. She is the victim of a curse rooted in Black pain. An example is when she explains housing discrimination to a Black character, thus reinforcing the “White savior” trope prevalent in early Black horror films. Additionally, Cabrini-Green is a monstrosity of an urban jungle. There is a clear embellishment of the graffiti and decay in the building, particularly in the bathroom where “Sweets to the Sweet” is written on the wall in feces. This is the horror: the way racist people view urban spaces and Black people living there as squalors and dangerous. The movie also reuses the infamous trope of a monstrous Black man who is obsessed with a white woman. Candyman’s motivation was to make Helen a victim so that his lost lover could be reborn. Which is no different from the Birth of a Nation-type racist propaganda where a Black man’s male sexuality is seen as the key threat to a pure White woman.

Nia DaCosta’s Candyman (2021) recentres the narrative. First, Black trauma is told through the eyes of a Black man. Anthony McCoy, the protagonist, is a Black artist linked through his family and history to the now-gentrified Cabrini Green. The horror is from the loss of identity and history, not an external observer’s view. In DaCosta's version, Candyman is the spirit of Black victims of racial violence seeking revenge. Candyman seeks to punish the oppressors – namely, the police. The film respects black pain and uses shadow puppets to show the lynching and police violence stories. DaCosta never allows the material to devolve into trauma porn. Candyman also does not kill the Black main characters, which subverts the typical horror trope of minority expendability.

I think the update is a huge success. DaCosta also shifts the narrative focus. In her movie, Candyman is not an external threat and the black community is no longer a source of horror. The key message of “Candyman” is that Candyman is the legend of racial violence, which must be repeated and spoken about. The new film is an antithesis to the original. The myth of a Black man threatening a White woman gives way to a story about an oppressed community standing up to defend itself.

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Blog Post 4

Eve’s Bayou is a disturbing Black horror film mainly because it makes horror real. Navigating family secrets, such as Louis Batiste’s infidelity reveals the monsters within them. This consequence of this infidelity is seen with the different occasions that his daughters witness his recklessness which lead to loss of their innocence (this is another horror). The realization that their parents are flawed human beings. The result of this is emotional consequences and psychological trauma. This eventually leads to the family being torn apart. In this case, Louis is one of the monsters in the film as opposed to the voodoo or the psychic abilities of Aunt Mozelle. The fact that Louis’s children carry the secrets of witnessing their father’s infidelity.

The film is uncomfortable to watch especially the scene where Cisely kisses the father on the lips. The fact that the father is seemingly intoxicated we as the audience are left to decide on what type of the kiss that was and who initiated it. The thought of the different scenarios (the open-endedness of not knowing what truly occurred) is the horror.  The facts that we are left to reflect on the experiences in the film makes this type of Black horror tangible. This is because we are made to reflect on our deep fears and how our actions have an effect on others. One thing I must admit about the film is how rich it is in terms of

balancing a rich cultural content and the use of human stories. From the films we have watched in class, I am yet to see a film that balances the supernatural horror the human experience. It is therefore a film that provides a unique view on Black experience, superstitions and the horrors of the human life. Eve’s Bayou is such significant work in Black horror mostly because it acts as a challenge for us to look inwards. That we need to move beyond the external monsters exposing the terror of seeing how fragile a family unit is. Additionally, by leaving the audience haunted by the unresolved kiss and the trauma it causes, which forces a personal reflection. As the audience we are forced to recognize the horrors of family secrets and broken trust and how these can tear families.

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Blog Post 3 Black horror is a genre of film that includes stories about real life issues of racism, injustice to pain, such as Get Out, as I continue to learn about it every other week. This week, watching Tales from the Hood, Eve’s Bayou and Wet Pain I now recognize the complexity of black horror. The films concentrate on the real horrors of the black people, the real fears they experience in comparison to the horror of supernatural things. That is what makes these films even scarier. Tales from the Hood was interesting to me because of how revenge and art like murals and puppets were used as ways of seeking justice against racism and brutality of policy. Despite this, I felt that like the film's use of imagery like the lynching was too simple. To tell you the truth, Wet Pain was the most uncomfortable film to watch among the three. It depicted racism as an infectious disease that to me was a tragedy given the results of the occurrences after failures of Hurricane Katrina. The obvious implication of this is the extent to which racism might transcend individual perceptions and become systemic or structural incompetence, which is life threatening. Eve's Bayou provided was a different kind of horror. The psychological type of horror. It was an intense investigation into ways in which the secrets and suffering of generations could define a family narrative. I greatly connected with this since it is a theme in most families. The film was also disturbing because of the cliff hanger of not knowing what occurred between the father and the sister. I believe that this week has been an eye opener on how effective horror can be as a tool of allowing the audience to confront their uncomfortable biases. It also changes my view of the way to watch films. Regardless of what I am watching, I will always ask myself what message is being communicated.I

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Black Horror: Blog Post #2

I must say that this week has been very insightful in explaining what black horror is and what is its significance. It has been such a learning and unlearning process as the professor has explained why black horror is beyond the creepy scenes and the monsters. I speak for a lot of people when I see that most of us are naïve in terms of what horror films are. Most people watch it for fun, and the adrenaline. With black horror however, this class has taught me that every black horror film reflects on realities of black people, it is about race, survival, their history and their identity. I never imagined that I would be able to identify racism, and not the intended kind incorporated in acting, the kind where the plotline perpetuates exclusion, and racial biases. When the kill the only black person in the film? When they paint the black person as the monster? Being able to identify these specific aspects in films in how they perpetuate these vices has been an eye opener.

Let us now talk about Love Wanga. This is the type of film that makes you sit and think. It is such an appropriate film for black horror class because it is a reflection of how Hollywood thinks. The obsession with voodoo and painting it as something evil, perpetuating fear. I actually found this film a bit annoying. It portrayed Klee, who is the main character as dangerous and at the same time hypersexualized the villain. From my eyes the film like most of Hollywood films perpetuates the misconception about black women. While I understand that it was such a big deal for Freddie Washington to be in the film given that there were very few opportunities  for black women in film then, it is unsettling that the film industry has really not changed much in terms of how they view black women. These are the same tropes we see even with non-horror films.

This week was a mixed bag. Out There Screaming, Pressure. This is not your ordinary horror movie with a scary character. The horror is the pressure. The pressure on existing in a world that is hostile towards you. Being an outcast. This is lived experience for a majority of black people and people of color. Same case with what happens to the LGBT community. I could very much related to the relationship between the protagonist and the queer cousin because they both shared something. The marginalization. This film is a reflection of how society treats minorities and the impact on the victims.

While the two films I have aforementioned were insightful, Candyman takes the trophy. While I had previously watched the film, the new version that is, learning about the 1992 one and how terrible it was, has completely changed my view. There is such a huge difference between black horror and black people in a horror film. Before this class I would have said there is no difference. The 1992 Candyman was black people in horror. Riddled with tropes that perpetuate racial stereotypes and biases. Black people are accessories in their own stories which cements the audiences’ biases while pushing the agenda of the white supremacists. This film in particular paints the black person as a violent person and the Cabrini Green as a dangerous place full of crime.

In the 2021 Candyman, we can clearly see what black horror is about as Nia DaCosta intended. The film is centered around black people. The Candyman is sort of an avenger as opposed to the monstrous criminal that we say in the 1992 Candyman. We can clearly see the effort put to fight the stereotype that black people are violent. The film humanizes black people, with a black protagonist and black supporting characters. A deviation from 1992.

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Blog Post #1: Black Horror

Before this course, had I been questioned about what I thought Black horror is, I likely would have stuttered something along the lines of blaxploitation films or vampires. I was hoping to hear about some interesting subgenre, an entertaining, gritty side of the history of the movie industry. I was not ready of the extent to which it would provoke and transform my whole perception of what horror actually is. This has not been a course about scary films, this has been a course about the nature of fear, its origin, the people that have a right to it, and how it can be used as a survival weapon.

The initial piece that really left me sick to my stomach was the work of Bree Newsome entitled Wake. It sounds like a gothic story on the face of it, a woman committing an awful, selfish decision. To me, the terror was not, however, in the conjured man or in the creepy ambiance. It was in the deep loneliness of Charmaine. Nothing was scarier than the manner in which she made her way through the funeral of her father despite having a crowd of people, but in total solitude. The very fact that she dug the dirt for the spell was not as much witchcraft as a desperate and violent archaeology of herself. I could not simply write her off as a villain, I felt a tragic empathy for a person who was so desperate to get her connection and control that she would burn her entire world down to have it. It reconstituted horror in me from being something external to that which breeds in silence and solitude.

Then came “Get Out.” Wow. I have watched numerous horror films, however, my stomach never knotted as it did when watching the Sunken Place scene. The genius of it is that the actual horrifying part is not the hypnosis or the brain surgery, but the smiling, liberal expressions of the Armitage family. I was struck down by the "I would have voted for Obama third time" line. I have been in such rooms, the type of rooms where individuals are so blatantly acting as if they are not racist that you think you are in a weird play. The movie gave a face and a physical sensation to that particular, civilized erasure. It is the horror of being perceived as something, a bunch of qualities to be envied and followed, instead of a human being. It is a fear that I could not even describe until this movie provided me with the words.

The revelation that I found the most surprising was, perhaps, that of W.E.B. Du Bois titled, The Comet. I must confess that I had never heard of Du Bois, other than in the dry, academic sense of the word. It was exciting to have found this fiery, apocalyptic short story by such a figure. The assumption is so basic and yet so brilliant: erase everybody and what do you have left? A few pages led me to experience a moment of hope with Jim and Julia, the notion that a clean slate would make humanity finally open its eyes. But then, the ending. It was devastating to the sudden return to the real world of racial hierarchy. It was not a cynical ending, but a miserable, truthful one. It challenged me to believe how our own crises, such as the pandemic were meant to be a great equalizer, but instead most of the time served as a mirror to the existing, stubborn cracks in our society.

This course has totally changed my expectations. I believed I was enrolling to learn a new genre. Instead, I am studying a new language in which I am going to discuss power, history, and the silent, insidious horror of real life. It has made me a more critical viewer, but also made me a more empathetic one. Not only am I reading these stories, but I am experiencing them, and they are a lesson I did not realize I needed to learn.