A common response I get when I bemoan the lack of South African horror is “Why would we need more horror; there is enough scary stuff happening in real life!”
And you know what, that is true, we live in a scary world, we live in a scary country, period. Not a day goes by without some reminder about the high crime rate, the violence of said crime and the victims of mundane manmade horrors.
So why do we need fictional horror when there is so much suffering already?
Well, I think the answer lies in the need for an outlet for the built-up anxiety that lingers within us. We are numb to the inherent paranoia of living in a high-crime country.
We understand the importance of blending in, not wearing shiny items in plain sight and squirrelling ourselves away under the bar and key of our homes.
So, the media can reflect our fears and terrors safely. We get to experience the thrill of the worst-case scenario without its consequences.
Think of the slasher movie, in its most base form, they are often morality tales about the punishments awaiting us should we stray into drugs, premarital sex, and general irresponsibility. They are the expression of American fears of evil invading suburbia, stabbing upstanding members of the community. The slasher expresses an American fear of immorality lurking under the white picket fence.
So, what might a South African form of horror look like?
Perhaps it is the history of the past haunting the present, maybe it’s the forgotten horrors of Zulu and Xhosa mythology? Is it the monster that lurks under the bed?
The Tokoloshe (2018), while not the best, tries to bring an iconic monster to the big screen, while Eight: A South African Horror Story (also known as The Soul Collector) (2019) also tries to elevate the scene with folk horror.
There is a small, often unfortunately quiet sector of local films that try to explore horror in a local context. It also doesn’t help that most of them (except Eight from first glance) have never been well-received and tend to look rather cheap. A pity, a great pity if you ask me.
South Africa tends to be used by Hollywood for cheap filming locations, instead of cultivating a local industry that can inspire creatives to fund jobs here.
We do sell ourselves short, I think, in terms of the stories we can tell and the ones that get funding.
And when it comes to horror, we seem to try and ignore it in favour of the historical, the non-fictional. Those tend to get funding, with some exceptions like District 9 and Chappie. (Who doesn’t love Chappie?)
Horror, at its best, is about confronting the horrors that exist in our society, either in the broad strokes or on the personal level. They are a safe space for the taboo, the anxiety, so why must South Africa and its citizens struggle without such easy access to safe places to express fears?
Yes, this country is often scary, but that should encourage us to make more horror. There is undoubtedly a privilege, as it is with any art that reaches the masses, but that should incentivise us to uplift those experiencing real horrors to give them the opportunities to make art based on their experience, should they desire to do so.
What I am saying is that we need to incentivise and give a voice to those who wish to express what they fear in the arts.
