Picture this: it's a Friday, and you're opting to stay in. It's a movie night. You're squashed between friends on the couch, popcorn has been created, a glass of wine has been poured.

Some might see it as a curse, but for me, getting to decide what we're watching is always a treat. Perhaps, though, for the people around me, it really is a curse. Because without fail, I'll always click on a streaming app, scroll past genres like romance or drama, and head straight for horror. "Seriously?", "Sam...", "Didn't we watch one last time?" are the responses I hear most often.

I've always been drawn to the darker, more frightening genres. Whenever my best friend introduces me to someone new, she'll inevitably tell them – usually within the first five minutes – that I watch The Conjuring as if it's my comfort film. Which, by the way, is a lie.

There's always been a certain misunderstanding, or even judgement, attached to loving horror. But the stigma isn't inherent to the genre itself. Horror is actually one of the most innovative and self-aware forms of storytelling. It's a space where directors can experiment with style, metaphor, and social commentary in ways that other genres often can't. And sometimes, that willingness to confront uncomfortable ideas is exactly what unsettles people.

But now, it seems that stigma is dissipating. More and more, horror films are dominating box office charts, Letterboxd reviews, and streaming platforms. When production companies score record-breaking openings with films like Backrooms and Obsession, or when audiences flock to theatres for films such as Widows Bay, the question inevitably follows: What has sparked this newfound horror revival?

Horror has always been political

The answer is both simple and complicated.

We often say life imitates art and art imitates life, but horror demonstrates that relationship better than almost any genre. After all, stories don't emerge from nowhere. Rather, filmmakers tend to pull ideas from our collective fears. Horror isn't a perfect reflection of society, but it often correlates strongly with cultural anxieties. Andrew Monument's 2009 documentary Nightmares in Red, White and Blue: The Evolution of the American Horror Film explores this idea brilliantly.

The film examines how each major era of horror reflects what Americans fear most at the time. Early twentieth-century horror films drew on fears of physical deformity, death, and the aftermath of war. The Phantom of the Opera reflected anxieties surrounding wounded veterans and social outsiders. By the 1970s, the Vietnam War raged on, public trust in institutions declined, and horror became darker, more graphic, and more cynical. The Texas Chain Saw Massacre captured the chaos and uncertainty many people felt during that period.

Today's horror feels different.

Modern horror no longer focuses solely on monsters lurking in the dark. Instead, it explores systems and spaces – the threat often comes from environments rather than individuals. Backrooms perfectly captures this shift. The film explores spatial anxiety through endless liminal spaces. It creates a feeling of being trapped in a system with no exit, no purpose, and no certainty. Something always feels close behind. That fear resonates today where we're increasingly shaped by algorithms, digital environments, and invisible systems. The film even suggests that the Backrooms function as a metaphor for the conscious mind itself.

Obsession – which I'm not alone in considering one of the year's best films – takes aim at parasocial relationships, stalking, and unhealthy fixation. Few themes feel more relevant today. Films like Pearl and Midsommar similarly explore emotional obsession and psychological collapse. Earlier horror films were asking, "What is coming for us?", but today they ask "What are we already trapped inside?". Directors like Curry Barker and Kane Parsons, both in their early twenties, grew up immersed in internet culture. They witnessed social media evolve from a celebrated innovation into something many people now view with suspicion. They've experienced both sides of the digital age, and their films reflect that perspective.

Horror is regaining its prestige

Of course, horror's current success makes it easy to forget that the genre spent years struggling for critical respect.

The late twentieth century and early 2000s weren't exactly horror's finest era. I apologise to the filmmakers – and saying this hurts me – but while Steven Spielberg's Jaws remains a once-in-a-generation masterpiece, Jaws: The Revenge demonstrates how quickly a horror franchise can decline when spectacle replaces innovation.

Then there's Anaconda. I probably don't need to explain that one. I understand the appeal of "so bad it's good" cinema. Audiences enjoyed it, but critics rarely treated horror as serious art. For a long time, that perception dominated discussions around the genre. Until 2018, when Jordan Peele's Get Out won the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay, while earning nominations for Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Actor. It was the recognition that changed the genre. That year, Guillermo del Toro's The Shape of Water won Best Picture at the Academy Awards. At the same time, Ari Aster's Hereditary and Robert Eggers' The Witch earned critical acclaim, festival recognition, and sustained cultural discussion.

Today, acclaimed horror films frequently score above 90 per cent on Rotten Tomatoes. In recent decades however, horror films often averaged closer to 40 per cent. Film festivals have also come to embrace the genre. Cannes, Sundance, and TIFF increasingly program horror films in prominent positions, treating them as auteur-driven works rather than niche entertainment. That's precisely how Neon acquired the distribution rights to Leviticus, a queer horror film releasing in June 2026.

Even more impressive is how effectively modern horror performs financially despite modest budgets. Obsession reportedly cost less than $800,000 to produce. Within weeks of release, it became Focus Features' highest-grossing film ever, earning more than $250 million worldwide.

Cinephiles are booming and audiences are more genre-literate

I've said this for a while now, but cinema is back. Generation Z, in particular, seems deeply invested in moviegoing. According to Variety, 87 per cent of Gen Z attended at least one film in theatres during the previous year, compared with 82 per cent of Millennials and 70 per cent of Gen X.

Horror benefits enormously from this enthusiasm. Platforms such as Letterboxd encourage audiences to discuss, rate, and analyse films. YouTube video essays break down symbolism, themes, and hidden details. Rather than simply consuming horror, audiences are actively engage with it. In fact, I'd argue the genre has become so oversupplied that audiences have developed more sophisticated tastes as a result.

When I watch a film like Backrooms, I don't immediately think about the scares. I try and decode what I just watched and even rewatch it to find new interpretations, or hidden meanings. The fear becomes secondary and the puzzle becomes the attraction.

That instinct aligns perfectly with contemporary internet culture. Reddit thrives on theories and conspiracy discussions spread across every platform. Social media platforms like X generate endless speculation, memes, and interpretations that effectively market these films long after release.

So the next time I choose a horror film and someone lets out an audible groan, I'll take it as a compliment. After all, horror has spent the last century documenting what society fears most. So if you're uncomfortable, it's probably working.