2023 did not produce the same glut of genre riches as the past few years, but it still delivered an intriguing mix of new and established storytellers, helming films that came together through an almost miraculous amount of talent and work from their respective crews. I only list the director and writer of each film, but I will continue to remind myself and others: movies only work because of collaboration, and next time you finish a movie, consider letting it marinate while you read the names in the credits.

Last year saw a daring (and weirdly underrated) new film from Brandon Cronenberg, two original (and wildly different) takes on the possession subgenre (one Argentine, another Australian), a wildly controversial experimental film from Kyle Edward Ball, an outlandishly comic genre-bender from Ari Aster, an emotional Japanese blockbuster, an esoteric study on nature and time, and at least a few excellent directorial debuts.

Read on for my subjective list of last year’s most compelling horror films.

When Evil Lurks (Cuando acecha la maldad)

Director: Demián Rugna
Writer: Demián Rugna

I watched Terrified (Aterrados) on Shudder a few years ago, and it put Argentine writer-director Demián Rugna firmly on my map of notable genre filmmakers. So when his follow-up When Evil Lurks (Cuando acecha la maldad) came out last year I made sure to see it in theaters.

Several key crew members return, including cinematographer Mariano Suárez, editor Lionel Cornistein, and production designer Laura Aguerrebehere; together, they create another supernatural thriller that oozes pure malignance and constructs a handful of the most memorable scenes of the entire year. The story approaches its subgenre with a fresh perspective, and by treating possession as a contagious disease, it unlocks a whole new set of rules—and new layers of subtext that invite discussion about community, bureaucracy, pandemic, and the enduring trope of urban/rural divide. When Evil Lurks is not perfect (the second half falls off a bit) but it conjures some unforgettable imagery and a suffocating sense of malevolence that just won’t quit. You can read my full review here.

Talk to Me

Directors: Danny Philippou, Michael Philippou
Writers: Danny Philippou, Bill Hinzman, Daley Pearson

Of all the breakouts in genre filmmaking last year, there is probably none more noteworthy than that of the Philippou brothers. The Australian twins have come a long way from backyard wrestling videos, and now they have leveraged a successful YouTube channel into one of the most talked about horror films of 2023.

Talk to Me explores familiar themes (trauma, family, suicide) with a judicious blend of humor and tension, and at a crisp 94 minutes it feels refreshingly light on its feet (credit to a tight script and the editing of Geoff Lamb). If you are looking for what Talk to Me does right, look no further than its delightful summoning montage—an intoxicating synthesis of imagery and music (Richard Carter’s now-viral “Le Monde” remix briefly and ineffably interacting with Sophie Wilde’s rendition of Piaf’s “La Foule”)—all deftly edited into a sequence that had me smiling from ear to ear. There is an aspect of the identity politics that leaves me feeling ambivalent (Mia as a Black protagonist, unfairly punished for her heartbreak and rash decisions), but I don’t have the time or space to dissect that here. In short, Talk to Me is a fresh and exciting debut, and another genre hit for distributor A24.

Infinity Pool

Director: Brandon Cronenberg
Writer: Brandon Cronenberg

In 2020, the ferocious Possessor topped my yearly wrap-up. It’s a psychedelic, sensual, and brutally violent film that explores a heady sci-fi premise with remarkable self-assurance. Fast forward to 2023, and I’m puzzled by the lukewarm reviews for Brandon Cronenberg’s follow-up: the similarly challenging Infinity Pool, starring Mia Goth and Alexander Skarsgård (and beautifully scored by Tim Hecker).

The psychedelia remains, as does the jarring violence—now in a setting that interrogates the relationship between the parasitic nature of wealthy White tourism and the Indigenous culture that it so often exploits. As in Possessor, identity plays an important role: if someone could make a copy of us, which would be the “real” one? Does it matter? Are we the people we think we are? Goth and Skarsgård are undeniable, and I was spellbound by the awful unwinding of a premise that sees, accurately, that power is corrosive, and there are different rules for rich and poor. Even though I wanted something slightly different from its third act, I was entranced by the journey, and left with plenty to ponder.

Huesera: The Bone Woman

Director: Michelle Garza Cervera
Writers: Michelle Garza Cervera, Abia Castillo

I often think of the horror genre as a hermit crab: sneakily utilizing the trappings of other genres to tell stories with heightened stakes and a primally unsettling emotional canvas. As John Carpenter said, “Horror is a reaction, it’s not a genre.” This is why it can be difficult, if not impossible, to neatly corral the genre: just as much as it is a set of tropes, horror is a feeling. Like the cordyceps fungus, horror reanimates the stories we recognize into something similar but frighteningly different—something that taps into our shared and individual traumas.

Huesera: The Bone Woman is the feature debut of Mexican filmmaker Michelle Garza Cervera, and it is a drama about a young woman trying resolutely to fit into the roles that society demands of her. We see, as the film progresses, the parts of her that she has left behind in order to become a wife, a mother, and a daughter. I am a sucker for any story that explores maternal ambivalence—an under-discussed phenomenon felt by many women, whose complicated and sometimes negative feelings about motherhood are compounded by misplaced guilt and shame. Cervera uses her debut to tell a queer story about the violence that is wrought by forcing conformity into a heteronormative culture, and I am thrilled to welcome a new storyteller into the genre.

Birth/Rebirth

Director: Laura Moss
Writers: Laura Moss, Brendan J. O’Brien

Oh, how I love a directorial debut. One of my favorite things about following the horror genre is being there when someone new bursts onto the scene—and appreciating the amount of effort and time it took to get there in the first place. The idea for Birth/Rebirth has existed in the mind of writer-director Laura Moss for over 20 years, planted there by Shelley’s Frankenstein and nurtured over time by Moss and their co-writer Brendan O’Brien. 

Marin Ireland co-stars as an antisocial pathologist who rejects traditional femme maternity (and human connection in general), but is obsessed with the science of biological life. A tragic event sparks a collision between her and an unfailingly competent maternity nurse (Judy Reyes), and what unfolds is an old story with new breath in its lungs, and plenty to say about motherhood, femininity, and the ethics of medicine and science. A creepy and tender score by Ariel Marx imbues a haunting and subtle emotionality to a self-assured debut, and one of my favorite horror films of the year. 

Godzilla Minus One

Director: Takashi Yamazaki
Writer: Takashi Yamazaki

I do not consider Godzilla Minus One (or any Godzilla film, really) to be a horror movie per se, but it has become a tradition to invite any deserving horror-adjacent films to my year end list. Toho’s surprising blockbuster hit has now surpassed $88 million worldwide (against a modest $15 budget), making it the most financially successful Japanese Godzilla movie of all time. Fans and critics are united in their praise for the film, and from a storytelling perspective it has accomplished what Legendary’s American “MonsterVerse” has so far failed to do: tell the human side of the story with heart and earned emotion.

Godzilla is one of the best and most successful examples of filmic metaphor ever created, and this is why no one will ever be able to tell a Gojira story like the Japanese: they experienced the horrors of nuclear annihilation, and the iconic kaiju will forever be a complex and emotional symbol for a country that had to rebuild (physically and spiritually) following the horrors of the second World War. Besides all the technical things that the film does well (it looks gorgeous on a $15 million budget—take notes, Marvel), its emotional poignancy comes from its depiction of a fractured national psyche, and the scars of a war that take generations to heal. When we are failed and disillusioned by our states (as we continue to be), we must learn how to take care of each other. 

Beau is Afraid

Director: Ari Aster
Writer: Ari Aster

After the commercial and critical success of both Hereditary and Midsommar, director Ari Aster has achieved “must see” status for many movie fans. But even before the release of Beau is Afraid, the film’s discordant tone and exorbitant runtime had many of us scratching our heads. In a nutshell: Joaquin Phoenix stars as Beau, a haplessly anxious loner thrust into an Odyssean journey towards his deepest and darkest fears (mommy issues chief among them), prompting me to once again wonder what happened in Aster’s childhood to inspire the kind of familial strife we see now in all three of his feature films.

While it is difficult to neatly categorize, Beau is Afraid is a surrealist black comedy with horror elements, and it has inspired plenty of comparisons to the works and legacies of Kafka, Freud, Gilliam, and Kaufman. It’s a riotous, strange, and self-indulgent adventure, and I suspect that out of his three films so far, it will hold up least well to careful and continued scrutiny. But I am only hypothesizing, and have seen it only once (which is not enough to make a “definitive” ruling on a movie with so many moving pieces and big creative swings). What I do know: I laughed loudly at some truly demented sequences, and was seldom bored. This won’t be enough for some, but I feel compelled to reward it for sheer gumption. 

Skinamarink 

Director: Kyle Edward Ball
Writer: Kyle Edward Ball

Is there another horror film from 2023 as unlikely, and as deliciously polarazing, as Skinamarink? Several people in my screening walked out of the film, no doubt frustrated and perplexed by its obstinate adherence to lo-fi minimalism, and its outright rejection of traditional plotting and normal storytelling conventions.

There is no three act structure, no score, no recognizable story beats, and very little in the way of dialogue. Audiences curious about Skinamarink should know that it is an experimental film that purposefully tests the patience of its viewers by forcing them to slowly dissolve in its singular location: a quietly haunted house that seems to have trapped two children, existing in a dreamlike liminal state where time becomes nearly meaningless, and concrete reality a forgotten memory. The tedium isn’t a bug, but a feature, and the film’s appeal is correspondingly niche. There is something coersively meditative about sticking it out, and I can appreciate the experience of long unnerved boredom, punctuated by just one or two moments of hair-raising dread.

Enys Men

Director: Mark Jenkin
Writer: Mark Jenkin

For better or worse, 2023 seemed to be the year of the experimental horror film. It’s no surprise that these movies left many viewers flummoxed, but such is the territory accepted by the avant-garde. Enys Men was shot on a stony Cornish island over the course of just 21 days, with a scaled back production crew operating during the Covid-19 lockdown. Much of the appeal of the film is in the elemental appreciation of the region’s natural beauty, captured in grainy and organic-feeling 16mm.

I won’t pretend that I was swept away by the experience of watching Enys Men in the moment. The film, and its pointed avoidance of traditional narrative, seems to defy the prerequisites of its medium, and it leads to an achingly esoteric experience. But something about its “ecosophical” ruminations did manage to take root in my brain and expand after I wandered, bemused, into the sunlight.

It made me think about how we are not separate from nature, but intimately a part of it. It echoed the findings of the quantum physicists and Indigenous elders who have recognized our inability to interact with nature without altering it. Our scientific studies must try to account for the fact that we are of nature, and the very act of observation—of nature, of ourselves—changes things. Time, just a construction to help us cope with entropy, practices its steady campaign on the stone house and rusted tools of this small island, and on the mind of the lonely protagonist. The timing of your death doesn’t much matter to the cosmos. To live is to move among death at all times, coping however well or poorly with that fact, hopefully learning that to embrace it is to hold yourself closer to the universe.