During these awful times we need some form of catharsis from our art. If you go into the movie expecting to not be able to sleep for weeks, you might be disappointed then, too. If you are looking for blood and gore, you may be disappointed. Or at least what we think a horror movie should be. The biggest problem with Hereditary is that it isn’t actually a horror movie at all. It reminded me of the way I first started writing poems in the darkness of my bedroom when I was a little girl.Īfter so much anticipation, it is only natural that I am not exactly sure how I feel about the movie. The second time, I wrote notes in a green notebook in the dark, scribbling half-words that I can barely read now. I kept my hands plastered on my face, trying to avoid any jump scares (something I wish I had done when I first saw The Shining nearly twenty years ago and the ghost of room 237 began her lifelong emblazonment on my psyche). The first time, I saw it only through my fingers. The film came out on June 8, and I’ve already seen it twice. For a poet, this is a movie’s greatest gift. I fell madly in love with the idea of what it could be and what it might do to my imagination.
I spent six agonizing months memorizing its trailers, watching YouTube fan movies (and considering making my own), talking to my friends about it until they began rolling their eyes, and dreaming about its possible endings. As soon as I saw the words The Exorcist and The Shining attached to the film’s publicity materials, I knew I had to see it. I don’t usually follow new movie releases too closely, but I found out about the movie back in January, when people at the Sundance Film Festival lost their minds about how good it was. I had been sitting in a lovesick fog, waiting to see Ari Aster’s Hereditary, ever since I first heard about it.
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