2024: The Year of Body Horror
Horror films have always been society's dark confessionals, exposing our deepest fears and anxieties. In 2024, the genre exceeded its usual boundaries, evolving into a year-long séance that unearthed terrors far more intimate than haunted houses or shadowy figures. These films dared to explore the primal fears tied to pregnancy and birth—the miracle of life reimagined as a nightmare. The First Omen, Immaculate, and Alien: Romulus turned creation into chaos, while Beetlejuice 2 added a twisted, absurdist spin to the ordeal. Last year, fear didn’t just visit theaters—it moved in, unpacked, and stayed.
These films delve into the raw, unsettling dynamics of control, autonomy, and bodily vulnerability, peeling back the layers of fear surrounding physical sovereignty and reproductive rights. In a time when these rights are under siege, the power struggles over women's bodies take on an urgent, harrowing resonance. What once felt abstract now unfolds as a visceral, almost claustrophobic cinematic experience. While pregnancy horror isn’t new, its chilling relevance has surged this year, transforming the life-giving process into a battleground fraught with fear, conflict, and the specter of lost agency.
This surge of pregnancy horror provokes a haunting question: do these films serve as a rallying cry for bodily autonomy, or are they merely capitalizing on the discomfort of pregnancy for shock and spectacle?
Do certain narratives dig deeply into systemic power imbalances, offering sharp critiques of the societal and political forces that reduce women’s bodies to battlegrounds? Do they amplify the unease of losing control, transforming deeply personal fears into a shared, cultural reckoning?
Or do some stories prioritize spectacle over substance, using the grotesque and surreal aspects of pregnancy to provoke gasps rather than thoughtful reflection? Does the line between commentary and entertainment blur, leaving audiences to wonder if these films critique the structures they portray or merely exploit the anxiety they evoke? Is this wave of pregnancy horror a bold artistic challenge, or is it simply horror that consumes?
Three years after the overturning of Roe v. Wade, the consequences of restricted abortion access have grown impossible to ignore. Maternal mortality rates are climbing, with pregnant individuals often trapped in a perilous limbo of delayed or denied medical care. Infant mortality rates are rising too, most starkly in states with the harshest abortion laws, painting a grim picture of systemic neglect. Beyond the immediate health crises, these restrictions have rippled through the medical community, stalling reproductive health education and threatening the quality of future care. These stark realities reveal how reproductive freedom isn't just a private matter—it’s a cornerstone of public health and a battleground for gender equality.
The rise of pregnancy horror as a mirror to societal anxieties around reproductive rights recalls the serial killer film craze of the 1970s and early 1980s, which thrived on the era's fears of kidnapping and violent crime. This era was marked by widespread fear of violent crime, fueled by media sensationalism around real-life serial killers like Ted Bundy, the Zodiac Killer, and John Wayne Gacy. These figures haunted the public imagination, embodying fears of unpredictability and random violence.
Movies like Halloween (1978), The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974), and Friday the 13th (1980) capitalized on these anxieties, blending them with elements of slasher and psychological horror. These films tapped into a primal fear of being stalked and hunted, often presenting seemingly ordinary settings—quiet suburbs, summer camps—as places where terror could strike without warning.
Just as those films transformed public paranoia into gripping narratives, today’s pregnancy horror channels cultural tensions into stories of fear and vulnerability, turning personal anxieties into collective reckonings. The genre’s power lies in its ability to distill complex societal issues into deeply unsettling storytelling, confronting audiences with reflections of their own lived realities.
In a world where debates around reproductive rights grow more urgent by the day, body horror emerges as a potent vessel for exploring autonomy and control. These films don’t just entertain—they excavate the deep-seated fears tied to the fragility of physical sovereignty, offering a chilling lens through which to examine the ongoing struggle for reproductive freedom. Or at least they should.
Pregnancy naturally brings many physical changes—from morning sickness to swelling and even ill-fitting shoes—creating a sense of unrest. As a woman's body goes through these changes, there’s an unspoken loss of control, a feeling that one’s body is not entirely theirs. Horror films amplify these fears by exploring the terror of pregnancy without consent. Often, these stories involve institutions—religious or corporate—that exploit bodies as if they were sheer property, turning what should be a natural experience into a chilling tale of control and violation.
Take, for example, The First Omen and Immaculate, two films that follow women navigating their paths of devotion within the Catholic Church. Sister Margaret, portrayed by Nell Tiger Free in The First Omen, is deeply committed to her faith and aspires to become a nun. Similarly, Sister Cecilia, played by Sydney Sweeney in Immaculate, embodies a strong dedication to her church. Their respective priests initially revere each character but are eventually reduced to a vessel for reproduction. The films deviate sharply in the manner in which this horror unfolds.
In The First Omen, Sister Margaret is horrifyingly violated when she is forcefully impregnated by a literal demon, a grotesque offense devoid of metaphor. In contrast, Sister Cecilia in Immaculate endures a different kind of nightmare; she is subjected to scientific experimentation at the hands of a former scientist-turned-priest, who views her body as a mere tool for his twisted experiments. Both narratives harshly demonstrate the horror of losing bodily freedom, whether through spiritual handling or scientific development. Once their children are born, both women are callously discarded by the very institutions they once served, stripped of any sense of worth or agency once their roles as vessels have been fulfilled.
A poignant scene from Immaculate captures the horror of this reduction. After being attacked by a jealous fellow nun who desires her "chosen" status, Sister Cecilia undergoes a medical examination. The doctor reassures her that "the baby is fine," to which Cecilia, visibly shattered, replies, "But I’m not fine." This exchange simply lays bare the nightmare of being reduced to a mere vessel, with her well-being disregarded and her voice unheard.
Both The First Omen and Immaculate push the boundaries of horror through determined representations of childbirth. In The First Omen, viewers face a close-up of a demon’s grey, skeletal hand emerging from a woman’s body, leaving nothing to the imagination. The film is unapologetic in its graphic portrayal of C-sections, showing intimate detail as the incision is made. There’s also a confirmed shot of a 20-foot demon penis presented so fleetingly that it feels almost like a subliminal message.
Immaculate similarly ends in an ill-fated finale where Sister Cecilia, drenched in blood and screaming in agony, gives birth to an unseen experimental creation. In a desperate act, she slams a heavy stone onto the newborn’s head moments after delivery. The intensity of this scene is unapologetically intuitive, crafted to disturb and haunt viewers. Her decision to kill the newborn immediately after birth is not calculated but driven by an overwhelming sense of dread and survival, a sufficient reaction to the hideous reality she faces. These actions deny reason in favor of raw emotional and physical necessity. This horror exceeds simple jump scares, drawing audiences into an experience that is gut-wrenching and thought-provoking.
As I approached Beetlejuice 2, I expected the franchise's trademark bizarre antics and dark humor. However, I was completely unprepared for the sudden pregnancy jump scares—yes, plural. The first shock comes when Beetlejuice, in his signature warped style, uses his twisted magic on Lydia Deetz, causing her belly to balloon impossibly within moments, only for a deformed mini-Beetlejuice to pop out and scurry around the room. As if that weren’t enough, the bizarre shenanigans repeat with Lydia’s underage daughter, Astrid. Suddenly, she finds herself in a hospital bed, pregnant with a Beetlejuice offspring, which erupts from her stomach in a flood of amniotic fluid. Nothing encapsulates the nonsense of “family horror” quite like an undead goblin baby making a double appearance.
This blend of horror and humor illustrates how the genre can explore unsettling themes while providing moments of dark levity, reflecting the many-sided nature of the human experience. By linking fear and laughter, these films amplify both emotional responses: the terror feels sharper in contrast to the humor, while the comedic moments offer a temporary release of tension, creating a rollercoaster of emotions for the audience.
The Alien films have long examined the unsettling fear of a being using a human body for its replication—a theme that resonates deeply for both men and women. The phallic creatures in these films, with their forceful penetration of human bodies, can be interpreted as powerful comparisons of sexual violence and rape. In Alien: Romulus, the dynamic shifts slightly; while the desire for pregnancy exists, it is violently hijacked by an extraterrestrial force. This results in a horrific scene where the expectant mother experiences a gruesome eruption of blood, ending in the birth of a half-human, half-alien crowning head between her legs. This chilling sequence summarizes the series’ ongoing exploration of bodily independence and the horror of being invaded, turning an intimate experience into a hideous ordeal.
We choose to watch horror films and thrillers for entertainment, drawn in by the excitement of confronting fear from a safe distance. This unique thrill allows us to engage with frightening ideas without facing real harm. However, the fear becomes real when the story shifts to scenarios that clash with our own experiences. This is especially true in modern horror, where themes surrounding bodily autonomy and reproductive rights are at the forefront. The intensity of these narratives drives us to reflect on our own lives and societal issues, blurring the lines between fiction and reality.
To understand the intent behind pregnancy horror films—whether filmmakers aim for social criticism or entertainment—I explored moviegoers' reactions and their connections to the ongoing loss of access to abortions. Analyzing a film's effects can provide insight into its intent, as the impact isn't always determined by what the creators intended.
Through deep dives on platforms like Twitter and Reddit, I saw a clear pattern where viewers linked the growing popularity of religious and pregnancy-themed films in 2024 to the recent decay of reproductive rights. A popular Twitter post showed four dramatic birthing scenes from the films mentioned and titled 2024 "the year of insane birthing sequences," pointing out how nightmarish childbirth has become in this year's horror movies.
Some viewers pointed out the irony that the Alien franchise, for example, regularly explores themes of motherhood and body horror, despite all the films being directed by men. This critique raised the question of how gender dynamics shape the portrayal of women’s bodies in horror, especially when the body is portrayed as something ugly, violated, or taken over.
Interestingly, I also came across posts, mainly from women, who expressed how they saw pregnancy body horror as an unfiltered lens into the true terror of giving birth. They pointed out that these films offer a raw, unglamorous look at the physical and psychological challenges that accompany pregnancy and childbirth, experiences often romanticized or overlooked in mainstream media. Some even referred to pregnancy as the "original body horror," highlighting how the act of carrying and giving birth to life can be both awe-inspiring and deeply frightening—a troubling mixture of creation and destruction.
I sat through every film mentioned in this article, and then some, each time groaning and rolling my eyes at every scene that seemed intent on sensationalizing pregnancy and childbirth. The portrayal of these experiences, often exaggerated for shock value or cheap thrills, left me feeling disillusioned rather than empowered. None of these films moved me in any meaningful way; rather than offering a genuine exploration of the complexities of motherhood, they reduce it to a spectacle—a series of cliched, over-the-top moments designed to grab attention but not to foster understanding or empathy.
These films, while attempting to tap into the instinctual facets of pregnancy and birth, fall short of saying anything truly impactful. They flirt with the idea of offering something powerful or transformative, but in the end, they settle for being little more than a funhouse mirror reflecting distorted, exaggerated versions of reality. The characters are often reduced to stereotypes, and the emotional depth of their experiences is sacrificed for the sake of shock value.
What I yearn for, however, is a film that confronts a much more pressing issue with the gravity it deserves: abortion. It’s a topic that’s been mired in politics and yellow journalism for far too long, and it desperately needs to be approached with nuance and sensitivity. I want to see a film that engages with abortion not as a fantasy or a plot device but as a real, complex decision that many people face. One that doesn’t rely on oversimplified narratives or stereotypes, but rather delves into the emotional, moral, and practical considerations of the experience. It’s time for a film that speaks to the true weight of this issue—one that doesn’t shy away from the difficult conversations but instead invites them with authenticity and depth. Until then, I’ve had my fill of the pregnancy horror genre—though I’m afraid the damage to my brain cells may be permanent.
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