Horror movies have always been a genre where shadows hold more power than light. But lately, it feels like filmmakers are leaning too heavily on darkness to create tension, leaving audiences in a perpetual twilight zone where even the most basic visual cues are obscured. This trend isn’t just a quirk of the genre—it’s a broader cultural shift that’s reshaping how we experience cinema. And at the center of this debate is André Øvredal, the director of Passenger, who’s openly frustrated by the way horror films have become so reliant on gloom. Personally, I think this obsession with darkness is a symptom of a deeper problem: a collective fatigue with clarity in storytelling.
What many people don’t realize is that the ‘darkness’ in horror isn’t just about visual style—it’s a narrative choice. Directors like Øvredal are trying to counteract a trend where films prioritize atmosphere over accessibility. In a conversation with /Film, he admitted that watching a recent horror movie was so dim he couldn’t see anything, a frustration that mirrors the viewer’s own struggle to parse the chaos. This is a paradox: horror thrives on suspense, but when the screen is too dark, the suspense becomes a barrier rather than a tool. From my perspective, this is a missed opportunity to use light as a character in itself, a metaphor for hope or clarity that’s often sacrificed in favor of shadow.
Øvredal’s approach to Passenger is refreshingly straightforward. He’s not just trying to brighten the film—he’s redefining what horror can be. His insistence on having ‘a key light source’ in every frame is a radical departure from the genre’s usual reliance on darkness. Even in the trailer, where the Passenger’s car is plunged into blackness, there’s a deliberate flicker of light that guides the eye. This isn’t just technical; it’s philosophical. It suggests that horror doesn’t have to be a descent into nothingness. It can be a journey where light and darkness coexist, creating a tension that’s both visceral and intellectually engaging.
But here’s the thing: the problem isn’t just with horror. Across all of cinema, there’s a noticeable trend toward desaturation. Studies from institutions like the National Library of Medicine show that the average luminance of film frames has decreased over time, a trend that’s been exacerbated by digital technology. This isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s about how we process information. When everything is too dark, even the most subtle details are lost. It’s like watching a story in a language you don’t speak: the words are there, but the meaning is obscured.
What this really suggests is that the film industry is struggling with a fundamental question: how do we balance ambiguity with clarity? Horror, in particular, is a genre that thrives on mystery, but when the screen is too dark, the mystery becomes a wall. Øvredal’s work is a reminder that darkness can be a tool, not a default. If we’re going to continue making horror movies, we need to remember that light isn’t just a technical choice—it’s a narrative choice. And if we don’t, we risk turning a genre that celebrates fear into a spectacle of confusion.
The future of cinema depends on our ability to find that balance. Whether it’s in horror, drama, or sci-fi, the challenge is to use light not as a hindrance, but as a guide. After all, the best stories don’t just haunt you—they illuminate the spaces between the lines. And if André Øvredal is right, maybe the next big horror film isn’t just about being scary—it’s about being seen.
