Why Horror Festivals Matter More Than You Think
There’s something about horror that feels like a secret handshake. It’s not just a genre; it’s a language, a culture, a way of seeing the world. And nowhere is this more evident than at the Overlook Film Festival in New Orleans. Personally, I think this festival is a masterclass in what horror can—and should—be. It’s not just about screenings; it’s about community, intimacy, and the raw, visceral experience of fear.
One thing that immediately stands out is how Overlook redefines what a film festival can be. Unlike the glitz of Cannes or the chaos of SXSW, Overlook feels like a sanctuary for the weird, the marginalized, and the unapologetically passionate. What many people don’t realize is that horror, for all its mainstream success, still thrives in these smaller, more intimate spaces. It’s where the genre’s soul resides—away from the blockbuster pressures and closer to its roots as a medium for outcasts.
Horror as a Universal Language
The Overlook Film Festival’s international lineup is a testament to horror’s global reach. From Japan’s Exit 8 to New Zealand’s Mārama, the festival proves that fear transcends borders. What makes this particularly fascinating is how these films aren’t just token inclusions; they’re the heart of the festival. Fans from all over the world gather to scream, laugh, and connect in a way that feels almost primal.
In my opinion, this is where Overlook gets it right. Horror isn’t just about jump scares or gore—it’s about tapping into universal anxieties. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the festival celebrated the 100th anniversary of A Page of Madness, Japan’s first horror film, with a live orchestral performance. It’s not just a screening; it’s a reminder that horror has a history, a lineage, and a cultural significance that’s often overlooked.
Immersive Horror: Feeling Fear in Your Bones
Landon Zakheim, one of Overlook’s co-founders, is a champion of immersive horror, and it shows. From Shakespeare-inspired witch hunts to audio experiences that leave you sleepless, the festival pushes the boundaries of what horror can be. Personally, I’m not always a fan of immersive experiences—I’m too reactive, too prone to punching things when startled. But what this really suggests is that horror is best when it’s not just watched but felt.
What’s striking is how these experiences turn passive viewers into active participants. It’s not just about watching a story unfold; it’s about living it. This raises a deeper question: Why do we seek out fear? Is it catharsis? Control? Or just the thrill of feeling alive? Overlook doesn’t provide answers, but it gives you the space to ask the questions.
Horror’s Secret Handshake
Horror has always been a genre for outcasts, and Overlook embraces that identity. The opening night parade, led by John Kassir (the Crypt Keeper himself), is a perfect example. It’s not just a celebration; it’s a declaration. We’re here, we’re weird, and we’re proud of it.
What this really suggests is that horror is still a subculture, even as it dominates box offices. It’s a place where fans can geek out over An American Werewolf in London’s 45th anniversary or Larry Fessenden’s latest monster mash without feeling judged. If you take a step back and think about it, that’s what makes horror so powerful—it’s a safe space for the unsafe, a genre that thrives on the margins.
Meeting Your Horror Heroes
One of the most compelling aspects of Overlook is its intimacy. Unlike larger festivals, you’re likely to find yourself chatting with Rick Baker or Toa Stappard over a drink. This isn’t just fan service; it’s a reminder that horror is a community built on passion and mutual respect.
What many people don’t realize is how these interactions can be life-changing. Hearing Raymond Creamer, director of Goody Goody, tell me he’s a fan of my work was a moment I’ll never forget. It’s a reminder that horror isn’t just about the films—it’s about the people who make them, watch them, and write about them.
Horror Never Dies
The Overlook Film Festival’s retrospective screenings are a love letter to the genre’s history. Take Demon Lover Diary, a 1980 documentary that’s nearly impossible to find. Overlook didn’t just screen it; they honored its director, Joel DeMott, and former artistic director Doug Jones, who adored the film.
This raises a deeper question: Why do we preserve these films? In my opinion, it’s because horror is a cultural archive. It captures the fears, anxieties, and contradictions of its time. Demon Lover Diary isn’t just a movie; it’s a time capsule of Midwest filmmaking, teenage ambition, and sheer chaos. Horror endures because it adapts, evolves, and refuses to die.
Final Thoughts
The Overlook Film Festival isn’t just a celebration of horror—it’s a reminder of why the genre matters. It’s intimate, immersive, and unapologetically weird. It’s a place where fans can feel seen, heard, and understood. Personally, I think it’s the best horror festival in America, but more than that, it’s a testament to the power of storytelling.
Horror is a language, a culture, and a community. And as long as festivals like Overlook exist, it will never die. I can’t wait to go back next year—not just for the films, but for the people, the conversations, and the feeling of belonging. Because, at the end of the day, isn’t that what horror—and life—is all about?
