I’m writing this a few weeks after some intense (and, at the time, endless-seeming) Twitter discussions over the existence or otherwise of “cosy horror”, and, tangentially, over happy endings – can horror stories ever have them? Why are they so prevalent in SF and fantasy? If you’re also far too online, you might have followed along, too.
Some of the conversations have stuck with me. So have the very strong emotions stirred up on both sides, which is why I’m going to say now that I’m not suggesting for a moment that you’re an idiot, a bad feminist, or whatever, if you sometimes like to kick back with a fluffy romance novel or an episode of Avatar: The Last Airbender. God knows I have my own comfort media I like to turn to when I’m feeling down (*pours one out for my beloved Midnight Diner, now gone to the Netflix graveyard*). But if you’re reading this, they’re probably not the only things you read or watch or play, for much the same reason I don’t eat spaghetti hoops on toast for every meal however much my inner five-year-old loves them.
The things that stood out to me (only speaking for myself, did not read every discussion exhaustively, etc etc) boiled down to two main strands.
One was a deep discomfort with how “cosiness” has become a dominant mode at least in some SFF circles, and with what sometimes feels like a demand that writers adopt it. You could have written a comforting story, the argument goes, so you should have. The inclusion of darker elements, immoral characters, or downer endings becomes evidence of immature, edgelord provocativeness, or even reactionary sentiment. Creators owe their audiences comfort, or failing that, hope.
I saw horror writers saying they’d chosen horror because it freed them from that expectation, and expressing concern that the promotion of “cosy horror” as a category would soon be followed by pushes for nothing but cosiness. Comforting as it would be to think this was fearmongering, I’ve seen too many authors harassed for writing uncomfortable stories to dismiss it.
Now, I think genre is pragmatic, not descriptive. Genre doesn’t name inherent qualities of a piece of media so much as it’s a loose consensus we use to facilitate discussion and marketing. If enough people agree that a book/film/whatever is “cosy horror”, then sure, cosy horror is a thing. I’m not saying it can’t exist. I do think, though, that it’s right to push back hard against any attempt (such as that in the Mary Sue article that started it all) to imply it’s a better, more feminist or morally upright form of horror. Glaring gender essentialism and gross disrespect of Mary Shelley aside, judging someone’s character by the media they enjoy leads nowhere good.
The other strand of conversation I’ve found myself turning over in my head was about endings. SFF writer Avra Margariti Tweeted about the audience desire to have everything explained, and how this might feed into a distaste for unhappy or ambiguous endings. I saw wishes for more variety in endings – bittersweet, unhappy, “what the fuck just happened?” – expressed over and over. It’s certainly a desire that rings true when I think about my own preferences. Although an admitted Star Wars enjoyer, I don’t think that as an adult I’ve ever fallen for a story with an uncomplicatedly happy ending in that deep-down way where it drills into my brain and becomes a part of my mental landscape forevermore.
I have a whole other rant, which I’ll probably subject you guys to sometime, about endings I hate. The ones that really work for me, though, are full-on downers (Watchmen), or allow triumph only at heart-rending cost (Buffy), or maybe dish out some form of just desserts, but let the characters who do escape do so only at the cost of life-altering trauma (Breaking Bad). They feel real, and cathartic, in a way that neater, upbeat endings don’t.
All this is to segue into talking about another ending that really worked for me, and one of the best TV shows I’ve watched in recent years. You might have seen a small flurry of social media discussion around Barry last month, much of it pityingly focused on how it was inevitably going to be overshadowed by the finale of Succession. (On which note: still watching; haven’t decided who I hate most; no spoilers, please.)
(On a related note: spoilers for all of Barry below.)
The premise sounds vaguely cringey: a comedy about a hitman who decides to become an actor. The first couple of seasons offer plenty of uncomfortable laughs, but as the show progresses, the drama becomes increasingly serious even when it’s absurd, and what comedy remains is pitch-black. And this, in fact, works perfectly, because Barry is a show deeply concerned with its own medium, with honesty in storytelling, and with how often that gets sacrificed for false comfort.
The disconnect between Barry’s actions and his desire to be seen as a good person is unsparingly portrayed, and frequently hilarious. He’s by turns earnest, deluded, and childishly petulant, a combination that’s both repulsive and deeply human. But nobody in this show gets out morally spotless. Even fan-favourite character Noho Hank, the over-polite Chechen mobster, ends up getting his boyfriend killed.
But the moment I knew I loved this show was in the Season 2 finale, “berkman/block”. There’s an ongoing sub-plot through the season where Barry’s girlfriend, Sally, works on a short play based on her relationship with her abusive ex. She starts out staging the version of the story she’s been telling her friends (and herself) since the relationship ended, one where she stands up for herself, calls her abuser out, and walks away with her head held high. It rings false onstage, and over the course of rehearsals, she digs deep within herself to find the truth, the ugly emotions, the shame, indignity, and helplessness of living through abuse. The play becomes raw, complex, honest.
But at the big performance, in front of an audience of glittering industry figures, she bottles it and tacks on a patently fake #girlboss empowerment ending. In the moments after the performance, she’s clearly devastated. We see her crushing disappointment with herself, with how she’s betrayed her art.
Then the audience begins to trickle out of the auditorium. As one, they shower her with praise. Her conviction visibly weakens as she allows herself to believe the hype.
It’s a brutally powerful moment, and one that’s echoed at the end of the series. Barry’s crimes eventually catch up with him. He’s shot dead by his former acting teacher, Gene, whose girlfriend he murdered when she began to suspect him. But the show doesn’t end there. Instead, we flash forward in time, and catch up with Barry’s son John, now a teenager, as he watches the movie based on his father’s life. Gene has been blamed for Barry’s crimes, and the movie portrays Barry as a decent guy manipulated by an unscrupulous mentor. In the brief clips we see, movie-Barry appears as a clichéd Hollywood action man striving to protect his family. The series closes on John’s rapturous, tear-stained face, granted permission to believe his father was a hero.
It’s fantastically bleak, and it made me want to punch the air. Because there is a deep satisfaction in endings like this – ones that say, yes, the world is unfair and the happy endings are often lies, that don’t promise everything will be okay, and that instead offer honest witness to the fact it’s not. I hope the conversations I’ve been seeing mean there might be more room made for them, and for honest, good-faith discussion of them, in SFF.
Writing news: this month, I have some!
First and foremost, my story “Sunny Side Up” has been shortlisted for the Rhys Davies Short Story Competition.
This is very cool for pretty obvious reasons, but it’s also more personal than that. My dad, who passed away in 2012, was a writer of short stories, and in 2006 his story “Ten Quid for a Busted Casio” was shortlisted for the award. You can find it in Ghosts of the Old Year, that year’s prize anthology. Ever since news broke in 2020 that the competition was being revived, I’ve wanted to follow in his footsteps, and it feels great to have done it at last.
This year’s anthology with all the shortlisted stories will be out in October, with the launch at Swansea Waterstones on the 12th. Tickets are free, and available here. Come along, if you’re in the area?
Elsewhere, my story “The Last Good Day”, which originally appeared in Cossmass Infinities last January, is reprinted in the current issue of Fusion Fragment. The digital version is pay-what-you-want, and available here.
I’ll also have a reprint coming out in PodCastle in the next few months. “Diamonds and Pearls” appeared in Fireside in 2021 and is free to read online, but now it’s going to have an audio version, too! It’s a story close to my heart and I’m excited for it to reach your ears.
What I've been reading
This month I've been mostly making my way through
(literally, 'Witch of the Wild') by Bethan Gwanas. It's been slow going, because I don't read very fast in Welsh, but the novel itself is a breezy, very readable urban fantasy.
It came out in 2003, and in some ways is very much of its post-
Buffy
pop feminist era (including the sadly common pitfall of treating sexual assault as a bit of a laugh when it happens to a man) but in others it has a rather prescient eco-feminist sensibility. Worth a read -- just be prepared to cringe once or twice.
What I've been watching
I'm no film buff, and not particularly familiar with Wes Anderson's work, but the trailer for
Asteroid City
made me want to check it out. I thought it might be unbearably twee, but actually found it quite charming, and very funny.
What I've been listening to
A barnstorming set at Le Pub by UK-Brazilian punks Yur Mum. They're
throughout the UK over the rest of the summer -- get down there if your eardrums are due a battering.
That's all from me. Catch you next month!
JL