The Comfort of Horror

Ok, so maybe this is coming from a somewhat depressed place, as I've felt homesick for Sweden all day and can't understand why I don't live back in my comfy Stockholm life. So, as I was about to drown my sorrows in my usual manner - watching something tense and unsettling on tv - I realised a fundamental truth.

While I would love nothing better than settling in for an entire Sunday evening of CSI (Crime Scene Investigation - but strictly Las Vegas or New York, no Miami please), my flatmate would much rather waste a good two hours of her life watching Gwyneth Paltrow or worse, "Made of Honour", or in fact any 'romantic' comedy - absolutely guaranteed to leave her disappointed with real life when she emerges half a box of tissues later. I just don't understand why people are under the illusion that romantic comedies or light-hearted drama make you feel better about anything. What you actually need is a good dose of horror- preferably from the 60s or 70s, or else involving teenagers far too beautiful to survive.

In these gloomy economic times, I'm perplexed at what Hollywood has to offer - glancing at the film listings for London right now, you could be forgiven for thinking that everything is hunky dory. "He's Just Not That Into You", "Marley & Me", "Confessions of a Shopaholic" - saccharine, lighthearted crap which, let's face it, is not going to make us feel better about our own mundane lives - particularly Shopaholic, which in my case, may even serve as a horror movie in its own right, and not in a good way.

Where's the all-night Stephen King marathon, the depressing (both on and off-screen) Roman Polanski sagas, Poltergeist, Amityville...I'd even go so far as Alien or Jaws... basically, I need to forget my own petty life problems and concern myself with the pressing perils of witchcraft, merciless beasts or ancient evil for a good couple of hours. Or something like Halloween, where I can substitute my own faceless horror for the masked face of Michael Myers, and feel jubilant as he is slayed - at least until the sequel. I am convinced there are far more relevant life lessons to be learned at the hands of a knife-wielding maniac than anything Renee Zellweger or Hugh Grant have ever uttered.

There's just something undeniably comforting about watching other people face unspeakable horror, something that makes your credit card bill and shattered dreams seem practically pleasant by comparison.

Give me Satan's child over yet another grinding commute on the District Line any day.