Something’s going on with our monsters. They used to feast on humans with abandon, burn our villages, prowl the margins of the map; now they’re seeking therapy. The fangs are still there, but they’re clenched in pain.

 

Something’s going on with our monsters. They used to feast on humans with abandon, burn our villages, prowl the margins of the map; now they’re seeking therapy. The fangs are still there, but they’re clenched in pain. Killing sprees have become cries for help; horns and scales are mere markers of identity. These creatures aren’t out to destroy the world; they’re just trying to find their place in it.
The misunderstood monster, once an occasional changeup, is now the default. Vampires and werewolves are heartthrobs (“Twilight,” “Teen Wolf”). Evil witches have tragic backstories (“Wicked,” “Maleficent”). Alien parasites (“Venom,” “Alien: Earth”) and notorious villains (“Cruella,” “Joker”) have their redeeming qualities. Even Frankenstein’s creature—most recently reanimated in Guillermo del Toro’s “Frankenstein”—has never been so soulful, so desperate to be understood.
“Our appetite for relatable monsters—call it the sympathetic turn—is a profound reorientation, if you take the long view,” Manvir Singh writes. “For most of human history, monsters have been embodiments of aberration, breaches in the boundary between the human and everything else.” This shifting view demonstrates greater empathy. But it has also brought a darker consequence: as monsters grow more human, humans look more monstrous. Singh considers our changing relationship to monstrousness.

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