Nostalgia is generally a warm feeling. This is something that is associated with comfort, as well as a simpler time withdrawn from the anxieties of the present. But can this same nostalgia be a source of terror? The wonderfully strange world of the analog horror holds this promise, where everything – of the simplicity (supposedly) of childhood to the comfort of watching a film on a VHS band late at night – takes on a haunting quality difficult to rationalize. Technology close to obsolete is often used to present small grain images or a distorted sound which goes from purely frustrating to frustrating and cryptic.
It should be noted that analog horror is a fairly recent sub-genre that broke out in the late 2000s, strongly drawing from horror and experimental cinema that preceded it. If “The Blair Witch Project of 1999” You crossed your mind, it is for a good reason: it is exactly the kind of powerful fiction that acted as a precursor of confusing internet mysteries which were considered real during the longest. Likewise, surrealist films like the digital “inland empire” (which is based on unconventional images to weave its complex themes) has strongly influenced the Crécipype Internet over the years, as well as alternative reality games (Args) which use a multimedia narration for an audience at the inauguration.
Before dissecting the origins of analog horror, identifying its marks. Most of the inputs in this sub-genre use reduced granular sequences to preserve a feeling of tension and imitate the aesthetics of VHS bands or CRT televisions. The audio entries are deliberately distorted or glitter to transmit discomfort, but none of these aesthetic choices works without this convincing use of a fragmented story. You see, the brand of a good web series of analog horror or arg is its ability to disorient the viewers while the rupture indices, where the objective is to extend the mystery as long as possible. A feeling of feeling is the key – after all, what is more tempting than the appeal of the prohibited truth?
How analog horror deforms the familiar to induce fear and anxiety
It is impossible to talk about analog horror without exploring the mini-world of Creepypasta. Creepypasta can be understood as an internet interpretation only of an urban legend, because the latter is directly taken from myths or folk traditions. While these stories are from anonymous candidates on online electronic babibllards, their formerly necious connotations have gradually turned into the territory of the same ironic. You must have heard of the trivial and abnormally large Slenderman, which is from a 2009 creepypasta on the titular monster removing and terrorizing its victims in the woods. It is an icon of pop culture now, meaning our collective fear of a faceless human entity that has the power to injure uninsured people. Although the concept of such a monster is familiar (and has been widely explored in the horror media), the Slenderman Creepypasta inspires a new life in this latent anxiety.
Monsters are not the only manifestations of collective fear, because the analog horror also embraces realism to induce a feeling of discomfort. What happens when something as banal as an office building with yellow walls becomes a disturbing internet phenomenon? This is the main attraction of “The Backrooms”, which began as a single image on a Babillard and has now caused complex traditions, viral short films, a dozen video games and even a next cinematographic adaptation. The concept is simple: you can accidentally “Noclip” out of reality and be trapped behind the scenes, whose endless corridors induce the disorienting experience of being stuck in a limited space.
Although there are monsters hidden in the corners, fear lies in the subversion of the pet. An office building is almost always filled with people, so the concept of being alone (and surrounded by beings who are not human) in such a space immediately causes panic. Innumerable analog horror entries capitalize on this feeling, using vaguely nostalgic images, such as an abandoned park or an empty classroom after nightfall. But there is something “off” in these familiar spaces, introducing a feeling of unreality that begins to feel suffocating.
The sub-genre gave birth to major Internet sensations, including local58 and Petscop
The analog horror has dynamic corners, because the sub-genre can host stories that adopt different approaches to horror. Some stories are more heartbreaking than most, such as the Dreamcore web series “Sins of the Past”, while others exploit classic primary fears, such as the deeply disturbing Basswood County series. However, one of the first cases of analog horror which has become fleshed out and defines the sub-genre is “local 58” by Kris Straub, a YouTube series where the regular programming of the titular television channel is on several occasions diverted by disturbing images. The Straub series was the first to describe itself as an analog horror, thus establishing what would traditionally be associated with this single sub-genre.
To call “Local 58”, an internet sensation is an understatement. He imitates the information-bulletine format of the “special bulletin” variety and the subvert, using segmented videos to configure horror and then release it. Straub cements a determining aspect of the sub-genre from the start: the twisted attraction of an emergency program, which interrupts the man of our existence to alert us of a danger that is both unpredictable and extraterrestrial. Although these PSA urges us to remain calm, they continuously increase anxiety through subtle context indices, using gender aesthetics like seeds and obsolete technology to bring the point home. “Local 58” also throws suspicions about the things we have held for acquired, like the Moon (!), On which strange messages seem to destabilize our sense of reality.
While a web series immediately indicates that it is fiction (although it is strangely convincing), certain internet sensations use analog horror secretly to appear with a reality. Tony Domenico’s “Petscop” is the most successful example of a YouTube series “Let’s Play” by claiming authenticity, where the owner of the chain wades through an obscure and long lost game that he seems to have tripped. Viewers have debated the existence of the game during the longest, because the surreal and discordant gameplay is sufficiently expanded so that someone believes that such a mysterious title exists for a purpose but unknown.
The combination of Domenico acting as a narrator of flesh and blood and the indie and arg aesthetics of the game creates a haunting tale on abuse, corruption and Renaissance. I always find myself returning to this gameplay series to find out more, because Domenico consciously integrated elements that await to be discovered in the background. The fact that “Petscop” was only identified as fiction after the completion of the series, it is testified to the visceral power of analog horror, which can imitate reality a little too much for our collective comfort.
Skinamink experiences analog horror to simulate a nightmare experience
The analog horror has existed for some time, but when a filmmaker starts the sub-genre again to create a story that leaves an indelible brand, it deserves an in-depth discussion. I’m talking about “Skinamarink” by Kyle Edward Ball, who has shaken (and delighted) horror enthusiasts as a viral and mystifying internet sensation. On paper, it carries all the characteristics of the standard analog horror: granular visuals, a minimal dialogue, deliberate problems and an abstract surrealist bit. However, in his heart, “Skinamink” is the simulation of a childhood nightmare, the genre where you drop into tears for air in your sleep but cannot move or head for survival.
/ Witney Seibold of film wrote a largely brilliant dissection of nightmarish psychology in “Skinamarink”, so readers ready to skip this mysterious rabbit hole should absolutely verify it. I had previously underlined how much the analog horror deforms the familiar / nostalgic to be effective, but “Skinamink” completely modifies our memories associated with childhood innocence and the comfort of living in your house. Young children who walk in the dark corridors of their house in “Skinamarink” do not have the luxury of hanging on their parents for security. The comforting lull of caricatures of the public domain on late evening television is interrupted several times by terrifying whispers, and there are no outings, because the doors and windows have inexplicably disappeared.
Ball traps us inside a house which suddenly becomes a liminal space, posing as something more insidious than the disembodied voice threatening children to obey. He embraces all gender gadgets, including fragmented narration and an end of descent, but presents these tropes in the highest way. We know that “Sinkamark” is fiction, but horror lies in the vague feeling that you too have felt such a silent disorientation as a child. It is the analog horror liminal to its best, where the ball injects discomfort into the familiarity of the beds on which we sleep, or the common corridor connecting our intimate and lively spaces.
