The Pure Horror at the Heart of CORALINE
More than just a family-friendly Halloween favorite, Coraline offers young audiences a perfect first foray into the world of horror.
For nearly two decades, one of the most popular gateway horror films has been Henry Selick’s Coraline, the 2009 stop-motion adaptation of Neil Gaiman’s book of the same name.
Having seen the film in theaters at the time of its release, I still remember certain sequences really upsetting me even at the age of 11.
As the years go by, my admiration for the film grows, and so does its impact on people my age and younger. It’s become a full-blown Halloween classic, and the revenue that Laika (the Oregon-based stop-motion animation studio behind the film) has earned from not only its initial release, but also subsequent re-releases and mountains of merchandise, is arguably the main reason the studio has been able to keep its lights on despite a string of subsequent box office flops.
While there’s been so much written and discussed about the aesthetic craftsmanship of the film over the past 17 years, one of the things that doesn’t get enough credit is Selick’s screenplay, which not only adapts Gaiman’s text into a tightly paced film that all ages can engage with, but it also acts as a perfectly structured horror film.
Yes, a horror film. Pure horror. One that doesn’t even need the term “gateway” to preface it.
In many ways, the horror at the heart of Coraline owes more to the domestic horror subgenre of the 1960s and '70s than to more contemporary works. These films, many of which (particularly 1968’s Rosemary’s Baby) subvert children’s fairy tales as Selick’s film does. Each has a female protagonist at the center who initially dreams of overcoming her circumstances before being thrown into terror.
In her most recent book, Scream With Me: Horror Films and the Rise of American Feminism (1968-1980) *, author and Columbia University film scholar Eleanor Johnson presents four criteria that help define domestic horror:
- It takes place largely within a confined dwelling place, in which a female protagonist has restricted freedom.
- At least one male antagonist is also in the dwelling place, and he cannot be easily removed.
- The horror that the film inflicts on its female protagonist centers on children, reproduction, or sex, and it includes an element of physical battery.
- All the films are either explicitly or implicitly thinking through contemporaneous legal conflicts in the United States about women’s rights. (Johnson 9-10)
That’s all very heavy stuff, and despite my assertion of the film's pure horror status, it still is a film that’s marketed towards a younger audience and therefore isn’t (and frankly shouldn’t be) able to cover all these listed topics in a way that films like Rosemary’s Baby, The Stepford Wives, or The Omen can.
With slight modification, however, Johnson’s four-point criteria can be adjusted to match the contents of Coraline.
This revised four-point criteria is the basis for what I am going to call “Domestic Horror, Jr. Edition.”
- It takes place largely within a confined dwelling place, in which a female protagonist has restricted freedom. (Remains unchanged from Johnson’s first point)
- Parents’ responsibilities keep them in the dwelling place, and they lack motivation to go elsewhere.
- The horror that the film inflicts on its female protagonist centers on parental needs, obliviousness, or lack of care, and it includes an element of child harm.
- The film either explicitly or implicitly thinks through the contemporaneous negative effects of capitalism on the American family.
Alright, so maybe that fourth point is a bit of a stretch. But you get the idea.
Coraline touches on many hallmarks of domestic horror, and its only changes stem from our lead character’s early adolescence.
Much like Rosemary moving to the Bramford apartment building as a result of her husband’s career prospects in Rosemary’s Baby, Coraline Jones is forced to live in the Pink Palace apartments in rural Oregon as a result of her parents’ new job responsibilities. She’s stuck in the middle of nowhere, missing her friends, and her parents are too obsessed with work to care about each other, let alone give Coraline the attention she needs.
This desire for attention and fun provided by her parents is established within mere minutes of the film and perfectly lays the groundwork for Coraline to enter the “other” world, where she discovers a colorful, alternate version of the Pink Palace, complete with other versions of her neighbors, her dad, and – of course, the Other Mother.
One thing I love about the classic domestic horror films of the 1960s and ‘70s is their slow-burn nature, unlike many of the genre offerings in theaters at the time of Coraline’s release. And that restraint in the horror serves the story well.
Despite the initially off-putting visual of each inhabitant in the “other” world having buttons for eyes, this alternate world is fun to be in and, as an audience member, you can’t help but identify with Coraline’s love for this candy-colored world complete with dancing mice and mango milkshakes, especially when compared to the drab reality she lives in. For kids watching, nothing is more exciting than finding a world of non-stop excitement.
And being able to draw in that younger audience only to plunge them into a realm of darkness before the end of the film’s second act is why this film is so effective.
Most horror films feature a moment that American author Michael Hauge calls “the point of no return.” And for Coraline, that moment happens around the 50-minute mark when the Other Mother makes the plea to our main character to stay in the alternate Pink Palace and, in doing so, allow them to sew buttons into her eyes.
Without any actual gore, the visceral nature of the mere description of the button-sewing process (“So sharp you won’t feel a thing.”) is so evocative that it elicits an intense response from even the youngest of viewers.
From there, Coraline delivers a gauntlet of terrors that pushes the “PG” rating to its absolute limit. From the dead children hidden away in the bowels of the spirit realm (an image that still frightens me) to Miss Spink and Forcible’s taffy body-horror sequence, Coraline luxuriates in producing nightmare fuel for its target audience, as the best fairy tales have for centuries.
One particular sequence near the end, in which Coraline makes her desperate escape from the Other Mother through the crawl-space portal, is what I would describe as pure, distilled horror.
As Coraline clambers through cobwebs to escape, the Other Mother begins banging from the other side of the door, screaming that she’ll die without Coraline. With each bang, the Other Mother gets closer and closer to our heroine. It’s right on her heels as Bruno Coulais’ score resorts to Hitchcockian stings, heightening the sense of urgent terror. Just as the door to the "other" world catches up with her, Coraline slams the door shut and, for many children watching, that euphoric sense of relief that comes after a tense set piece – the feeling that I love so dearly as a horror fanatic – washes over them and hopefully creates a new generation of scary movie lovers.
Horror is often thought of as forbidden fruit in the cinematic landscape. Consistently burdened with the R-rating, or with fears about what consuming its disturbing material might do to the viewer's psyche or spirit, it’s still hard to fight for the genre's virtues, even as its popularity becomes increasingly mainstream.
But one of the most positive aspects of horror is its recognition of life's darkness and the tools through which human nature can come to terms with it or even overcome it. In this respect, gateway horror is essential for young viewers and gives them the strength to handle the dark realities of our world. As family films become increasingly more chaste, it’s heartening to see the audience for a film like Coraline grow with every Halloween season and to see young audiences fully embrace the true horror at its heart.
*Johnson, Eleanor. Scream With Me: Horror Films and the Rise of American Feminism (1968-1980). Atria Books, 2025.
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