Mystery Over Ambiguity: Threading the Cosmic Horror Needle

Cosmic horror is having another moment. And as before, the genre is squandering it.

Every few months, another project turns up draped in abyssal imagery and terminal seriousness, promising the return of dread on a scale beyond our comprehension. The creators’ intent is earnest; their ambition genuine. But the horror, more often than not, feels only skin-deep once the initial mood dissipates.

The recent indie film Iron Lung makes for a useful case study. It strikes the viewer as sincere, visually committed, and clearly made by people who care about the genre. Complete with rusty submarines, corrupted logs, and nameless terrors of the deep, it understands how to build anxiety through limitation. The script could easily be adapted into a one-set, one-man play.

What it does not seem to understand is where cosmic horror is supposed to go once all the familiar set pieces are on the table.

Image: Markiplier Studios

The atmosphere does carry the opening stretch. Claustrophobia does a lot of the heavy lifting. An oppressive sense of isolation, given urgency by a strategically timed series of pinches, pulls its weight.

But eventually, the story must advance. And that’s where the movie begins to circle itself. Symbols pile up but don’t seem to signify anything. Hints accumulate without adding up. The promise of revelation is repeatedly offered, then withdrawn, like Lucy holding the football. And much as she always pulls the ball away from Charlie Brown, Iron Lung replaces answers with empty gestures.

Now, this problem is not unique to this film. It has become the main failing of contemporary cosmic horror.

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