The idea that on-screen representation is automatically a victory is sadly misguided and the cinematic appetite for black pain is seemingly bottomless. The cinema offered no solace to the everyday struggles of black people. All these characters meet sticky ends: it’s horror, after all. I despaired of them all: the sassy black friends (Brandy in I Still Know What You Did Last Summer, 1998), the idiot police officers (Loretta Devine in Urban Legend, 1998), the ones who disappear before the title card (Omar Epps in Scream 2, 1997), the ones with terrible plans (Mekhi Phifer in Dawn of the Dead, 2004), the badass killing machines (Keith David in They Live, 1988) and, worst of all, the Sacrificial Negroes (Laurence Fishburne in Event Horizon, 1997 Alfre Woodard in Annabelle, 2014 Carl Weathers in Predator, 1987). The black people of horror films were pale imitations of real characters – sidekicks devoid of wants and needs, serving the white protagonists by feeding off their misery and paying in self-sacrifice. When I moved to the UK as a teenager, and my nascent racial identity kicked in, those notions were quickly debunked. Horror seemed egalitarian: it didn’t care who you were or what experience you had it just wanted to make sure you never slept again, terrified of what might be under the bed. As a child growing up in Sudan, dreaming of one day swapping playing with dollhouses for directing movies, my too-young eyes goggled at zombies, aliens, axe-wielding maniacs, ghosts, cannibals, vampires, mad scientists, vengeful demons, giant animals, sadists, masochists and hillbillies.
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