The Gothic Revival of Cinema: Monsters of Our Own Making
- Isabelle Monteiro
- 9 minutes ago
- 6 min read
A century after the genre first haunted the silver screen, Gothic sensibilities and traditions have crept back into cinema, uncannily suited to express the anxieties of the 2020s. While some Gothic monsters remain the most recognisable figures in literature and film, these stories have always been less about the monsters themselves than about the systems and histories that give rise to them. From the ecclesiastical dread of Midnight Mass (2021) to the tale of corporate greed and collapsing dynasties in The Fall of the House of Usher (2023), recognisably Gothic forms are being repurposed to explore modern concerns: institutional collapse, religious fanaticism, and the uneasy imbalances of power.
This revival reflects a cultural moment in which we are increasingly aware of the fault lines running through the political and social landscape. Climate catastrophe, political instability, the rise of right-wing extremism, and the lingering ghosts of colonial and industrial histories all contribute to a growing sense that progress has stalled—that the foundations of the present, and its certainties, are less stable than they once appeared. Horror’s prominence in major categories at the Academy Awards, with films such as Sinners (2025) and Frankenstein (2025) receiving major recognition, only underscores this shift. It is this instability that shapes contemporary Gothic, shifting horror away from monsters and toward the social, political, and historical forces that produce them. In doing so, the genre redefines what counts as monstrous, locating it within the ordinary structures of power that conceal violence, exploitation, and decay.
The term ‘Gothic’ emerged during the Renaissance as a pejorative, meaning “barbaric” or “medieval”. It derives from Gothic architecture, which itself was named after the Goths—a group of Germanic people who played a crucial role in the fall of the Roman Empire and the rise of medieval Europe. Over time, the term came to describe a literary and artistic sensibility defined less by chronology than mood, theme and aesthetic. Characterised by environments of dilapidation and precarity, the ruined castles, crumbling mansions, and shadowy interiors serve as reminders that human achievements are fragile and temporary, while the supernatural often functions as a metaphor for deeper psychological or social anxieties.
Central to this effect is what philosopher Julia Kristeva calls the ‘abject’: the feeling of horror or revulsion that arises when the boundaries between self and other, subject and object, begin to collapse. The abject reminds us of our vulnerability—our material bodies, mortality and lack of control—producing both fascination and disgust. Gothic narratives repeatedly stage these moments of breakdown, where order dissolves and the familiar becomes frightening. These ideas are particularly potent in relation to gender. Film scholar Barbara Creed argues that Gothic and horror often centre on the figure of the “monstrous feminine,” where female characters confront the oppressive structures that attempt to contain them. In entering the realm of horror, these characters expose the violence and contradictions embedded within patriarchal systems. In this sense, the Gothic becomes a space where social norms are unsettled and the boundaries of identity, power, and morality are thrown into question.
Gothic cinema has always returned in waves, each revival reshaping the genre’s conventions to reflect the fears and anxieties of a new generation. In the 2020s, the Gothic has re-surfaced with renewed urgency, defined by social instability, institutional collapse and unresolved historical trauma. This is evident across works such as Midnight Mass (2021), Guillermo del Toro's Cabinet of Curiosities (2022), The Fall of the House of Usher (2023), Poor Things (2023), Nosferatu (2024), Sinners (2025), Frankenstein (2025), The Bride! (2025). Exploring themes that vary across immigration, religious fanaticism, corporate greed, racism and female autonomy, these works use Gothic conventions to interrogate the systems and histories that give rise to modern forms of monstrosity.
In Sinners, the vampire figure is reimagined to illustrate the complex histories of African American culture and its intersections with other communities of colour in the United States. Vampirism operates as a metaphor for cultural extraction and domination, evoking the ways Black culture has historically been appropriated, suppressed or absorbed into dominant white structures. In this context, the Gothic becomes a vehicle for confronting the legacies of colonisation, the imposition of Christianity, and the enduring presence of both direct and systemic racism. A similar dynamic appears in the opening episode of Guillermo del Toro's Cabinet of Curiosities, where xenophobia and paranoia lead the protagonist to a grotesque fate at the hands of a Nazi-linked demon—an embodiment of the very hatred he projects onto others.
Furthermore, The Fall of the House of Usher transforms Edgar Allan Poe’s decaying aristocratic lineage into a modern corporate dynasty built on exploitation. As the Usher family’s wealth is revealed to rest on human suffering and environmental negligence, the Gothic trope of the cursed bloodline becomes a critique of late capitalism. Haunted by guilt and the literal rot of their corruption, each member of the family meets a grotesquely personalised death, suggesting that the consequences of greed cannot be indefinitely deferred. Their bargain of forty years of unimaginable luxury in exchange for the destruction of future generations, reads as a chilling metaphor for the way contemporary society continues to pass the costs of climate change, corporate negligence and systemic capitalisation onto future generations.
Meanwhile, films such as Poor Things, Frankenstein and The Bride! revisit the figure of the constructed or “unnatural” body to interrogate patriarchal control and inherited trauma. Contemporary Gothic increasingly treats the body as a site of tension and transformation, reframing the traditionally “monstrous” female form as a space of autonomy and resistance. In The Bride!, the protagonist is killed to silence her as a witness to male violence, and upon her resurrection, resists the role imposed upon her as a companion created for male desire. Her reanimation functions as a confrontation with the structures that sought to erase her, exposing the violence embedded within them. In doing so, the film foregrounds feminist questions of agency, identity and self-definition, a dynamic that is further echoed in the presence of Penélope Cruz’s underestimated detective, whose marginalisation underscores the persistence of gendered power imbalances even within systems that claim authority and order.
Even traditional Gothic heroines are being reimagined. In Nosferatu, Ellen forgoes her passive victimhood to become a figure whose sexual agency ultimately defeats the vampire Count Orlok, whose predatory desire embodies systems of shame and control. Although her sacrifice was criticised by some for reinforcing the female martyrdom trope, her actions are ultimately framed as an act of agency, transforming submission into an assertion of power. More broadly, the revival of figures like Count Orlok demonstrates how the Gothic monster is adapted to reflect renewed fears about contagion, outsiders and societal collapse. In doing so, the film updates the traditional Gothic vampire narrative to indicate contemporary anxieties surrounding women’s bodily autonomy and the resurgence of conservative politics. The monstrous body, once a symbol of deviance, becomes instead a powerful lens through which patriarchal authority and the boundaries of identity are called into question.
Across these works emerges a deeper cultural anxiety: the fragility and corruption of the systems that organise modern life, with institutions revealed not as sources of stability but as environments in which power can operate unchecked. Alongside this runs a persistent unease about the past. Gothic narratives have always been haunted by history, and contemporary interpretations intensify this dynamic. Vampires and reanimated bodies no longer function simply as supernatural horrors; instead, they register fears of contagion, technological overreach, social exclusion and systemic exploitation.
Taken together, this points to a broader cultural mood. Climate crisis, political polarisation, widening economic inequality and renewed struggles over gender and bodily autonomy all contribute to a growing sense that the foundations of contemporary society are becoming increasingly unstable. Gothic storytelling, with its decaying houses, haunted histories and unsettling transformations, offers a powerful language through which these tensions can be explored. In this sense, horror operates as a cultural barometer: at moments of uncertainty, it provides a symbolic framework for processing fears that are otherwise difficult to articulate. By collapsing the boundary between supernatural creatures, and the institutions and histories that shape everyday life, contemporary Gothic reframes what society should truly fear. The monster is no longer an external threat lurking in the shadows, but something embedded within the very structures that organise modern existence—a reflection of instability rather than an escape from it.
Perhaps most importantly, contemporary Gothic demands introspection. It compels audiences to confront their own implication in the systems that sustain and reproduce such violence. By exposing the contradictions and cruelties embedded within these structures, Gothic cinema reveals that the horrors haunting the present are not merely imagined—they are already here.
Edited by Hannah Tang, Co-Editor of Film & TV
