Scream-And-Laughter
Infection at the Cinema!
A Conversation with Eli Lewy and Sara Neidorf,
Directors of the Final Girls Berlin Film Festival
by Clara Thym
Horror appeared on screen together with the advent of cinema. From the very beginning, filmmakers were experimenting with the eerie and the macabre, the scary and the disgusting, the grotesque and the abject. The medium allows not only for the visualization of horror, it also effectively produces the correlated emotions—such as fear and dread—by playing with the notions of presence and absence through the techniques of framing and montage, as well as by distorting time and space. It opens the possibility to create “horrific” immersive illusions, realistic to the point of leaving spectators traumatized after a screening: a phenomenon coined as “cinematic neurosis” in 1975 by psychiatrist James Bozzuto,1 following numerous cases of mental breakdowns caused by the viewing of William Friedkin’s The Exorcist (1973). However, horror films can also be—and in most cases are—relieving. They allow the spectator to confront the taboo, the forbidden, the unlawful, and reflect on societal issues.
In fact, horror is embedded in everyday life. It exists on all scales—from wars and assaults to the injunctions we and others impose upon our own bodies; from the burning of forests to the deadly infection within a drop of sweat. Yet, horror is perceived differently according to one’s personal experiences within society. For much of film history, the genre has been shaped by male directors. However, in recent decades, a growing presence of women and non-binary directors has challenged—and continues to reshape—the possible identities of horror in cinema. Final Girls Berlin Film Festival has been dedicating its program to these films, with a focus on new releases, but also including retrospectives. The festival’s 10th edition took place from March 5–9, 2025, and included films such as Jane Schoenbrun’s I saw the TV Glow (2024), Camila Beltráns Mi Bestia (2024), Elizabeth Sankey’s Witches (2024). I am glad to have had the chance to interview the festival’s co-directors Eli Lewy and Sara Neidorf.
In fact, horror is embedded in everyday life. It exists on all scales—from wars and assaults to the injunctions we and others impose upon our own bodies; from the burning of forests to the deadly infection within a drop of sweat. Yet, horror is perceived differently according to one’s personal experiences within society. For much of film history, the genre has been shaped by male directors. However, in recent decades, a growing presence of women and non-binary directors has challenged—and continues to reshape—the possible identities of horror in cinema. Final Girls Berlin Film Festival has been dedicating its program to these films, with a focus on new releases, but also including retrospectives. The festival’s 10th edition took place from March 5–9, 2025, and included films such as Jane Schoenbrun’s I saw the TV Glow (2024), Camila Beltráns Mi Bestia (2024), Elizabeth Sankey’s Witches (2024). I am glad to have had the chance to interview the festival’s co-directors Eli Lewy and Sara Neidorf.
Poster of Final Girls Berlin Film Festival.
Clara Thym: What sparked your interest in horror films, how long have you been watching them for?
Sara Neidorf: I’ve been watching horror films since I was about eight, when a friend brought over a VHS of a really bad movie called Leprechaun 3 (1995), and we watched it in secret. My mother was a huge horror fan, and she started showing me horror films when I was around eleven—maybe even earlier. We started with what you might call “bad films.” I recently mentioned Jackie Kong’s Blood Diner (1987) to Eli—which, funnily enough, was made by a woman. These are the kinds of films you watch and laugh at because they’re so absurd, but at the same time, you're getting scared and having a lot of fun. When I was around 12, my mom started showing me the really good stuff: Rosemary’s Baby (1968), The Shining (1980), The Exorcist (1973). Those were the first three that I connected with on a deeper level. From there, it just kept going. I started writing about horror films during my undergrad years, went to horror conventions as a teenager, and got to meet some of the people I had been watching and admiring for years. I also went to a lot of great screenings at repertory cinemas in Philly. Horror has been a throughline in my life—from my early years all the way to now.
CT: I have the impression a lot of people get into horror films when they’re very young. Was it also your case, Eli?
Eli Lewy: Yes, I also started when I was quite young—around nine or so. The first horror film I saw was Bernard Rose’s Candyman (1992), and I watched it alone. It’s a pretty serious horror film, genuinely scary, and it had a huge impact on me. I couldn’t sleep properly for about three months. But instead of turning me off horror, I was actually drawn in by that power it had over me. After that, I started watching things like the It miniseries. It really became a solo journey for me for a long time. I didn’t have many people around who shared that love for horror, so it remained something personal—just mine, in a way—which actually made it kind of special.
CT: A lot of people, when they were young, watched horror films in secret, by sneaking DVDs, watching them when everyone was asleep. There's something really special about bringing that experience out into the open, putting it on a big screen, and sharing it publicly. Why would you say horror films matter, and why is it important to have a festival dedicated to them?
SN: I think horror is a really powerful tool for exploring social issues that are relevant to the time in which a film is made. Of course, there will always be horror films that are purely about gore or jump scares—and that’s a valid part of the genre too—but it’s just one small facet. There are so many horror films that delve into real, complex social and human issues, and they do it in a way that forces the audience to engage on a very physical, visceral level. You’re not just watching passively from a distance—you’re feeling it in your body. Even though you're in a safe, contained space while watching, the genre works on you in such a way that you have to confront what’s being presented. That’s what makes horror such a confrontational and compelling form of storytelling.
CT: I think it’s very interesting that you say that the spectator has a physical reaction to the films. Would you say that this is an aspect that defines the genre of horror? Does the spectator need to feel disgust, or fear? Is this a condition for a horror film? What happens when horror is merged with humor?
SN: I would say so. For me, that’s something exceptional about horror—the way it engages the body. Linda Williams wrote about "body genres,"2 referring to films that evoke a physical reaction in the viewer. That includes horror, but also melodrama and even pornography—all genres that involve the body in a visceral way. But with horror specifically, a film only really works if you’re going through something as you watch. If you’re sitting there bored, disengaged, scrolling your phone, or not letting the film affect you—or if it simply fails to have that effect—then it’s probably not a very effective horror film. Good horror gets under your skin. It taps into something deeper in your psyche. It pulls you out of your comfort zone and makes you confront things in a very embodied way.
EL: I think horror can also help you process things you're sometimes not quite willing to confront outside the space of the cinema. In my opinion, it’s actually really hard to make a good horror-comedy. But there’s something powerful in being able to laugh while facing things that scare you. That mix of fear and humor can create a kind of release - it gives you a different way to engage with difficult emotions or ideas.
CT: So it is possible to laugh and be scared at the same time? I was thinking about Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance (2024) as an example of that. But I also feel like the funny part overtook the scary part there. What do you think?
SN: I think one of the things The Substance does very effectively is to operate as a spectacle. It’s a visually arresting film: very colorful and grotesque. By the end, it becomes a full-blown spectacle: blood everywhere, the monster, everything dialed up. It plays directly to the audience’s desire for a big show. But what’s so interesting is that it does this while delivering a sharp social critique—especially around beauty standards and the way aging women are treated in contemporary Western society. Part of the film’s impact is that it makes you laugh, it entertains you, and it’s something you want to talk about and recommend to friends because it’s so outrageous and fun. And yet, underneath that, it gets people thinking and feeling about real issues—and ultimately talking about them. That’s what makes it so smart. It uses the genre’s entertainment value to open up space for reflection and conversation.
EL: Exactly. It really hammers you over the head with its message; there’s no way to escape it.
CT: What led you to focus on horror films by women and non-binary directors specifically? Do you see strong links between horror and feminist theory?
EL: We were raised on horror films made by cis men, which, of course, weren’t necessarily dedicated to our experiences as non-cis men. That’s one clear reason. But expanding the range of perspectives in horror broadens what the genre can explore. When you include different viewpoints, you showcase different realities. There's no single norm - and that’s something we’re often taught, not just in horror, but in film and in life in general. As for the links between feminism and horror, I think horror has actually provided a lot of space for women to portray very different, multi-faceted, and complex roles. I’m thinking of Eckhard Schmitt’s The Fan (1982), which dives deep into the disturbing journey of an obsessive teenage fan, or Robert Aldrich’s What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962), which portrays two aging women dealing with their careers, pasts, and lives. Then there are psychological horror films, like Robert Altman’s Images (1972). There are countless examples. This is something that other genres often lack, and it’s a significant strength of horror: the space it allows for women to take on nuanced and layered roles.
SN: These are great examples of films made by men that attempt to tell complex stories about female characters—though to varying degrees of success. But, of course, it’s not the same as when a film is written or directed by a woman or a non-binary person. We’ve had these films throughout history, and we’ve enjoyed them. They’ve meant a lot to us in our evolution as film-goers and fans. But now, it’s time for something else. There’s so much ground to cover, and so much more to explore. A broader and more diverse range of human experiences is being portrayed now—by women and queer people—and that’s incredibly exciting. With these new voices, we’re going to get fresh stories, different layers of nuance.
CT: In her book The Monstrous Feminine (1993), Barbara Creed examines how women’s bodies have often been depicted in horror films as subjects of “abjection,” linked to menstruation, childbirth, and other bodily functions, which disrupt the patriarchal order.3 In the 21st century, however, we’re seeing more women and non-binary filmmakers taking the reins of horror. Their bodies, once abjected, are now subjects of defiance and revolt, as they tend to embrace their roles as “monsters.” Do you want to comment on this shift by highlighting some examples of films that demonstrate this?
SN: We’ve seen so many films centered around themes like motherhood and menstruation; it’s such a huge topic in horror. While there have been films that turn these themes into grotesque spectacles, like in Cronenberg’s work (and I love Cronenberg), where he often uses the female body in this way to strike an effect, we also have films that explore these topics on a much more psychological level, or through different metaphors. We’ve always had films about adolescence as well—films like Camila Beltrán’s Mi Bestia (2024), Amanda Nell Eu’s Tiger Stripes (2023), Jacqueline Castel’s My Animal (2023) ... The list goes on.
EL: There’s also a film called In My Skin (2022) by Marina De Van, which really dives into the concept of the "Abject." It’s all about confronting the uncomfortable, about purging, really. The director stars in the film, and she goes all in. It’s incredibly unsettling. The character is a successful businesswoman who gets a cut on her leg and becomes obsessed with it: it starts to take over her life. It might sound bizarre—and it is—but it actually makes sense once you watch it. We get to see her curiosity play out in her mind: What’s inside me? What does this mean? How can I continue living my life with this happening to me? It’s a fascinating exploration of the Abject and the physical and psychological implications of that.
CT: I will definitely watch it. I am wondering if this new wave of horror films is also influencing how men portray women and non-binary characters in horror today.
EL: I feel like there is some attempt at “feminist work” by men, like in JT Mollner’s Strange darlings (2023), Alex Garland’s Men (2022) Drew Hancock’s Companion (2025). These films play with themes like foregrounding women, Me Too topics, gaslighting: they’re touching on those issues. I’d say it’s kind of in the air right now. Some of them are okay, but it’s still not quite there. You also start wondering if they’re just tapping into the Zeitgeist, kind of using these issues to add some relevance to their horror.
CT: You show both major productions and very independent films. Is it important for you to have this mix? And how do you discover the smaller, independent films?
SN: Most of our films are submitted through Filmfreeway, while some are scouted from other festivals or directly from filmmakers and distributors. We watch everything and select about 20%, many of which are no-budget or student films. It’s exciting to follow filmmakers’ careers, like those who submitted shorts years ago and are now presenting features. While we celebrate bigger films by women and non-binary filmmakers, our main focus is on independent films that don’t make it into mainstream European cinemas. We want to provide a platform for these voices.
EL: A lot of these films are premieres and may not screen again in Germany after our festival. Some are really high-quality films. The German film landscape is a bit strange; for example, the new David Cronenberg might not even screen here, which is just ridiculous.
CT: Your program includes categories of short films. This year for example you had one called “Eat the Rich,” which I think is an interesting frame to categorize horror films. It’s a saying that is embedded in everyday language, at least on social media. And although it is mostly used without being followed by physical violence from the part of its users, it actually implies murder and cannibalism. I wanted to know more of your process of creating these categories in the short film section.
EL: We’re inspired by the films we watch. Big world-events and sentiments shape these films, and Eat the Rich is something that’s really in our faces right now. It resonates with so many people, so it just felt right. We’re really happy with how it turned out - it was one of the most popular screenings this year.
SN: We also have themes which keep showing up, like the one of “revenge”. One time we had “medical horror,” which we could almost have done this time too. Many films depict people with chronic illnesses, disabilities, or undeniable physical ailments, and how they’re treated in ways that dismiss their pain and symptoms. This is something that I think a lot of, that particularly women and AFAB people experience. You go to a specialist, describe your symptoms, and the research just hasn’t been done. It’s a scientific fact that more money is pumped into research on conditions affecting cis men, while conditions like PCOS and endometriosis remain underfunded. We see a lot of films expressing frustration about this. You can go as far back as Rosemary’s Baby. She’s having this crazy pregnancy with all of this pain, of course because she’s carrying the “devil’s baby.” Laughs. But all these doctors are like “Oh that’s normal. This is just a normal course of pregnancy.” If you take away the supernatural element, it actually mirrors a very common experience. We see this in many films we receive, which helps us decide what to highlight.
CT: Your festival is called “Final Girls.” I had to look up the term. Could you explain who the Final Girls are and how their roles have evolved over time?
SN: This term was invented by Carol J. Clover’s in her book Men, Women and Chainsaws (1992).4 She defined it to describe a recurrent character in slasher films: the last woman standing within a group of friends being chased and killed by a killer or monster. There was this recurring phenomenon of this woman who was not particularly feminine, not particularly sexualized, and very practical, who ended up being the one who survived the massacre. Clover writes about these characteristics in a critical way, pointing out that these films were made by men, and the original Final Girl was created to serve a certain plot function written by men. I feel like what we’re doing is taking the Final Girl out of that context and exploring what her potential is in films that are not made by cis men. In so many films that we are showing there are some versions of this character. We’re not showing traditional slashers so they don’t serve the same function in a plot, but they’re undergoing a lot of challenges, trials, tribulations, and still persevering. The character has endless potential for being adaptable, changing, growing according to the story being told. We’re not just here to celebrate the original inception of the character. We’re using this character as a jumping off for everything else that the final girl can be. As an example, we hosted a talk in our “Black Women Horror” Panel in which black Final Girls were called “enduring women.” This was an interesting twist on the figure. And there can be so many more versions.
EL: A lot of the films we’re showcasing engage critically with these tropes by offering a meta-narrative about them. The concept is a key term in horror studies, but it also resonates with regular horror fans, who generally know what the Final Girl is. It’s not just an academic term; it’s very much embedded in the horror community. So, we’re playing with the expectations people have about it.
CT: Going to the cinema can almost feel like an “abject” experience: you’re kind of required to overstep the boundaries of your body when entering a dark room full of strangers and allowing yourself to be soaked up by the light of the screen. Is it important for you that people watch horror films in the cinema?
EL: There is this communal experience when you go to the cinema. Of course, there are so many options nowadays, but you can’t really compare. The need for the communal experience persists. You see it at festivals; almost all the screenings are packed or sold out. So if we're able to make that enticing for people to come to the cinema, we love that, as we’re both cinema-goers ourselves. This year, we had Christina Hornisher’s film Hollywood 90028 (1973) in our retrospective, which is quite a unique film. People were infecting each other with laughter and screams. It was fascinating for me to observe the ways a full room affects the spectators.
CT: I feel like the fact you can’t reduce the volume plays a huge role. If I watch a film at home and I get scared I just mute it and I guess that’s cheating. At the cinema it’s harder to cheat.
SN: I’d follow up with what Eli said about people “infecting each other.” If you hear someone laughing, it makes you laugh; if someone else is scared, you feel the nervous energy. Your boundaries, along with what you're experiencing, are more permeable at the cinema. The experience is more intense.
CT: I really like this idea of mutual infection at the cinema. That in itself could be the premise for a horror film! This brings me to my last question: Could you each share your five favorite horror films made by women and non-binary filmmakers?
SN: I have ten on my list, and could have made it longer. But here’s a selection. We both have In my skin in our list. I would also put Hellbender (2021) directed by the Adams family. Great mother-daughter witch story. Titane (2021) from Julia Ducournau. Great body-horror queer horror film. Prevenge (2016). It was made by Alice Lowe when she was eight months pregnant. She wrote, directed and starred in it. In the film the voice of her foetus is telling her to murder people. She’s possessed by this murderous spawn within her. Kissed (1996) by Lynn Stopkewich. A necrophilia love story. Very daring film from the nineties. Great atmosphere and soundtrack.
EL: That one is on my list too! It shows that our category and definition of horror is quite broad. There's nothing typically scary happening here but the topic at hand is heavy. I would add Tigers are not afraid (2017) by Issa López from Mexico. About children surviving Cartel violence and ghosts. Very special and moving film. We need to talk about Kevin (2011) directed by Lynn Ramsay. We also showed it on our very first edition. About a mother who has to reckon with her teen son who has committed a terrible crime. As a last one I wanted to pick from older movies: The Mafu Cage (1978) by Keren Arthur. About two sisters and their pet-ape who live in a mansion and have a very close and strange relationship.
SN: Saint Maud (2019) by Rose Glass; Huesera: The Bone Woman (2022) by Michelle Garza Cervera; Relic (2020) by Natalie Erika James; You are not my mother (2021) by Kate Dolan; Good manners (2017) by Juliana Rojas and Marco Dutra.
CT: Thank you so much. Many films to add to my Letterboxd watchlist.
SN & EL: Thank you for reaching out to us!
Sara Neidorf is a drummer and film curator based in Berlin. In addition to co-directing the queer-feminist horror film festival Final Girls Berlin, they also play drums for such bands as Mellowdeath, Mad Kate The Tide, and Sarattma, teach FLINTA drum students, and work as a freelance drummer for theater, dance, and other interdisciplinary performance arts.
Eli Lewy is the co-director of the Final Girls Berlin Film Festival, a film festival showcasing horror directed, written, or produced by women and non-binary people that launched in late 2016. She is based in Berlin and works as a translator and editor. She has been programming the female friendship film series Birds of a Feather since 2020. Eli has a film podcast called Somebody's Watching which features discussions with film scholars about dark & unusual subject matters and interviews with filmmakers and cinephiles. She is currently working on her feature-length documentary debut.
Clara Thym is currently completing her Master’s degree in Art History at the Free University of Berlin. Her main focus is on moving images, from early films to new media. She regularly writes about films on Nowhen.de
1 James Bozzuto, Cinematic Neurosis: Posttraumatic Stress Disorder and the Theater (American Journal of Psychiatry 132, no. 4, 1975), 395–97.
2 Linda Williams, Film Bodies: Gender, Genre, and Excess (Film Quarterly 44, no. 4. 1991), 2–13.
3 Barbara Creed, The Monstrous-Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis (London: Routledge, 1993).
4 Carol J. Clover, Men, Women, and Chainsaws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992).
Image credit:
© Final Girls Berlin Film Festival
Sara Neidorf: I’ve been watching horror films since I was about eight, when a friend brought over a VHS of a really bad movie called Leprechaun 3 (1995), and we watched it in secret. My mother was a huge horror fan, and she started showing me horror films when I was around eleven—maybe even earlier. We started with what you might call “bad films.” I recently mentioned Jackie Kong’s Blood Diner (1987) to Eli—which, funnily enough, was made by a woman. These are the kinds of films you watch and laugh at because they’re so absurd, but at the same time, you're getting scared and having a lot of fun. When I was around 12, my mom started showing me the really good stuff: Rosemary’s Baby (1968), The Shining (1980), The Exorcist (1973). Those were the first three that I connected with on a deeper level. From there, it just kept going. I started writing about horror films during my undergrad years, went to horror conventions as a teenager, and got to meet some of the people I had been watching and admiring for years. I also went to a lot of great screenings at repertory cinemas in Philly. Horror has been a throughline in my life—from my early years all the way to now.
CT: I have the impression a lot of people get into horror films when they’re very young. Was it also your case, Eli?
Eli Lewy: Yes, I also started when I was quite young—around nine or so. The first horror film I saw was Bernard Rose’s Candyman (1992), and I watched it alone. It’s a pretty serious horror film, genuinely scary, and it had a huge impact on me. I couldn’t sleep properly for about three months. But instead of turning me off horror, I was actually drawn in by that power it had over me. After that, I started watching things like the It miniseries. It really became a solo journey for me for a long time. I didn’t have many people around who shared that love for horror, so it remained something personal—just mine, in a way—which actually made it kind of special.
CT: A lot of people, when they were young, watched horror films in secret, by sneaking DVDs, watching them when everyone was asleep. There's something really special about bringing that experience out into the open, putting it on a big screen, and sharing it publicly. Why would you say horror films matter, and why is it important to have a festival dedicated to them?
SN: I think horror is a really powerful tool for exploring social issues that are relevant to the time in which a film is made. Of course, there will always be horror films that are purely about gore or jump scares—and that’s a valid part of the genre too—but it’s just one small facet. There are so many horror films that delve into real, complex social and human issues, and they do it in a way that forces the audience to engage on a very physical, visceral level. You’re not just watching passively from a distance—you’re feeling it in your body. Even though you're in a safe, contained space while watching, the genre works on you in such a way that you have to confront what’s being presented. That’s what makes horror such a confrontational and compelling form of storytelling.
CT: I think it’s very interesting that you say that the spectator has a physical reaction to the films. Would you say that this is an aspect that defines the genre of horror? Does the spectator need to feel disgust, or fear? Is this a condition for a horror film? What happens when horror is merged with humor?
SN: I would say so. For me, that’s something exceptional about horror—the way it engages the body. Linda Williams wrote about "body genres,"2 referring to films that evoke a physical reaction in the viewer. That includes horror, but also melodrama and even pornography—all genres that involve the body in a visceral way. But with horror specifically, a film only really works if you’re going through something as you watch. If you’re sitting there bored, disengaged, scrolling your phone, or not letting the film affect you—or if it simply fails to have that effect—then it’s probably not a very effective horror film. Good horror gets under your skin. It taps into something deeper in your psyche. It pulls you out of your comfort zone and makes you confront things in a very embodied way.
EL: I think horror can also help you process things you're sometimes not quite willing to confront outside the space of the cinema. In my opinion, it’s actually really hard to make a good horror-comedy. But there’s something powerful in being able to laugh while facing things that scare you. That mix of fear and humor can create a kind of release - it gives you a different way to engage with difficult emotions or ideas.
CT: So it is possible to laugh and be scared at the same time? I was thinking about Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance (2024) as an example of that. But I also feel like the funny part overtook the scary part there. What do you think?
SN: I think one of the things The Substance does very effectively is to operate as a spectacle. It’s a visually arresting film: very colorful and grotesque. By the end, it becomes a full-blown spectacle: blood everywhere, the monster, everything dialed up. It plays directly to the audience’s desire for a big show. But what’s so interesting is that it does this while delivering a sharp social critique—especially around beauty standards and the way aging women are treated in contemporary Western society. Part of the film’s impact is that it makes you laugh, it entertains you, and it’s something you want to talk about and recommend to friends because it’s so outrageous and fun. And yet, underneath that, it gets people thinking and feeling about real issues—and ultimately talking about them. That’s what makes it so smart. It uses the genre’s entertainment value to open up space for reflection and conversation.
EL: Exactly. It really hammers you over the head with its message; there’s no way to escape it.
CT: What led you to focus on horror films by women and non-binary directors specifically? Do you see strong links between horror and feminist theory?
EL: We were raised on horror films made by cis men, which, of course, weren’t necessarily dedicated to our experiences as non-cis men. That’s one clear reason. But expanding the range of perspectives in horror broadens what the genre can explore. When you include different viewpoints, you showcase different realities. There's no single norm - and that’s something we’re often taught, not just in horror, but in film and in life in general. As for the links between feminism and horror, I think horror has actually provided a lot of space for women to portray very different, multi-faceted, and complex roles. I’m thinking of Eckhard Schmitt’s The Fan (1982), which dives deep into the disturbing journey of an obsessive teenage fan, or Robert Aldrich’s What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962), which portrays two aging women dealing with their careers, pasts, and lives. Then there are psychological horror films, like Robert Altman’s Images (1972). There are countless examples. This is something that other genres often lack, and it’s a significant strength of horror: the space it allows for women to take on nuanced and layered roles.
SN: These are great examples of films made by men that attempt to tell complex stories about female characters—though to varying degrees of success. But, of course, it’s not the same as when a film is written or directed by a woman or a non-binary person. We’ve had these films throughout history, and we’ve enjoyed them. They’ve meant a lot to us in our evolution as film-goers and fans. But now, it’s time for something else. There’s so much ground to cover, and so much more to explore. A broader and more diverse range of human experiences is being portrayed now—by women and queer people—and that’s incredibly exciting. With these new voices, we’re going to get fresh stories, different layers of nuance.
CT: In her book The Monstrous Feminine (1993), Barbara Creed examines how women’s bodies have often been depicted in horror films as subjects of “abjection,” linked to menstruation, childbirth, and other bodily functions, which disrupt the patriarchal order.3 In the 21st century, however, we’re seeing more women and non-binary filmmakers taking the reins of horror. Their bodies, once abjected, are now subjects of defiance and revolt, as they tend to embrace their roles as “monsters.” Do you want to comment on this shift by highlighting some examples of films that demonstrate this?
SN: We’ve seen so many films centered around themes like motherhood and menstruation; it’s such a huge topic in horror. While there have been films that turn these themes into grotesque spectacles, like in Cronenberg’s work (and I love Cronenberg), where he often uses the female body in this way to strike an effect, we also have films that explore these topics on a much more psychological level, or through different metaphors. We’ve always had films about adolescence as well—films like Camila Beltrán’s Mi Bestia (2024), Amanda Nell Eu’s Tiger Stripes (2023), Jacqueline Castel’s My Animal (2023) ... The list goes on.
EL: There’s also a film called In My Skin (2022) by Marina De Van, which really dives into the concept of the "Abject." It’s all about confronting the uncomfortable, about purging, really. The director stars in the film, and she goes all in. It’s incredibly unsettling. The character is a successful businesswoman who gets a cut on her leg and becomes obsessed with it: it starts to take over her life. It might sound bizarre—and it is—but it actually makes sense once you watch it. We get to see her curiosity play out in her mind: What’s inside me? What does this mean? How can I continue living my life with this happening to me? It’s a fascinating exploration of the Abject and the physical and psychological implications of that.
CT: I will definitely watch it. I am wondering if this new wave of horror films is also influencing how men portray women and non-binary characters in horror today.
EL: I feel like there is some attempt at “feminist work” by men, like in JT Mollner’s Strange darlings (2023), Alex Garland’s Men (2022) Drew Hancock’s Companion (2025). These films play with themes like foregrounding women, Me Too topics, gaslighting: they’re touching on those issues. I’d say it’s kind of in the air right now. Some of them are okay, but it’s still not quite there. You also start wondering if they’re just tapping into the Zeitgeist, kind of using these issues to add some relevance to their horror.
CT: You show both major productions and very independent films. Is it important for you to have this mix? And how do you discover the smaller, independent films?
SN: Most of our films are submitted through Filmfreeway, while some are scouted from other festivals or directly from filmmakers and distributors. We watch everything and select about 20%, many of which are no-budget or student films. It’s exciting to follow filmmakers’ careers, like those who submitted shorts years ago and are now presenting features. While we celebrate bigger films by women and non-binary filmmakers, our main focus is on independent films that don’t make it into mainstream European cinemas. We want to provide a platform for these voices.
EL: A lot of these films are premieres and may not screen again in Germany after our festival. Some are really high-quality films. The German film landscape is a bit strange; for example, the new David Cronenberg might not even screen here, which is just ridiculous.
CT: Your program includes categories of short films. This year for example you had one called “Eat the Rich,” which I think is an interesting frame to categorize horror films. It’s a saying that is embedded in everyday language, at least on social media. And although it is mostly used without being followed by physical violence from the part of its users, it actually implies murder and cannibalism. I wanted to know more of your process of creating these categories in the short film section.
EL: We’re inspired by the films we watch. Big world-events and sentiments shape these films, and Eat the Rich is something that’s really in our faces right now. It resonates with so many people, so it just felt right. We’re really happy with how it turned out - it was one of the most popular screenings this year.
SN: We also have themes which keep showing up, like the one of “revenge”. One time we had “medical horror,” which we could almost have done this time too. Many films depict people with chronic illnesses, disabilities, or undeniable physical ailments, and how they’re treated in ways that dismiss their pain and symptoms. This is something that I think a lot of, that particularly women and AFAB people experience. You go to a specialist, describe your symptoms, and the research just hasn’t been done. It’s a scientific fact that more money is pumped into research on conditions affecting cis men, while conditions like PCOS and endometriosis remain underfunded. We see a lot of films expressing frustration about this. You can go as far back as Rosemary’s Baby. She’s having this crazy pregnancy with all of this pain, of course because she’s carrying the “devil’s baby.” Laughs. But all these doctors are like “Oh that’s normal. This is just a normal course of pregnancy.” If you take away the supernatural element, it actually mirrors a very common experience. We see this in many films we receive, which helps us decide what to highlight.
CT: Your festival is called “Final Girls.” I had to look up the term. Could you explain who the Final Girls are and how their roles have evolved over time?
SN: This term was invented by Carol J. Clover’s in her book Men, Women and Chainsaws (1992).4 She defined it to describe a recurrent character in slasher films: the last woman standing within a group of friends being chased and killed by a killer or monster. There was this recurring phenomenon of this woman who was not particularly feminine, not particularly sexualized, and very practical, who ended up being the one who survived the massacre. Clover writes about these characteristics in a critical way, pointing out that these films were made by men, and the original Final Girl was created to serve a certain plot function written by men. I feel like what we’re doing is taking the Final Girl out of that context and exploring what her potential is in films that are not made by cis men. In so many films that we are showing there are some versions of this character. We’re not showing traditional slashers so they don’t serve the same function in a plot, but they’re undergoing a lot of challenges, trials, tribulations, and still persevering. The character has endless potential for being adaptable, changing, growing according to the story being told. We’re not just here to celebrate the original inception of the character. We’re using this character as a jumping off for everything else that the final girl can be. As an example, we hosted a talk in our “Black Women Horror” Panel in which black Final Girls were called “enduring women.” This was an interesting twist on the figure. And there can be so many more versions.
EL: A lot of the films we’re showcasing engage critically with these tropes by offering a meta-narrative about them. The concept is a key term in horror studies, but it also resonates with regular horror fans, who generally know what the Final Girl is. It’s not just an academic term; it’s very much embedded in the horror community. So, we’re playing with the expectations people have about it.
CT: Going to the cinema can almost feel like an “abject” experience: you’re kind of required to overstep the boundaries of your body when entering a dark room full of strangers and allowing yourself to be soaked up by the light of the screen. Is it important for you that people watch horror films in the cinema?
EL: There is this communal experience when you go to the cinema. Of course, there are so many options nowadays, but you can’t really compare. The need for the communal experience persists. You see it at festivals; almost all the screenings are packed or sold out. So if we're able to make that enticing for people to come to the cinema, we love that, as we’re both cinema-goers ourselves. This year, we had Christina Hornisher’s film Hollywood 90028 (1973) in our retrospective, which is quite a unique film. People were infecting each other with laughter and screams. It was fascinating for me to observe the ways a full room affects the spectators.
CT: I feel like the fact you can’t reduce the volume plays a huge role. If I watch a film at home and I get scared I just mute it and I guess that’s cheating. At the cinema it’s harder to cheat.
SN: I’d follow up with what Eli said about people “infecting each other.” If you hear someone laughing, it makes you laugh; if someone else is scared, you feel the nervous energy. Your boundaries, along with what you're experiencing, are more permeable at the cinema. The experience is more intense.
CT: I really like this idea of mutual infection at the cinema. That in itself could be the premise for a horror film! This brings me to my last question: Could you each share your five favorite horror films made by women and non-binary filmmakers?
SN: I have ten on my list, and could have made it longer. But here’s a selection. We both have In my skin in our list. I would also put Hellbender (2021) directed by the Adams family. Great mother-daughter witch story. Titane (2021) from Julia Ducournau. Great body-horror queer horror film. Prevenge (2016). It was made by Alice Lowe when she was eight months pregnant. She wrote, directed and starred in it. In the film the voice of her foetus is telling her to murder people. She’s possessed by this murderous spawn within her. Kissed (1996) by Lynn Stopkewich. A necrophilia love story. Very daring film from the nineties. Great atmosphere and soundtrack.
EL: That one is on my list too! It shows that our category and definition of horror is quite broad. There's nothing typically scary happening here but the topic at hand is heavy. I would add Tigers are not afraid (2017) by Issa López from Mexico. About children surviving Cartel violence and ghosts. Very special and moving film. We need to talk about Kevin (2011) directed by Lynn Ramsay. We also showed it on our very first edition. About a mother who has to reckon with her teen son who has committed a terrible crime. As a last one I wanted to pick from older movies: The Mafu Cage (1978) by Keren Arthur. About two sisters and their pet-ape who live in a mansion and have a very close and strange relationship.
SN: Saint Maud (2019) by Rose Glass; Huesera: The Bone Woman (2022) by Michelle Garza Cervera; Relic (2020) by Natalie Erika James; You are not my mother (2021) by Kate Dolan; Good manners (2017) by Juliana Rojas and Marco Dutra.
CT: Thank you so much. Many films to add to my Letterboxd watchlist.
SN & EL: Thank you for reaching out to us!
Sara Neidorf is a drummer and film curator based in Berlin. In addition to co-directing the queer-feminist horror film festival Final Girls Berlin, they also play drums for such bands as Mellowdeath, Mad Kate The Tide, and Sarattma, teach FLINTA drum students, and work as a freelance drummer for theater, dance, and other interdisciplinary performance arts.
Eli Lewy is the co-director of the Final Girls Berlin Film Festival, a film festival showcasing horror directed, written, or produced by women and non-binary people that launched in late 2016. She is based in Berlin and works as a translator and editor. She has been programming the female friendship film series Birds of a Feather since 2020. Eli has a film podcast called Somebody's Watching which features discussions with film scholars about dark & unusual subject matters and interviews with filmmakers and cinephiles. She is currently working on her feature-length documentary debut.
Clara Thym is currently completing her Master’s degree in Art History at the Free University of Berlin. Her main focus is on moving images, from early films to new media. She regularly writes about films on Nowhen.de
1 James Bozzuto, Cinematic Neurosis: Posttraumatic Stress Disorder and the Theater (American Journal of Psychiatry 132, no. 4, 1975), 395–97.
2 Linda Williams, Film Bodies: Gender, Genre, and Excess (Film Quarterly 44, no. 4. 1991), 2–13.
3 Barbara Creed, The Monstrous-Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis (London: Routledge, 1993).
4 Carol J. Clover, Men, Women, and Chainsaws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992).
Image credit:
© Final Girls Berlin Film Festival