I’m not sure I could blame anyone for choosing, as their feelgood film, a film in which the characters feel good. Cinema is supposed to manipulate us emotionally - that’s the whole point. Nemo feels good when he’s found, and we feel good for him. By this logic, horror films should make us feel bad. So, when it was released in 1999, why did The Blair Witch Project – a film in which three film students are hunted, terrorised and presumably killed by an unseen entity – make nearly $250m at the box office? That’s the same as Love Actually. Of all the millions of people who paid to sit and watch Eduardo Sánchez and Daniel Myrick’s claustrophobic found-footage nightmare, I’m sure that not a single one of them entered the cinema hoping for their day to be ruined.
I was technically too young to see The Blair Witch Project when it came out, but like so many other children of laissez-faire 90s parents, I found a way. And that way was a friend’s sleepover. Fingers slick with Pizza Hut grease, we slid the 15 certificate VHS cassette into the player and gleefully waited to have the shit scared out of us. And it did. But not in the way we were used to. Up until this point, I’d seen the likes of Hellraiser, Candyman and Nightmare on Elm Street – horror meant guts strewn across the screen like party streamers. But what Blair Witch lacked in viscera is made up for in pure, uncut dread. The fact that you never even see the titular witch somehow made it even more terrifying. Believe me, in the imagination of a child who’d been fed horror films like multipack breakfast cereals, that witch was scarier than Pinhead and Freddy Krueger’s bastard baby. And I … loved her?
