Skinamarink (2023)

directed by Kyle Edward Ball

Courtney Meihoff

As an elder member of Generation Z, many of my formative years were spent on an internet that just doesn’t exist anymore. Most of my peers could tell me the first time they read a Creepypasta and believed it as gospel or saw the most unhinged real life violence on 4chan. The mystery and intrigue of the internet of the late 2000s and early 2010s is something I am nostalgic for that wasn’t quite being tapped into in media the way other nostalgic content was, such as Y2K fashion or a resurgence of 2000s emo music. How do you recapture a fear that’s been debunked? I didn’t think it was possible and didn’t even know how to articulate this type of content into a genre or thesis statement. Then, late to the party, I was introduced to a YouTube series called Local58.

Local58 was created by Kris Straub, a legend within internet horror who created the famous Candle Cove Creepypasta, and is a loosely plotted web series following a news station through the decades that covers mysterious goings on with the moon. Local58 has all the tenants of great internet horror of years past: broadcast interruptions, grainy footage, and a retro setting. Straub changed the game when it came to internet horror because unlike so many other creators he actually gave himself credit, transporting the project from something that could’ve been “debunked” and thrown away by internet users into a legitimate art project. This thrust internet horror into a new realm because the mystery behind these clips was gone and they could just be enjoyed. Now as an adult I, of course, would never believe these to be real the way I would’ve as a child and the tech savvy younger counterparts of my generation would never buy it either. Local58 allowed a genre of blatant fictionalized internet-based horror to be born which would, ironically, be called analog horror.

Local58 gave rise to the genre and before long other series began popping up on YouTube. Following in the footsteps of Local58, Remy Abode created the eerie yet comforting Gemini Home Entertainment, a series that utilizes home VHS tapes dropping hints about a frightening entity leaching its way onto Earth. From here many notable series popped up, but as the genre grew, the parameters became looser. The Walten Files by Martin Walls, a riff on the Five Nights at Freddy’s concept, brought 2D animation to the table; The Mandela Catalogue by Alex Kister, a biblically inspired narrative following sinister doppelgangers called “Alternates,” introduced live action segments combined with the broadcast style popularized by Local58; _Boisvert, an abstract nightmare about isolation and self-identity from visual artist xreamy, all but abandoned the entire concept of “analog” within analog horror, but the mysterious and striking nature of the rotoscoped and animated visuals led to it being grouped into the genre by internet critics. These projects are all incredibly different. Because of this it’s hard to pin down analog horror as an actual genre, especially when many film and television fans may stick their nose up at the concept of a web series. The one through-line is that talented, mostly young, creators of all artistic backgrounds are experimenting and trying new things. Surely, if put out on the right platform, this type of art could be well received by film fans, right? That’s where a YouTube channel called Bitesized Nightmares comes in.

Kyle Edward Ball began his film career making short films based on his viewer’s nightmares on a YouTube Channel called Bitesized Nightmares. Two years ago he could have easily been looped in with the creators I mentioned above, albeit with a more “live action” hand to his work than some of the more animation or motion graphics based creators like Martin Walls or xreamy. Using the recurring themes he noticed in the nightmares, Ball created a short film called Heck. This would later dazzle and infuriate audiences as a feature film called Skinamarink. After a successful festival run and a mishap that led to the film being spread illegally on pirating sites, Skinamarink landed in theaters in January of 2023. That specific breed of internet horror born from Creepypastas and liminality could finally be considered “cinema.”

While I’m sure a lot of people wouldn’t dare call Skinamarink analog horror, I think it absolutely fits the bill. While I’ve spent most of my time here discussing the technical aspects of analog horror, at its core the emotions it evokes is what I believe truly brings something into the genre. Skinamarink scared me more than anything I have ever seen, simply because of the sense of dread it creates. The only time I have felt similarly was while watching Kister’s Mandela Catalogue Volume 1. Many critics of both Skinamarink and The Mandela Catalogue will argue that “there’s nothing scary,” but both projects succeed in building three core emotions: nostalgia, comfort, and dread.

As a child of the late ‘90s and early 2000s I was completely sucked into the world of Skinamarink. Watching Kevin and Kaylee suffer through the agonizing days at the hands of whatever the hell was tormenting them was often broken up by a bizarre sense of comfort and safety. The static of their old TV and the decor of the house they’re jailed inside of reminded me of my own childhood. This allowed me to put myself fully into the character's shoes and truly experience the fear and tragedy of what happens in this movie. This is something Ball would muse on in a 2023 interview with Fangoria: “Shooting a movie in the house you grew up in about two characters that are more or less you and your sister, I didn't have to try to make it more personal—it just sort of happened.”

Skinamarink’s critics seemed to fixate on the lack of plot or general happenings in the film and while I cannot deny the long, lingering sections filled with nothing but shots of the walls and the muffled sound of cartoons on the TV are bound to alienate some viewers, this is the very thing that sells the movie to me. The monotony of Skinamarink breeds those three core elements of analog horror and frequently lulls you into a false sense of security while simultaneously keeping you tense and on edge.

Skinamarink is the catalyst for me finally accepting analog horror for what it is: art. It’s not just about the scares and notoriety the way that Creepypastas and old internet urban legends were; it’s about creatives putting their own unique stamp on a genre already full of misfits and outcasts. These stories, whether they make it to the big screen or haunt the pages of YouTube, are deeply creative and original, even when their very existence is derivative of defunct media of decades past. As a visual artist who used to want to pursue film, but became disillusioned with the industry, projects like _Boisvert and The Mandela Catalogue have shown me that there is a place for all artists in the world of horror. The average age seems to be 30 and under for these creators, and it gives me faith that the next generation of horror filmmakers is going to continue to bring us innovative and original work that will get under our skin and into our heads.

Courtney Meihoff is a graphic designer based in Georgia. She works primarily in higher education, DEI initiatives, and the film industry.