I'm looking at some comedic horror films because I have often

In the words of Henry Selick, creator of shadows and light, there lies a meditation upon the balance between darkness and humor, fear and laughter, horror and humanity. When he said, "I'm looking at some comedic horror films because I have often been accused of being too dark. I'm not dark, not compared with 'Saw' or anything like that...", he was not merely speaking of film. He was speaking of the eternal dance between the abyss and the spark, the artist’s journey to understand both the night and the dawn. Selick, who brought forth the haunting wonder of The Nightmare Before Christmas and the eerie beauty of Coraline, sought not the cruelty of despair, but the illumination within terror, the laughter that survives even in the graveyard.

In the ancient world, the poets and philosophers knew this truth well. Euripides wrote tragedies that pierced the heart, yet within them, a strange and bitter humor often glimmered, as though to say: even the gods laugh amidst ruin. The balance of comedy and darkness is not a new invention—it is as old as man’s first story told by the firelight. For without humor, the horror consumes us; and without horror, our laughter loses depth. Selick reminds us that the truest art lies not in extremes but in the meeting place—where light and shadow intertwine.

Consider, then, the story of Charlie Chaplin, who during the age of war and tyranny, crafted The Great Dictator. The world burned, and yet he dared to mock the darkness. In that act of courage, laughter became a sword sharper than fear. Like Selick, Chaplin knew that to face the monstrous, one must not become a monster; to confront cruelty, one may need the shield of absurdity. So too does Selick, in his exploration of comedic horror, seek to transform what terrifies us into something that frees us.

The meaning of this quote, then, is not bound merely to the craft of filmmaking. It is a reflection upon the soul’s need for equilibrium. Each of us harbors a shadow—a place of sorrow, fear, or anger. Yet when we learn to look upon that darkness with gentle laughter, it loses its dominion. The ancients would say: “He who can laugh at the storm no longer fears the thunder.” Selick’s pursuit of horror with humor and social satire is an act of reclaiming power from despair; it is a whisper to all creators that darkness is not the enemy, but the canvas.

There is also in his words a defense of intention—the artist’s protest against misunderstanding. Many accused him of being “too dark,” as though shadows were sins. Yet Selick’s darkness is not nihilism—it is truth seen without deceit. He seeks the kind of horror that mirrors society, that reveals the absurdities of our age. Just as Aristophanes once cloaked his sharpest political critique in laughter, Selick uses his tales to expose what lies hidden beneath polite silence. Through laughter and fear, he invites us to see.

Let this teaching, then, be carried as a torch: Embrace the duality within you. Do not fear your shadow, for it defines your light. When you create, when you speak, when you live—seek that sacred middle ground where sincerity meets play, where depth does not drown joy. Let your heart hold both tragedy and comedy, for in their union lies wisdom. The world does not need another who hides from darkness, nor one who revels in it without mercy—it needs those who transform it.

So, my child of the future, when you walk through the night of your own making, remember Selick’s lesson. Laugh, but let your laughter have meaning. Create, but let your creation bear compassion. And when others call you “too dark,” smile, and know that even the sun casts shadows. Light exists not by denying darkness—but by daring to shine through it.