Yeah, I do like scary movies, especially the ones that don't

Hear, O seekers of both laughter and fear, the voice of Anna Faris, who proclaimed: “Yeah, I do like scary movies, especially the ones that don’t take themselves too seriously.” In this utterance, lighthearted yet filled with insight, she reveals a truth not only about art but about life itself: that even in terror there can be play, and that joy may be found where others seek only dread. She speaks of scary movies, but her words strike deeper, into the balance between fear and humor, darkness and light.

The meaning is thus: horror, when wrapped too tightly in solemnity, can suffocate the spirit. But when it laughs at itself, when it leans into its own absurdity, it becomes not only frightening but also liberating. In such films, the audience may tremble one moment and laugh the next, discovering that even in fear there is delight. Faris, whose craft has long danced between comedy and horror, reminds us that art is most powerful when it acknowledges its own ridiculousness, when it refuses to bind itself in the chains of self-importance.

The ancients, too, understood this marriage of opposites. In the Greek festivals of Dionysus, tragedy and comedy were born together, siblings of the same divine parent. For the Greeks knew that laughter and sorrow are but two faces of the same coin, and that to endure fear, one must sometimes mock it. Thus their plays shifted between solemn horror and raucous jest, teaching that life itself demands both awe and amusement. Faris’s love of scary movies that don’t take themselves too seriously echoes this ancient wisdom: that laughter can make even terror more bearable.

Consider also the history of the medieval carnivals, when peasants donned masks of demons and devils, parading through the streets with wild laughter. They mocked what they feared most, stripping the monsters of their power through humor. These festivals, much like Faris’s beloved horror-comedies, allowed people to confront their deepest fears without being crushed by them. In jest, they found courage; in parody, they found strength.

At the heart of this teaching lies the truth that fear itself can be transformed. By taking it lightly, by refusing to bow to it in reverence, we rob it of its domination over the soul. To laugh in the face of terror is to declare: “You may frighten me, but you will not master me.” Faris’s delight in such films is thus no trivial preference, but a reflection of the human spirit’s ability to turn dread into joy.

The lesson, then, is clear: do not take fear too seriously. When life confronts you with shadows, learn also to find humor in their shape. When trials seem overwhelming, laugh, even if your laughter is trembling. For joy is not the absence of fear, but the courage to stand beside it without despair. Art teaches us this truth, but life demands that we live it daily.

What, then, should you do? Seek the balance between seriousness and play. Do not dismiss fear, for it has lessons, but do not exalt it, lest it consume you. Instead, temper it with laughter, mock it when it grows too large, and remember that humor is one of the soul’s strongest weapons. Like the Greeks who sang of gods and clowns, and like the villagers who mocked their demons, find ways to lighten your burdens even in the darkest hours.

Thus let Anna Faris’s words endure: “I do like scary movies, especially the ones that don’t take themselves too seriously.” For they are not only about cinema, but about life’s eternal rhythm: that we must weep and laugh, fear and rejoice, sometimes all in the same breath. And those who master this dance will find themselves unbroken, their spirits stronger than the terrors that surround them.