Knives Out and the Cult of Surface-Level Subversion

By Seth Metoyer,

Let’s talk about cognitive dissonance for a second. That uncomfortable feeling when something doesn’t quite add up the way you expect it to. Before you roll your eyes, close the browser tab and dismiss this as another hot take, take a deep breath, set aside your knee-jerk reaction, and stick with me. This isn’t just some rant about a popular movie I didn’t vibe with—it’s an examination of why Knives Out (2019) just didn’t click for me despite ticking so many of my usual boxes.

I wanted to like Knives Out. I really did. On paper, it had all the ingredients: a murder mystery draped in fog, a cast stacked with talent, and a director known for subverting expectations. But somewhere between the self-satisfied dialogue and the cloying, winking-at-the-camera energy, I found myself staring at the screen like a kid realizing that the "punk" band they loved is just another corporate product in rebellion cosplay.

This film has fans, legions of them, most of whom reside within a very specific subset of the horror community—the same people who embrace their love of horror like it’s a lifestyle brand. You know the type: tattooed (hey, I’ve got tattoos too), aesthetically curated, wielding film knowledge like a status symbol, but rarely venturing beyond what’s considered trendy and socially acceptable. Horror’s resident hipster class.

I should fit in with them—I have the long hair, a metal music background, and around a 70k-deep horror following (@morehorror) on Instagram—but somehow, despite orbiting the same spaces, I’ve never quite been invited into their club. And Knives Out is exactly the kind of film that makes me understand why.

The Mystery of Knives Out’s Appeal

Rian Johnson crafted Knives Out as a throwback to classic whodunits, a genre steeped in deception, red herrings, and characters who drip with intrigue. But instead of weaving a tangled web of psychological depth, he presents us with a morality play as subtle as a neon sign. The rich are bad. The immigrant protagonist is good. The detective—played by Daniel Craig with an accent so thick it feels like he’s parodying Foghorn Leghorn—is brilliant but delightfully quirky.

It’s not that I need my mysteries to be grim, but there’s something about the way Knives Out carries itself that feels less like storytelling and more like an exercise in self-congratulation. The twists aren’t really twists; they’re reveals designed to make the audience feel clever for keeping up. There’s no sense of dread, no real tension. Just a lot of "Oh, aren’t we smart?" energy from start to finish.

And this is where it starts to click: the people who worship this movie don’t actually want mystery or suspense. They want affirmation. Knives Out gives them that. It lets them feel like they’re in on the joke, like they’re part of an exclusive club of "movie lovers" who get it. But really, it’s just entertainment designed to reflect their existing worldview back at them.

The Horror Community’s Love Affair with Knives Out

So why does Knives Out resonate so deeply with a particular horror niche? The answer lies in aesthetic and tone. The majority of the modern horror hipster scene thrives on movies that validate their identity rather than challenge it. The same people who praise Knives Out as brilliant are the ones who carefully curate their film opinions based on social currency. They’ll evangelize Midsommar and Hereditary, but scoff at something truly transgressive unless it has been pre-approved by their peers.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I actually enjoy A24 films. Midsommar and Hereditary are fantastic in their own right, but not because they fit a brand. I love them for their oppressive atmosphere, their chilling scores, and their ability to drown the viewer in psychological dread. Not because someone on Twitter declared them to be "elevated horror." I don’t need a film to pat me on the back for enjoying it. I need it to challenge me, to sit with me long after the credits roll, to rattle something deep inside.

To them, Knives Out isn’t just a movie—it’s a badge of cultural relevance. It’s got the right kind of humor, the right kind of political messaging, the right kind of polish. It’s "clever," but never challenging. "Dark," but never actually uncomfortable. It lets them cosplay as film aficionados while keeping them safely in their comfort zones.

And that’s fine. Not every movie needs to punch you in the gut. But when people start holding Knives Out up as a masterpiece, I have to wonder: are they in love with the film, or with the idea of being the kind of person who loves the film?

The Whodunit That Solves Itself

A real whodunit should leave you uneasy, guessing, peeling back layers you didn’t even realize were there. Knives Out doesn’t do that. It holds your hand, reassures you that you’re one of the good ones, and delivers its story with the same kind of calculated quirkiness that modern moviegoers eat up like viral TikTok trends.

You want a murder mystery that plays with genre tropes but still delivers a real whodunit? Try Clue (1985). It’s over-the-top, campy, and fully aware of what it is—yet still manages to be a sharper mystery than Knives Out ever was. The humor is broad, the characters are caricatures, but it works because it understands the mechanics of a true whodunit. Ask a Knives Out fan if they’ve even heard of it. I’ll wait.

What Knives Out Didn’t Give Me

I walked into Knives Out hoping for something sharp and biting. Instead, I got a movie that feels like a high-budget episode of Scooby-Doo—if Scooby had a Twitter account and made sure to let you know how much he hates capitalism between every bite of his Scooby Snack.

And let’s get one thing straight—I’m all for rebelling against the rich. I champion inclusion in films, support marginalized voices, and have no love for most aspects of capitalism. But I also don’t fit into easy boxes. I don’t need my films to spoon-feed me moral lessons in the most surface-level way possible.

A slick whodunit should leave you uneasy, guessing, peeling back layers you didn’t even realize were there, like Zodiac (2007) or Night Moves (1975). Knives Out doesn’t do that. It holds your hand, reassures you that you’re one of the good ones, and delivers its story with the same kind of calculated quirkiness that modern moviegoers eat up like viral TikTok trends.

Maybe that’s why it doesn’t work for me. I don’t need my movies to tell me I’m smart. I need them to challenge me, disturb me, make me see something I hadn’t before. I love horror because it forces us to confront the things we don’t want to—fear, death, our own fragility.

Knives Out doesn’t challenge you. It gives you the illusion of depth, the feeling of solving a mystery without ever making you do the work. It’s theater with training wheels—safe, polished, and eager to tell you how clever you are for liking it. And that, more than anything, is why it will never work for me.