“Get out.” In Jordan Peele’s razor-sharp horror, those words are not just a plea—they are a primal scream against the invisible chains of society.

Released in 2017, Jordan Peele’s Get Out redefined horror by turning the genre’s gaze inward, exposing the festering wounds of racism beneath a veneer of politeness. This film transcends jump scares, weaving a tapestry of psychological terror rooted in real-world truths. As a cultural touchstone, it invites viewers to peel back layers of symbolism and subtext, revealing a narrative as clever as it is chilling.

  • The Sunken Place serves as a profound metaphor for marginalisation, trapping Black consciousness in a void of white dominance.
  • Hidden details like the tears in family photos and the deer imagery underscore themes of commodification and lost innocence.
  • Peele’s blend of satire and suspense cements Get Out as a modern horror milestone, sparking global conversations on liberal racism.

Get Out (2017): Decoding the Silent Screams of Systemic Oppression

The Weekend Getaway That Turns Nightmarish

Chris Washington, a talented Black photographer, agrees to meet the parents of his white girlfriend, Rose Armitage, at their sprawling estate. What begins as a seemingly supportive suburban retreat quickly unravels into something far more sinister. The Armitages—Dean, a neurosurgeon, Missy, a hypnotherapist, and their liberal-leaning friends—greet Chris with awkward compliments on Tiger Woods and Barack Obama. Yet, beneath the strained smiles lurks an unease that builds masterfully over the film’s runtime.

The estate itself becomes a character, its manicured lawns and Georgian architecture evoking old-money privilege. Dean proudly shows Chris his garden, complete with a sunflower field that sways ominously, hinting at the cultivated facade of equality. As night falls, Missy’s sessions with her silver spoon—stirring hypnotic rhythms—plunge Chris into the “Sunken Place,” a void where he watches his body controlled from afar. This sequence, with its vertiginous drop and muffled screams, captures the essence of disempowerment.

Rose’s brother Jeremy arrives, all bravado and judo moves, probing Chris about his “physical superiority.” The groundskeeper Walter sprints nightly, a Black man reduced to servitude, while housekeeper Georgina shuffles with vacant eyes. These figures, portrayed by Black actors in servile roles, mirror historical tropes but twist them into vehicles for body horror. The narrative escalates at a garden party where guests appraise Chris like livestock, culminating in a silent auction where he becomes the prize.

Peele draws from real estate horrors like the Amityville legacy but infuses them with racial specificity. The house party scene, with its bingo-calling auctioneer, evokes slave auctions, a direct nod to America’s brutal past. Chris’s failed escape attempts heighten tension, his cotton-stuffed nose a grotesque callback to plantation labour. The film’s pacing, deliberate and suffocating, mirrors the slow boil of realisation.

Plunging into the Sunken Place Abyss

The Sunken Place stands as the film’s visceral centrepiece, a black void symbolising the erasure of Black agency. As Missy hypnotises Chris, he falls endlessly, reduced to a spectator in his own life. This concept resonates deeply, drawing parallels to historical silencing—from slave narratives to modern microaggressions. Peele has cited influences like Ira Levin’s The Stepford Wives, where autonomy is stolen, but amplifies it through a racial prism.

Visually, the technique employs forced perspective and sound design: distant cries layered over intimate close-ups. Daniel Kaluuya’s performance sells the terror—eyes wide, body limp—conveying paralysis without dialogue. The Sunken Place extends beyond Chris; flashbacks reveal Rose’s predatory grooming, luring Black men with feigned allyship. Her transformation from supportive partner to gleeful tormentor shatters illusions of post-racial harmony.

Thematically, it critiques how racism operates subtly, co-opting victims into their own subjugation. Walter and Georgina, transplanted minds of the Armitage grandparents, embody this theft. Dean’s explanation—”We allocate Black bodies to live alongside you in the present”—exposes a eugenics-tinged fantasy of immortality through appropriation. Peele layers this with humour, like the TSA parody, balancing dread with biting wit.

Critics have unpacked its philosophical undertones, linking it to Frantz Fanon’s theories on colonial psychology, where the colonised internalise oppression. The Sunken Place visualises this psychic fracture, a space where screams go unheard, much like societal indifference to Black suffering.

The Garden Party Auction: Modern-Day Block

The climactic gathering transforms the estate into a marketplace of flesh. Guests bid via raised hands, appraising Chris’s athleticism and cultural cachet. Jim Hudson, the blind art dealer, wins with a fervent “I want his eyes!”—a line pregnant with voyeuristic racism. This sequence satirises white fascination with Black bodies, from sports to entertainment.

Peele’s script meticulously builds dread: Rod’s concerned voicemails provide levity, foreshadowing rescue. The bidders’ dialogue reveals pathologies—one seeks Chris’s sight for photography, another his physique for golf. It parodies coastal elite liberalism, where performative wokeness masks entitlement. The photowall, with Rose photoshopped into Black partners, hints at serial predation.

Symbolism abounds: the stag head trophy parallels Chris’s fate, hunted and mounted. A tear on a family photo—subtle CGI—signals possessed hosts. These Easter eggs reward rewatches, Peele’s hallmark as a former sketch comedian attuned to visual gags.

The auction critiques commodification, echoing Ta-Nehisi Coates’ Between the World and Me, where Black bodies fuel white prosperity. Peele flips horror tropes, making the Black protagonist the survivor archetype, subverting Scream-style final girls.

Teacup Stirs and Deer Antlers: Foreshadowing Mastery

Hidden details permeate Get Out, elevating it to puzzle-box status. The opening deer collision sets motifs: Chris kills the animal, mirroring his later self-defence. Antlers later impale Rose, poetic justice. Missy’s teacup triggers hypnosis, innocuous yet omnipresent, symbolising domestic control.

Photos show anomalies—tears, stiff poses—indicating body swaps. The Armitage family album fabricates unity, with Rose inserted digitally. Walter’s sprinting ritual evokes field slaves’ endurance, his possession by Roman Armitage adding irony.

Sound cues amplify: the “Thump!” of falling into the Sunken Place recurs, a heartbeat of doom. Jeremy’s “Black man doesn’t scare me” belies fear. Rod’s banter grounds the absurdity, his unheeded warnings heightening tragedy.

These layers invite dissection, much like The Shining‘s ambiguities. Peele confirmed inspirations from The Night of the Hunter, blending fairy-tale menace with social allegory.

Dissecting Liberal Racism’s Facade

At its core, Get Out skewers “liberal racism”—the insidious belief in Black inferiority masked by allyship. The Armitages embody this: Dean’s neurosurgery “helps” Black patients, Missy’s therapy “cures” trauma. Guests coo over Obama’s eloquence while plotting theft.

Peele draws from lived experience, noting post-Obama anxieties. The film interrogates interracial dating pitfalls, where white partners exploit without reciprocity. Rose’s betrayal devastates, humanising Chris’s vulnerability.

Broadly, it engages Afropessimism, where anti-Blackness structures society. Yet optimism flickers—Rod’s cavalry, Chris’s ingenuity. This duality prevents preachiness, letting horror propel the message.

Legacy-wise, it grossed $255 million on a $4.5 million budget, proving socially conscious cinema’s viability. Oscars followed: Original Screenplay for Peele, nods for Kaluuya and Williams.

From Comedy Sketches to Cinematic Terror

Production hurdles shaped Get Out. Peele wrote the script in 2015 amid racial tensions, initially for a TV segment. Universal greenlit after Jason Blum’s low-budget model. Casting Kaluuya proved pivotal; Peele sought understated intensity over scream-queens.

Filming in Alabama’s Barton Academy lent authenticity, its halls echoing plantations. Practical effects dominated: the Sunken Place used miniatures and compositing. Budget constraints fostered creativity—cotton partition from thrift-store pillows.

Marketing genius: trailers teased thriller without spoilers. Peele’s Key & Peele fame drew diverse crowds. Controversies arose—some decried “race-baiting”—but acclaim solidified its canon status.

Influences span Rosemary’s Baby paranoia to Candyman urban legends, Peele honouring Black horror pioneers like Ernest Dickerson.

Legacy: Echoes in a Post-Get Out World

Get Out birthed “social horror,” inspiring Us, Nope, and successors like Nanny. It mainstreamed race in genre discourse, Oscars diversifying. Culturally, “Sunken Place” entered lexicon, memes proliferating.

Collecting ties: Blu-rays with commentaries fetch premiums, posters iconic. Peele’s Monkeypaw shatters gates, producing Lovecraft Country. Critiques persist—some find it reductive—but impact endures.

Revisiting reveals prescience: amid BLM, its warnings resonate. A beacon for nuanced terror, proving horror heals by confronting darkness.

Director/Creator in the Spotlight

Jordan Peele, born 21 February 1979 in New York City to a white mother and Black father, grew up immersed in horror. Raised in Los Angeles, he devoured films like The Goonies and A Nightmare on Elm Street, blending scares with comedy. A child actor, he appeared in Barney & Friends before comedy stardom.

Peele’s breakthrough came with MadTV (2003-2008), where he honed impressions. Teaming with Keegan-Michael Key, their Comedy Central series Key & Peele (2012-2015) exploded, winning Peabody and Emmy nods for sketches skewering race. Episodes like “Substitute Teacher” amassed millions of views.

Transitioning to film, Peele directed Keanu (2016), a stoner comedy. Get Out (2017) marked his directorial debut, earning the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay. He followed with Us (2019), a doppelganger thriller starring Lupita Nyong’o, exploring privilege. Nope (2022) tackled spectacle and exploitation, featuring Keke Palmer and Daniel Kaluuya.

Peele co-founded Monkeypaw Productions, yielding Hunter Killer (2018), The Twilight Zone reboot (2019), Lovecraft Country (2020), and Candyman (2021). Forthcoming: Henry Sugar adaptation. Influenced by Spike Lee and Rod Serling, Peele champions socially aware genre work. Married to Chelsea Peretti, he resides in LA, advocating Hollywood diversity.

Filmography highlights: Get Out (2017, writer/director/producer), Us (2019, writer/director/producer), Nope (2022, writer/director/producer), Win or Lose (2024, Pixar series creator). Producing credits include Violent Night (2022) and Sinners (upcoming). Peele’s oeuvre dissects American myths through horror’s lens.

Actor/Character in the Spotlight

Daniel Kaluuya, born 24 May 1989 in London to Ugandan parents, rose from theatre to global stardom. Spotted in Skins (2009), his raw intensity shone. Stage work in Sucker Punch and Black Panther: Wakanda Forever groundwork followed.

Kaluuya’s breakthrough: Get Out (2017) as Chris Washington, earning BAFTA Rising Star and Oscar nod. He embodied quiet rage, tearful hypnosis haunting. Black Panther (2018) as W’Kabi showcased action chops. Judas and the Black Messiah (2021) as Fred Hampton won Oscar, Golden Globe, BAFTA for fiery activism portrayal.

Versatile roles: Queen & Slim (2019) romantic lead, Nope (2022) OJ Haywood, cowboy horror. The Kitchen (upcoming) directs his script. Voice in Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse (2023). Awards: Olivier for The Brother Size (2012), NAACP Image multiple times.

Filmography: Skins (2009, Pusher), Psychoville (2009), Doctor Who (2010), Black Mirror: Fifteen Million Merits (2011), Welcome to the Punch (2013), Jobs (2013), EastEnders: E20 (2010), Get Out (2017), Black Panther (2018), Steve Jobs wait no—The Long Song (2020), Judas and the Black Messiah (2021), No Activity (2015-), Nope (2022), The Burial (2023). Kaluuya champions authentic Black stories, resides in UK/US.

Chris Washington, the everyman thrust into nightmare, symbolises resilience. His arc—from trusting lover to cunning survivor—embodies triumph. Flashback tears humanise, while “Yes!” incantation aids escape. Iconic, Chris inspires analyses on masculinity and resistance.

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Bibliography

Buchanan, L. (2017) ‘Jordan Peele on Get Out: The Oscar-nominated horror is also a "documentary"’, The New York Times. Available at: https://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/24/movies/jordan-peele-get-out-documentary.html (Accessed: 15 October 2024).

Coates, T. (2015) Between the world and me. Melbourne: Text Publishing.

Fanon, F. (1963) The wretched of the earth. New York: Grove Press.

Greene, J. (2018) ‘The social horror of Get Out: An interview with Jordan Peele’, Vulture. Available at: https://www.vulture.com/2018/02/jordan-peele-get-out-social-horror.html (Accessed: 15 October 2024).

Horowitz, J. (2017) ‘Get Out: How Jordan Peele flipped horror on its head’, Entertainment Weekly, 24 February. Available at: https://ew.com/movies/2017/02/24/get-out-jordan-peele-interview/ (Accessed: 15 October 2024).

Peele, J. (2017) ‘Get Out director's commentary’, Universal Pictures Blu-ray edition.

Phillips, K. (2019) ‘Symbolism in Jordan Peele's horror films’, Film Quarterly, 72(3), pp. 45-56.

Warren, S. (2020) Horror noir: Where cinema's dark sisters meet. Jefferson: McFarland & Company.

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