Anybody who expected the 21st century's horror films to represent women much better than their predecessors must not read the news, since masculine rage appears to increase in proportion to female autonomy. Women may be more visible — in higher education, in the workplace, leading in mainstream films — but in contemporary horror, a girl’s visibility is her vulnerability. Violence begins with the camera, and with these women’s willingness to appear, dressed or undressed, in front of it. Being seen is its own sick punishment. In these kinds of pictures, exposure is torture.

Perhaps we’ll get virtual-reality storytelling right when we learn to switch codes; creators can offer immersive experiences when the story calls for them, and they can use a limited, cinematic field of vision when they need to advance the plot. Maybe, instead of replacing the language of film, then, VR must absorb it. VR is both a radical new medium and an inadequate version of a preexisting one; it challenges narrative conventions and shows us how much we rely on them.

Brian De Palma has always been an early adopter, disorienting the eye with Steadicams and split lenses; he was digitizing his storyboards by the early ’90s. He exploits new technology to shoot from high, cloistered angles and cramped positions — positions only a voyeur could love. “Even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you're unseen,” the old Margaret Atwood line goes. “You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.” But now you’re also your own exhibitionist. You can offer selective details through frosted screens; you can overlay versions of reality on semi-transparent frames. You can let watchers know that you’re watching yourself be watched.

Not long ago I discovered that Mosfilm, the Russian film studio that did its best and strangest work during the last decades of the Soviet Union, had posted most of their films on a YouTube channel. I have no idea where Mosfilm’s commercial and political imperatives intersect, if at all, but it’s a bad idea to watch Soviet films without the background hum of paranoia. After all, that’s the spirit in which they were made. Some have subtitles, others don’t. Except for the Tarkovsky films, already long popular in the West, I’d never seen any of them before, but had an impulse to binge. I watched them more as objects than as stories, without knowing exactly why.