I've gleefully watched horror genre movies for years without so much as batting an eye — I’ve sat through The Human Centipede without flinching, Midsommar and Hereditary didn't keep me awake at night, and yes, I've called Saw my comfort movie and joked about vacationing in its disgusting bathroom more times than I can count. I thought I had built up immunity to horror's more disturbing releases through maintaining genre-savviness, shielding me from too intense emotional or physical reactions. I thought I had seen it all. And then I watched Bone Tomahawk.