A number of recent scholarly works are devoted to studies of filmic representations of the Holocaust. Notable examples include Henry Gonshak's Hollywood and the Holocaust (2015) and Aaron Kerner's Film and the Holocaust: New Perspectives on Dramas, Documentaries, and Experimental Films (2011). Brian E. Crim's new book makes a valuable contribution to this literature by focusing more narrowly on metaphorical representation within the genres of science fiction and horror. In Crim's careful readings, “trauma, guilt, grief, ideological fervor and perversion, and industrialized killing” found in works of sci-fi and horror subtly resonate as metaphorical markers of standard Holocaust tropes (3). Crim contends that representing the Holocaust in such popular works as he discusses should be regarded as a serious attempt to engage with the horrors of the Shoah (5). Just as Steven Spielberg's Schindler's List (1993) references Night and Fog (1955) and Shoah (1985), similar Holocaust citations can be found in the popular zombie series The Walking Dead (2010–). Moreover, for Crim, the horror and science fiction genres conjure the Holocaust through their iconography rooted in Weimar and Nazi cinema (10). Crim provides detailed analysis of works ranging from the acclaimed neo-noir film Blade Runner (1982) to Amazon's The Man in the High Castle (2015). These various dystopian works vividly depict the existential search for meaning as more prosaically discussed by Viktor Frankl and Elie Wiesel. Additionally, these works all raise the troubling political and ethical question of precisely how such tyrannical regimes could come into existence—the “fatal flaw” that created these moral wastelands (190).

Crim begins his study by examining Holocaust imagery in the zombie genre. Beyond the obvious symbolism of the Zombie as a predator, zombies also instantiate the liminal boundary between life and death. Crim remarks that the zombie represents “modernity's assault on the citizen” as well as signals the “return of genocide” (27). The walking dead bare secrets that the living would like to forget, and force the survivors to come to grips with the past (28). In films like Abel Gance's J'accuse (1919) and George Romero's Living Dead series (1968–2009), Crim argues that “legions of the undead seem capable of overrunning a deeply flawed, perhaps irredeemably corrupt America” (31). In The Walking Dead, science and government both prove ineffectual, reminding the viewer of the atrocities of the early twentieth century (32). Crim argues that the annihilation of zombies alludes to the “genocide of colonial peoples, Jews, and other historic victim groups” (33). Crim's comparison of zombies to the historical representation of Muselmänner (concentration camp victims in the final stage of emaciation) is evocative of Holocaust terror and abuse; as Giorgio Agamben suggests, it is a site for the experiment on “morality and humanity” (quoted in Crim, 37). Crim convincingly makes the case that The Walking Dead's Terminus storyline (50–53) is a metaphor for the Holocaust and showcases its most iconic imagery in order to scrutinize agency and culpability.

Crim examines trauma and guilt in subsequent chapters, as well as analyzes what he terms “Nazi monsters” (81). Crim provides the moving portrait of the survivor in The Pawnbroker (1964) paired alongside the HBO series The Leftovers (2014–2017) to mark survivors in the grip of “silent trauma” (56). Crim argues that more traditional narratives fail to capture the unimaginable nature of genocide when compared with more metaphoric representations in the horror genre. The viewer is thus able to “live next to” protagonists like Sol Nazerman (The Pawnbroker) and Nora Durst (The Leftovers), who serve to remind us of the real possibility of future atrocities (60). Crim raises the question: do we want to “exorcise” our demons, or do we yearn for the fascination of terror “unmoored” from history (81). Nazi sign and symbol proliferate in popular culture with “zombies” present in thrillers like Shock Waves (1977), Night of the Zombies (1981), Dead Snow (2009), and Frankenstein's Army (2013). In each of these works, the dead haunt the living (94). In The Boys (1987) and The Strain (2014–2017), the creators employ “Gothic antisemitism, Nazi supernatural imaginary, and Holocaust imagery” (105).

Crim provides analysis of the Nazi mindset through depictions of demons, cyborgs, and Astrofascism. Images of grisly death and destruction in World War II—specifically the concentration camps—provide fodder for horror film in Western culture. In classics like The Boys from Brazil (1978) and The Night Porter (1974), Crim argues that the “fascists are among us” (118). The author's analysis of The Omen trilogy (1976–1981) sheds light on weaknesses in modern social structures; white privilege and colonialism are present as well as the tenuous boundaries between order and disorder (125).

Crim argues that Astrofascism is employed in science fiction as a critique of civilizations that “embrace fascist aesthetics, ideology, and methodology,” especially the idea of genocide and the racial state (143). Crim tracks this phenomenon in works like Starship Troopers (1997), Iron Sky (2012), the Star Trek series (1968), and the Star Wars trilogy (1977–1983) (146).

Crim provides a valuable contribution to Holocaust scholars by having us pay attention to metaphorical representations in works of horror and science fiction. Especially interesting is Crim's analysis of Blade Runner and The Terminator (1984), which testify to the horrifying idea of industrial genocide. In the case of the cyborg, humans cannot be trusted with this technology and the moral imperative that it requires. Crim's treatment of classic films like Blade Runner as well as the series The Walking Dead feature human-like fiends who “slash, stab, and murder” (9). For Crim, these representations bridge the gap between the Holocaust and popular culture as “traumatic realism” allows viewers to approach extremity in everyday life (8). These genres present the Holocaust on both literal and allegorical levels, with the promise of allowing a greater understanding of the event (8–9). It is possible to use this cultural capital to comment on the present without necessarily slipping into “crass commercial exploitation” (118). Crim's provocative analysis will make this book an excellent source for both scholars and students working on cultural representations of the Holocaust.