AmericAn horror writer
And blogger SeAn Abley lookS
At the relAtionShip between gAy
people And film’S dArkeSt genre
T
he link between homosexuality and horrorfilms has been debated rigorously and endlessly in books, blog posts and film classes for almost as long as gay people have gone to the movies. What is it about a genre filled with sex, violence and heightened performances that appeals so strongly to queer men?
There are those who feel the tropes of the horror genre are analogous to the struggles, wants and aspirations of the gay community. And there are those who point to the pure entertainment aspect that appeals to all audiences while pooh-poohing the queer connection with a “Well, who wouldn’t want to be Carrie?” rationale.
From an entertainment point of view this affinity makes total sense, especially for certain specific horror genre skews (much like the LGBT community, horror is a rainbow of many colours). For instance, revenge fantasies. Who didn’t feel different in high school? Who didn’t want to burn their bullies to death at the prom? Wouldn’t that have felt great? Wistful late at night scenarios about offing the local A-holes or the cruel captain of the football team (or fucking him, but that’s a different genre…) are made flesh in movies like Carrie, Jennifer’s Body, Tamara (written by out screenwriter Jeffrey Reddick) and, God help us, I Spit On Your Grave.
The slashers of the 80s started out as gritty indie grindhouse fare (see the original Friday the 13th, Maniac, etc.) then, courtesy of the major studios, morphed into big menus of people you want to see, which is not necessarily a bad thing. For a community under-represented on screen, and under-appreciated in life, watching those gaggles of guys and gals butchered as they perform those disgusting heterosexual sex acts can be a tonic. And let’s be honest – boobies are kind of fun.
The ‘final girl’ phenomenon certainly speaks to our community as well. The final girl isn’t the slut, or the bitch, or the bitch’s best friend, nor is she always the virgin; she’s the survivor. She isn’t magical like Carrie White; she’s an ordinary girl in extraordinary circumstances. Think Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween (1978), or Jennifer Love Hewitt in I Know What You Did Last Summer (1997), or in the most meta of meta movies, Neve Campbell’s Sidney Prescott in Scream (1996); girls using all their smarts to outsmart the masked killer, aka the ultimate bully. When we watch the late Marilyn Burns, covered in blood, escaping in the back of a pick-up truck, maniacally laughing at Leatherface’s attempts to catch up in the final moments of Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974), we can’t help but think, ‘Been there, honey.’
As far as identifying with our captors, one could argue the affinity for any genre would be the opportunity to see oneself, yet we’re so infrequently out and proud in horror films, and too frequently in and ashamed, one wonders where the appeal lies. Perhaps it’s comforting to see those coded images, proof that we do exist, albeit in a less than
scream queens_aTTITuDe
spectacular way. Maybe time allows us to enjoy those old films with the gay murderer, the queer victim or the sensitive red herring knowing that we’re allowed to demand more in 2015.
As we look to the past, on the far end of the ‘Is he or isn’t he?’ scale we have
Psycho (1960). There are those who
theorise Alfred Hitchcock’s masterpiece has a queer element, finely parsing Anthony Perkins’ performance as Norman Bates for any sign of homo tendencies, but in my opinion this is an example of academic overreach. Yes, his sexuality and gender expression could fall somewhere on the queer spectrum – he is driven to adopt the persona (and outfit) of his mother and kill the naked pretty girl the moment he’s sexually attracted to her. In queer director Gus Van Sant’s pointless 1998 remake, Vince Vaughn’s Norman actually masturbates while spying on Marion (Anne Heche) before slaughtering her. But having problems relating to women doesn’t make one gay, nor does struggling with gender issues. Certainly in the well- crafted Bates Motel TV series, Norman is played more as a garden variety schizophrenic with mommy issues than a teen struggling with sexuality and gender... So far.
A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy’s Revenge (1985), on the other hand, takes
the sub out of subtext and hands the audience a classroom-ready Queer Film Studies 101 lesson plan. Out star Mark Patton (NOES2’s ‘Jesse’) stood fast with his assertion the film is basically a gay love story, and after years of denials the filmmakers finally admitted he was right. How anyone involved thought a nightmare involving the protagonist picking up his gym teacher in a leather bar, then watching him flogged to death naked in the gym shower by Freddy could be considered anything but gay, gay, gay is beyond this writer. Add the homoerotic relationship between
Jesse and co-star Robert Rusler’s ‘Grady’ (including a sleepover in their underwear) and quotes like, “He’s inside me and he wants to take me again!” and you have a queer horror film for the ages.
Eventually, the homo movie audience started demanding more and ‘the gay best friend’ arrived. In the romantic comedy the GBF is a shoulder to cry on while the leading lady figures out she actually is beautiful and attractive to the man of both their dreams; in the drama the GBF lives next door and is very concerned when the leading lady’s baby goes missing; and in the horror film he’s fodder for the body count, while the leading lady (if she’s a final girl) skips away, wiser for the experience, and more importantly, not dead.
Sometimes the gay best friend got cut to fabulous ribbons because he was, indeed, gay. Whether implicit in the dialogue, or implied by the film, gay accessories have traditionally been expendable. In The Eyes of Laura Mars (1978), Faye Dunaway literally sends her gay best friend to his death by asking him to dress in her clothes and act as a decoy, even though she knows a killer is stalking her. (Her lesbian model co- workers suffer the same fate). Sorry gay best friend, but you understand, right? Ms. Mars and her heterosexual male colleagues are much more important and the audience can identify with them, whereas your sassy antics make them think uncomfortable thoughts (often about themselves).
In a mark of true equality, sometimes the gay best friend dies because he’s equally inconvenient as the straight supporting line-up. In out writer/director Don Mancini’s Bride of Chucky (the fourth instalment of the Child’s Play franchise) the gay best friend is unceremoniously hit by a truck and vaporised. But in this case, the gay best friend wasn’t killed because he was gay – he was killed because he wasn’t Katherine Heigl or Nick Stabile.