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The
Story:
Straight from the Horse's Dirty Mouth
For twelve scorching days in July in Hollywood,
you can expect Outfest, the Los Angeles Gay & Lesbian
Film Festival. Visiting this event from Seattle for the first time,
LA did not disappoint in the expected luxuries: pool parties and
posh receptions, star studded premieres and paparazzi, dykes impaled
on trees with sharp camping tools, decapitated homo hotties littering
the seedy streets of West Hollywood. Wait a second, where did the
high body count come from, and what is that scratching sound outside
my motel window?
Expanding
from the Sex & Violence theme from NewFest this June,
Outfest features an entire subset of films this year for the first
time under the HomoHorror banner. With two of my horror shorts
in one of the six HomoHorror programs, I make it my mission to view
all of the carnage that Outfest had to offer and meet my fellow
queer horror kin. But as you well know Buzz, horror film scenarios
tend to follow us around, especially when we're on out of town film
festival jaunts, with events in LA turning me into a terrified,
naked final boy on Sunset Boulevard. You're in the jungle baby,
I hope you brought a big knife.
First
on my kill list is the sapphic slasher movie Make a Wish.
I arrived at Outfest the day after it screened, but I was able to
catch it at NewFest and will comment from that. Billed as a lesbian
Friday the 13th, it should be judged off the same checklist.
Holiday horror with a history? Make a wish, birthday girl. Tits
and a scream? Check, including explicit woman on woman sex scenes
bound to confuse straight men. This is not Seduction Cinema
, and these butch tits don't bounce. A bloody death every ten minutes
inflicted with large, sharp instruments? Check, and add a blow torch
to the mix. Now all that's missing are mood, suspense, and a final
girl.
Considering
director Sharon Ferranti's comments about being more interested
in doing romantic comedies than horror, it's no surprise to see
her handling the dyke dating drama with far more finesse than the
murders which provide the film's framework. But perhaps most disturbing
was the similarity of lesbian mating rituals to their gay brothers,
and don't us gay men resemble the horny teens who so easily shed
their clothes that usually fill the victim positions in these films?
Are we all the same quivering, hormonal meat for the conservative
slasher's blade? And how about the phallic weapons used to dispatch
these dykes, especially that flying spear head POV. Bring on the
DePalma debate.
So
the kills aren't scary and the ending could easily be called a cheat,
but I have to disagree with you a little on this one Buzz and say
Make a Wish is a confused slasher curiosity that's worth a look
and a laugh (ed: click here
for my less-forgiving review). It may not be the
next Slumber Party Massacre, but it might be Slumber Party
Massacre II.
It
would be four nights until the next HomoHorror event, back-to-back
screamer/creamers at the lush Village theater and courtyard just
off Santa Monica (beside the tranny-hooker taco stand, for your
future reference). Unable to wait that long for my terror fix, the
night before I picked up the latest Fangoria from the biggest
Hollywood newsstand (across the street from Latino filled jerk-off
booths, I'm in booth #7 on the right, for your reference). This
was also my first night alone in a cheap motel on Sunset Boulevard.
I fell asleep that night reading my beloved Fag-oria, in the heart
of Hollywood the night before my big premiere, lights on, lying
nude atop the covers in the sweltering room. This is the good life...
KNOCK
KNOCK. "Let me in!". RATTLE RATTLE. "Open the door!"
TAP TAP!
I
awoke with a start in a bright, unfamiliar room. Where am I? What
is this banging and shouting rudely intruding into my sleepy-time?
My first sight is my vulnerable naked body lying on a strange bed,
Fangoria laying spread-eagle over my chest. The clock reads 3:45am.
I look toward the window and see that I am not alone.
The
rumbling air conditioning unit is located beneath the center of
the window, and it's upward blowing parts the curtains enough to
give any curious passerby a good peek-a-boo. To my horror, I am
greeted with the wild eyed glare of Charlie Manson's half-brother.
"Open the door!". As our eyes meet, the situation becomes
perfectly clear. If this man gets into the room, he will kill me.
Charlie
2 disappears from the window for another attack at the door.
I
am wide awake in stark-naked terror. I may only have seconds before
he's back at the window. Did I double lock the door? Damn it, where
did I leave my underpants? This is life or death and not the time
to look for my underthings! Grabbing a pillow to cover my trembling
privates, I make my move. The Fango flies. I switch off the light
behind me so he'll lose sight of me. Next, and this is scariest,
I move to the window and billowing curtains to switch off the air
conditioning. Then I barricade the door with a heavy chair.
Thankfully
the door has a peephole, but this crafty creep manages to pound
and throttle the knob while keeping out of my view. He screams,
mostly unintelligibly. I scream like Stretch in Chainsaw 2,
"Go away! Leave my nubile young flesh alone!".
Charlie
2 moves fast for a full on Romero undead assault on the windows.
I remain against the door, hoping the windows will hold and PEEK-A-BOO!
I see Charlie 2's wild eyeball staring though a sliver of window
through the side of the curtains. He can see my dirty pillows!
I
grab the nearby table and drag it to the window, pinning the curtain
against the wall and removing the psycho's penetrating vision. I
have the peephole, and hope this will give me a visual advantage
over him. I think of Argento's Opera and am not relieved.
Charlie
2 scratches at the windows, and I can only hope his fingernails
will hold. Has anyone heard the screaming and called the front desk
yet? Where is the phone in this dark room anyway? I wait at the
peephole. The scratching stops. I hope a large blade doesn't erupt
through the door beside my face, an image vividly illustrated in
the main Outfest promotional still from Paul Etheredge-Ouzts'
queer slasher film Hellbent, easily the biggest HomoHorror
event of the festival. The festival, right, that's why I'm cowering
naked feet away from a local lunatic in a strange city. Are those
two gunshots from the parking lot? Am I to meet Bob Crane's
bloody end on my first night in Hollywood? I barely sleep, bare-assed
in a chair, barricading my door until the dawn brings a new day
and a major double-dose of HomoHorror.
The
first of the evening's horror programs is an event titled Queer
for Fear. This presentation, hosted by Harry M. Benshoff,
author of Monsters in the Closet: Homosexuality and the Horror
Film, is basically a string of horror film clips mixed with
commentary concerning queer representation through the history of
horror cinema. Cute little I'm Queer for Fear buttons are
handed out at the door. A camera crew is stationed inside the auditorium,
and it's announced that the presentation is being filmed for a Queer
for Fear documentary.
Here
I have to admit to the bad taste brought on by Harry's project.
I have read his book twice, and I give him credit for being one
of the first to take on this area of study. I find his views on
the monster queer from earliest cinema through the Stonewall era
to be accurate and illuminating. His incredible blind spot concerns
horror cinema in the post-Halloween era. He dismisses slashers
as too low for critical reading, fails to acknowledge the modern
audience switch in gender identification (hello final girl and final
boy), and does not see that these new protagonists are more frequently
coded queer than the monsters.
The
presentation, at 90 minutes, was not nearly long enough to do this
subject justice. What the audience got were examples of the most
obvious queer monster groupings, followed by footage to prove the
obvious. Here are the queer mad scientists. The only things flaming
in Frankenstein's castle are the homos. Next are the lesbian vampires
and gay-raculas. Fright Night, Daughters of Darkness,
and Interview with the Vampire, we know this already. Oh
no, here come the killer trannies! Hello Norman Bates and Buffalo
Bill, love the dresses. Bad tranny, put down that knife!
Benshoff's
final conclusion is that the horror genre is homophobic, bad for
queers, and a setback for gay acceptance. What kind of trick is
this, feeding the audience so many savory nuggets, then claiming
we have eaten poisonous meat? And how self-serving is it to showcase
Buffalo Bill's cross-flesh-dressing without considering the ways
in which Clarice Starling is coded as Lesbian in the cinematic text
of The Silence of the Lambs? Benshoff's arguments are strongly
similar to those of queer activists who ridiculously protested The
Silence of the Lambs and Basic Instinct over their alleged
queer defamation. Thankfully an audience q&a followed, where
I was first to speak and challenge Benshoff's final point with my
final girls. You go, final girlfriend! Joining in the debate was
Clive Barker, sitting in the row behind me.
Other
star sightings at the Queer for Fear panel include CampBlood's latest
pin-up boy, Paul Etheredge-Ouzts
(ed: how did you know about that pin-up?!),
and in the courtyard before the show, Jack (Event Horizon)
Noseworthy, who could be seen in the Outfest selection Poster
Boy.
Following
Queer for Fear was the LA premiere of my short films Mime After
Midnight and Pervula in the Horrorific program.
While NewFest's The Dark Side shorts program featured only one film
that could be classified as splatter, LA ladled on the redrum, with
the exception of two retro vampire romps. First up was Fashion
Victim, a hilarious quickie with a chunk-blowing finale, which
also had the distinction of being filmed in one of the Village's
restrooms. Alas, I could not find any stray chunks. Next was A
Nightmare on Castro Street, a drag redressing of the original
Freddy Krueger film. Though it contained many gut-busting and hurling
moments, the stolen scores from the Elm Street series and other
Hollywood films made me wish the filmmakers had tried harder to
create their own identity. Chickula! Teenage Vampire, a decade
old offering from Angela (D.E.B.S.) Robinson,
was a hip-shaking throwback to 1950s teen and monster movies in
the form of a sensational trailer, but with the subtextual lesbianism
finally taking center stage. Nightshadows, the final film
in the program, is the most nightmarish and successful in mating
gay and horror genres. Detailing the worst dating scenario and adding
on a haunting, Nightshadows had the audience jumping and will give
everyone pause before their next anonymous encounter. This one scores
a ten on the beefcake scale and is the only film in the program
to feature hot man-on-man action.
Guest
appearances at Horrorific: Paul Etheredge-Ouzts, obviously a die-hard
horror hound. Director Joe (Terror Toons, Jackhammer)
Castro, Nightshadows director J.T. Seaton, actors
Jerry G. (Nightshadows, Delta
Delta Die) Angelo and Scott (Scarecrow
Slayer) Steep.
The
next night's HomoHorror feature was to be The Sisterhood,
director David DeCoteau's lesbian variation on his The
Brotherhood series. With less than two days notice, the film
was dropped from the program without explanation. Buzz, I can only
imagine how heartbroken you would have been had you made the cross
country trip only to be denied the charms of DeCoteau's latest offering.
Taking The Sisterhood's place was the non-HomoHorror LA premiere
of the latest agit-doc The Hunting of the President, which
certainly looks scary in a Hell House kind of way.
On
Outfest's final Friday came the slasher film we had all been creaming
for, Hellbent. In a brilliant programming move, the film
was shown at the John Ansen Ford Ampitheater, basically a walk-in
drive-in movie theater backed by eerie Hollywood hills. The sound
played at concert level volume, with blasting punk rock and piercing
man screams likely audible at the Hollywood Bowl across the freeway.
What a perfect backdrop for a movie where a shirtless, Colt model
killer in a devil horned mask lurks in the Hollywood hills and stalks
four costumed, queer party boys through West Hollywood's Halloween
street celebration.
If
ever a film deserved the CampBlood seal of approval, this is the
one. This is slasher done right on most every level, and the screams
it elicited from the crowd were genuine and well earned. Hellbent
takes the time to establish the friendships between its four protagonists,
so when they finally begin to be dispatched, each murder is a brutal
shock. Cleverly, while each of the friends fulfills a slasher film
stereotype (the final boy, the jock, the nerd, the stud), they do
not come off as queer stereotypes. Not only are they recognizable,
but they seem like a fun group to party with.
Each
murder in Hellbent is a stand-out, disturbing, giallo-influenced
setpiece. Director Etheredge-Ouzts knows that the foreplay is as
important as the climax, and each death scene builds razor sharp
tension until the life-ending cut, each slice prolonged and painful
to watch. And count on those spurting money shots; this film paints
the walls of seedy toilets and fills the gutters of West Hollywood
with young, hung blood.
Hellebnt
is the film that will truly herald in this newly outed queer horror
genre (though let's credit Clive Barker for paving the way). Paul
Etheredge-Ouzts is a notable new talent who we must desperately
convince to remain in CampBlood territory. It will be a shock if
Hellbent doesn't secure at least a limited theatrical run. Which
brave indy will step up and out for this crowd pleaser? It will
be interesting to see if the film can surpass its queer identity
and find favor with a wide straight horror audience.
Roll
out the blood red carpet, here are the screening's guest appearances,
starting with the entire cast of Hellbent and its director, who
teased us with sexy talk of a sequel. Add director Joe Castro, original
Fangoria publisher Kerry O'Quinn, actor Kevin Spirtas
(a.k.a. Kevin (Friday VII: The New Blood, The Hills Have
Eyes 2) Blair), and director Victor Salva.
Following
the screening, I walk the streets of West Hollywood alone to my
new cheap motel on Sunset Boulevard. Needless to say I'm completely
creeped out, having just watched a film where young, lonely homos
like me, walking the same streets, get cut up real good. This was
the seminal night for queer horror, and I just knew that more freaky
shit was going to happen to me.
This
also happens to be my final night in Hollywood. I make it back to
the motel safely. Double lock the doors. The air conditioner is
away from the curtains, what a relief. The air conditioning hardly
works, so I decide to open the bathroom window. Wait a minute, an
open window could have killed me the other night. Luckily I'm on
the second floor and the window is in the back on a ledgeless wall.
If I can't get it cooler inside I fear I'll become one of Wes
Craven's human french fries. Nobody can get to the window or
crawl through the narrow slats, so don't be a pussy. I leave the
window open and return to the main room.
Something
came through the window.
Deja-vu,
I'm sitting naked on the bed with my favorite porn mag, Fangoria.
And out of the corner of my eye I see the rising shadow of the devil
horned killer from Hellbent rising up the wall beside me. I nearly
scream. There's only one solitary horn rising up the wall now. Hold
on, it's a creature of some sort, and it's Troma-sized. I'm facing
another irate local villain, the infamous Sunset Cockroach.
The Fango flies, again. "I'll get you, faggot" the Sunset
Cockroach hisses at me, and I know that in its eyes I am a human
french fry. It takes a detour first into the garbage container beside
the wall.
This
final boy leaps into action, sans underpants, grabbing the top of
the garbage bag and tying a knot. I realize I cannot kill it, since
I don't want to sink to the level of my would-be killer. We've seen
too many final girls forever scarred from that. Horror tradition
has also taught me that when an interloper kills a local, the local's
cousins get very angry.
Real
angry is Sunset Cockroach now, clicking and hissing and rustling
the sack. It will get out. The rest of the night consists of mind
games and escape attempts, and it requires constant vigilance to
keep this cunning, man-eating machine in place (think Farrah
Fawcett and her rapist-in-a-cage from Extremities). I
slept very few winks on that final terrifying Hollywood night, but
it sure makes for a good tale around the campfire later. Just don't
put someone's eye out with a flaming marshmallow (this happened
in my sister's girl scout troop, isn't that horrible?).
It
is with much regret that I must report my horrorific trip to LA
had to end two hours before the next night's final HomoHorror presentation,
a retrospective screening of the The Hunger, also at the
John Ford Ampitheater. What a Goth's wet deathdream it would have
been to see the Hollywood Hills turned into a Goth club booming
"Bela Lugosi's Dead".
The
only thing that was missing from this trip was you, Buzz. But I'm
confident you will be there next time with me. There's safety in
numbers, and along with the other CampBlood alumni, we will be a
force of final boys to be reckoned with. Benshoff beware! In a few
years I envision CampBlood merchandise stores beside Hot Topic
in malls across America. If the many sold out HomoHorror screenings
are any indication, there is now a demand for same-sex and a scream.
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