Film

All posts in the Film category

Why Can’t I Be You?

Published March 8, 2023 by biggayhorrorfan

“William likes horror films, too,” Lou informs me, one Sunday afternoon in August after mass.

“Really?”

“Yeah!”

“Nice! We should hang out!”

William, who has the soft, handsome looks of some teen sex comedy hero, is visiting Lou for a few days before beginning college at SUNY Buffalo. In fact, he is just one of many attractive young men who have visited Lou, ever the youth loving pied piper, over the years since he has arrived at St Patrick’s. I never question this virile form of loyalty, though. More than anything, I feel a familial sense of pride. Lou, who is so popular, is like our family uncle & he, seemingly, loves us more than any of these affection hungry intruders from parishes long past. So, I always provide the guys who arrive for quick intervals of time with a bit of brotherly compassion. A benediction, as it were, from the one who is truly favored.

Almost by accident, we pick the perfect evening to gather. Fright Night, which I saw in theaters the summer before, is debuting on HBO and I am eager to revisit it. William hasn’t seen it, so I happily recount to him, while drinking our pre-movie fest sodas in the rectory kitchen, about watching it with a small group of kids from a theater troupe I had joined the year previously. Every time Jonathan Stark’s Billy, the vampire-villain’s slavishly devoted sidekick appeared, we would gleefully shout out “Gay! Gay!” at the screen! Since that evening, though, I have secretly wondered about the authenticity of those outbursts. What if the Billy character wasn’t gay? He could have just been extremely devoted to his master. I had seen the slavish way the nuns had reacted around priests all my life…some almost trembling with devotion when they walked into room…and there was surely nothing sexual there…or so I hoped. The thought of a shaven headed, wrinkle skinned ghoul flagellating herself over love for an unreachable colleague a la Vanessa Redgrave in The Devils, one bizarre cult film that my father actually heartily encouraged me to watch (in Lou’s living room, nonetheless, as it came on during one of their late night talk-a-thons) due to its literary and historical references, was simply too much for me to imagine.

Besides, if there was going to be homosexuality portrayed on the screen, why couldn’t it be straightforward? The Billy-Jerry relationship was cloistered in secrecy and innuendo and sadistic power plays – another coupling, if that was even what it was, that made something secret and shameful out of being gay. I would have actually much preferred Charley, the tentative, moonstruck hero, and Ed, his socially awkward best buddy, being the leading couple as opposed to Charley and Amy, the no bullshit lass who, ultimately, became the object of desire for both central male characters. As if to make up for this affront, Ricky, a member of the acting group, and I parked in the alley behind that movie theater, post-viewing, and passionately made out. Once or twice, we had to duck below the swinging orb-like glow of police lights – an adventurous thrill. My grandfather was the postmaster of Dunkirk, the small town where we would gather to rehearse and often perform for civic groups, and the thought of his reputation taking a hit due to the discovery of my deviant midnight lip locking seemed both horrifying and recklessly thrilling all at once. The fact that the handsome, raven haired Ricky, a confirmed bisexual who was already the father of two-year-old twin boys, exuded a devil-may-care, new wave James Dean vibe only heightened the power of those moments. 

But that all seemed very long ago and despite my outward enthusiasms, I pulsed with the nervous energy that accompanies one leaving home for the very first time. College was just days away and I was distracted, seemingly filing that long ago sexual energy away for some true love that I knew was just waiting around the corner in Chicago. I could picture him now – some rippling, dexterous athlete running down the corridors of my dorm, tossing a football, thoughtlessly, in the air…our eyes would latch…and… Or maybe we would even meet cute like Frannie and Kirk on As The World Turns, an accidental collision turning from a rude and caustic energy to an undeniable connection. 

Back in the present, though, I am curious about William’s decision to commute to college from home. “Don’t you want to escape from your parents a bit?” I ask as Jerry whirls the dazed Amy around the dance floor, attempting to seduce her away from the frenzied, (wrongfully) love struck Charlie. 

“Maybe by my junior year. This is more convenient now…and with my job and school, it seems like I’ll barely see my parents.”

This reasoning baffles me. My every aching, straining move since middle school has been to escape my present circumstances. I have been keen to cut through the strangling vines of my familial cords with a vibrant incisiveness and establish myself someplace, far away, in a world of freedom and creativity. The lure of this imagined plane has been so compelling that even the thought of failing my Regents Exams – which would have put a definitive damper on my aspirations – couldn’t interrupt my dreamy, cobble stoned wanderings. Even when studying in those last days of high school, I could barely concentrate, preferring to listen to the haunting strains of Suzanne Vega’s debut album…imagining the lyrical processes that went into writing a song like Marlene on the Wall. Which of Ms. Dietrich’s films had inspired Vega, I wondered.

Maybe William was questioning his choices, as well, and that was the reason he has come to visit Lou…to get advice and support. I can’t comprehend why anyone would really want to remain at home when the whole world glistened with adventure, with opportunities almost too precious to behold.

The credits roll and the next movie is announced. Ninja 3: The Domination. I am a little disappointed. I have no interest in some chop ‘em, sock ‘em Bruce Lee rip-off.

“Oh, wow. This one is really awesome. Have you seen it?”

“No. Have you?”

“Yeah. It’s this crazy demonic possession horror flick meets action-karate mish-mash. It’s wild. You’re going to love it!”

I have a feeling I will. I am also slightly jealous. It bothers me that I have never even heard of this movie while William has had full knowledge of its sure to be never fading awesomeness. Lucinda Dickey, who I’ve also never heard of for some reason – another sorrowful occurrence, plays a telephone line woman-aerobics instructor, bringing all the wonders of the multi-hyphenate to life in one role. She, indeed, is also possessed by the evil spirit of a ninja warrior – leading to floating, wind machine influenced, Linda Blair circa Exorcist 2 light shows. As the mayhem enfolds, William and I settle back into the comfortable space of two acquaintances connected by one powerful force. It’s as if the rhythm of Lou’s slumber-built breathing, coming from somewhere up in the rafters of the second floor, binds us. We will, surely, never see each other again, but both on the cusp of new beginnings and bound by the patronage of such an unusual force, we seem united and a brotherly contentment washes over us. We hug, with hearty back slaps, after the credits roll and I drive home, dreamily imagining, that in mere weeks I will no longer be this shimmering, barely formed mortal gliding, dreamily, down country roads. I will no longer be this person who merely passes the time away with a stranger, waiting for the revolution to begin. It will have already started —- in Chicago!

Impulsively, I drive back to the rectory the next morning. I want to drop off a couple magazines featuring coverage on Fright Night for William. I am possession hungry, but feeling the weight of my upcoming departure, I decided, after settling into bed last night, that I would shed some of the fat of my media works in commemoration of one of my final evenings in my hometown. It’s a hit and run moment. I pass the magazines quickly off to William, wish him well and start to head for the door. As I turn to go, though, I sense the flicker of Lou’s hand moving under the table… and I see a tension enter William’s frame as he flips through an article in a year-old issue of Fangoria. I am stunned into immobility for a moment. In a reverse sense of egoism, I had always assumed that I was the only one that Lou fondled in such a manner. For the first time, I consider that might not be the case. It’s a haunting thought. 

But I am on a forward rushing trajectory, ultimately. I have no time to ruminate on the unknown, on relationships other than my own. I have college boyfriends to obtain and future stardom to initiate. The door to the rectory, with that oasis of wonder gleaming far beyond it, is looming before me. I regain my momentum. Without a glance back, I move on. 

Note: (My first horror movie buddy was a priest named Lou Hendricks. Several years ago, Hendricks was named by the Western New York Catholic diocese as one of their most unrepentant predators in the ’70s and ’80s. Thus, I grew up watching monster movies with a monster – a man who was like an uncle to our family. Over the next few months, I will be sharing some of my stories from that period of time.)

Peek-A-Boo

Published March 1, 2023 by biggayhorrorfan

I had made up my mind that it was never going to happen.

But Channel 59 was playing a Saturday October afternoon marathon of neutered horror flicks – Halloween 2, A Nightmare on Elm Street and Carrie – all interrupted, periodically, with brightly announced ads for local car dealerships along with speaker exploding reminders about the playtimes of long cancelled network shows and newly produced syndicated sitcoms. “See Mama’s Family every Saturday night at 7:30!” and – “Go back to a simpler time every afternoon from 3 to 4 with the Ingalls Family and Little House on the Prairie! Unsurprisingly, that Little House time slot was a favorite at Eden Heights, the old folk’s home that I volunteered at every Wednesday afternoon with several other eager, socially minded classmates. One of the beleaguered yet incredibly feisty residents – she once spat at a visiting Bishop and threw the rosary that he offered her back into his mighty, quickly reddening face – was a particular fan of the show. Every time that I entered the home with my fellow ambassadors of conscientiousness, I could hear her bellowing from her bed, “1,2,3, 4! The kids are here! The kids are here! I’m gonna kiss ‘em then I’m going kill ‘em. I’m gonna kiss ‘em then I’m gonna kill ‘em. Then, 1-2-3-4, I am gonna make ‘em sit ‘n watch Little House on the Prair-r-r-ie!” She, quite simply, was my heroine. 

Her outrageousness seemed on the same Zen-like plane as Patti Smith, a squawky voiced punk priestess whose LPs I had begun discovering in cut out bins, after school, at mid-range department stores like Fisher’s Big Wheel. Most recently, I had found her 1976 recording Radio Ethiopia shoved into a tightly packed, impulse buy side rack at a grocery store checkout lane in Salamanca, New York.  I loved the incongruity of finding an LP that featured a song called Pissing in a River, which I was surprised to discover was a fairly mournful ballad about the fading embers of youth, in a supermarket that catered to grade school moms and the hopeful, soon to be tenured teachers at the nearby academy of higher learning. 

That afternoon, unsurprisingly, Lou also had his own ideas about further education- in this case, my own. Gathered together in his living room to watch the previously described, mostly bloodless terror-thon, he nestled against me, leaning his head on my shoulder, breathing words of hysterically inept seduction. 

“You can take me like Rod takes Tina, stud,” he whispered in my ear, referencing A Nightmare on Elm Street’s doomed couple.

I chuckle nervously.

“That didn’t end so well, Lou.”

“True.” Beat.  “You’re no fun,” he purrs with a cattish pout. He’s a round, bald bastardization of Ann Margret in Bye, Bye Birdie, a film that my brother and sister and I have recently watched in this very room while my parents were visiting, gossiping about church business into the long hours of a small town Saturday night. Now, on a kittenish roll, he begins rubbing at my crotch in long, incredibly cloying circles. I shift away from him, decidedly uncomfortable, a fact that he just as decidedly ignores. 

“Take me now, Brian, and I’ll buy you a flower and bring you to the prom like Tommy did with Carrie.” His eyes twinkle, a comic counterpoint to a statement that is not only desperately silly, but almost unknowingly cruel. It hits too closely upon desires that I have long harbored in secret. I would love for some handsome young athlete to proudly escort me to a school dance. Often I have longingly stared at schoolmates driving off from Homecoming mixers in cars with their college age sweethearts. How, I wonder each time, did they pull off such a seeming impossible, totally desirable coup? Even my dreams at night are filled with images of me on dinner dates with ripped n ready soap opera studs…and the fact that Lou so assuredly crowns himself as being superior to them in desirability pushes at me with a fiery force. 

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s do it!!”

“What?”

“Show me what you got!”

For the first time ever, I grab at his pants. Leering my fingers at his belt, I jerk at it with awkward revulsion…pawing at him, almost claw-like, the way my mother must do with certain objects. I have watched her make the motions I am now making 1000s of times. Her right hand withered by a childhood bout with polio, I have had to help her open cans, latch the buttons of her girdle, reach for out of place objects since the early days of my childhood. Now, I am, momentarily, afflicted like her, the physical cause of my distress not some relentless virus, but the seemingly unstoppable sexual overtures of Lou. 

For the first time, Lou seems a bit nervous, if agreeable.

“Let me do it,” he squeaks. Then, in what is probably mere seconds, but feels like a film-roll eternity, his black tweed pants are down and bunched at his thighs. I almost laugh at what their unbuttoning reveals. Lou’s underwear is luminously grandfatherly – large, white cotton briefs with majestic give. Standing there, momentarily knock-kneed, he hardly represents the “underflair” highlighted in actor-model Jack Scalia’s highly provocative ads for Eminence briefs. 

Still, pent up annoyance rallying me forth, I reach for their elastic band below Lou’s smooth, rounded gut. Maybe he has an amazing cock? It almost might make this worth it, but…

No.

It is stubby and short – a thin 4 and a half inches. But I’ve started this and, as with the other awkward encounters I’ve had with older summer stock actors, I believe I’ve begun this, so I have to see it through. I don’t want to suck it, though, so I cup my palm around it – squeeze it once, twice, three times. Lou gasps as tiny drools of ejaculate start to leak from the tip.

Suddenly, a car door slams and the sound of crunching gravel echoes closer and closer to the back entrance of the rectory. It is my father coming to pick me up. 

Lou’s eyes flare with mortified adrenaline. He hikes forward, dragging his pants up his nearly hairless legs, hitching his fingers into his underwear and pulling them towards his belly almost simultaneously. Boisterously calling out “Hello,” my father enters through the kitchen, as Lou scatters up the stairs to change. 

I wipe my thankfully clean hands down the sides of my jeans as I turn towards the television. Jamie Lee Curtis, clad only in a hospital nightgown & what I can only assume is a very bad wig, hobbles down a long & winding corridor – a dankly lit path that does not seem to end. I sigh, as my father swings his head into the room and waves at me. I nod, my thoughts elsewhere. I am concentrating on Jamie and the path she jaggedly weaves down. I think that if she can make it out alive, maybe so can I.

Note: (My first horror movie buddy was a priest named Lou Hendricks. Several years ago, Hendricks was named by the Western New York Catholic diocese as one of their most unrepentant predators in the ’70s and ’80s. Thus, I grew up watching monster movies with a monster – a man who was like an uncle to our family. Over the next few months, I will be sharing some of my stories from that period of time.)

I Fall to Pieces

Published February 22, 2023 by biggayhorrorfan

“I can’t say much about his performance, but that Kendall…wow!”

“Yeah?”

“What a cock!!!”

Thus, was Father Lou’s nuanced, all-encompassing assessment of Pieces, the Euro-trash epic I had, gleefully, discovered in the video section at the mini-mart in East Randolph, NY. This store had sprung up, seemingly overnight, at the corner of Main & Williams during my freshman year at college, a rumored tax write-off for a group of enterprising parents hoping to gather funds to pay for the college educations of their small town fleeing offspring. I definitely appreciated that notion of escape and the fact that the walls of the tiny rental area in the bodega sized pop-up were filled with such offerings as the Friday the 13th films, Dario Argento’s Creepers and Blood Sucking Freaks.

The lurid red of the Pieces’ VHS box had practically called out to me upon entering the space one evening, while the film itself had delighted me with its decidedly weird energy. The actors seemed unconnected not only to each other, but to the material as a whole. The violence was over-the-top, but ultra-unrealistic, as well. The unexpected supernatural twist at the film’s end also reminded me of the out-of-the-grave hand reach from Carrie and I was proud of myself for beginning to recognize influences and repeat behaviors from film to film.

Most importantly, as a collector of actresses, Lynda Day George’s name beneath the advertising artwork had definitely drawn me in, as well. I adored her from her performances in such environmental horror epics as Ants and Day of the Animals. Despite her almost artificially stunning Hollywood beauty, she always seemed ready to throw herself into the muddiness that the roles she played required.  In particular, the plotline of Ants required her to breathe through a tube, remaining perfectly still, while a quadruple baker’s dozen of insects crawled wildly over her impossibly porcelain skin. In Pieces, she almost one upped this dynamic in a sequence that found her paralyzed by a drug injection while enduring the threats of the recently revealed serial killer culprit of the film.

Savoring the multi-day rental period, I brought the tape over to Lou’s rectory on a heat strewn Wednesday evening. Occasionally, I would share my cinematic discoveries with the teen residents at the home for troubled kids, where I was employment-summering, but I felt this one may be too extreme even for their street savvy senses.  Thus, I was dying to get Lou’s reaction. The orgiastic energy of the film even seemed akin to the slaughter strewn graphics of Joyride, one of our favorite cheapie horror paperback novels. But unfortunately, Lou’s Vatican-Latin didn’t translate well to the subcontinental fare on (severed) hand…or, despite my assessment, Ian Sera’s member in those final celluloid driven moments really was of review-banning magnitude.

More than likely, though, it was just another case of those universal lessons that life metes out to you slowly- never meet your heroes and never ask the pervert local priest his true opinion of your latest, greatest horror film.

Note: (My first horror movie buddy was a priest named Lou Hendricks. Several years ago, Hendricks was named by the Western New York Catholic diocese as one of their most unrepentant predators in the ’70s and ’80s. Thus, I grew up watching monster movies with a monster – a man who was like an uncle to our family. Over the next few months, I will be sharing some of my stories from that period of time.)

Unsung Heroines of Horror: Margo

Published February 8, 2023 by biggayhorrorfan

I am forever diving into the cheap bins of LPs at my local record & thrift shops, searching for vinyl treasures to make their way into my ever-expanding collection. Try as I might to resist the lure of overwhelming my domicile with tuneful aluminum-based creations, I truthfully admit that I spend far too much time in these pursuits of rampant purchase. A couple of Sundays ago, with minutes to spare ‘til closing, I hit up the Brown Elephant in the Andersonville neighborhood of Chicago for some late afternoon perusing. There I found an old, old school Kapp recording of film & television star Eddie Albert & his singing companion, a glamorous creation named, singly, Margo. 

Low and behold, it turned out this was the very Margo who, starred with coquettish precision, in the moody Val Lewton produced horror The Leopard Man (1943). Further research revealed that Margo & Albert we’re married for decades. Albert’s continued fame, with projects ranging from comedy sensations like Green Acres and kiddie favorites like Escape to Witch Mountain, compared to Margo’s relative obscurity reveals an all to common tale of masculine privilege, though.  

Politically progressive, the couple both faced ostracism and backlash for their liberal viewpoints during the McCarthy era and often lost work because of it. A war record and his Caucasian background ultimately freed Albert from this witch-hunt, but the very feminine, very Mexican Margo never regained her momentum. She was relegated to sporadic television appearances, with a 1965 episode of Perry Mason marking her last acting credit. Albert’s career, meanwhile, continued for decades after that. 

Thankfully, we can still appreciate her magnetic presence in the well regarded Lewton film while gratefully acknowledging the sacrifices that this one of a kind woman made for truth & justice in society.

Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!

http://www.facebook.com/biggayhorrorfan

Hopelessly Devoted to: Jeanne Crain

Published February 1, 2023 by biggayhorrorfan

Jeanne Crain spent her primary Hollywood years portraying cinematic sweethearts. She was everyone’s faithful sister (Leave Her to Heaven) or the ingénue who bloomed when romance arrived, fully collared, at her door (The Model and the Marriage Broker). Nicely aging into roles in a series of mild noir films like Vicki and Dangerous Crossing, wherein she played elegant, frightened women facing deadly circumstances with trembling aplomb, she wound up her career, as many movie queens before her, in genre films.

She had to do little but look pretty in the midrange disaster epic Skyjacked. Her primary function there, in her final screen role, being to serve up devoted energy as a proud doctor’s spouse. Immediately before that less showy part, though, she proudly enacted a heavily utilized terror stereotype – the woman on the verge of emotional collapse. As the headliner of the cast of The Night God Screamed, playing a preacher’s wife stalked by a Manson-like cult, she fully committed to the disheveled, wide-eyed histrionics necessary for the undertaking.

Sure gold as the melodramatic heroine, a duo of guest shots on Burke’s Law in 1964 nicely confirmed her eclectic talents to the world. There she played against type as egocentric ladies of leisure and highly emotional murderesses. Despite these feats, she retired from the screen thirty years before her death. (She passed away in 2003 at the age of 76.) Thankfully, as night bleeds regularly into dusk, celluloid insomniacs can still discover her work on various media platforms, experiencing her never-ending magic as if anew.

Fun Fact:  Crain had the less-than enviable task of replacing Marilyn Monroe opposite Jane Russell in Gentlemen Marry Brunettes, the cinematic quasi-sequel to Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Even Russell was rumored to have felt that her very quiet, dignified costar was miscast. Still, Crain, whose vocals were mainly handled by the oft utilized Anita Ellis, proves that she was in on the fun via her enjoyable take on I Want To Be Loved By You on the film’s soundtrack LP.

Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!

http://www.facebook.com/biggayhorrorfan

Music to Make Horror Movies By: Nik Kershaw

Published January 4, 2023 by biggayhorrorfan

Growing up in a small town, I often had to rely on acquaintances from bigger cities to introduce me to interesting music. One of the girls I met at a theater audition was from a nearby metropolis and, while I tried to emotionally navigate around the crush she had on me – compounded by my own mild confusion as to whether I was ever going to wake up one morning and discover that I liked both girls and boys, she filled me in on some of her favorite artists. Nik Kershaw was one of them – and within a year or two, I figured out that there was a reason why I would so often longingly gaze at his profile on his second LP, The Riddle. I wasn’t ever going to like any Becky…or, as in this particular case, any Camilla, as well. 

Cheekbones aside, I also really dug Wouldn’t It Be Good, perhaps Kershaw’s biggest hit. Driving that point home, it was included on both his first and second album, and has also been featured in many film & television projects. One of the more interesting uses was in a Body Snatchers style television film called The Annihilator. Featuring Catherine Mary Stewart as a flesh and blood reporter turned into a mindless, assassinating robot, Kershaw’s tune was definitely in good company in this project. The other featured song was David Bowie’s Ashes to Ashes.

Nicely, Kershaw, who is now working some silver daddy magic, is still creating music and performing live. More information is able at https://www.nikkershaw.net.

Va-Va-Villainess: Janice Rule

Published December 26, 2022 by biggayhorrorfan

I once had a boss who I referred to, not so fondly, as The Dragon Lady. Dripping with privilege and obsessed with status, she was quick to cut down anyone who didn’t fit within her narrow definitions of societal importance. She reminded me, then and now, of a real-life Merle Kittridge. Kittridge, of course, was the well-to-do cold fish featured in 1958’s Bell, Book and Candle, the charmingly glossy look at the touching heartaches of a modern witch, perfectly played by the ever-enchanting Kim Novak.

Thankfully, the fictional Kittridge was eventually given some comic pathos by the film’s denouement via her majestic portrayer, Janice Rule. This turnabout is further emphasized by the subtle restraint this consummate performer gives to even her most cutting observations of Novak’s Gillian, ever an outsider due to her peculiar talents. That being said, as rivals for the affections of Jimmy Stewart’s quiet Shepard, the two actresses convincingly play up the polar opposites of their characters. Thus, Merle emerges as a classic example of a woman that you love to hate.

Nicely, in real life, Rule, who died in 2003 at the age of 72, seemed to be the exact opposite of her very popular creation. Earning her degree as a psychoanalyst, she spent the majority of her life helping others between her frequent acting gigs.

Fun Fact: Both Rule and Novak played the heroine in Picnic, William Inge’s classic look at the subtle torments and soft joys of smalltown life. Rule appeared in the original Broadway production while Novak took over in the popular film adaptation.

Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!

www.facebook.com/biggayhorrorfan

Review: Shady Grove

Published December 7, 2022 by biggayhorrorfan

I never really gave being a parent much thought…except for the year or two directly following my father’s unexpected death in his mid-fifties. As with many males before me, I felt the need to carry on my dad’s lineage, to produce a bloodline namesake for our rapidly diminishing family tree. That notion, thankfully, quickly passed as my romantic status remained unchanged. (Who wants to raise a kid alone?!?) But that kind of patriarchal methodology, while never mentioned outright, definitely inspires the reactionary DNA of Shady Grove, a horror feature co-written by & starring the talented Niki McElroy. The societies represented here, for both better and for (far, far) worse, definitely seek the antithesis of that testosterone driven narrative. 

With both parties rattled by her recent affair with a woman, longtime couple Shauna (McElroy) and Mark (Todd Anthony) rent a quiet country cabin for the weekend in an isolated area. (First mistake, right?!?) Despite the over-the-top antics of their traveling companion, Eli (Juhahn Jones), the two try to tenderly navigate the newness of their rekindled relationship & the unexpected emotions brought on by Shauna’s surprise pregnancy. The mysterious smells emanating from a locked room in their vacation home soon take on a different meaning, though, when Eli disappears after a night of partying with two local women. The sheriff, authoritatively played by hearing impaired actress Becki Hayes, reads as concerned, but there appears to be little that she can do about the strange presences that are now seeming to stalk the very frightened couple. Thus, as the night wears on, it appears that one of them may not make it alive come morning while the other’s life may be irreversibly altered in a very deep seated way.

Ultimately emerging into something that resembles The Wicker Man mixed with more current fare like Vacancy & The Strangers, this well acted production is definitely a slow burn and a nice alternative to the neo-slasher route that many independent creators take. More importantly, the diversity displayed, onscreen and off, makes this a golden viewing experience and one that any woman living in this post #MeToo, nauseatingly right wing era can relate to on multiple levels. 

For more information, please check out https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100086453926442 and

& https://instagram.com/shadygrovemovie?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y=.

Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!

http://www.facebook.com/biggayhorrorfan

Music to Make Horror Movies By: Anne Murray

Published November 17, 2022 by biggayhorrorfan

I sometimes create imaginary cabaret shows in my head as I bike around the city of Chicago. Often, I will choose to wrap-up these dream acts with Anne Murray’s mellow classic I Just Fall in Love Again, utilizing it not as romantic ballad but as a peon of thanks to my nonexistent yet totally enthusiastic audience.  You see, I grew up in Murray country. ABBA, for example, means nothing to me. But Anne, the queen of soft rock and ultra-sophisticated country, was often crooning softly in the AM decorated background of my extremely formative years. 

Thus, the inclusion of her classic Could I Have This Dance in last fall’s Halloween Ends felt like a coming home moment for me. The fact that this song was used to emphatically capture the death scenes of the movie’s gay couple, Big John and Little John, made it even more impactive – the roots of my closeted youth and my loud ‘n proud adulthood finally shaking firm hands.

Bittersweetly for her long-term fans, Murray, who runs a charity outfit – https://annemurraycentre.com – has been retired from music for a while now. But her smokey tones & smooth delivery eternally live on – in Haddonfield and beyond!

Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!

http://www.facebook.com/biggayhorrorfan

In Remembrance: Leslie Jordan

Published November 9, 2022 by biggayhorrorfan

At one point in his one man show Like a Dog on Linoleum, LGBTQIA icon Leslie Jordan recalled his desperate, unreturned affection for a young Romanian hustler. The two had met while Jordan was on location for a low budget horror film called Madhouse. As the actor, open heartedly and honestly, poured out his sorrow about never having been really loved, I felt my soul reach out in a true connection with him.

The year was 2006 and I was in my late 30s. My one long term relationship had ultimately turned out to be more of an intense friendship on my end…and even that confusing partnership had ended almost 12 years previously. It seemed that, much like Jordan, I, too, was to remain luckless when it came to love. I couldn’t have fully admitted that then, of course. Indeed, it has taken well over a decade for me to reach that kind of honesty with myself. Still, Jordan’s brave reflection has stayed with me over the years.

That sense of truth, poignantly peeking out from beneath the floorboards of his often-flamboyant comic energy, is what ultimately endeared this diminutive performer to the public over the years. Thus, his unexpected death at the age of 67 this past October hit the world harder than many other celebrity passings. The horror community, in particular, felt this loss. While his most loved role was probably that of Shelby in Jason Goes to Hell, one of the Friday the 13th universe’s many sequels, he also added his singular spark to such projects as American Horror Story, Frankenstein General Hospital, Undead or Alive and Fear Inc.

Interestingly, his work in the Friday film, which was released in 1993, hinted at the more openly specific work that he would, passionately, do in the future. There, romantically paired against Rusty Schwimmer’s towering Joey, he seemed to be helping act out the small town reality of many gay folks. This unusual couple registered, caringly, as two people performing a lifetime commitment to each other as beards for each other’s true sexual identities. It was a loving relationship, for sure, but one that reeked of mutual assistance in a world that wasn’t quite ready to accept people for who they actually were. I know I felt a spark of recognition watching them onscreen. I am sure I was not alone in that fact.

30 years ahead of his time, Jordan left this world far too quickly. I can only hope that towards the end of his life he felt some of the romantic love that he so richly deserved. Ever open minded, I wish the same for myself in the days and years ahead. as well.

Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!