At 17, I really knew nothing about the gay community. I was growing up in a small farming town, surrounded by shit kicking, flannel shirt wearing earth outlaws. But somehow, I instinctively knew that the leather jockstrap sported by Billy Idol on the January ’85 cover of Rolling Stone was part and parcel of the queer male experience. I already had multiple crushes on all the smooth soap opera hunks from my favorite shows, but never before had I been quite so unabashedly titillated.
I probably would have been even more turned on if I had been aware of Idol’s connections to the horror community in that era.
As a fan of Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Poltergeist, he himself hired director Tobe Hooper to helm the post-apocalyptic video for Dancing with Myself. A couple years later, his music swirled out from celluloid bound speakers, accentuating the splattery action of Lamberto Bava’s Demons. Perhaps even more importantly, as the decades have flown by, many music critics have reassessed Rebel Yell, his second album, finding it to be one of the significant Gothic New Wave records of that era. This is unsurprising if you consider that the haunting Eyes Without A Face, one of that LP’s focal points, was influenced by the influential French horror movie of the same name.
Catering to that trend, in the years since, songs like Rebel Yell and White Wedding have worked their way onto the soundtracks of such projects as Bride of Chucky, Scream Queens, American Horror Story and The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina. The inclusion of that latter song in 2025’s Fear Street: Prom Night, which became the Number One film on Netflix within a day of its release, has surely introduced him to a bevy of younger terror loving fans, as well.
Who knows? Maybe some quivering twink in some remote village will even discover that long ago magazine image for the first time and find himself as transformed as I was all those years ago.
What the hell! For his sake….
Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!
Gay director Curtis Harrington was the George Cukor of the horror set. With filmic grace, he guided such pedigree blessed superstars as Gloria Swanson, Simone Signoret, Gale Sondergaard, Piper Laurie and Joan Blondell to blood curdling glory in such projects as Games, The Killer Bees, Ruby and The Dead Don’t Die.
Of course, his greatest achievement among the diva set just might be 1971’s What’s The Matter with Helen? That cult favorite, featuring the dueling frames of pert Hollywood sweetheart Debbie Reynolds and robustly complicated Academy Award winning Shelley Winters, did not, initially, set the box office on fire. But critically praised as one of the best post-Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? imitations, it has become a favorite among discerning terror lovers in the decades since.
But running a close second, in my opinion, to that lauded project is 1973’s gloriously sleazy The Killing Kind. This celluloid smudge features not only Ann Sothern, at her matriarchally pouty best, but the whiskey soaked Ruth Roman and catlike character actress Marjorie Eaton (The Time of Their Lives, The Snake Pit, Zombies of Mora Tau).
Revolving around Sothern’s blowsy Thelma and her often shirtless, sexual deviant son Terry (John Savage), the movie definitely fixes an unwavering gaze on Savage. Just released from prison due to participation in a gang rape, Terry is oddly juvenilized by Thelma, who forces chocolate milk and lipstick stained kisses upon him in abundant measure. Thelma is not alone in this kind of overindulgence. A spinster librarian (Luana Anders), a wanna-be starlet (Cindy Williams) and even Terry’s former lawyer (Roman) & an aging tenant (Eaton) of Thelma’s, all drip around him with moist concern and occasionally aggressive interest.
In particular, Louise, Anders’ character, fantasizes about him sadistically violating her. Meanwhile, Rhea, played by Roman, seems more distressed over losing Terry’s case due to sexual affection for him than any career-style woes.
The plus side of these and other incidents is this is the rare exploitation outing that concentrates on male beauty, happily embroidered by a juicily femme cast. The psychology here, though, may leave something to be desired. The screenplay seems to suggest that the reason the deeply violent Terry erupts on a journey of uncontrollable revenge is all due to the fawning, overly needy women in his life and not extreme mental imbalance or some other layered factor.
Still, as the lead-in paragraph indicates, Harrington works wonders with the female cast. Roman crams a variety of emotional flavors into her one scene while Anders brings a successfully bitter, almost acidic, texture to her characterization.
Magnifying them, Sothern sinks her teeth into every neurotic tic of her character, creating a childishly odd but truly believable human. Supporting roles would follow for this veteran actress, but in this, her last leading role, she and Harrington absolutely eek every morsel of strange goodness that there is to be found in the circumstances at hand.
Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!
Move over, Regina George! It’s now Alexis Queen’s Betsy that may just be the most manipulative ex-schoolgirl to ever breathe, creatively.
Indeed, this former cheerleader, one of the main characters in Cesario Tirado-Ortiz’s it’s been ten years since everyone died. a play about final girls is not only seductive, often destroying the hearts of her fellow survivors, but she just might be hiding one of the juiciest secrets to ever hit the stages, as well.
To be specific, the stage in question here is the Open Space Arts in Chicago, where Ortiz’s deeply psychological, yet truly fun horror piece is running until April 6th. As directed by Teri Talo, Queen imbues this love letter to our magnificent heroines of terror with an edgy sweetness that always makes you wonder just exactly what Betsy is truly hiding.
With the show’s major plot points taking place at a deserted psychological retreat in the woods, – nothing bad is going to happen there, right?!? – Queen is, unsurprisingly, joined by a strong group of castmates – Julia Toney. Noah Hinton and Alex Marusich. Nicely, the majority of Ortiz’s remaining characters are nonbinary and transgender, giving the show a very DIY, LGBTQ+ energy.
Naturally, our favored genre can only benefit from this type of exciting inclusivity and one hopes that there is more to come from Ortiz and their ilk.
For those living in or visiting the Midwest, be sure to check out https://openspacearts.org/ to find out more about this love letter to slashers and the powerful, sometimes deeply damaged women who make them so relatable.
Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!
There Are No Limits!!! —- But ONLY for every sharp-faced Chicagoan who JOINS US this SATURDAY at the Leather Archives & Museum for the Hellraiser Double Feature!!!
Attendees not only get to see 2 Clive Barker classics in the kinkiest body positive venue in town, but more surprises await them, as well – including a special Barker memorabilia exhibit & a between films visit from the doppelgänger of Kirsty Cotton herself!
Intrigued? Then check out the link to the event, below!
Often playing sultry and seductive in her far-flung career, the incomparable Ann-Margret’s first attempt to break away from her initial sugar-pie image resulted in her appearing in the camp classic Kitten with a Whip. There, as the hotly homicidal Jody, she terrorized John Forsythe’s staid weekending businessman with pout worthy aplomb. Ridiculed at the time, the film eventually inspired many bad ass female musicians and young gay men who vowed, much like this B-Movie’s title character, to not take life’s homogenized shit lightly. Going down in a blaze of glory, Jody, despite her maniacal fixations, was a heroine to many of society’s lost and lonely & seemingly set the framework for the vengeful biker chicks in Faster, Pussycat! Kill! KIll!, another femme-strong cult classic.
Going forward though, this career gal’s man-eating characters were often imbued with a comic voluptuousness, Jody’s razor-sharp anger was not to be found in such schemers as Laurel in Bus Riley’s Back in Town, Jezebel Desire in The Cheap Detective or Charming Jones in The Villain. But the experience of playing those humorous variations on evilness, did seemingly allow her to add texture and depth to a variety of her performances, resulting in a part in the early ’90s that contained truly effective strokes of gray.
In Our Sons, one of several early television films taking on the AIDS crisis. this layered pro assumed the role of Luanne Barnes, a small-town mother who is, vehemently (at first), unaccepting of her dying son’s homosexuality. Course and nasty, Luanne eventually succumbs to her instinctual maternal nature and embraces her ailing child before he succumbs to the darkness. Acting most directly against fellow legend Julie Andrews, as a fellow mother, and Željko Ivanek, who effectively played her terminal offspring, this is a scorched earth performance. While Luanne is presented as the ultimate villain, having disowned her son due to his sexuality, she is also as achingly human, a masterful undertaking for A-M and a far, far cry from Kitten with a Whip’s steely yet fun one dimensionality.
Horror Hall of Fame:
While she does make an appearance in 2006’s mind-twisting (little seen) Memories, featuring the dashing Billy Zane, A-M’s most popular genre undertaking is 1978’s Magic. This dark tale of puppetry and madness gave her a chance to play sweetly passionate Peggy Ann Snow opposite future Oscar winner Anthony Hopkins.
Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!
Combining a bit of arthouse drama with a slasher motif, writer-director Christopher Moore has emerged with When the Trash Man Knocks, his fifth horror film in seven years. Importantly, as with most Moore efforts, there is a concentrated effort to look at terror through the queer lens here. Scarred by a violent trauma in his past, Justin (Moore) lives with his mother while, sheepishly, trying to navigate the advances of a concerned, handsome co-worker (an appealing David Moncrief) and a demanding boss. Of course, the return of the titular baddie soon hands his already fragile emotional state a one-way ticket into the land of nightmares and psychological chaos.
Nicely, this mixing of traditional holiday bloodshed, with this offering taking place during Thanksgiving festivities, and Bergman-esque reflections works well for viewers looking for a bit of meat on the bones of their eventual victims. In that latter category, Moore delivers with a fun opening sequence involving a flirty homeowner and a randy real estate agent. It is also enjoyable to see the vibrant Meredith Mohler, a regular in these productions, resurface as one of the festively doomed party girls.
This film’s significant charm reveals itself in the opposite of that type of character, though. The agoraphobic Caroline, Justin’s tormented mother, eventually takes pertinent focus, plot-wise, and this project is all the better for it. As embodied by the powerful Jo-Ann Robinson (Scalps, The Devil’s Dolls), Caroline proves, once and for all, that The Final Girl moniker should be eradicated forever and replaced by the more triumphant category of The Last Woman. Effectively elucidating all of Caroline’s inner workings, Robinson, who deliciously played the maniacal Mary Esther in Moore’s Children of Sin, proves her versatility here, ultimately setting up audiences with a satisfying ending and the hope for more to come from her and the triumphant woman she portrays.
Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!
Creating an oft copied, iconic style of vocalizing, the singular Debora Iyall is the epitome of a New Wave queen. I remember Romeo Void’s Never, Say Never, one of the songs most famous for featuring her synonymous delivery, being played at a freshman orientation dance-off. It was my first week at college in a big city and somehow that oft heard tune made me feel both at home and like I was on the path to brand new adventures.
Of course, RV, the band that brought her into the public’s consciousness, is frequently featured on film soundtracks such as Dodgeball and The Wolf of Wall Street. But what many may not know is that Iyall, as a solo artist, has a cinematic pedigree of her very own. Her fun and perky number, Dizzy Tonite, is featured, pink bedroom style, in the low budget ’80s horror romp The Video Dead. That song is reminiscent of many of the songs on Strange Language, her debut solo album. The title song is one of my favorite tracks there.
Now living, happily, in New Mexico, this unforgettable artist is, thankfully, still creating music and conquering the world in her individualistic way. Hopefully, as she does so, she carries all the heartfelt blessings sent to her by the many quirky teens, much like my long ago self, whose lives she, unknowingly, changed for the better.
Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!
Days later, after I stop by Lou’s to chug a root beer & grab some licorice at the mid-point of a Saturday afternoon jog, he tells me that he told off his sister Luann earlier in the week. Both Lou’s sisters are nuns and the three of them seemingly share some weird sort of ecumenical magic. “I don’t think I told you she was here last Friday.”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t know what the hell she left behind, but I finally had to call her on Sunday and tell her to cut it out! I mean, my phone’s whizzed and popped for awhile after one of her visits. But that? The bumping and scratching & weirdness?”
“I know.”
” Especially after that disappointing Eastwood flick!! Not a bare chest in sight! So, I couldn’t take it! I called her and screamed BITCH! She just laughed and hung up and… minutes later, it finally stopped.”
Catching his breath, the switch, as it so often does, clicks in him and he now eyes me, flirtatiously. “& to think, I thought you were making things up,” he fake-pouts, his voice oozing with Baby Jane cuteness, “just to get a little comfort from me!” He reaches out his arms, like a clumsy Toys R Us baby doll in need of perpetual attention, and I, reluctantly, let him hug me, damply, for a bit and then, after faking a coughing fit, I move to the kitchen table and sit.
Indeed, when Lou and Sherry had first returned that evening they had, dubiously, listened to my ghostly tale. The boys, who I had (somewhat) properly sent to bed, began calling for her, almost immediately.
“They were really scared” She grunts, noncommittedly. “They might try to come down if you don’t go up!”
Indeed, their whimpers of “Mom, mom,” sonically, seem to move ever closer as speak. “You stay right there! & In that bedroom – not the hallway!” she commandingly screams up to them as she shakes her head at me and, disapproving, climbs the stairs to the guest room where they are nervously pacing.
Earlier, we three, unsurprisingly, had found nothing upon exploring. Post incident, both Lou’s bedroom and the room that the boys were set up in were minus any deities – menacingly corporal or otherwise. Despite that seemingly calming discovery, their nervous energy squiggled about in uncontrollable bursts throughout the rest of the evening. I had hoped the continued lack of spiritual congress would eventually put them at ease. But as their prescribed bedtime rolled ever nearer, they grew increasingly nervous, begging to stay downstairs with me.
Naturally, I was desperate to avoid any kind of maternal disapproval. Sherry did not strike me as someone to mess with. So, I ordered them back up the stairs when their bedtime arrived. My caveat being that I would go with them as a form of mild, foolhardy protection. So, I sat by them for an hour, chatting as the lay, still too mortified to sleep. At the sound of shooting gravel in the rectory parking lot, they shot up, immediately, whipping off lightly draped blankets. But before their feet could hit the ground, I corralled them into remaining still for the moment. “Do you want to be the one who explains to your mom why you’re not in bed at 11 pm?” They both shake their heads. “Smart. Stay & I’ll send her up right away.”
Now Sherry emerges from the upper level, not a child peeping behind her, just as my parents, merrily, arrive. The five of them settle in the kitchen while I take coverage in the living room. My mom and dad seem less than convinced of our paranormal adventure, as well, and I sink into the recliner in the furthest corner, wanting to be at a far remove from the disbelieving adults. Time passes and I am just beginning to contemplate dozing off. My mom and dad tend to settle in for these gatherings and hours will pass by before the thought of leaving begins to even tickle at their consciousnesses. Keeping with the established flow of the evening, though, there have been consistent whispers on the floorboards and minor moans of wind against the windowpanes since this particular stop-by has begun. But the mature element has written them off as mere weather induced tragedies. Thus, I have not uttered a peep of awareness. But suddenly it seems as if these minor aural presences amplify – the creaks feel deeper, as if they are rocking the heart of this doggedly noble structure from within it’s oaky marrow. The conversation in the other room stops for a moment. I rouse from my slumber-aimed stupor…and listen to them listen. The chatter eventually begins again…but throughout the rest of this prolonged encounter, there are significant pauses in the flow of their words. The noises eventually, as if mocking them, begin to take on the shape of speech. They have the feeling of mini-monologues about them, as if some former inhabitants and their long ago guests, are trying to communicate their past stories through the shifting bumps and bark-stained titters. What secrets are they sharing? Lou’s voice rises even higher now, a quivering tone of strained combativeness entering his exchanges. He is trying to outgun the unknown’s invisible, sensory alarm.
Finally, Sherry rises, mentioning a need for sleep if she wants to be at early mass in the morning. The group ascends into the room, drawing nearer, almost as one, embarrassed smiles creasing their features. They believe us now, I can tell. And I, who will spend decades doubting myself even in the most affirmative circumstances, am strangely confident here. I never second guessed for a moment what we’d seen. It felt as real, as part of this atmosphere as all the unwanted gestures, the lingering caresses of a man possessed by some other affliction than charitable duty and public service.
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.)
Let’s get this out of the way, right off the bat – it is super creepy watching legendary producer William Castle, always a naturally congenial presence onscreen, play Jack P. Harper, a sleazy Golden Age movie mogul in the 1974 television film The Sex Symbol. A fictionalized, ridiculously exploitive look at the life and times of Marilyn Monroe, this greasy bio-pic stars silvery Connie Stevens as the luscious, deeply troubled Kelly Williams. Granted, there are several evocatively disturbing components here. For instance, the screenwriters seem obsessed with the rumor that Monroe veered towards the asexual side in the bedroom, remitting countless scenes of a barely clothed Stevens bemoaning her lack of interest in the carnal as her partners smoke, hazily, in rumpled bedrooms. But Castle’s supporting role, as the executive who helps create Williams’ translucent aura, hits the hardest when he rapes the titular character in a fur-stained boardroom. We’re a long way from the innocent charms of the original 13 Ghosts here, folks!
Almost as a counterbalancing routine, we get a bit of Sapphic intrigue occurring throughout this perfumed reimagining, as well. To that matter, the exquisite Madlyn Rhue is on hand as Kelly’s trusted secretary, Joy Hudson. Hudson, an obvious stand-in for Monroe’s lesbian acting coach Natasha Lytess, spends her screen time glowering at anyone who dares disturb Williams’ autonomy on the celluloid baby-voiced diva market. Of course, whether she is drying her charge’s never ending tears or, lasciviously, giving her an oily rubdown, Rhue excels with a hardened demeanor and sultry essence of control.
Nicely, even though the premise, a flashback laden journey as Williams teeters on the brink of alcoholic immobilization, is an often exhausting one, Stevens is surprisingly good in the project, too. She offers up a raw and truthfully connected pathway to her character, showing both heart and watery persistence in equal measures.
To balance out Steven’s pert femininity, perennial bad guy and 70s horror icon William Smith makes the scene as (the Joe DiMaggio-esque) Butch. Although, the most wickedly inspired casting here might belong to the laidback Don Murray, as a randy politician on the rise, and the overbearingly camp Shelley Winters, essaying a outwardly flowery yet intrinsically vengeful gossip columnist. As many celluloid fans are aware, Murray co-starred with Monroe in Bus Stop while Winters was her roommate, once upon a glistening Hollywood memory, when both women were young starlets.
Horror Hall of Fame:
While Stevens has her share of cobweb strewn credits – Two on a Guillotine (a personal favorite, btw) & Tales from the Darkside, for instance, it is Winters who is the true horror maven here. Her credits include Who Slew Auntie Roo?, What’s the Matter with Helen?, Tentacles, Witchfire, The Tenant and The Visitor. Check ’em out!
Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!
Often cast as chiseled heroes and stoic police detectives, George Nader’s talents as an actor were never fully exploited. Granted, rising to fame after playing the bare-chested lead in the execrably notorious Robot Monster could have had something to do with the lack of diversity in his roles. That the majority of his Hollywood films were with B-Movie factory Universal Pictures also might have helped seal his fate.
But what stands out the most about his life to me is how long lived (and seemingly happy) it was compared to many of his other queer contemporaries. His relationship with former actor Mark Miller lasted 55 years, ending only with Nader’s death, at the age of 80, in 2002. A sense of resiliency also seems at play in his personality. When an injury made working on camera difficult, Nader, creatively, turned to writing. His novel Chrome was one of the first widely distributed science fiction novels to deal with homosexual themes.
Ultimately, even his performances have a celebratory impact to them. Akin to (fellow expat sex symbol & equally well-regarded performer) Carroll Baker, he was embraced in Europe in the ‘60s, appearing as a stalwart FBI Agent named Jerry Cotton in a number of fun espionage features. Even the most ardent numerologist couldn’t resist such titles in his resume as The Million Eyes of Sumuru & House of 1,000 Dolls, as well. Nicely, both of those features have been re-released, in the last decade or so, as special editions, granting him a much-deserved celluloid legacy and the privilege of being thought of as a cinematic cult figure of note.
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