It’s Women in Horror Month and we’re taking on Amy Holden Jones’ The Slumber Party Massacre (1982). Both adored and reviled, this cult classic consistently divides audiences. Is it feminist? Is it exploitative? Can it be both?
Today the Horror Homeroom crew is weighing in on those questions as well as asking whether death by a 12-inch drill can ever be anything other than phallic.
If you’re like me, you love a good ghost story in the dead of winter. The season commands all that is spooky, desolate, and lonely. Fortunately, American literature is rife with ghostly stories written by women, the Gilded Age being an era when the genre was particularly enjoyed, highly published and serialized in magazines like Harper’s, Scribner’s, and New England Magazine. Topics range from marriage, motherhood, to unruly women, but all retain an unerring sense of the otherworldly. I highly recommend curling up with these stories on a cold winter’s night.
Below is a ranking of some of the best ghost stories of the Gilded Age (and some from just slightly after it, too). If you’re a fan of the era, you’ll recognize some of the more famous names, but there are some hidden gems, too. By no means is this list exhaustive, and I encourage you to find your own favorite stories from the era, as well! Read more
Cam is a quite extraordinary film, taking the horror genre into relatively uncharted territory. Directed by Daniel Goldhaber and written by Isa Mazzei, Cam centers on Alice, played brilliantly by Madeline Brewer, an “erotic webcam performer” (stage name of Lola), who is determined to move up the ranks at FreeGirls.Live. In one disconcerting moment, however, her world gets upended. She turns on her laptop to discover none other than herself performing live. What follows is straight out of a nightmare as Alice tries to get the service techs at FreeGirls.Live to fix the problem and then gives up and tries to fix it herself—all the while seeing on screen an exact double of herself. Alice’s double, moreover, seems determined to prove that she can succeed vastly better at being “Lola” than Alice herself.
True Detective, an American anthology of self-contained stories created and written by Nic Pizzolatto, exploded onto television screens in 2014. It has since developed into two further standalone series (2015; 2019) that failed to reach the same levels of critical acclaim. The initial eight-part mini-series starred Woody Harrelson and Matthew McConaughey as a pair of former homicide detectives in rural Louisiana embroiled in the hunt for a mysterious and murderous far-reaching Southern syndicate. Fans of straight police procedurals soon found themselves caught in a captivating Southern Gothic tale that spanned several years and incorporated distinctly supernatural elements. In fact, with its direct references to the lost city of Carcosa from Robert Chambers’ seminal collection of short horror stories, The King in Yellow (1895), itself subsumed into H. P. Lovecraft’s literary canon of cosmic horror, one could argue that the series staked its place in mainstream popular culture despite its horror roots, and as a true example of Lovecraft’s philosophical and existentialist ‘weird tale’ (Lovecraft, 1973, p. 15).
The series begins with the pair being questioned, individually, by the Louisiana State Police Department in the present day: Hurricane Katrina destroyed the majority of evidence files relating to the investigation of the murder of a sex worker seventeen years prior. The interviews serve as a formal device for flashbacks, revealing key information about the men, the case, and their relationship. McConaughey’s Rustin (Rust) Cohle, a nihilistic alcoholic, is now a bartender. In his detecting days he was referred to as the ‘Taxman’ by colleagues, due to the large black notebook he carried everywhere, diligently and dispassionately working his way through successful cases. Harrelson’s Martin (Marty) Hart is a masochistic idealist, now a private investigator, who lives alone after neglecting his wife and daughters in favour of his workload and younger women. Read more
From societal issues to internal psychological havoc, horror has historically painted our micro and macro humanistic torments on the big screen. It creates new thruways for an alternative method of confrontation with what troubles us. However, there’s a particularly sinister and damaging emotion that each and every one of us likely has to meet with at some point in our life: grief. And grief hasn’t always been effectively depicted in film. There are tremendously individualized intricacies associated with grief that make it difficult to depict the introspective experience of grief rather than a voyeuristic expression. However, the horror genre is certainly one that has the capability to do so. While the complexities of grief stray far outside of fear, there are plenty who argue that horror should be defined by much more than how much it scares viewers.
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