‘If they hear you, they hunt you.’ A Quiet Place (2018) tells the story of a white American family fighting to survive in a post-apocalyptic North American landscape, where they are forced to live in silence to avoid monstrous creatures that hunt by sound and have wiped out the majority of the population. The fictional couple Evelyn and Lee Abbott (played by real-life Hollywood couple Emily Blunt and John Krasinki) are determined to find a way to protect their children (deaf daughter Regan, and sons Marcus and Beau) while desperately searching for a way to fight back.
When I first watched The Babadook (2014), I did so through semi-closed fingers. I always disliked horror; I jump at most loud noises and my friends know I shouldn’t be allowed within a mile of a haunted house. However, Jennifer Kent introduced me to a genre that experiments with emotions and experiences in ways others simply cannot. I’ve since delved into horror scholarship and I proudly declare “I study scary movies!” when people ask what I do. However, as I started writing on The Babadook, I struggled with most of the material on it, which frequently claimed that the film is really “about” one concept, or that there is some secret interpretation to be discovered.
From the first, Rick Grimes’ role as a father has occupied a central place in The Walking Dead franchise. Initially, his quest to find his family drives both him and the narrative onward. Later, he competes violently for the status of sole patriarch of his family (a role that overlaps significantly with his role as leader of his group of survivors), forms new nuclear family units after his wife, Lori, dies, and consistently frames his decision-making as oriented towards making a future for his son, Carl. Perhaps his focus on the family does not seem surprising. Perhaps it even seems “natural.” Perhaps, however, it should not.
My essay, “‘We can’t just ignore the rules’: Queer Heterosexualities,” in the collection The Politics of Race, Gender and Sexuality in The Walking Dead, proposes that both The Walking Dead comics and television show overwhelmingly present, in their narratives, language, and visual representations, the dominance of the heteronormative nuclear family, the ideology that underlies it, and the mechanisms through which that ideology is enforced and naturalized.
Sleepaway Camp and the Transgressive Possibilities of Queer Spectatorship
Guest PostAfter a quick Google search, I was astounded as to how many blogs denounce Sleepaway Camp (1983) as transphobic. I’ve always been conscious of the film’s inherent homophobia – two children touch each other after seeing their father and his partner in bed, suggesting homosexuality as a taught paedophilic behaviour – but I’m less certain of the film’s inherent transphobia. As a cisgender gay man, it’s questionable whether I can rightfully claim what is and isn’t transphobic, but watching Sleepaway Camp, something less regressive resonates within me.
I first recall watching Sleepaway Camp at 15 years old. Besides the ending, I hated it. The only thing that carried me through was Angela (Felissa Rose) who I felt desperately empathetic towards. A quiet, tortured soul, I wanted to like her. I certainly felt a proud grimace of hope whenever she opened her mouth to speak. Little did I know, I was Angela; she’s the bullied caricature of every queer kid. Read more