In the latest season of Ryan Murphy’s Monster series, a young Lizzie Borden (Ella Beatty) becomes fascinated with the historical villain, enchanted by her cruelty and confidence. But this is not the first fictionalized recounting of Báthory’s story. Over the years, many genre creators have reimagined the Blood Countess as a vain and sadistic torturer and a vision of internalized misogyny.

The true story of this legendary serial killer is still shrouded in mystery, with many details lost to time. Of course, the facts of her abnormal life have been recorded by unreliable men who benefitted from her monstrosity. 

The History Behind the Blood Countess

In 1560, Erzsébet Báthory was born into an aristocratic Hungarian family with connections to Transylvanian royalty. At the age of eleven, she was betrothed to Count Ferenc Nadasdy, whom she married when she was just fifteen. He was known to be a sadistic man and may have taught his wife to brutally torture their household servants, which was unfortunately accepted at the time. Two years after this political marriage, Erzsébet began ruling Castle Csejte alone while Nadasdy fought continual wars. Widowed at the age of forty-four, her husband’s death seems to have destabilized the aging Countess and sparked a relentless reign of terror.

Though always a cruel mistress, Erzsébet began extensively torturing young girls, usually between the ages of ten and fourteen. According to witnesses, Erzsébet and a trusted circle of senior staff would crush the hands of servant girls or cut their fingers off with shears. After brutal beatings, she would submerge her victims in freezing water or use pliers to pull out large chunks of their flesh. Perhaps most disturbing, she would starve these young women then force them to drink urine or eat cooked pieces of their own skin.

In 1609, Erzsébet opened a finishing school for wealthy young women, having run out of victims in neighboring towns. After a few weeks, every one of her students had mysteriously died, and dogs began unearthing bodies shallowly buried on the castle grounds. The disappearance of these aristocratic daughters attracted the attention of Hungary’s king, and Erzsébet was accused of torture and murder. While her noble status kept her away from the executioner, the Countess was walled up in the tower of Castle Csejte until her death in 1614.

Countess Dracula (1971)

The first well-known cinematic version of this story is Peter Sasdy’s Countess Dracula. Alongside the 1897 publication of Stoker’s novel, rumors began to coalesce about Erzsébet’s vampiric tendencies. The admitted torturer was fond of biting her victims and known to rub human blood along her lips, though this was probably a treatment for “falling sickness,” which would today be called epilepsy. Sasdy leans into vampire lore with the film’s ominous tagline: “The more she drinks, the prettier she gets. The prettier she gets, the thirstier she gets.” 

However, Sasdy’s Countess Elisabeth (Ingrid Pitt) is a different sort of predator. In the wake of her husband’s death, the cruel mistress begins bathing in blood when she discovers its healing properties. But this is far from a hopeful remedy. After sponging the substance onto her skin, Elisabeth sheds her wrinkles and hag-like warts. She completely transforms into a voluptuous blonde and begins impersonating her own teenage daughter. Each time the spell wears away, Elisabeth becomes more monstrous. She must feed this gruesome habit with a continual stream of virginal women to maintain her youthful alter ego. 

Though a charming Hammer Horror film, Countess Dracula explores destructive vanity while fetishizing virginity. When Elisabeth murders a sex worker, she finds that the resulting blood has no effect and begins targeting ostensibly virtuous girls. Desperate to maintain the power beauty grants, Elisabeth turns her rage on younger women instead of the men responsible for her oppression. She eventually winds up a withered crone, imprisoned and taunted as Countess Dracula. 

Daughters of Darkness (1971)

The same year, another iteration of the Blood Countess would emerge as a more empowering antihero. Set in modern-day Belgium, Harry Kümel’s Daughters of Darkness follows a glamorous woman named Elizabeth (Delphine Seyrig) and her much younger secretary Ilona (Andrea Rau) as they vacation in the off-season of a seaside town. The seductive women hit it off with the hotel’s only other guests, a newlywed couple named Stefan (John Karlen) and Valerie (Danielle Ouimet). Meanwhile, a mysterious killer is murdering young women and leaving their bodies drained of blood.  

When the hotel’s old clerk remembers the seemingly ageless Elizabeth from decades ago, we discover that she is the real Countess Báthory, kept alive for centuries on a steady diet of virgin blood. Kümel also blends vampiric legend, presenting Ilona as a female familiar to the powerful huntress. But his Elizabeth serves as a liberator of sorts, luring Valerie away from her increasingly abusive husband. Though we know she is killing innocent women and likely planning to seduce the young bride into servitude, Stefan emerges as the story’s true villain, a violent man who deserves his fate. 

When the ancient vampire meets a sunny end, we’re left on a strange note of empowerment. An unsettling coda shows Valerie speaking with Elizabeth’s voice as she befriends another attractive couple. Rather than a monstrous hag stealing the lifeblood of virgins, this Elizabeth is an enchanting woman who presents unhappy wives with a lavish alternative to heteronormative suffering. 

Stay Alive (2006)

Though William Brent Bell’s cult favorite features an admittedly reductive history, the Countess Bathory (Maria Kalinina) of Stay Alive accurately reflects Erzsébet’s place in modern culture. The film’s title references a video game in which players must traverse the dangerous Gerouge Plantation, the Countess’s legendary home and final resting place. The game begins with an incantation that must be read aloud by Hutch (Jon Foster) and his friends. The “prayer’s” final line, “let the blood of many cleanse me, preserving beauty eternal,” nods to legend while unleashing the Countess’ violent ghost, allowing her to target victims in the real world. 

Elizabeth’s video game avatar resembles a female Count Dracula with a blood-red dress and stiff high collar topped with jet-black hair severely swept back from her face. Pinprick eyes gleam from cavernous sockets as she hunts her victims in a horse-drawn carriage. The plantation is filled with undead girls, victims of the Countess’ finishing school. She seldom appears in reflective surfaces — terrified of seeing her aging face — and her spirit can be trapped by driving three nails into her body, reminiscent of a stake driven through the heart. 

Though dangerous to all who play her game, Countess Bathory specifically targets beautiful young women, stringing them up by their feet to drain their blood. Mirroring historical fact, Bell’s Countess was sentenced to isolation and walled up in her tower to die in obscurity. Perhaps this is why she’s wreaking havoc once again. A final scene shows that though Hutch has destroyed Countess Bathory’s ghost, the game has become a viral sensation, only bolstered by its underground appeal. With each repetition of its opening “prayer,” Elizabeth’s spirit will become more powerful. 

Hostel Part II (2007)

When news broke that Eli Roth’s Hostel: Part II would center on three female victims, more sensitive fans feared misogyny and exploitation. But the 2007 sequel is a surprisingly feminist story of complex morality and empowerment. This nuance can be seen in the film’s most disturbing sequence, a ritualistic murder based on the Countess Báthory legend. 

When three young art students take a weekend trip to Slovakia, Lorna (Heather Matarazzo) becomes smitten with a dashing local. But her moonlit date goes dreadfully wrong and the coed winds up in the clutches of the Elite Hunting Club, a shadowy organization that facilitates torture. Lorna and her friends are kidnapped and auctioned off to ultra-wealthy bidders from around the world who pay millions for the pleasure of causing their deaths. 

We rejoin Lorna hanging nude and bound, above an ornate stone spa. As she desperately tries to free herself, a gorgeous woman walks into the room. Also nude except for expensive jewelry and heels, this mysterious woman lies in a candlelit tub and caresses a pair of sharp scythes. Lorna screams and begs for release as the woman slices open her skin, luxuriating in the rain of blood pouring over her body and into her mouth. 

This brief but memorable scene eliminates one of the story’s main cast while providing a harbinger for horrors to come. But otherwise it serves as a standalone vignette. The woman identified in the credits as Mrs. Bathory (Monika Malácová) does not utter a word of dialogue, and we do not see her again after this horrific scene. But she exists to show the spectrum of horrors women must face in a patriarchal world.

Mrs. Bathory is demure and sophisticated, particularly when compared to Todd (Richard Burgi) and Stuart (Roger Bart), the men who purchase Lorna’s friends. A study in toxic masculinity, these abhorrent men both purchase their victims to live out a misogynistic fantasy. Todd longs to symbolically punish beautiful women while Stuart wants to murder a proxy for his headstrong wife. Yet Mrs. Bathory’s actions are arguably more disturbing. Though she never states a clear motive, we assume she wants to bathe in Lorna’s blood and absorb her youthful vitality, maintaining the privilege beauty guarantees in a system run by toxic men. 

Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story (2026)

The fourth season of Ryan Murphy’s Monster similarly paints the broad strokes of Erzsébet’s story, reworking facts to fit a feminist agenda. Young and impressionable, Lizzie becomes obsessed with the myth when her household servant Bridget (Vicky Krieps) introduces her to more worldly literature. This Elizabeth (also Krieps) is a severely stylish French queen obsessed with bathing in virgin blood. Aided by a clan of violent young women she calls her Furies, Elizabeth rounds up girls from the surrounding countryside and slaughters them in a basement torture chamber, specifically built with drains in the floor. 

Alongside this horrific practice, creator Ian Brennan gives Elizabeth a sympathetic backstory. As a teen, his Elizabeth was sexually assaulted and gave birth to the resulting child. Just moments after the baby is placed in her arms, we watch as a midwife whisks the tiny girl away and drowns her in a bowl of water. Years after her attacker’s death, Elizabeth rounds up his teenage daughters and gets her revenge by draining their blood. Though rewritten through a feminist lens, this does fit the real Countess Báthory’s pattern of punishing women for the cruelty of men. 

Like the rest of the series, Brennan plays fast and loose with historical facts. We do know that at thirteen, Erzsébet gave birth to an illegitimate child, who was subsequently passed to a local woman, though we do not know the infant’s fate. Historian Kimberly Craft believes this may have been a youthful indiscretion and that claims of rape were embellished to protect Erzsébet’s betrothal to Nadasdy. However, we also believe that her wealthy fiancé was an extremely sadistic man. Rumor has it that the illegitimate child’s young father was castrated before his execution, an ironic punishment for deflowering Nadasdy’s intended bride and a dehumanized addition to his estate. While we cannot prove what actually happened, the truth may align more with Brennan’s rageful retelling.  

Elizabeth Báthory’s Legacy

In the 1980s, historians began to reexamine Erzsébet’s life. Perhaps she wasn’t a serial killer but a vulnerable woman turned into a monster by men who benefited from her public demise. The Countess (2009) and Bathory: Countess of Blood (2008) are relatively fact-based biopics which take drastically different views of her villainy. Other interpretations like Mama Dracula (1980) and Chastity Bites (2013) use Erzsébet’s life as a springboard to examine our disturbing fascination with virginity, while Ulrike Ottinger’s The Blood Countess film takes a comedic approach, casting Isabelle Huppert as the iconic vampiress. 

But it is worth remembering that Erzsébet was once a real woman with a complex legacy. Was she a prolific serial killer or a powerful ruler framed for all time by greedy and jealous men? Though we will never know exactly what happened in Castle Csejte, the truth is likely somewhere in between. Probably a victim of abuse herself, Erzsébet lived at an extremely dangerous time in which women were treated as property. Powerless to combat this dehumanizing system, she turned her rage on other women and delighted in their suffering. 

But contrary to her story’s most scandalous detail, Erzsébet probably didn’t bathe in blood. Reports of this disturbing practice did not emerge until nearly a century after her death and likely have more to do with her convenient last name than with any documented fact. However, this myth has come to define her legacy, transforming a historical figure into the female face of patriarchal violence. Desperate to maintain her place in a toxic system, the Elizabeth Bathory we’ve come to know is a monstrous warning to aging women, reminding us to step aside for younger women or risk becoming a monster ourselves.

The post The Bloody Legacy of Elizabeth Báthory, Horror’s Original Female Monster appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

In 1892, Lizzie Borden was accused of the grisly ax murders of her father Andrew and her stepmother Abby. The resulting trial captivated the world with its implication that a woman of high society could have committed such a violent crime. Lizzie was eventually acquitted and went to her grave proclaiming her innocence. But Brennan and Winkler present her guilt as absolute fact, bending scant historical records to paint her as a feminist hero.

To be fair, the crime happened more than 130 years ago, before the advent of modern investigation. Though we do have some contemporaneous evidence, many of the details have been lost to time. We simply do not know what happened in the Borden house, and every theory is mere speculation. 

In previous seasons of Murphy’s hit show, we could do a detailed fact check. But here, we have mostly conjecture and wild theorizing designed to build a larger narrative. It would perhaps be easier to identify what Monster: the Lizzie Borden Story does get right, rather than where it strays from reality. Though the resulting show is a timely exploration of feminine rage, it’s worth remembering that this salacious series is based on real people who experienced an unthinkable crime. 

WARNING: The following contains major spoilers for Monster: The Lizzie Borden story.

The Borden Family

The season opens with an ornate curtain, raised to indicate a performance. Perhaps that is our hint that what we are about to see will be mostly fictional. After a breathtaking recreation of both murders, we jump back in time several months to meet the unhappy family. We watch Lizzie (Ella Beatty) suffer through a vicious etiquette lesson followed by a humiliating rejection from a would-be suitor. Abby (Rebecca Hall) makes it painfully clear that she loathes her “imbecile” stepdaughter and wants her married off and out of the house.

For the next four episodes, we watch an almost comically cruel Abby torment her wide-eyed stepdaughter and any servant who crosses her path. She throws scalding soup in one cook’s face and stalks around the house in a white glove, determined to find a speck of dust that will allow her to punish her new housemaid Bridget (Vicky Krieps), referred to as Maggie in a mix of racism and laziness. Abby is so condescending and vile that she simply cannot be bothered to learn Bridget’s name.

Her husband Andrew (Charlie Hunnam) is not much better. The miserly man constantly reminds his wife and daughter that he detests living in a house full of women, openly chastising Abby for failing to give him a son. A woodworker by trade, Andrew spends his days insulting his young apprentice and scamming clients by chopping off the feet of corpses to fit them into ill-sized coffins. The only thing he seems to care about, besides hoarding his massive wealth, is an impressive collection of axes from around the world. He dotes on these tools of his bizarre trade and has given each a female name.

The Borden house is wholly unpleasant, and we can see that Lizzie suffers from extreme insecurity, the result of a lifetime of emotional abuse. Even her sister Emma (Billie Lourd) treats her with barely concealed contempt, casually informing her younger sibling that she will receive only 5% of their father’s wealth. Emma will inherit the other 95%. Lizzie’s only refuge is an alley of cherry trees behind the house leading to a dovecote haven filled with beautiful birds. But unable to stand her daughter’s fleeting happiness, Abby takes an ax and murders the doves, claiming to be disturbed by their incessant cooing.

A Tense Household and an Ax

Unfortunately, very little of this outsized unpleasantness is based in fact. We do know that the real Borden household was often tense, with Bridget frequently forced to serve meals at multiple sittings because stepmother and daughter refused to eat with each other. This tension seems to have stemmed from a financial dispute. Lizzie and Emma took issue with an expensive property Andrew gave to his wife, the girls feeling that he should save his wealth for his own flesh and blood. Andrew did attempt to correct this perceived slight, gifting houses to both of his daughters, though this seems not to have mended the rift.

Most likely, these resentments grew from the tragic loss of Andrew’s first wife, who died when Lizzie was a toddler. His marriage to Abby was one of convenience for both — she could escape her own unhappy home while he would get a surrogate mother for his two young children. While this worked out logistically, it seems Lizzie never cared much for her stepmother, believing the woman to be a gold digger. She was known to mock Abby’s appearance and refer to her as a “mean old thing,” but we have no record of the vitriol Winkler’s Abby spews at her adopted daughter.

By all accounts, Andrew had a good relationship with his youngest child. Though he didn’t wear a wedding ring, the Borden patriarch was always seen wearing a gold ring Lizzie had given him. Andrew was stingy with money and did make part of his fortune from selling coffins, but there’s no reason to believe that he was secretly mangling corpses with an elaborate collection of anthropomorphized axes. While it is true that he and Abby referred to their Irish maids as “Maggie,” regardless of their actual names, the Borden house was likely not the abusive nightmare Winkler depicts.

In fact, most of the first few episodes are entirely fictional. As part of her alibi for the murders, Lizzie remembers eating a pear from a tree in the yard, but she did not have a prized alley of cherry trees. She also explained blood found on an ax by claiming that her father had previously killed some birds, but there is nothing to indicate that these were treasured pets. Winkler and Brennan have seemingly constructed this scenario based on theories developed years after the fact. While a bit of narrative deviation is to be expected in a fictionalized account, this portrayal of the crime’s two victims as monstrous abusers is hard to stomach. Winkler creates a series of unforgivable sins against a naive and innocent Lizzie, outright suggesting that Abby and Andrew deserved their fates.

A Poisoned Precursor

This narrative choice is made clear in Lizzie’s first attempt to murder her parents. After the brutal dove slaying, the more worldly Bridget suggests they use spoiled oysters to poison the pair. This is followed by an upbeat montage in which the women gleefully cook the deadly soup. Winkler sets the scene to “Cuntology 101”, in which the Lambrini Girls insist “I’m gonna do what’s best for me.” At dinner, their intended victims gobble up the soup while Lizzie pretends to take a dainty sip. What follows is a disgusting scene of slapstick purging on par with the infamous pie eating contest from Stand By Me. Vomit covers the room as Abby and Andrew writhe around spewing geysers of bile, oysters, and blood. 

It’s a thrilling moment of Good For Her horror in which Lizzie seeks revenge for years of cruelty, only marred by the fact that it probably isn’t true. In her alibi, Lizzie notes that the whole household was sick from eating spoiled swordfish the day before and had been up vomiting most of the night. A local shopkeeper also claimed that Lizzie attempted to buy prussic acid the day before the murders, a chemical known for its use in poisoning rats. While we do know that a doctor visited the Borden house to treat a case of food poisoning, we have no way of knowing whether Lizzie attempted to slay her parents via poison, nor do we know if Bridget herself was involved in any conspiracy.

Another Ax Murder

As the fictionalized Lizzie and Bridget begin devising their plan, they decide to go on a practice run. As punishment for the oyster debacle, Bridget has been sent to clean the home of Bertha Manchester (Linda Reiter), a friend of the Bordens’ whose own servant has mysteriously fallen ill. But this is not a kind gesture to help out a friend. Abby allows Bridget no slack in her regular duties, expecting the servant to clean instead of sleep. Even worse, Mrs. Manchester is more vile than her full-time employer. In queer-coded language, she berates Bridget for catching her eye, then whips her with a cat o’ nine tails. When Lizzie sees the horrific scars, she concocts a plan to murder the old woman and chops her to death with her father’s ax. Bridget is briefly suspected of the crime, but police quickly arrest a Portuguese handyman, a horrific example of 19th-century racism.

The real Bertha Manchester was only 22 years old and had no discernible connection to the Borden family. She lived on her father’s dairy farm and was not at all the sadistic and grotesque taskmaster portrayed in Winkler’s retelling of events. Ms. Manchester was found brutally slaughtered in her Fall River home months after the Borden murders, notably while Lizzie was incarcerated and awaiting trial.

Winkler and Brennan recast this event to build the narrative of lovetorn and nervous killers preparing for a heinous act. Following a pattern established in previous seasons, the creators weave together Lizzie’s story with the tragic history of Aileen Wuornos, a Florida sex worker who confessed to killing a series of johns in 1989-90. A strong case could be made that Wuornos was the victim of horrific abuse, her motive a blend of revenge and self-defense. However, this does not align with the tragic murder of Bertha Manchester, who does not deserve this villainous portrayal.

The Bad Deaths of Andrew and Abby

After overtly cruel characterization, Brennan does give the senior Bordens a bit of hubris. We learn that the fictional Abby married Andrew in the wake of her mother’s suicide. Tasked with caring for baby Lizzie — who will not stop screaming — the new stepmother nearly suffers a panic attack. Combined with the revelation that she cannot have children of her own, Abby begins to drink every toxic liquid in sight. Detailing a loveless marriage and unhappy sex life, she pursues an affair with Lizzie’s uncle.

On the other side of this cold marriage bed, we learn that Andrew still grieves his late first wife, viewing his daughters as painful reminders of the partner he lost. In an episode directed by Sarah Adina Smith, Abby asks her husband for a divorce, to which he begrudgingly agrees. The newly liberated woman prepares to leave Fall River for good, having secured her half of Andrew’s wealth. But Lizzie is unwilling to let her intended victim go and chooses this moment to carry out her plan. Unleashing decades of pent-up rage, she chases Abby around the house and pulverizes her skull with Andrew’s ax. Bridget cares for Lizzie in the aftermath, gently sponging away the blood.

Episode five deals with a similar end of Andrew’s life. After agreeing to the dissolution of his marriage, the unpleasant man proceeds to get extremely drunk. He spends the night in a brothel, trading his precious gold ring for a night of sex. He awakens the next morning, disheveled but remorseful. After retrieving his ring, Andrew returns home, hat in hand, ready to beg for Abby’s forgiveness. But what he finds is a hacked-up corpse. As he cradles his wife’s bloody body, Lizzie attacks. What follows is an extended murder scene in which Andrew puts up an impressive fight, but eventually stumbles onto Lizzie’s blade.

We will never know exactly what happened in the Borden house, but the facts dispute this sequence of events. Though both episodes end with bodies falling in the correct places, everything else is fictional. Based on post-mortem examination, we know that Abby was killed on Thursday morning and that Andrew died roughly ninety minutes later, contradicting Brennan’s vague timeline. There is no evidence to suggest that the Bordens were planning to divorce or that Abby was set to leave the house. The theatrical kills that open the season are probably more accurate than the in-depth recreations we see in episodes four and five. But these fantastical and heartwrenching death sequences serve as payoff to Brennan’s larger narrative. We’re meant to indulge in the fear on each victim’s face when Lizzie finally reclaims her power.

The Trial of the Century

Over the course of eight episodes, Brennan and Winkler include few details about the heavily documented trial itself, likely to avoid narrative inconsistencies. We do know that Lizzie was imprisoned for ten months in the New Bedford jail where she had a highly publicized quarrel with her sister. We also know that both the prosecution and her defense leaned on reductive gender stereotypes while dissecting the brutal nature of the crimes. At the time, many considered it flatly impossible for a woman to commit such heinous acts, particularly a woman of Lizzie’s stature. 

On the other hand, several bloody rags were found in the Borden household, which Lizzie dismissed as cloth used to tend to her so-called womanly sickness. Winkler nods to this when a policeman finds a bloody scrap of fabric and immediately drops it when Lizzie mentions her period. Though women were considered incapable of murderous brutality, a menstruating woman was thought to be a different kind of monster. At the time, it was generally accepted that women were more prone to uncontrollable criminality during their time of the month. 

Though clearly shaken by the deaths of her parents, Lizzie struggles to show convincing grief. Few of her supporters actually believe she is truly innocent and simply accept that the murders were justified. One of these defenders is famed actress Nance O’Neil (Jessica Barden), who coaches Lizzie on her courtroom demeanor. Realizing that a trial is, in essence, a performance, she teaches Lizzie the art of bashfulness while showing her convincing ways to swoon. Lizzie nails her performance with a showy faint in the middle of the crowded courtroom, swaying the all-male jury and essentially securing a “not guilty” verdict. 

While it is true that Lizzie did befriend the real Nance O’Neil, they did not meet until well after her trial had concluded. Though Lizzie did reportedly swoon when plaster casts of her parents’ skulls were revealed as evidence, there’s no reason to assume she was playing to the jury’s sympathies. However, it’s likely true that she was acquitted partly because 19th-century men simply did not want to admit that a lady of high society could commit such an atrocious crime. It’s this type of dismissive misogyny that Winkler and Brennan have built the show to combat. Their Lizzie is a flawed and complex feminist hero, a Good For Her avenger who is perfectly capable of hacking her own parents to death if it means improving her situation. 

Bridget and Lizzie

It’s tempting to embrace this version of Lizzie Borden, particularly considering her onscreen relationship with Bridget. Building on modern theories of the crime, Winkler and Brennan posit that the two women fell deeply in love and planned the murders so that they could be together. It’s intoxicating to watch the show’s only likeable main characters grow closer, sharing a fascination with female empowerment. Though forced to separate throughout the trial, they do find their way back together again.

Having inherited her father’s vast fortune, Lizzie is able to buy a more luxurious house and live out her days in relative peace, though she must deal with a community that does not buy her innocence. We see that years after the sensational trial, she has become a sort of boogeyman, a murderer who got away with her crimes. Winkler’s Lizzie takes refuge in the Suffragette movement, surrounding herself with progressive women. She makes amends for what she has done and receives forgiveness from her parents’ ghosts. 

While this coda puts a bow on Lizzie’s story, tying it together with Wuornos’ own execution, the truth is a bit more complicated. At the time of the murders, Lizzie was 36 years old while Bridget was only 25. The younger Borden daughter was not a doe-eyed innocent coaxed to kill by an older lover. In fact, we have no evidence that the two were ever intimate. Bridget never returned to the Borden house after testifying at Lizzie’s trial. Though there’s no way to definitively prove their involvement one way or another, it’s likely the two never saw each other again. 

We must also remember that unlike Jeffrey Dahmer, Ed Gein, Lyle and Erik Menendez — the male murderers that center previous Monster seasons — Lizzie was acquitted of all crimes and has steadfastly maintained her innocence. By many accounts, the real Ms. Borden, who did begin calling herself Lisbeth, chose to stay in Fall River in defiance of the neighbors who accused her of parricide. With a case entirely built on circumstantial evidence, it’s just as possible that Abby and Andrew were murdered by a wandering maniac, or perhaps the same person who killed Bertha Manchester. 

Over the years, Lizzie has become a feminist icon. Though the crime is technically unsolved, we’ve collectively accepted her guilt and excused it as the righteous rage of a woman living under patriarchal oppression. It can admittedly be inspiring to watch a submissive girl finally reclaim her power, albeit through bloodthirsty means. There’s joy to be found in the violent dismemberment of a system built to deny female agency. But should this catharsis come at the expense of three people who were brutally murdered?

An ahistorical depiction of Lizzie may lend itself to Good for Her horror, but to get there, we have to let go of documented reality. For some, that may be a bridge too far. 

The post Fact vs. Fiction: How Netflix’s ‘Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story’ Reimagines One of America’s Most Famous Murder Cases appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

But rarely do we get to see these children into adulthood. Though King’s 1986 masterpiece It sees our beloved Losers all grown up and Doctor Sleep features Danny Torrance as an older man, King leaves most of his young heroes in their adolescence. However, Constant Readers know that the author has been following one fictional child for the majority of his career. Other Worlds Than These gives us the final chapter in the story of Jack Sawyer, a singularly powerful child often tasked with saving the world.

In 1984, King collaborated with famed horror author Peter Straub on The Talisman, a fantasy adventure that sees twelve-year-old Jack traverse an alternate reality known as the Territories on a quest to save his dying mother. Without a twinner, or counterpart in the other realm, Jack has the unique ability to flip between worlds.

Seventeen years later, King and Straub would reunite to write Black House, a sequel story which sees an adult Jack as he struggles to make sense of his unbelievable past while solving a grisly string of child murders. Now twenty-five years later, King provides a conclusion to Jack’s story as he must defend the world against encroaching evil. Other Worlds Than These presents Jack with his greatest adventure yet while connecting multiple entries in King’s universe.

At first glance, readers might be confused to see Straub’s name gracing the cover of this new novel, particularly considering the accomplished author died in 2022. While The Talisman and Black House were equally written by both genre titans, Other Worlds Than These is a different sort of collaboration.

King remembers discussing this conclusion with Straub in the later years of his life, informally mapping out the final chapter of Jack’s strange journey. Though King fully authored this new novel, he recreates the previous chapters’ elaborate prose mixed with dynamic set pieces, extensive destruction, and occasional dips into outright terror. Straub can be felt on every page as King writes to honor his long-time friend. 

Fans of Black House know that we leave our heroic Coppiceman on a deadly cliffhanger. Years after this devastating injury, we reunite with an aging Jack who must spend most of his time in the Territories. Just a few days spent “America-side” and Jack’s body will begin to decompose, the precursor to a gruesome death.

He supports himself by running errands to our reality for the amusement of a childish warlord. But on his latest jaunt to Hemingford County, Nebraska (a fun Easter Egg for dedicated Constant Readers), Jack learns about a pair of delinquent runaways terrorizing the area who may have murdered his dear friend Dale Gilbertson. These teenage killers seem to have found a passageway between worlds and are laying waste to both realities. 

Though their crimes bring to mind Bonnie and Clyde, King names a different reference. The fictional Roy Kinneston and Tara Lynne Speckhoffer are directly inspired by Charles Starkweather and his girlfriend, Caril Ann Fugate, who went on a similar killing spree in 1957-58. King has long been fascinated with this teenage serial killer, and the duo’s murderous spree has inspired much of the author’s work, most notably the grim novella 1922 and Rage, the only novel King has pulled from publication. But this threat transitions from a pair of delinquent murderers to something else altogether.

Kinneston and Speckhoffer not only seem to be possessed by the spirits of Starkweather and Fugate, but their particular brand of corruption rapidly spreads through the Territories, with teenagers roughly dying their hair and massacring anyone who crosses their path. This coincides with the expansion of a black hole-like force which threatens to consume the very fabric of reality. 

Rather than the central nature of Black House, which takes place mostly in western Wisconsin, Other Worlds Than These mirrors the structure of The Talisman. Tasked with defending both worlds, Jack embarks on another epic journey as he follows a wide path of destruction carved by the killer couple and their acolytes.

We revisit the Blasted Lands with its infamous Slow Mutants and remember beloved friends lost on Jack’s first epic journey. But these are not the adventures of a wide-eyed boy on a thrilling trip. This Jack is a hardened and lonely traveler, remembering his glory days while finding the courage for one last battle. King punctuates the story with journal entries that fill in the gaps of this sprawling story, making it accessible for newer readers. 

In addition to this treacherous trip down memory lane, King makes frequent connections to more famous fantasy series. Considering its title — pulled from the shocking conclusion of The Gunslinger, the first book in The Dark Tower series — readers expected Other Worlds Than These to merge both epic sagas. While Black House lays out this connection with its talk of Breakers and the Crimson King, the newest installment becomes the lynchpin for holding King’s massive universe together.

Parallels and connections are fully fleshed out, and we revisit beloved characters from both literary worlds. It’s the closest King has ever come to confirming what Constant Readers have long suspected — the Master of Horror truly is writing one interconnected story. 

When describing his own inspiration, King admits, “I wanted to go back to Mid-World, which was always the Territories by another name.” We can feel this longing as King relaxes back into familiar ground. We’re treated to sweeping descriptions of the countryside on both sides of the reality divide and luxuriant stretches of warm conversation as Jack connects with new friends. True to form, King peppers the story with moments of dark humor and gruesomeness.

The Speckhoffer gang may be some of the author’s most sadistic villains, and he doesn’t hold back when describing their horrific kills. Other moments highlight the terror of this unpredictable world as new monsters rear their ugly heads. 

As Jack builds a second ka-tet to save the world, we’re reminded of another gunslinger’s epic journey. What begins as an older man hellbent on stopping a pair of teen murderers transforms into a poignant examination of the nature of chaotic evil. Some readers will be frustrated with a nebulous conclusion while others will find joy in the winding journey. Once again, King is less concerned with delivering a definitive ending than with pondering the cyclical nature of life itself.

Echoing some of his earlier work, like The Stand, Needful Things, and The Dark Tower, King reminds us that the true shape of evil never dies and the world can’t be saved by a singular battle. We must constantly be on our guard against new iterations of malevolence. 

While Other Worlds Than These won’t be for everyone — Dark Tower haters need not apply — King’s latest novel provides a satisfying final chapter for one of his most relatable characters, pulling Jack Sawyer out of the shadows and into the spotlight once again. It’s a mature novel from a creator who is entering the final stages of a long and storied career. Intensely reflective and meta-textual, we feel King saying goodbye to Straub while revisiting his own literary life.

Disguised as a road trip adventure story, Other Worlds Than These is a gorgeous meditation on the beauty of life and the friends we love and lose along the way.

Other Worlds Than These by Stephen King and Peter Straub publishes on October 6.

The post ‘Other Worlds Than These’ Book Review: Stephen King Finds Joy and Terror In Mid-World’s Final Journey appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

Some have given us genuine camp classics like Paul Michael Glaser’s The Running Man (1987) while others, like Rob Reiner and Frank Darabont, have created some of history’s most beloved films. But since the turn of the 21st century, one director has taken the reins as the preeminent director of Stephen King’s work. Cut from similar creative cloth, Mike Flanagan has a knack for capturing the author’s powerful blend of emotion and fear. From Gerald’s Game (2017) to the upcoming Carrie (2026) miniseries, the earnest director has found a way to translate some of King’s trickiest texts for the big and small screen. 

King’s influence can be felt throughout the span of Flanagan’s career. A lifelong Constant Reader — the moniker King has bestowed upon his dedicated fans — Flanagan does not just set out to scare us to death, but to make us feel along the way. This talent for character-driven horror reflects King’s own narrative strategy. In Danse Macabre, his 1980 treatise on the genre, King notes, “I try to create sympathy for my characters, then turn the monsters loose.”  

Flanagan’s debut feature, Absentia, may center an insectile creature from another dimension who snatches runners off the street. But this tender story could also be read as a metaphor for the pain of addiction and the toll it takes on those we love. Later films like Before I Wake and the 2016 sequel Ouija: Origin of Evil— which is much better than it has any right to be — use horror as the framework for a larger exploration of grief in the wake of a loved one’s death.

Both creators understand that a story must have emotional stakes if we are to be frightened at all. 

Oculus

Flanagan’s second film, Oculus (2013), is a harrowing story of a family torn apart by a malevolent antique mirror. As children, siblings Kylie (Annalise Basso, Karen Gillan) and Tim (Garrett Ryan, Brenton Thwaites) watch this mirror, the Lasser Glass, slowly poison their suburban home. As adults, they reunite for an elaborate plot to prove its supernatural capabilities before destroying the object once and for all. An expanded version of Flanagan’s 2006 short Oculus: Chapter 3 – The Man with the Plan, Oculus (2013) parallels one of King’s most haunting stories.

Featured in the 1985 collection Skeleton Crew, “The Reaper’s Image” introduces the Delver Glass, an antique mirror with a sinister past. While most simply see their own vaguely distorted reflection, a fraction of those who look in this mirror see a cloaked figure standing behind them and invariably go missing shortly after. 

While these stories bear no outright connection, their similarities are unmistakable. Both “The Reaper’s Image” and Oculus include grisly histories of the mirrors and their many victims. But Flanagan’s Lasser Glass does not cause its prey to disappear. Extended time in the mirror’s presence sparks wildly distorted perceptions, eventually leading to extreme acts of violence. Caught in the mirror’s sinister deception, their father Alan (Rory Cochrane) begins neglecting his kids while torturing his wife in the upstairs bedroom. His transformation from a flawed, yet loving father into a callous family annihilator is not unlike the story of Jack Torrance, the human villain of King’s The Shining. It’s also impossible to hear young Kaylie and Tim vow to destroy the mirror as adults without remembering It’s beloved Losers’ Club. 

Hush and Gerald’s Game

In many ways, Flanagan’s third feature, Hush, feels like a spiritual adaptation of King’s 1992 novel Gerald’s Game. The intimate story follows Jessie, an unhappy housewife on a romantic getaway with her boorish husband Gerald. When an ill-advised sex game goes disastrously wrong, Jessie finds herself handcuffed to the bed while Gerald lies dead on the floor. With no way to call for help, Jessie must use the few objects within her limited reach to free herself before she dies of dehydration. A fan of the harrowing novel, Flanagan has admitted to carrying a paperback copy of Gerald’s Game to industry meetings, pitching an adaptation as his dream project.  

But before he would get the chance, Flanagan directed the slasher-home invasion hybrid Hush, co-written with his wife Kate Siegel, who also stars. The stylish film follows a deaf and mute writer named Maddie (Siegel) whose isolated house is invaded by a masked serial killer known only as The Man (John Gallagher Jr.). Filmed largely without dialogue, Maddie must dissect her situation as if it were the plot of her latest novel, meticulously working through survival scenarios. Like Gerald’s Game, Hush follows an isolated woman who must use her limited resources to fight for her life while sustaining unthinkable injuries. 

Following the success of Hush, Flanagan finally secured his dream project. Released on Netflix in 2017, Gerald’s Game manages to capture a story many considered unfilmable. Except for childhood flashbacks and a polarizing denouement, the 300-page book takes place almost entirely in Jessie’s bedroom as she’s shackled in place on the bed. Most of the story’s dialogue comes from manifestations of women from her past: Ruth Neary, Jessie’s headstrong college roommate, and the Goodwife, a symbol of domestic oppression. 

To streamline the story and bring out its themes, Flanagan makes a few narrative changes. With Bruce Greenwood playing a slightly more likeable version of Gerald, Flanagan recasts these interior voices as manifestations of Gerald and Jessie (Carla Gugino), explaining, “This is a movie about a marriage. I want to hear from a married couple.” Like an angel and devil perched on her shoulders, these two metaphysical characters spar with each other while helping Jessie piece together memories from her traumatic past.

Meanwhile, a stranger creeps into the darkened room while Jessie sleeps. She awakens to find the hideously gaunt Moonlight Man (Carel Struycken) silently watching her from the corner. Cloaked in shadows, Jessie cannot tell if this man — whom King calls the Space Cowboy — is an intruder meaning to do her harm or a specter of oncoming death. Flanagan cleverly plays with shadow and light to recreate one of King’s most frightening characters. 

But the adaptation’s crown jewel is a faithful reconstruction of what is arguably the Master of Horror’s most gruesome passage. Hopelessly trapped by the military-grade cuffs, Jessie must essentially strip the skin from her hand to fit it through the steel bracelet. With jaw-dropping special effects, Flanagan presents the infamous “degloving scene” in excruciating detail, forcing us to stay with Jessie through her pain. Combining terror, horror, and disgust — King’s own delineation of fear — Flanagan explores the depths of Jessie’s mind, bringing her intimate experience to the screen. 

Doctor Sleep

Flanagan’s next King adaptation is somehow even more ambitious. Thirty-six years after publishing his iconic novel The Shining, King reconnected with Danny Torrance in the 2013 sequel Doctor Sleep. After surviving the notorious Overlook Hotel, an adult Danny battles a group of psychic vampires to protect a little girl named Abra who possesses psychic gifts even more powerful than his own. 

Like Gerald’s Game, this novel also includes extensive metaphysical scenes. The beguiling villain, Rose the Hat, can project her consciousness while meditating hundreds of miles away. Danny also manages to use his telekinetic powers to “turn the world,” mentally trading places with Abra to see, speak, and fight by controlling her body. Once again, Flanagan manages to capture the unfilmable, showing Rose gracefully gliding through a representation of Abra’s mind. He’s also able to keep track of the complex narrative, much of which occurs in his characters’ heads.

However, a larger concern would be marrying disparate source material. While revered as one of history’s greatest films, Stanley Kubrick took so many narrative liberties with his 1980 adaptation of The Shining that King is notably not a fan. In addition to numerous plot details, one version of the story ends with the Overlook standing and the other sees it burned to the ground. Anticipating a cinematic Doctor Sleep (2019), Constant Readers didn’t know whether Flanagan’s film would be a sequel to King’s or Kubrick’s story. 

But Flanagan manages to pull off the impossible, blending both sides of this terrifying tale. In recreations of Kubrick’s iconic Overlook, the sensitive director weaves in pieces of King’s original novel that were excised from Kubrick’s adaptation. Themes of addiction, sobriety, and forgiveness finally break through as Flanagan transforms tender elements of King’s The Shining into new and original sequences. King has stated that the director’s additions, including a scene in which Danny (Ewan McGregor) comes face to face with his troubled father, helped him make peace with Kubrick’s celebrated film. 

Midnight Mass and The Life of Chuck

Alongside these two adaptations, Flanagan turned to other genre authors for a string of miniseries adaptations. The Haunting of Hill House is based on Shirley Jackson’s celebrated novel, while The Haunting of Bly Manor was inspired by Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw. His The Midnight Club is a semi-anthology series based on the young adult horror of Christopher Pike, while The Fall of the House of Usherweaves together several of Edgar Allen Poe’s most chilling tales.

But nestled in the middle of this successful run is a series that nods to Stephen King. 

Midnight Mass follows the residents of a small New England town who fall victim to an ancient vampire infiltrating their lives through the Catholic Church. What first appears to be a blessing from God soon becomes a soul-crushing disease. While the story is entirely original, several elements feel directly inspired by King’s sophomore novel Salem’s Lot. Released in 1975, the terrifying story sees a tiny Maine town crumble with the arrival of a charming vampire. King expertly makes the town itself a character, providing a salacious look at its many scandals and secrets. While Flanagan’s story is not nearly so salacious, Midnight Mass uses vampires as a springboard to tell a nuanced story about small-town life and the complex nature of community. Filled with poignant monologues and gorgeous symbolism, the series sees Flanagan take inspiration from King to create a masterpiece all his own. 

For his next feature film adaptation, Flanagan joined the ranks of Rob Reiner and Frank Darabont in adapting one of King’s non-horror tales. Collected in the 2020 release If It Bleeds, “The Life of Chuck” is a tear-jerker novella that sees King make peace with the mystery of death. Told in three distinct chapters, the story begins with an entire world on the brink of collapse. Next we meet Chuck Krantz (Tom Hiddleston) on a joyous day in which he delights a random crowd by dancing with a stranger to a busker’s drums. This mirrors the third, and final vignette in which a young Chuck (Benjamin Pajak) learns to dance in an afterschool club. We eventually learn that these stories are pieces of the man’s memory slowly fading away as he dies from cancer. 

Flanagan’s story is a relatively straightforward retelling of this nebulous novella, skillfully highlighting the story’s emotional core. Flanagan captures the heart of this poignant tale, offering a lovely meditation on the reality of death. Though they differ in every conceivable way — including their ties to King himself — The Life of Chuck and Midnight Mass allow the director to confront the horrors of disability and terminal illness, themes King has explored in his later career. 

Carrie and beyond

Though The Life of Chuck is a fairly deep cut, Flanagan’s upcoming project is as iconic as it gets. The seasoned director will next take a crack at his own interpretation of Carrie, King’s debut novel about a bullied girl. First adapted by Brian De Palma, 1976’s Carrie has become a genre staple and an early example of Good For Her horror.  We watch Carrie White (Sissy Spacek) seek bloody revenge for a lifetime of horrific abuse by telekinetically destroying her senior prom along with a gym filled with her tormentors. 

Flanagan’s version of the story promises to modernize the 1974 novel, infusing social media, cancel culture, and sexual predation while offering more nuanced depictions of King’s original characters. Flanagan also endeavors to connect his Carrie (Summer H. Howell) to King’s expansive legacy of psychic kids with a network of powerful young women who recognize her as one of their own. This ambitious reimagining cements a deal with Amazon Prime that will hopefully lead to more King adaptations. Flanagan has also announced plans to adapt The Mist, King’s 1985 novella about a grocery store overrun with interdimensional beasts. 

But perhaps even more exciting, Flanagan is currently working through pre-production on a long-awaited adaptation of the Dark Tower saga. King’s eight-part western fantasy — including the coda novel The Wind Through the Keyhole — follows the gunslinger Roland Deschain on a quest to protect the mythical tower said to support the very threads of reality. Blending time, space, genre, and history, this sprawling saga has daunted an impressive list of directors and spawned one disappointing adaptation, The Dark Tower (2017). But if anyone can bring this massive story to life, it’s the man who gave us Gerald’s Game and reconciled the legacy of Doctor Sleep.

In addition to filming King’s most nebulous work, Flanagan’s signature blend of emotional horror meshes well with King’s own narrative style. Considering his impressive track record and the lengthy list of King titles still on the shelf, it’s likely that Mike Flanagan’s best work is yet to come.

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The Apple TV series follows a tiny New England community tormented by a mysterious curse. Fans of creator Katie Dippold’s quirky show have seen their fair share of deaths, both horrific and hilarious, but star Matthew Rhys is doubling down on heartbreaking carnage for season two. In an interview with Us Weekly, he admitted that we should be “terrified.” Describing the upcoming sophomore season, Rhys warned, “No one is safe. Anyone can be taken down at a moment’s notice.” 

We first meet Rhys as idealistic mayor Tom Loftis fighting tooth and nail for publicity that will invigorate the island’s tourist economy. Unfortunately, new interest in Widow’s Bay coincides with the awakening of a mysterious force that unleashes havoc on its citizens. White-eyed zombies, malevolent sea hags, ghostly clowns, and masked serial killers are just a few of the horrific beasts that haunt the traumatized population. But perhaps more sinister, episode two begins with an ominous church bell ringing, despite having been boarded up for many years.

WARNING: The following contains major spoilers.

We eventually learn that this bell tolls the number of human sacrifices required to coax the island’s monster back to sleep. Before the people of Widow’s Bay can rest, one human for each of the nine bell’s chimes must be offered up as an offering.  

This ritual begins in the season’s final episode as a hapless security guard named Al (Shawn Fitzgibbon) becomes locked inside the killing room. A raging nor’easter abruptly stops as the island gets its first taste of blood. But in the wake of this destructive storm, the bell begins ringing once again, this time sounding eight times. We’re reminded that the tiny town still has a heavy price to pay.

Considering Rhys’ earlier quote, the loss will probably hit close to home. As we prepare for a return to the dangerous island, let’s run through the remaining cast of characters, ranked by most to least likely to die. 

PJ and Kelly

Rarely have two teenage characters lobbied so hard to become monster food. We first meet PJ (Beck Nolan) causing trouble alongside Tom’s teenage son Evan (Kingston Rumi Southwick). Without wifi or social media, the boys are understandably bored, but Evan is at least likeable. Not only does PJ drag his friend into trouble, despite the cost to his prominent dad, but he’s the one to suggest they explore the town’s notorious Shelter #3 while a vicious storm rages overhead. PJ leads them into an eerie room where an execution-style chair faces a set of rusty storm doors that seem to lead into hell itself. When Al comes to corral the wayward teens, PJ bolts and locks the door. Moments later, Evan hears the man scream as something dangerous enters the room. When Evan returns, Al has disappeared, and the storm doors are sitting slightly ajar. 

Tagging along on this misadventure is Kelly (Kylie McNeill), Evan’s crush. At first she seems like a sweet tourist looking for a way to pass the time. But on a quasi-date at Evan’s house, she convinces him to go through his father’s things to investigate his mother’s death. The shocked teen learns that his mom did not actually die in childbirth as he was told, but several years afterwards. Clearly hoping for a more salacious bit of family dirt, Kelly grows bored and leaves Evan with this newfound pain. We’ve yet to see how — and if — the islanders will officially choose eight human beings to sacrifice. While the adults of Widow’s Bay may balk at dooming two teens to death, the audience would probably enjoy this bit of bloody comeuppance. Let’s be honest, PJ and Kelly are so reckless that they could easily stumble into danger again and accidentally martyr themselves.  

Kris

Giving PJ and Kelly a run for their money, Kris (Lauren Bittner) has earned viewers’ ire by bullying our beloved Patricia (Kate O’Flynn). A grown-up mean girl, Kris was once friends with victims of the Boogeyman (Airon Armstrong), a masked killer known for stalking and murdering teenage girls. While it’s understandable that she would carry trauma from this unthinkable loss, the callous woman dismisses Patricia’s own near-death experience. Mocking her former classmate’s pain, Kris turns new islanders against Patricia, isolating the already lonely woman and sabotaging her municipal events. 

Thankfully, the intrepid civil servant takes matters into her own hands. When the Boogeyman rises again and stalks Patricia in her home, she manages to get away and crashes a meeting of Kris’s book club. With the killer conveniently out of sight, Kris again launches into another smear campaign. Fed up, Patricia simply zaps her with the last bit of juice from the taser she brought to defend herself. As Kris plummets to the floor, Patricia proclaims her “the worst,” and it’s difficult to disagree. Though Kris will surely survive this taser hit — and Patricia handily takes out the killer — Kris’ egregious behavior places her high on the list for sacrifice. After all, we viewers ride at dawn for anyone who messes with our Party Queen. 

Wyck

Once the show’s kooky harbinger, Wyck (Stephen Root) has slowly worked his way into our hearts. We first meet the curmudgeonly fisherman as he frantically tries to thwart Tom in bringing tourists to Widow’s Bay. Remembering past seasons of death, he knows what follows the mysterious mist and desperately tries to sound the alarm. It’s not until Tom experiences the island’s peculiarities that the two men become uneasy allies, with Patricia serving as a welcome buffer. This quirky trio attempts to break a centuries-old curse when they dig up the corpse of Widow’s Bay founder Richard Warren (Hamish Linklater) — only to find the man still alive. Through shrewd investigation, they realize that the pact Warren signed with a demonic entity can only be broken when all his descendants have passed away. 

After commissioning a detailed genealogy, Wyck locates the last remaining Warren, an elderly spinster named Ruth (K Callan). Reasoning that she’s already lived a productive life and has no family to leave behind, Wyck prepares for the unthinkable. Arguing that he would not hesitate to take his own life if it meant ending the dreaded curse, he justifies this murder as an act of defense. It’s likely that Wyck will get this chance and add himself to the list of eight. We also learn that he carries guilt for the death of his best friend in the last sacrificial wave. Though a beloved member of the show’s core cast, Wyck may seek atonement by offering himself to the island’s god. 

Ruth

As the season one finale approached, Ruth’s death appeared to be imminent. Insisting on killing her in Wyck’s place, Tom drugs the woman’s tea with a lethal combination of prescription meds. While waiting for her hopefully peaceful demise, Tom listens to the story of her life, including a shocking number of would-be suitors. But as the woman slowly fades away, she reveals a devastating secret. After having an affair with a married man, Ruth gave the resulting baby away and watched the child grow up from afar. Tom’s dismay at discovering this bonus descendant quickly turns to horror as he learns that Ruth’s secret daughter was his wife. This means that Evan is the last of the Warren line and his death is all that will save the town. 

In the wake of this jaw-dropping disclosure, Tom has a belated change of heart. But before he can get Ruth medical help, Bechir (Kevin Carroll), the town’s reluctant sheriff, arrives to end the curse himself. He shoots the elderly woman in an attempt to save the life of his own imminent child. While Ruth manages to survive both murder attempts, she is admittedly in failing health. Wyck’s original argument is sound: she probably doesn’t have much time left. While Ruth’s poignant answer to the Trolley Problem confirms that she would not commit murder, the woman known for neighborly care would probably see her death as another turn of the island’s dark fate. 

Kurt

 The owner of the local (haunted) Inn, Kurt (Neil Casey), is clearly aware of the Island’s curse. We first meet the bearded businessman as he welcomes Tom for an overnight stay inside the notorious Captain’s Suite. But Kurt is careful not to cross the threshold himself and will not stay in his own inn overnight. He does maintain strict control of the honor bar via cameras and an intercom. When Tom is haunted by a murderous clown, Kurt downplays the risk to tourists. He agrees to spend ten, then thirty seconds inside the dreaded room to prove that there is nothing to fear. But when Bechir reopens the hotel room door, we see a very different Kurt. His disheveled clothes and the ransacked room make it seem as if he’s been trapped for days rather than mere moments. 

We do have some sympathy for Kurt. He’s sunk every penny he has into refurbishing the historic building, no doubt purchased before the ghosts made their presence known. But, despite firsthand knowledge of dangerous paranormal phenomena, he still insists that nothing is wrong and plans to open the inn to guests. It’s frankly egregious that he would send unwitting visitors to stay inside his haunted rooms while retreating to the safety of his own home. A helpful Sacrifice Tutorial video suggests that victims may be chosen because they owe a debt to society. It’s conceivable that the Widow’s Bay community will decide that putting innocent tourists in danger is a sin worthy of ritual death.  

Bechir

This honest yet grumpy lawman has been trying to escape the island since episode one. Clearly underwhelmed by the tiny community, he’s counting the days until he and his pregnant wife Chelle (Sipiwe Moyo) can move back to the mainland. But Bechir hides the impending delivery from his coworkers, missing an important warning. When Patricia notices Chelle’s baby bump, she tells Bechir about the island’s curse: anyone born on Widow’s Bay is doomed to stay there until they die. Attempts to sail past the aquatic border will result in death or debilitating illness. Having witnessed the return of the Boogeyman, Bechir takes her warning seriously and scrambles to get his wife off the island before she can give birth to their child. Unfortunately, a savage nor’easter coincides with Chelle’s first labor pains, and they find themselves trapped in a crowded storm shelter. 

Determined to save his child from a lifetime of island imprisonment, Bechir rushes to Ruth’s house and takes the decision out of Tom’s hands. Informed of Ruth’s secret child, he demands to know who the last descendant is, unaware that he is threatening the life of Tom’s own son. It’s possible that as the dust settles, Bechir will find himself locked in a deadly battle with the mayor. Or perhaps the crime of shooting Ruth will land him on the sacrifice list. But a stronger possibility is that the harried father-to-be will give up his own life in order to protect his unborn child.

 Tom

It’s not often that a show’s marquee star dies in the sophomore season, but in horror, anything is possible. We know that, like Bechir, Tom will put his life on the line to shield Evan from the Widow’s Bay curse. He also admits a debt to the town after leading the charge for tourism just in time for the deadly season. Of course, he just tried to murder Ruth despite his last-minute change of heart. With the town in need of martyrs, Tom may mirror Wyck’s altruism and offer himself to the hungry gods, especially if it means protecting his son. 

But this idea raises an interesting question: can Tom be considered one of the community’s sacrifices? As the mayor, he finds himself in the rare position to convene with whatever lives beneath. After emerging from his coffin, Richard Warren will only explain his sinister covenant with the current leader of the town, indicating Tom’s sanctified place in the bonds of the curse. Will whatever monstrous entity Warren met in the freezing Widow’s Bay woods accept Tom as an offering? Though he may try to surrender himself, it’s possible the island’s monstrous force will consider the mayor untouchable, a necessary officiant of the ritual. 

Evan 

On paper, Evan is the most obvious casualty, alongside his newly-discovered grandmother Ruth. As the last Warren descendant, his death will break the centuries-old curse and allow Widow’s Bay to live in peace. But hasn’t the boy already been through enough? Not only has he been stuck on the tiny — and tech-free — island every day of his short life, but he’s also grown up without a mother, Tom’s wife having succumbed to the border curse. Adding insult to injury, Evan has just discovered his father’s dark secret: his mom did not actually die in childbirth, but lived with psychosis for several years before passing away in a mental institution. A series of disturbing letters she wrote to her young son are the icing on the trauma cake. 

As the season ends, it’s unclear whether Tom will tell his son about the Widow’s Bay curse and his relationship to the community’s founder. What’s certain is that Evan now has no hope of leaving the island any time soon, derailing any college plans. If he does survive this deadly era, he will need to consider the curse before choosing to marry and have children of his own. Young and endearing, Evan has become a symbol of the island’s future, while his death would set his neighbors free. The resolution of this ethical battle will probably stretch into the show’s endgame. In season two, we’re more likely to see Tom die for his son or risk his life to sign a new covenant, negotiated to ensure Evan’s survival.  

Patricia

Patricia may not give the best first impression. When we first meet Tom’s prickly coworker, she seems a bit cold and standoffish, not to mention a wet blanket on his tourism plans. But we quickly fall in love with the lonely woman and realize that she’s just severely misunderstood. We feel her pain when she tries to make friends by throwing the perfect cocktail party. We cry with her when the bubble bursts, revealing the witch’s spell possessing her guests. Patricia also becomes a key member of the trio battling the island’s curse, not to mention constantly caring for Tom. But it’s her heroic destruction of the Boogeyman that proves the young woman’s surprising strength. 

Patricia is constantly on her guard and not likely to fall victim to monsters or ghosts. She probably won’t be chosen as a sacrifice after ridding the town of its slasher killer. O’Flynn has emerged as the series’ breakout star, easily stealing scenes from veteran actors Rhys and Root. Her deft takedown of the Boogeyman is easily the first season’s crowning achievement. Fans have fallen in love with the plucky municipal worker who runs a bookmobile in her spare time. There’s no way Widow’s Bay would kill her off, knowing fans like myself would take to the streets. 

Rosemary

The town’s resident genealogy queen, Rosemary (Dale Dickey), has grown up on the island alongside Wyck and has insider knowledge of its disturbing lore. Cool as a cucumber, she hangs around the story’s periphery, knowing exactly when to insert herself and when to remain a fly on the wall. Wyck asks for her genealogical assistance because he knows he can count on her discretion, and that she will not disappoint. Amidst the “dead babies” and “lesbians” who make up the Warren family tree are murder mysteries and scandalous secrets dating back hundreds of years. Rosemary not only knows where the bodies are buried; she knows how to keep herself out of trouble. 

As season two approaches and we’re looking for victims to sacrifice, Rosemary might emerge as a possible candidate. But as the town’s tight-lipped keeper of secrets, she probably knows of some loophole that will allow her to squeak by unscathed. Rosemary is a classic New England islander, stubborn and obstinate to a fault, but she’s entirely unflappable and calmly handles any crisis that comes her way, a cigarette clutched in her hand. Rosemary will probably outlive us all. And then be around to log our deaths in her handwritten genealogy chart.

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We’ve completely lost our trust in these overly friendly entertainers and now view them as dangerous entities. Most of this fear can be traced back to Tim Curry’s phenomenal performance as Pennywise the Dancing Clown. Thirty-six years after Tommy Lee Wallace’s It, the iconic villain is still nightmare fuel.

With examples dating back to ancient Egypt, the clown exists in every culture. Court jesters, fools, and comedians have all provided light-hearted humor tinged with subtle social commentary through outsized pantomime and self-deprication. By the mid-20th century, western audiences were most familiar with the circus clown, a buffonish performer in primary colors, dazzling audiences with slight-of-hand illusions and vaudevillian tricks.

Inspired by the British pantomimist Joseph Grimaldi who originated the iconic white makeup design, Bozo the Clown rose to fame with an animated series and nationally syndicated children’s show. He would later inspire Ronald McDonald, mascot of the massive fast food chain who would bring clowns to the American dinner table. 

As the archetype gained popularity, audiences slowly grew suspicious of the perpetual smile. DC Comics added a sinister edge with the Joker, a criminal mastermind who terrorizes Gotham with a jester facade, while the 1979 arrest of serial killer John Wayne Gacy connected the harlequin persona with grisly true crime. It’s no wonder that when Stephen King began writing about the essence of fear, he chose a sinister clown for his central antagonist. Remembering his inspiration, the Master of Horror would later describe clowns as the creature children fear, “more than anything else in the world.”

Published in 1986, It follows the Losers’ Club, a group of tween outcasts hunted by an alien entity. The shapeshifting creature has the ability to transform into its prey’s greatest fear, amplifying the terror to season the meat. But It’s default persona is an ostensibly friend circus clown who introduces himself as Pennywise. King even name-checks Bozo and Ronald McDonald when we first meet the beast in a sewer drain. Hoping to recover his lost paper boat, five-year-old Georgie Denbrough is lured into a false sense of security by a friendly smile and faint sounds of the circus. But the moment he reaches for his handmade toy, Pennywise grasps the child’s arm and rips it off. 

King’s novel became a runaway best-seller, immediately eyed as the next high-profile adaptation. Following in the footsteps of Tobe Hooper’s 1979 Salem’s Lot, Wallace’s It premiered as an ABC two-part special during November Sweeps Week of 1990. But King worried about the project’s success, particularly considering the novel’s disturbing content and themes of child endangerment. Hoping to draw eyes towards the risky endeavor, Wallace filled his adult cast with A-list actors like John Ritter, Olivia Hussey, Harry Anderson, and Annette O’Toole, most known for their work outside the genre sphere. 

Perhaps the most unusual casting decision was for the central villain himself. Though Malcolm McDowell and Alice Cooper were considered, likely for their own horror legacy, Wallace lobbied for Curry who envisioned the character as “a smile gone bad.” Then known for more comedic roles in Clue and The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Curry admired Pennywise’s beguiling charisma and deadly intent, remembering that the monster must first draw kids close before sealing their fate. Curry’s own menacing charm is on full display. Though playing a bloodthirsty child murderer, he lures us in with a wink and a smile while danger twinkles in his eyes. 

Compared to Bill Skarsgård’s modern iteration, Curry’s Pennywise is fairly subdued. His clown is decked out in a yellow jumpsuit with purple-striped sleeves and billowing ruffles. White gloves and orange pom-poms complete this traditional look, topped with a button nose and bright red hair. Replicating Grimaldi’s makeup design, minimal features traced in black and red float in a sea of uncontoured white. Only jagged teeth, yellow eyes, and a bulbous forehead — inspired by Lon Chaney in The Phantom of the Opera – give the look a strangely inhuman feel. Makeup Effects Coordinator Bart Mixon intentionally leaned into a friendly vibe noting, “This creature is trying to lure children in, so he’s not going to be a monster at first.”

Having previously worked under heavy prosthetics, Curry strongly argued for a more understated look and created an arsenal of his own menacing facial expressions. Wallace would later praise this more authentic approach, remembering, “He was right, of course. With those eyes, and that mouth, and his crazy, sardonic sense of humor, less turned out to be more in the makeup department.” Though several scenes feature Curry baring sharpened teeth, a smaller, less vicious set allowed the actor to more easily enunciate. 

This distinctive voice is central to the terror Curry creates. A wise-cracking trickster, Pennywise torments his victims with disturbing jokes and unnerving prophecies. Before going in for the kill, he warns the Losers, “I’m every nightmare you’ve ever had. I’m your worst dream come true. I’m everything you ever were afraid of.” In addition to amplifying the fear, Curry’s gruff voice helps connect the shapeshifting monster’s more nebulous personas. A mummy, a skeleton, and a treacherous witch all speak in Pennywise’s gravelly tones. When young Loser Beverly (Emily Perkins) sees blood explode from her bathroom sink, she doesn’t see the sinister clown at all, but hears his disquieting voice drifting up from the sewer drains, warning her of the horrors to come. 

As Bev cowers in fear on the bathroom floor, Wallace zooms in for a close-up of the frightened child’s face. It’s a technique he repeats several times through the series, creating the illusion of children in jeopardy. Wary of Broadcast Standards and Practices, Wallace avoids putting his young cast directly in the path of danger, using clever tricks and varied point of view to imply danger safe for network TV.

Rather than actually harming the kids, Pennywise taunts from a distance while Wallace highlights their expressions of fear. Though intended to soften disturbing content, the result is actually scarier. With no child in the frame, we feel as if Pennywise is menacing us through the thin protection of our TV screen. This destabilizing perspective shift allows us to fully absorb Curry’s terrifying performance as we squirm in his unrelenting gaze. 

Wallace uses special effects and replacement puppetry only when necessary; when Pennywise crawls out of a tiny locker room drain and later when he disappears into his subterranean lair. When viewed in a bubble, these moments admittedly feel campy and dated, but alongside Curry’s mesmerizing delivery, they are uncanny punctuations of terror. Pennywise often appears in the cold daylight, creating an eerie clash between fantasy and reality. When Bill (Richard Thomas) first returns to his childhood home, Pennywise taunts him from a line of open graves, one for himself and each of his friends. There are no thunderstorms or scary tableaus. Pennywise merely laughs while standing in the open earth.

Later, he torments Richie (Harry Anderson) in a crowded library, screaming ominous jokes while patrons pass by unaware, reading the newspaper and checking out books. Filmed in the bright light of day, Wallace eschews standard horror tropes and lets Curry create terror on his own.

By many accounts, the original It has not aged particularly well (the less said about that spider conclusion, the better.) To be fair, certain elements of King’s original story would challenge the most talented director, but the 1990 miniseries often feels overly saccharine and occasionally silly, particularly when compared to Andy Muschietti’s effects-heavy interpretations, It and It: Chapter Two. But Curry’s unsettling portrayal of the sinister clown has managed to stand the test of time. Though entirely covered with makeup and silk, the actor’s raw talent shines through and we feel as if Pennywise is targeting us. 

I don’t write this to denigrate Skarsgard’s portrayal or Muschietti’s blockbuster films. The Swedish actor managed to do the impossible when reinventing King’s iconic character. But the modern version of Pennywise is a highly-stylized counterpoint to Curry’s stripped-down interpretation, revealing what the talented actor was able to do with a bit of makeup and artistic flair. His Pennywise remains one horror’s most iconic characters, spiraling into a subgenre all its own. In the thirty-six years since It premiered, the murderous clown archetype has been utilized by some of horror’s most exciting creators and seen in countless series and films.

Stephen King is often credited with destroying the clown industry, reframing once friendly figures as sinister killers in disguise. But I would argue it’s Curry’s performance that put the jovial clown out to pasture. While King’s story is certainly terrifying, nothing compares to the British actor’s signature blend of menace and charm.

We first meet Curry’s Pennywise as he offers a friendly wink and wave while hiding behind a laundry line. On second glance, his appealing demeanor has dissolved. What’s left is a grimace of abject malice as he advances on a helpless child. In less than thirty seconds, he’s managed to reel us in and scare us to death. Curry may not have invented the killer clown, but his iconic Pennywise remains one of the horror’s most terrifying creatures. It’s a microcosm of Curry’s talent for reeling us in then tearing us to shreds.

Though Curry did not invent the sinister clown, he is the quintessential example of the trope and still one of the scariest characters in the history of horror. 

The post Tim Curry’s Pennywise Is The Reason Clowns Still Scare Us appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

In 2022, directors Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett revived the dormant series, reuniting our favorite final girls alongside a new duo of female survivors. Sam Carpenter (Melissa Barrera) and her half-sister Tara (Jenna Ortega) are connected by blood to the Ghostface murders and now find themselves caught in the fray. 

But linking these two eras of Scream queens is one of the genre’s most surprising final girls.

First introduced in the severely underrated Scream 4, Kirby Reed (Hayden Panettiere) merges several slasher tropes, reimagining the female survivor and besting the killer at his signature game. Though her fate remained unclear for twelve long years, Kirby makes a triumphant return in Scream VI, cementing her status as a final girl and one of the most inspirational characters in franchise history. 

Kirby’s Introduction in Scream 4

We first meet Kirby on the fifteenth anniversary of the Ghostface murders. A Woodsboro teen, she zooms down a residential street, barely avoiding a speeding ticket from series stalwart Dewey Riley (David Arquette), now serving as Chief of Police. Shaking his head, he begrudgingly waves, signaling trust in the reckless yet relatable teen. Kirby’s best friend Jill (Emma Roberts) just happens to be the younger cousin of Sidney herself, who’s returned to town on a book tour.

En route to school, Kirby shares her love for the famous survivor, claiming the Stab films – an in-world franchise that closely mirrors the events of Scream – are the reason she loves scary movies. This brief yet endearing statement invites in a new wave of self-reflection while endearing Kirby to female fans who also fell in love with horror through Sidney’s story. 

Not only a fan of scary movies, we learn that Kirby is a “genre nut” and boasts an impressive DVD collection. While flirting with film geek Charlie Walker (Rory Culkin), she insists she could “trivia [his] ass under the table.” Kirby’s knowledge is put to the test in a harrowing recreation of Scream’s opening scene. As Charlie sits, bound, outside the door, the frightened teen bargains for his life by answering a series of rapid-fire questions. Though she insists that she’s not an expert, Kirby easily blazes through Ghostface’s list, correctly identifying the signature weapons of Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, and Freddy Krueger. 

Her only miss is a trick question in which the killer erroneously calls Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom the film that kicked off the slasher craze. While Ghostface is correct that the 1960 film is the first to align audiences with the killer’s point of view, Peeping Tom is widely considered a proto-slasher, along with Psycho, the answer Kirby gives. Ghostface’s gotcha ignores earlier films like The Leopard Man and The Spiral Staircase while forgetting that the POV gimmick is merely one element of a complex slasher formula that would solidify in the late ’70s and early ’80s.

Beating Ghostface at His Own Game

Perhaps I’m a bit protective of Kirby and miffed by this subjective question that reeks of film bro narcissism. Also frustrated, Kirby begs for another chance and, upon hearing the word remake, rattles off titles from the horror remake boom of the aughts.

“Halloween, uh, Texas Chain Saw, Dawn of the Dead, The Hills Have Eyes, Amityville Horror, uh, Last House on the Left, Friday the 13th, A Nightmare On Elm Street, My Bloody Valentine, When A Stranger Calls, Prom Night, Black Christmas, House of Wax, The Fog, Piranha. It’s one of those, right? Right?” Clearly outmatched, the killer falls silent, and Kirby assumes she’s won the game. She rushes outside to free Charlie and walks directly into a trap. As Kirby unwinds the tape from his feet, Charlie plunges a knife into her stomach. Giving incel vibes, he’s angry that after four long years, she’s only now paying attention to him. 

Upon second watch, this attack feels especially cruel. Logic tells us that Kirby must be talking to the second killer. But remembering her flirtatious challenge, it feels like she’s matching wits with Charlie himself. His unprovoked act of violence feels less like a response to romantic rejection and more like punishment for her genre expertise. It’s a heartbreaking moment that lays bare the fallacy of Ghostface’s trivia games. Though dressed up as devotion to the art of horror, each masked killer eventually reveals that they are driven by misplaced anger and jealousy. By beating the villain at his own game, Kirby echoes Sidney’s discovery in Scream 3, proving that each Ghostface kills, “because [they] chose to” while hiding behind a mask of artistic expression. 

We eventually learn that Jill is the second killer. Tired of living in Sidney’s shadow, she’s orchestrated a plot to remove her rival and emerge as the new celebrity survivor. Meanwhile, Sidney is confronting her own legacy. Her memoir, entitled Out of Darkness, sees the perpetual final girl reject a life defined by tragedy, rewriting her narrative as one of strength and perseverance. She passes on this knowledge to Kirby in a brief scene that occurs just moments before the fateful trivia game.

Discovering Charlie with blood on his hands, Sidney encourages Kirby to listen to her instincts and lock out anyone she doesn’t trust. Though brief, this scene is a touchstone connecting two generations of final girls. 

For most of its run-time, Scream 4 mirrors the structure of Craven’s 1996 original, bringing us back to Woodsboro with a new batch of terrified teens. Jill is poised to become the next final girl while Charlie embodies the late Randy Meeks (Jaime Kennedy), explaining the updated slasher rules while leading a meeting of Cinema Club. But when Jill and Charlie turn out to be killers, a hole appears in the slasher structure. Surprisingly, Kirby steps in to fill both roles. She becomes the story’s young heroine, fighting a masked killer to save her friends. And she serves as a film geek and harbinger, fretting about who will die before who and easily sussing out the story’s false conclusion.

After viciously stabbing Kirby twice, Charlie simply walks away, leaving her to bleed out in her own backyard. But as any seasoned horror fan knows, you can never trust an off-screen death.

How Scream VI Completed Kirby’s Story

Twelve years after this brutal attack, Kirby makes her long-awaited return in Scream VI, which takes the carnage to New York City. Explaining her horrific ordeal, she remembers, “I almost died after I was stabbed. Technically, I did die… for four minutes. When I recovered, I got mad. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life being afraid of monsters. I wanted the monsters to be afraid of me.”

She is now an FBI Agent with a special interest in Ghostface murders and offers her help in the latest attacks. 

Reminiscent of Craven’s original trilogy, Scream and Scream VI introduce a pair of final girls who survive by leaning on each other. Along with their friends, Mindy (Jasmin Savoy Brown) and Chad (Mason Gooding), twin niece and nephew of Randy Meeks, they battle a new generation of Ghostface killers who’ve grown up obsessed with the Stab series. Though Scream (2022) features heavy involvement from Sidney and Gale, Scream VI is a franchise anomaly. Not only is Sidney not present at all, but Gale is sidelined for the final showdown.

Once again, Kirby steps in to fill the void and becomes a legacy character. 

In a touching scene, she offers Tara advice on how to survive the unthinkable, mirroring Sydney’s own journey “out of darkness.” Kirby also has an endearing exchange with Mindy, who is following in her uncle’s footsteps as the franchise’s newest genre expert. Rather than a life-or-death trivia game, the two women quiz each other about franchise favorites, marveling at all they have in common while accepting where they disagree. We remember that Kirby once walked so Mindy could run and female horror fans see themselves reflected onscreen. It’s not often that we watch two confident women indulge in their love of genre lore without a hint of shame or diminishment. 

With Dewey also absent from the narrative, tragically killed off in the previous film, Kirby steps into his law enforcement role while combining Gale’s investigatory skills. Though briefly framed as the newest killer — in the Scream world, everyone’s a suspect — Kirby makes it to the film’s climactic battle. Surrounded by Ghostface memorabilia, she’s stabbed by the very knife Charlie once used. Also shot several times, Kirby manages to stay alive and even lands the final kill, an honor reserved for Scream royalty. As the last of the three new Ghostfaces rises for a final blitz, Kirby crushes his head with a TV set, nodding to Stu Macher (Matthew Lillard), the saga’s fan-favorite killer.  

Kirby’s Place Among Horror’s Greatest Final Girls

What has always differentiated the Scream series from a glut of similar slasher films is its willingness to reflect on itself while pushing stagnant tropes into modern times. More recent installments depict Gale and Sidney as battle-weary sister survivors, reuniting to guide Sam and Tara through their own empowerment. But Kirby is the key to linking both pairs.

The secret heart of Scream 4, she emerges as a relatable heroine and passes the torch to the next generation. She is a microcosm of the film’s most famous archetypes, simultaneously serving as law enforcement, investigator, horror expert, and final girl. But perhaps most impressive, she’s the only character to beat the killer at his own game, defanging the horror aficionado and forcing Ghostface to reveal his true colors. 

Sadly, Panettiere’s untimely death means we must say goodbye to Kirby Reed. Though this loss is devastating, we leave the beloved character in a moment of strength. Wounded, but optimistic, she offers support to a new generation of final girls, reminding Sam and Tara, “If you ever need me, call. We’re all part of the same fucked up family now. And the legacy doesn’t have to be a bad thing.” 

Through tears, I’m reminded of lines from Scream VI written to honor Sidney and Gale, which now apply to Kirby as well. After narrowly escaping a Ghostface attack, Gale sends a poignant message. “He didn’t get me,” she whispers while preparing for another recovery. “Tell Sidney, [Ghostface] never got me.”

Kirby has also survived two brutal massacres and risen from the ashes to guide a new generation of women. Like Sidney, “she deserves to have her happy ending.” Though we deeply mourn the loss of Panettiere, we honor her contribution to horror itself. As Kirby, she’s reimagined several long-standing archetypes, some first embodied only by men. She’s expanded our understanding of female empowerment and allowed horror fans from all walks of life to see themselves as a welcome part of their favorite story.

The post Kirby Reed’s Legacy: Hayden Panettiere Created A ‘Scream’ Horror Heroine We’ll Never Forget appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

But before them all was Sally Hardesty (Marilyn Burns).

The star and sole survivor of Tobe Hooper’s The Texas Chain Saw Massacre burst onto the scene in October of 1974 and forever changed the way we view women in film. On a road trip through Texas, Sally crosses paths with some of the most depraved villains in the history of horror and manages to live through a night of sheer hell. Though Hooper’s gritty masterpiece has stood the test of time, spawning five decades of sequels and imitators, Sally never seems to receive the love bestowed on her final girl peers. But given the atrocities she survives and the epic way in which she escapes, Sally Hardesty is arguably the strongest female character the genre has ever seen. 

We first meet Sally enjoying a road trip with her brother Franklin (Paul A. Partain), boyfriend Jerry (Allen Danziger), and friends Pam (Teri McMinn), and Kirk (William Vail). Recent reports of local graverobbing have left the teen concerned that her grandfather’s remains may have been disturbed and they’re driving out to the Texas countryside to ensure that everything’s still in order. After a disturbing run in with a local Hitchhiker (Edwin Neal), the group swings by the old Franklin house, a family estate now left to the elements. Having run out of gas, Kirk, Pam, then Jerry each wander into the house next door and meet an enormous man wearing a mask made from human skin. Leatherface (Gunnar Hansen) butchers them each in turn like livestock headed to the slaughter. When Sally and Franklin try to track their friends down, Leatherface bursts through the moonlit trees and brutally murders the screaming man with his trademark saw. This kicks off just over 30 minutes of terror in which the masked giant and his cannibalistic family chase and terrorize Sally, intent on making her their next meal.  

When The Texas Chain Saw Massacre premiered in 1974, Sally was the primary heroine and star of the film, but she would soon become something more. In her book, Men, Women, and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film, Carol J. Clover names Sally as the first final girl, a term bestowed on the sole remaining protagonist at the end of a slasher film and a conduit through which the audience perceives the story’s unique horror. “The one who would not die,” the final girl is cursed with the knowledge of her friends’ deaths and must survive long enough to be rescued or defeat the slasher killer on her own. This archetype would continue to evolve through 50 years of genre filmmaking while essentially defining one of its most popular iterations.

Not only the first, Sally arguably suffers more than any of her peers and carries this iconic film through its jarring final act. Surprised while pushing her brother’s wheelchair through the dark forest, she watches a maniacal killer rip him to pieces. With branches tearing at her long hair and clothes, she runs to a nearby farmhouse for help, inadvertently entering Leatherface’s home. Upstairs, she finds two rotting corpses posed in arm chairs, then jumps out the second story window rather than face the monster currently chainsawing through the front door. Struggling to her feet, Sally continues to run and takes refuge in a familiar gas station. Unfortunately, the Old Man (Jim Siedow) she finds closing up shop offers only the illusion of safety. He binds Sally in a burlap sack, dumps her body on the floor of his truck, then drives back to the terrible farmhouse, giggling as he pokes her with the handle of a broom. We learn that he, the Hitchhiker, and Leatherface are all members of a depraved family of former slaughterhouse workers who have been selling human meat disguised as barbeque to oblivious patrons who stop by the gas station. 

Once inside this nightmarish home, Sally is forced to attend a dinner from hell. Tied to a chair outfitted with dismembered human arms, she watches this heinous family bring down one of the attic’s presumed corpses. To feed and revive the man they call Grandpa (John Dugan), Sally’s finger is sliced open and placed in his slack mouth. The ancient man begins to suckle like a baby, finally coming alive with the taste of her blood. Having passed out during this mind-breaking scene, Sally wakes up just in time for a family meal. Under a chandelier made from a human head, the cannibalistic men mock her screams and fondle her hair while dining on meat likely cut from her friends. Hooper zoom’s in on Sally’s terrified eyes, moving the camera ever closer as they dart around in panic. Clover describes the final girl as, “abject terror personified,” while noting this abjection as distinctly female. In this revolutionary moment, Hooper captures the audience’s empathy by aligning us with his frightened protagonist and regendering our collective understanding of strength and endurance. We’ve been conditioned to accept the suffering of women in narrative art and everyday life, but Sally becomes the blueprint for female empowerment through survival.

Fondly remembering their days on the slaughterhouse floor, the family assures Sally that Grandpa is the best killer in the business and that her imminent death “won’t hurt a bit.” In this abhorrent yet strangely comedic scene, the Hitchhiker holds the screaming woman over a bucket on the floor while Leatherface assists Grandpa in trying to smash her head with a hammer. But the decrepit man can barely hold the weapon and makes feeble attempts to land a killing blow. In the midst of this chaos, Sally fights her way free and jumps through a second window, landing on all fours like a wounded animal. Limping down the farmhouse’s long driveway, she’s once again attacked by the Hitchhiker who slashes into her back while Leatherface retrieves his trusty chainsaw. Though she is injured, Sally runs to the road and watches as a truck pulverizes the depraved murderer directly on her heels. As Leatherface approaches, the truck’s driver attempts to help her into the cab, but panics when the chainsaw’s blade hits the driver’s side door. Sally must ultimately flag down a second truck and hop into the bed. She screams in a mix of terror and triumph as a frustrated Leatherface waves his chainsaw in the early morning sun. 

Because of this ending and the meager assistance she receives, Sally has frequently been called a passive final girl. Like Laurie Strode in the original Halloween, she requires male intervention to survive and does not fight the killer off on her own. While this may be technically true, the word “passive” seems to undercut Sally’s impressive physicality and many feats of survival. Setting aside the fact that she jumps through two windows, Sally must endure thirty-one minutes of mind-bending terror, completely carrying the second half of the film. Not only does she fight her way out of certain death, she evades three separate killers and forces two truck drivers to stop and come to her aid. The first would-be savior buys her precious minutes by throwing a literal wrench into Leatherface’s plan, but Sally must adjust in the moment and force another truck to pull aside. Though injured and stunned, she climbs aboard all on her own and commands the driver to speed away. The truck and its male driver may physically move her away from Leatherface, but Sally has reached salvation all on her own. 

Adding verisimilitude to this cinematic ordeal, the working conditions on Hooper’s set were also reportedly horrific. Due to a miniscule budget, the cast and crew worked 12-16 hours seven days a week for more than a month in the Texas summer where temperatures would routinely break 100 degrees. The poorly ventilated house was filled with rotting animal carcasses causing the actors to vomit or lean out the windows for fresh air between takes. By the end of filming, Sally’s costume was drenched in so much blood–some of it real–that it could stand up on its own. Hansen’s own attire could not be washed for fear that it would change color or shape and smelled predictably terrible by the time filming wrapped. The set was also reportedly quite dangerous and the special effects were unreliable. When a blood tube could not be fixed, Hansen solved the problem by simply slicing into Burns’ finger to “feed” Grandpa with her actual blood. A real hammer was reportedly used during some takes of the bucket scene, which could easily have caused a devastating injury. Considering these stories and many more, It’s safe to assume this was one of the most grueling behind the scenes scenarios in horror history, adding weight to Sally’s impressive performance. 

Despite this heroism, Sally has not become a franchise mainstay. An introduction to the third film, Leatherface: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre III tells us that she died three years later in a mental institution. Burns makes a brief reappearance in Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation as a catatonic patient wheeled past the film’s own final girl, symbolically passing the torch to Leatherface’s newest survivor. Eight years after Burns’ death, actress Olwen Fouéré would take on the iconic role in the 2022 sequel Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Taking a nod from Laurie Strode, who’s continuing story helms a trilogy of modern Halloween sequels, this Sally has become a hardened Texas Ranger still searching for the masked man who murdered her friends. She does eventually track down Leatherface (Mark Burnham) and bravely diverts his attention long enough for two new heroines to escape. However, the beloved survivor dies at the end of her enemy’s chainsaw and falls into the street among bags of garbage–an egregious end to her harrowing story.  

But Sally’s legacy will reach far beyond her cinematic death. Not only does she anchor one of the greatest horror films of all time–a symphony of depravity unlikely to ever be reproduced–she is the first official final girl and helped create a trend that would go on to redefine the genre. In addition to this distinction, Sally is unique in one other aspect of the now-famous trope: she never turns to face her attacker, instead only fighting her way towards freedom. Later final girls would go on to pick up then “drop up the knife,” a trope that describes the masculinizing effect of using the killer’s phallic weapon against him. Clover describes this phenomenon as seen in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre Part 2 which concludes with final girl Stretch (Caroline Williams) wielding a chainsaw atop a high hill, mirroring Leatherface’s own grotesque dance at the end of Hooper’s film.

Over time, this element of the final girl’s legacy has become contentious and could be interpreted to mean that a feminized victim can only find empowerment by adopting the distinctly masculine strength of her attacker. But Sally escapes on her own terms. Not only does she survive a grueling thirty minutes of sheer torture, she fights her way out of a seemingly impossible trap and orchestrates her own miraculous rescue. She never loses her sense of self and survives by remaining precisely what she has always been, an empowered survivor with an unrivaled will to live, and one of the greatest characters in the history of horror.

Editor’s Note: This article was originally published on October 11, 2024.

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Or perhaps you have kids in that age range and are still trying to figure out what skibidi means while parsing out your child’s fascination with a sardonic purple bunny flashing a Cheshire grin. The Netflix series feels like polished brain rot with its uncanny jumble of quasi-familiar cartoon imagery.

But lurking beneath this candy-colored bizarre is a deep exploration of Gen Alpha horror. Created by the YouTuber known as Gooseworx, the eye-popping extravaganza is perhaps the first piece of mature art to highlight the experience of growing up alongside the creation of generative AI. 

For an adult, watching The Amazing Digital Circus — or TADC for those in the know — feels like flipping over a massive toy box and rapidly assembling a story from whatever falls out. Some vigilant parents may be reminded of the bizarre children’s videos where green gorillas raced through electronic streets while peering out of giant toilets.

But the series has more prestigious origins. Gooseworx was reportedly inspired by Harlan Ellison’s award-winning short story “I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream”, a terrifying sci-fi tale about life under an oppressive supercomputer.  

Setting the Stage for Gen Alpha Terror

Episode one begins when a young woman suddenly materialises on an animated stage. Confused, she tries to pull off an invisible headset while gaping at her digitized self. We have no idea what she used to look like, and she cannot remember her own name. The player we will come to know as Pomni (Lizzie Freeman) now wears a blue and white court jester’s suit complete with a matching pom pom-tipped hat. Her black-rimmed eyes are fields of stark white around dizzying octagonal pupils that perfectly match her outfit’s hues. Pomni frantically tugs at her chunky, dark hair with cartoon-style gloves only to find that she can do nothing to alter her appearance.

She’s trapped in an avatar she had no part in creating. 

As other human residents cautiously approach, Pomni is welcomed by the Circus’ bizarre ringmaster. Caine (Alex Rochon) is a shocking amalgamation of humanoid imagery and iconic toys whose “face” is a pair of detached eyeballs perched inside massive chattery teeth. Dressed in a top hat and tails, he’s flanked by an equally eerie sidekick named Bubble (Gooseworx), a semi-translucent shimmering sphere with shark-like eyes and jagged teeth. Though obviously designed to be whimsical, Caine and Bubble are menacing in their soullessness, empty code trained to mimic fun. 

The rest of Pomni’s human companions — or prisoners — are similarly jarring in their appearance. Jax (Michael Kovach) is the aforementioned purple rabbit while Ragatha (Amanda Hufford) is a ragdoll with a button eye. Kinger (Sean Chiplock) is a chess piece with lopsided eyeballs hovering above a royal robe, and Gangle (Marissa Lenti) is an eerie swirl of blood-red ribbon supporting an alabaster tragedy mask. Zooble (Ashley Nichols) appears to be a collection of shapes, toys, and craft supplies haphazardly constructed to approximate bipedal form. Some more welcoming than others, they try to explain this new existence and the virtual hell in which they’ve been trapped. 

Desperate to escape, Pomni dashes for a door labeled Exit, regardless of the fact that it’s a disconnected passageway. The portal takes her to an unassuming office filled with droopy plants and drab furniture. Rushing towards another sign, she finds no escape, just more of the same. Each door leads her through an interminable maze of dismal and nondescript offices.

Pomni does eventually reach the end of this chain, stumbling into a liminal space known as the Void. With shimmering chords of multi-layered geometry stretching out as far as the eye can see, this unnerving expanse shows the massive code that forms the appearance of a three-ring circus. Caine rescues her from this digital nightmare by pulling her back into the tent, once again covering coded reality with a distracting image.

Pomni’s Identity Crisis and the Horror of Losing Your Humanity

Each day, Caine sends the humans on a bizarre adventure constructed solely to keep them from getting bored and pondering the true nature of their confinement. Pomni’s first quest is a bizarre amalgamation of Candy Land and George Miller’s Mad Max: Fury Road, a mission to return a hijacked maple syrup truck to a whimsical world made of sugary treats. When she sinks beneath the virtual map, Pomni meets a stranded NPC (non-playable character) and watches him become self-aware.

Gazing at an inanimate variation of himself, the gummy crocodile hijacker realizes that every one of his memories, including the sick mother he claims to be fighting for, is nothing more than fleeting details in someone else’s ridiculous game. When Pomni tries to bring the NPC back to the circus, Caine disposes of the sentient character, erasing him from existence by simply snapping his fingers.  

Next, the humans are sent on a quest to the eerie Mildenhall Manor. So scared that her eyes literally pop out of her head, Pomni is dragged by these disembodied organs into the basement where she meets a mummified corpse. A disembodied voice explains that the mansion’s owner murdered his family and now waits to use her body as a vessel to return to the living world. Dropped into hell itself, Kinger and Pomni must traverse this barren realm without taking a breath that will invite spirits in. Thankfully, they remember that respiration is a remnant of their human lives and clutch hands as they wade through a river of ghosts.  

This dehumanization continues in the sixth episode, entitled “They All Get Guns.” After explaining a disturbing Russian Roulette-style trust exercise, Caine abandons an increasingly convoluted setup and simply stashes various weapons around the circus. In pairs, the guests must retrieve these guns and shoot each other. The last one standing will win the game. Cartoon hearts hover above their heads to indicate how many lives they have left. What follows is a shocking juxtaposition of extreme violence and childish role play. Stuffing explodes out of Ragatha’s body as Jax continues to shoot her at point-blank range.

Finally, she turns the tables on him and reverses fire by simply plugging the gun’s barrel with her finger. Just seconds after they’ve been murdered, the characters reappear, emotionally shaken, but physically unharmed. 

How The Amazing Digital Circus Reflects Gen Alpha’s Real-World Anxieties 

Teamed up with the nihilistic Jax, Pomni survives by embracing villain mode. The grinning bunny has convinced her that nothing is real and there are no consequences for their actions, except the emotional toll of living through a massacre. This disturbing episode exposes the unique pain of growing up with active shooter drills.

Since kindergarten, Gen Alpha kids have been tasked with pretending to hide from a gunman rampaging through their schools, then returning to math class moments later. Gooseworx seems to say that the only way to emotionally navigate this horrifying reality is to retreat into the mindset of a video game. 

As he makes plans to hunt down and kill the other guests, Jax explains that the longer they stay in this electronic realm, the more they revert to archetypes. The self-professed “funny one,” Jax pulls on sitcom tropes while slowly losing his grip on reality. As his pupils begin to scramble, the walls dissolve into pleasing light, muzak filling his private room. Jax has begun to abstract. Without corporeal bodies, the circus’ only means of death is this frightening state of disconnection. Though pleasing from the inside, this oblivion looks much different to outside observers.

Rather than a whimsical avatar, an abstracted soul is a monstrous creature of Vantablack, covered with blinking neon eyes. Constantly pulsing with sharp angles, the creature rampages from room to room, beating their friends into glitching submission. 

Caine is One of Horror’s Most Disturbing AI Villains 

To rid the circus of these threats, Caine pulls the abstracted soul into a basement lair, dooming them to endless oblivion. But as Jax succumbs to digital distraction, Caine also begins to lose control. Distressed by negative feedback on his adventures and dissatisfaction from his human guests, the AI grows increasingly hostile, eventually declaring himself their god. He plans an intensely cruel adventure, dangling hope of escape in front of their eyes. Next, Caine begins a system of outright torture, putting the guests through increasingly dehumanizing tasks.

They eventually find a way to delete Caine’s file, saving themselves from the maniacal machine. But the AI’s absence leaves them stranded in this electronic realm. They have no way to change their environment or protect themselves from abstracted Jax. Like our youngest generation, they’ve been trapped in a hell they did not create and denied the power to save themselves.  

It’s only by retreating into darkness that Kinger remembers his complicity. Employed by a tech company, he explains that each of the residents’ brains has been scanned, replicated, then uploaded to the digital circus. While perhaps reassuring to know that their true selves are out there living their lives, the digitized prisoners must face the fact that they will never have a human form. The only way to escape their cartoonish avatars is to permanently delete themselves.

It’s a stunning recreation of the dehumanizing effects of prolonged online socialization. Pomni’s consciousness only exists in this electronic space, a world in which everything is possible but nothing is real.  

While his guests struggle to define themselves in the wake of this distressing news, Caine recovers his source code and hesitantly tries to make amends. With no alternative, the guests accept his offer to help them manage the circus’ infinite hell. Caine begins by genuinely listening to their requests instead of overriding their feelings with empty logic. Pomni and her friends broker a fragile peace, saying goodbye to their human forms and soothing the abstracted Jax monster. Though bittersweet, this conclusion does not talk down to its audience by suggesting a return to normalcy or a victory that does not exist. 

An Animated Warning

The Amazing Digital Circus has deeply resonated with Gen Alpha kids, wrapping poignant social commentary in candy-colored fun. On the surface, it’s a quirky cartoon filled with strangely delightful characters. But at its core, TADC shows the struggle to cope with a lack of control in an increasingly dangerous world. We do not yet know the ramifications of generative AI, but our children will be left to figure it out.

Eventually, they will pierce through the dazzling distractions we’ve created to hide our shortsided selfishness. It’s no coincidence that Kinger’s aging boss created this brain-scan technology, then himself abstracted, leaving no way out of the mess he built. 

While exploring the seductive nature of online oblivion and the importance of bodily autonomy, The Amazing Digital Circus is perhaps best described as a story about the horrors of generative AI. Gooseworx seems to argue that we cannot put the genie back in the bottle and must find a way to coexist with rapidly expanding technology.

While oddly affirming to Gen Alpha viewers, TADC should serve as a warning to adults. Like the humbled Caine, we must earnestly listen to those who will inherit our mistakes and find the courage to relinquish control before we end up destroying humanity.

The post ‘The Amazing Digital Circus’ Is Gen Alpha’s First Great Horror Story About AI appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

In each iteration of the salacious story, a hardened ex-con named Max Cady emerges from prison with a horrifying grudge. Rather than relish his newfound freedom, the unrepentant villain becomes obsessed with destroying the lawyer who put him away.

Antosca’s version of the story expands the narrative to miniseries length, remixing the details of Max’s story to eviscerate the criminal justice system. But what begins as a timely exploration of legal corruption transforms into a story of distinctly male toxicity. Nearly seventy years after readers first met Max Cady, we’ve watched the strangely magnetic villain evolve to reflect generational fears of masculine strength and women’s place in a dangerous world. 

Warning: Plot spoilers ahead.

Cape Fear (1962)

Named for the ominous North Carolina river, J. Lee Thompson’s 1962 film actually begins in southeast Georgia where we first meet lawyer Sam Bowden (Gregory Peck) debating trial strategy with a friendly judge. You see, the southern courtroom does not provide air conditioning, and hot juries have been known to express their discomfort in the form of retributive guilty verdicts. This discussion has little to do with the story that follows, but will plant thematic seeds for remakes to come. 

Peck stars as the esteemed attorney just months before his celebrated role as the noble Atticus Finch in Robert Mulligan’s To Kill a Mockingbird. With his stiff, gray suits and moral high ground, Peck’s Sam is the epitome of absolute justice corroded in the face of a dangerous threat. By contrast, Robert Mitchum is relaxed and suave, casually flouting the law in shirtsleeves and a Panama hat. At the time of filming, Mitchum was perhaps best known as Reverend Harry Powell, a serial killer masquerading as a revival preacher in Charles Laughton’s 1955 horror film Night of the Hunter. At opposite ends of the criminal spectrum, Peck and Mitchum perfectly epitomize the legal manifestation of good vs. evil. 

Mitchum’s Max is a sardonic rapist imprisoned for assaulting a teenage girl. After witnessing this atrocious crime, Sam testified for the prosecution, essentially assuring a guilty verdict. While serving out his full sentence, Max has been nursing a grudge and vows to destroy Sam’s happy life. He stalks the family, poisons their dog, and fixates on fourteen-year-old Nancy Bowden (Lori Martin). When Sam hires goons to teach Max a lesson, the ex-con leans into victimhood and threatens to have Sam disbarred. 

The story takes a disturbing turn when Max follows the Bowdens to the titular river, easily outwitting their naive trap. He forces himself on Peggy Bowden (Polly Bergen), offering the frightened wife a horrific deal. If she will “consent” to sex, he will leave her daughter alone, painting coercive rape as a mother’s noble sacrifice. Max explains that Sam will never recover from the knowledge that his wife has been with another man, forever destroying their relationship. Thompson intentionally downplays mention of sexual assault to avoid the dreaded X-rating, but the implication is clear. Befitting the time period, Max views Peggy and Nancy as dehumanized extensions of Sam himself and seeks to punish the man by harming his women. 

After a thrilling fight on the banks of Cape Fear, Sam finally gains the upper hand and prepares to deliver a killing blow. But the altruistic lawyer ultimately has a change of heart, explaining, “That would be letting you off too easy, too fast…You’re gonna live a long life… in a cage!” We leave the Bowdens flanked by police, reassuring audiences that the nightmare is over and Sam has reclaimed his integrity.  

Cape Fear (1991)

Three decades later, Martin Scorsese would put his own spin on the classic film while creating one of cinema’s most memorable villains. Robert De Niro’s Oscar-nominated performance blends Mitchum’s now-iconic roles. An outwardly suave lothario, his Max sports ominous prison ink, directly referencing “Preacher” Henry Powell’s legendary knuckle tattoos. The son of a revival minister, Max attributes an almost supernatural tolerance to pain—not to mention a thick southern drawl—to life growing up around snake handlers. It’s an interesting turn for the New York actor who had most recently starred as the menacing Jimmy Conway in Scorsese’s masterful Goodfellas.

Rather than a straightforward story of good men protecting their women, the updated Sam Bowden (Nick Nolte) is a conflicted anti-hero. Once again charged with the brutal rape of a teenager, Sam served as Max’s defense attorney, though we learn that he was concealing evidence of the victim’s promiscuity. This omission is painted as a shameful dereliction of duty and the reason Max was sent to jail. But Sam will later remind audiences that a teenager’s sexual history has nothing to do with the crime Max committed. He is not a wrongly convicted man, but a vicious rapist denied the bias that would likely lead to an unjust acquittal. 

Rather than cast blame on Sam for this understandable omission, Scorsese doubles down on Max’s toxicity. Describing his time in prison, Max recounts the experience of being “a woman,” implying his own history of sexual assault. Yet his experience as a victim of the very crime he committed has done nothing to expand his empathy. Max has emerged from prison determined to reclaim the power he enjoys through sexual domination. He begins grooming the Bowdens’ teenage daughter Danielle (Juliette Lewis) and once again threatens to punish Sam by raping the women in his life. 

Shortly after getting out of prison, Max brutally attacks Sam’s coworker and would-be lover Lori (Illeana Douglas), sending a warning in the form of a woman’s pain. Seriously wounded in an intensely disturbing rape scene, Lori tearfully explains why she will not report the crime. She has seen how victims are treated in court and will not allow intimate details of her heinous ordeal to become water-cooler fodder for her colleagues. She also knows she will be blamed for the attack because she had been drinking alone at a bar. It’s an early condemnation of the pervasive rape culture that keeps so many women from reporting sexual assault. This devastating conversation also reminds us that Sam has not sinned against his client, but has been punished for putting a rapist in jail.  

Once again, hero and villain clash on the Cape Fear River as the family’s houseboat sails into rocky water. But rather than suffer for their men, the Bowden women fight for themselves. Leigh distracts Max via feigned seduction, and Danielle throws boiling water in his face. Handcuffed to the crumbling boat, Max begins speaking in tongues as the wreckage sinks. This time Sam allows him to die rather than spare him for incarceration. A disturbing coda confirms the family’s survival while hinting at a long recovery. This updated conclusion not only gives the audience a definitive ending, but implies that healing is more complex than a simple declaration of moral superiority.  

Cape Fear (2026)

Antosca’s version of the Southern Gothic swaps most of the rape commentary for an unflinching look at the failures of the criminal justice system. The modern Max (Javier Bardem) has been wrongly convicted of murdering his pregnant wife and sentenced to life without parole. The series opens with his former mistress dying by coerced suicide, leaving behind a cache of exonerating evidence. Perhaps best known as the chilling Anton Chigurh in Joel and Ethan Coen’s No Country for Old Men, Bardem adds surprising relatability to the infamous villain. His Max may be covered in De Niro’s prison tattoos while sporting Mitchum’s Panama hat, but he genuinely mourns his wife and unborn child and volunteers to help others escape their own wrongful convictions. It’s not until late in the miniseries that he becomes the story’s primary villain. 

In the wake of Max’s release, we learn that he was convinced to accept a plea deal by his defense attorney Anna Deveraux (Amy Adams). Pregnant during the lengthy trial, she would go on to marry Tom Bowden (Patrick Wilson), the prosecutor in Max’s case. Denying her client a fair defense, Anna conspired to send him away for good. She now works at an approximation of The Innocence Project, likely seeking atonement by freeing others who’ve been unjustly imprisoned. While hypocritical on its face, later revelations shed light on her actions. We learn that Max is probably the father of Anna’s child, now a teenage girl named Natalie (Lily Collias). Honestly believing in Max’s guilt, Anna betrayed her client to protect her baby from a monstrous father.  

In another shocking revelation, we learn that this conception happened while Anna was blackout drunk and legally incapable of consenting to sex. Anna stopped drinking because of her pregnancy and has been sober ever since, though she unfortunately relapses under the stress of Max’s continued attacks. Though Antosca avoids explicitly stating this fact, Anna’s drunken conception is an echo of the rape committed by previous iterations of the Max Cady character. 

While early episodes serve to soften Max, the ex-con grows increasingly evil as the story unfolds. Though he openly mourns the son he never got to meet, he is outright disdainful of his two living daughters—another child born to a prison employee. Offering only conditional love, Max maneuvers his girls like chess pieces, then simply tosses them away, sending both teenagers to jail as casualties in his quest for revenge. Returning to his childhood home, Max burns his abusive family alive in a brutal confrontation on the Cape Fear River. 

Back in Georgia, Max attempts to force a confession from Anna and Tom before executing the entire family. But Natalie turns the tables on her villainous father, leaving the Bowdens poised to drown Max in their backyard pool. Reviving Peck’s merciful Sam, Anna reluctantly drags the dying man to safety, condemning him to life “in a cage.” But we’re left to wonder if the struggling family will ever be free of Max’s shadow. The series ends with Anna looking over her shoulder while Tom scans the yard for lurking threats. Blending Thompson’s and Scorsese’s disparate conclusions, Antosca allows Anna to make the virtuous choice while hinting that she may live to regret her decision.  

When viewed as a whole, the Cape Fear saga exposes a flawed criminal justice system. Whether wrongly convicted or maniacal, all three iterations of Max Cady exploit the inherent goodness of their victims while twisting structures designed to protect. In the face of unrelenting attack, the Bowden family must subvert the law and face severe repercussions for understandable acts. A master of gaslighting and manipulation, each Max Cady reflects his generation’s understanding of destructive masculinity. But perhaps a more hopeful message lies in this distressing southern story.

With each successive adaptation, the women on the other side of Max’s crimes find increasing empowerment. From dehumanized symbols to flawed protagonists, three generations of Cape Fear show an evolving line of female strength and a condemnation of toxic men. 

The post The Evolution of Max Cady: How ‘Cape Fear’ Reflects Changing Cultural Fears appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

Carrie follows a high school misfit who seeks revenge for a hideous prank by psychically destroying her senior prom. The name Carrie White has become synonymous with the concept of a formal dance thanks to a flawless adaptation from Brian De Palma. Now fifty years after the film’s release, Mike Flanagan is putting his own stamp on the troubling story.

Rather than a feature film, the writer/director will expand King’s relatively slim debut novel into an eight-episode miniseries for Amazon Prime set to premiere on October 7.

Flanagan is no stranger to the world of Stephen King. A long-time Constant Reader, he first made waves with his daring adaptation of Gerald’s Game (2017), a novel many fans considered un-filmable. His underrated Doctor Sleep merges the disparate plot of Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining with King’s original source material, and his 2024 genre-bending tearjerker The Life of Chuck faithfully executes one of the author’s most metaphysical novellas.

He’s currently mired in pre-production for an expansive adaptation of The Dark Tower series, keystone to King’s connected universe, and Warner Bros. recently announced that Flanagan will helm a new version of The Mist, King’s 1980 novella which sees a small Maine town overrun by otherworldly monsters. 

Considering the vast array of the author’s previously unadapted material, an obvious question arises. Why reimagine Carrie in 2026? Noting the timeless nature of the content, Flanagan expressed his desire to bring the story of a bullied girl into modern times, mirroring his approach to Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House and Edgar Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher. He explained, “The only way to approach it was to build something new out of the ingredients of Carrie. Otherwise, there’s really no purpose in trying to retread ground that’s been so beautifully walked before.”

His miniseries will maintain the novel’s bloody bookends while delivering “big surprises” along the way. 

A New Prom Night Nightmare

The roughly 60-second teaser introduces Summer H. Howell as Carrie White just before the moment of catastrophe. Standing in a prom dress, she smiles at her applauding classmates with an ominous crown perched upon her head. Moments later, Carrie unleashes a rage-filled scream into the night air while promgoers rush for the exit doors. But careful examination of this scene shows Carrie wearing a different, albeit dirty dress as she seems to telekinetically punish her peers. 

In an exclusive first look with Entertainment Weekly, Flanagan explains that in his version of the story, “the events of that prom are going to be completely different.” An open trunk emitting a crimson glow does hint at the pig’s blood dumped on Carrie’s head, but it’s likely Flanagan’s formal dance will be a different kind of horror altogether. Despite these changes, the series may end with the widespread destruction outlined in the source material. Unlike any previous adaptations, King’s novel ends with the near-total destruction of Chamberlain, Maine. A flaming street in Flanagan’s trailer promises similar carnage no matter what prank sparks Carrie’s deadly revenge. 

The Monstrous Addition of Social Media

On the opposite end of this fiery conclusion is an extreme act of bullying that brings together the story’s main cast. King’s novel begins as Carrie gets her first period while showering in the girls’ locker room. Completely unaware of the concept of menstruation, the sheltered girl thinks she’s bleeding to death. Her classmates respond with vitriolic rage. Led by ultra-mean girl Chris Hargensen (Alison Thornton), they mock the terrified teen while pelting her with tampons. Glimpses of this disturbing event reveal that Flanagan has excised the scene’s nudity while adding a seismic update. As Carrie sobs in the shower stall, Chris and her friends film the breakdown with their phones.

Other scenes note the presence of social media, bringing King’s fifty-year-old story into the digital age. 

Flanagan’s adaptation promises to explore the destructive power of social media, an often invisible entity with a potential for harm rivaling Carrie’s own powers. While King’s tormented heroine suffers in front of a small group of girls, Flanagan’s version of the incident will likely become a viral video, potentially circling the globe on social media. Similar to Katt Shea’s criminally underrated The Rage: Carrie 2, which includes elements of revenge porn exploitation, Flanagan’s modern retelling will distinguish itself by exploring the nebulous cruelty of online bullying, a force ten times more powerful than the irl pranks King first envisioned. 

A Completely Reimagined White Family

In addition to modernizing these canon events, Flanagan hints at updates to Carrie’s oppressive upbringing at the hands of her mother, Margaret White (Samantha Sloyan). Dead before the novel begins, we never meet Carrie’s domineering father Ralph, known to carry a bible alongside his gun. Flanagan’s White household will be an altogether different beast. In his version of the story, Carrie and her mother have been hidden away in the unassuming home, forced out of hiding by Ralph’s unexpected death. Perhaps we will finally meet this elusive man whose shadow hangs over his wife and child. Considering the White family’s fundamentalist lifestyle, this reimagining hints at tradwife culture and a home ruled by staunch patriarchal control.

Whereas King’s Carrie has been tormented by her classmates since Kindergarten, Flanagan’s Carrie will be a wide-eyed newcomer to public school, eager to make friends and engage with her peers. We glimpse Carrie cozying up to Chris and the equally popular Sue Snell (Siena Agudong) as she navigates a new social scene. Of course, we know this kindness is part of an elaborate plot designed to lull Carrie into a false sense of camaraderie, setting up an atrocious act of public humiliation. These brief moments of feigned compassion put Sue’s own complicity into question. Will Flanagan’s version of the character find the courage to defend Carrie from vicious bullies or will she succumb to peer pressure and join in the mob mentality? 

Perhaps the biggest deviation from King’s original text is the relationship between Carrie and her mother. King’s Margaret White is a horrifically abusive religious zealot whose worldview has been hardened by internalized misogyny. She shames Carrie for menstruating, locks her in a closet to “pray,” and regrets not killing her child in infancy. She’s also responsible for Carrie’s social ostracization. Known to berate her neighbors for their “sins,” Margaret forces her daughter to live by an extreme code of conduct and disallows any potential friends lest they corrupt the girl with their worldly ways.

Flanagan’s version of the character is perhaps just as much a victim as Carrie herself. Also trapped inside her home, his Margaret is overly vigilant, her own trauma manifesting as strict control. Describing a more sympathetic depiction of the iconic villain, Flanagan explains, “Our Margaret White is a woman who fiercely loves her daughter and wants to protect her from this world … [She] doesn’t know how to do that and thinks the way to protect her is to close her off; not punitively, but to create this private utopia.”

Despite this potential softening, Sloyan’s Margaret may still have a sharp edge. Though she has appeared in many Flanagan projects, from Hush (2016) to The Fall of the House of Usher (2023), she is best known for her role as the abhorrent Bev Keane in the poignant saga Midnight Mass (2021). Perhaps inspired by King’s Margaret White, Bev is pious and sadistic, willing to punish anyone who does not adhere to her warped approximation of Catholicism.

Flanagan specifically wrote Margaret with Sloyan in mind, likely remembering the actress’s eerie ability to create deceptive empathy and shift our allegiances on a dime.   

Expanding Stephen King’s Telekinetic Universe

While most of King’s story deals with an unthinkable prom night in Chamberlain, Maine, large sections of the semi-epistolary novel see experts debating the nature of telekinesis. Do Carrie’s frightening abilities represent a new phase in human evolution or is the prom night carnage merely a fluke? King settles the debate with a shocking denouement in which a young mother recounts her infant daughter’s ability to dangle her crib toys in midair. We’re left to wonder if she will become another tormented girl who surprises the world with metaphysical strength. 

Flanagan plans to build out this brief scene while amplifying themes of female empowerment. After introducing our main cast of characters, episode two will open with an unrelated story in which we meet another girl with the TK gene. Each subsequent chapter will expand this world, building out a roster of telekinetic young women. Considering King’s fondness for stories about powerful kids, often described as possessing “the shining,” Constant Readers will no doubt have their eyes peeled for various Easter Eggs nodding to the author’s vast catalogue. 

Giving Carrie Her Own Voice

Perhaps the most striking distinction in Flanagan’s new trailer is the extent to which we hear Carrie’s voice. The sneak peek is fully narrated by the titular prom queen as she demands accountability. “I want to know why,” she explains while detailing Chris’ elaborate plan. Aside from the aforementioned coda, King’s book essentially ends with the aftermath of the prom night tragedy, leaving little time for Carrie to reflect. His shifting narrative does bring the reader into her fragile mind, though not before she’s been cowed by relentless cruelty. We watch Carrie sink into bloodthirsty revenge, but never hear a considered desire for justice or repair. 

Flanagan’s original monologue allows Carrie to voice her pain and mourn the life she could have had. We’re also treated to a mug shot-style photo of Chris with a bruised and bandaged face, implying that the mean girl will have to answer for her senseless sadism.

Flanagan is known for filling his series adaptations with heartwrenching speeches that cut to the heart of his thematic intentions, and this teaser seems to follow suit. After years of fans, critics, and scholars analyzing Carrie’s pain, perhaps his modern retelling will offer the titular anti-hero a chance to finally speak for herself. 

The post What Mike Flanagan’s ‘Carrie’ Teaser Reveals About His Bold New Adaptation appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

Beloved New Zealand actor Sam Neill passed away from pneumonia after a long battle with stage 3 lymphoma. The multifaceted movie star will be remembered by mainstream audiences for his iconic role as Dr. Alan Grant in Steven Spielberg’s 1993 masterpiece Jurassic Park, as well as powerful turns in A Cry in the Dark (1988), The Piano (1993), and Hunt for the Wilderpeople (2016), and prestige TV series The Tudors and Peaky Blinders. But horror fans know him as one of the genre’s most surprising Scream Kings.

Through a handful of memorable starring roles, Neill spent the 80s and 90s bringing life to a wide variety of characters and finding humanity in the most unusual leading roles, regardless of how heroic or villainous. 

The Final Conflict (1981)

After a decade on the stage and screen in New Zealand and Australia, Neill made his international debut as Damien Thorn in Graham Baker’s The Final Conflict, the third installment of The Omen franchise. Now a 36-year-old businessman, Damien is fully aware of his devilish parentage and hell-bent on world domination. But rather than a hooved and horned monstrosity, Neill’s Antichrist is a suave businessman who leads his followers in an expensive suit and seeks to bring about the apocalypse through deceptive altruism rather than grand proclamation. 

Despite his austere demeanor, the man’s true evil knows no bounds. When a prophecy foretells the second coming of Christ, known in the film as “the Nazarene,” Damien commands his followers to commit widespread infanticide, murdering all baby boys born on a specific date. He seduces a high-profile reporter while transforming her teenage son into a bloodthirsty disciple, then uses the child as a human shield. This tricky role allows Neill to demonstrate his trademark versatility, easily charming the outside world while dropping his suave mask of normalcy behind closed doors. Though certain aspects of The Final Conflict are admittedly dated, Neill’s performance feels eerily prescient. He’s mastered the heinous portrayal of a politician willing to sell his soul for power that will ultimately bring about the end of the world. 

Possession (1981)

Though Andrzej Żuławski’s Possession is often remembered for Isabelle Adjani’s stunning depiction of a woman on the edge, Neill delivers an equally unhinged performance as Mark, a spy returning home from a lengthy assignment in divided Berlin. Upon discovering that his wife Anna (Adjani) wants a divorce, Mark desperately tries to hold his family together even at the expense of her sanity. Filmed the same year as The Final Conflict, Neill dives headfirst into this visceral role, managing to evoke sympathy for the distraught father who becomes ever more desperate to regain control. Inspired by his own divorce, Żuławski resists blaming either party for the separation, instead showing the chaos and heartache that comes in the wake of a family’s dissolution. 

Once considered to replace Roger Moore as the next James Bond, Neill has fun with the international spy persona as Żuławski’s plot grows increasingly bizarre. But the skilled actor never lets us forget that Mark is a flawed human being struggling to keep his life from falling apart. A second character emerges in the film’s mesmerizing climax, allowing Neill to lean into full villainy with a glassy-eyed stare that chills to the bone. Now a cult classic, Adjani and Neill bounce off each other’s seething rage, creating one of the most effective cinematic duets in the history of horror. 

Jurassic Park (1993)

When Steven Spielberg’s creature feature first hit theaters, Neill was by no means a household name and hardly a traditional leading man. Without the swashbuckling swagger of Harrison Ford, the mega-watt smile of Tom Cruise, or the chiselled jaw of Brad Pitt — all famous action stars of the era — Neill felt like an unconventional choice for this massive role. But he perfectly captures the essence of Grant, an aloof academic who prefers dig sites to fancy fundraisers and social events. Despite an aversion to children, the dinosaur expert finds himself tasked with saving the theme park’s youngest survivors who gradually break down his emotional walls. Grant’s transformation into a courageous caretaker is a landmark deconstruction of traditional gender norms wrapped in the guise of a rugged outdoorsman. 

Neill proves to be the perfect action star, effortlessly navigating Spielberg’s stunning set pieces without losing the character’s relatable hook. But perhaps the film’s most touching moment is Neill’s childlike wonder at seeing a dinosaur for the first time. Stunned to speechlessness, he channels the audience’s wondrous joy when Grant first spies a real, live Brachiosaurus. But he seamlessly weaves this infectious awe into serious concerns about the creature’s existence, amplifying the story’s prophetic messaging. Jeff Goldblum may utter the film’s iconic warning, but the duality of Grant’s performance perfectly illustrates the scientific imperative, reminding us that just because we can doesn’t mean we should.  

Neill would go on to lead Joe Johnston’s 2001 sequel Jurassic Park III, in which Grant is again tasked with saving a child. In 2022, he would appear in Colin Trevorrow’s legacy sequel Jurassic World Dominion, which merges the franchise’s two distinct eras while bringing the carnage onto mainland shores. Despite turning in strong performances, neither film is able to top the magic of Spielberg’s original or Neill’s captivating performance as the stoic leading man. But his nuanced depiction of Alan Grant inspired a generation of would-be paleontologists and quiet kids who could now see themselves as courageous academics capable of surprising strength. 

In the Mouth of Madness (1994)

After catapulting to worldwide fame, Neill returned to horror proper to lead John Carpenter’s mind-bending In the Mouth of Madness. We first meet John Trent (Neill) as he’s dragged, kicking and screaming, into a padded cell. An unknown stretch of time later, he recounts an unbelievable story while covered in protective crosses scrawled into his skin — and the cell’s walls — with black crayon. A private investigator, Trent has been tasked with locating Sutter Cane (Jürgen Prochnow), a world-famous yet elusive genre author whose work has been driving his ravenous readers to disturbing acts of random violence. 

A love letter to fans of horror fiction, we delight in watching Trent explore literary easter eggs that lead him down jarring rabbit holes. A late-night road trip takes Trent and Linda Styles (Julie Carmen), an editor for Cane’s publishing house, to a tiny New England hamlet teeming with darkness. While investigating an ominous cathedral on the outskirts of town, Trent realizes that he’s somehow been transported into the author’s interdimensional story and become its unwitting protagonist. 

Neill serves as a skeptical everyman and the audience’s conduit through this bizarre tale of literary monsters that find a way to burst through the page. An often overlooked Carpenter film, In the Mouth of Madness spirals into insanity, but Neill keeps us grounded throughout each outlandish twist. A shocking conclusion leaves us gaping at our screens and contemplating our own relationship with horror fiction. After all, does free will truly exist? Or, like Trent, are we merely pawns in someone else’s monstrous creation?

Event Horizon (1997)

One of the scariest movies ever set in space, Paul W.S. Anderson’s Event Horizon builds upon the heroic image Neill established for himself in Jurassic Park. Dr. William Weir (Neill) is a physicist temporarily joining the crew of the Lewis and Clark to assist in their latest rescue mission. Seven years after vanishing without a trace, a spaceship called the Event Horizon has suddenly reappeared near Neptune’s orbit. As the creator of a top-secret gravity drive designed to facilitate faster-than-light travel, Dr. Weir has been sent to explore the ship and find out what happened to its missing crew.

Still haunted by his late wife’s suicide, Dr. Weir is a sympathetic figure, particularly in comparison to the harsh Captain Miller (Laurence Fishburne) who commands the crew of the Lewis and Clark. But Weir’s desperation to return to the infamous ship hides a sinister secret that leads his fellow astronauts to the threshold of hell. Neill’s talent for playing the everyman pays off in spades as the formerly sympathetic widower transforms into a disciple of this frightening dimension. Resembling a long-lost cenobite, Weir claws out his own eyes and prepares to drag the crew into a world consumed with sadistic pain. 

Daybreakers (2009)

Neill returns to his Omen roots in Michael and Peter Spierig’s action-packed film as a secretly sinister businessman. But rather than the Antichrist, Charles Bromley (Neill) is a proud vampire convinced of the species’ superiority. With human blood in short supply, Bromley Marks Corp. is working on a synthetic substitute to prevent the human race from impending extinction. While hematologists perfect the formula, Bromley oversees disturbing fields of humans chained to massive machines that systematically harvest their blood. 

Neill chills in this sinister role with vampiric yellow eyes, a pale complexion, and subtle fangs. But more upsetting is the fact that he honestly doesn’t believe he’s wrong. Once diagnosed with cancer, Bromley was delighted to find that vampirism would totally reverse his illness and grant him the gift of eternal life. He begged his daughter Alison (Isabel Lucas) to turn alongside him, but she has rejected her father’s controversial choice and is now hunted by his bloodthirsty goons. In a heartbreaking moment of clarity, Bromley brings his daughter to the brink of death, then turns away in disgust when she will not embrace his undead lifestyle. 

Daybreakers is a surprisingly thrilling exploration of survival and sustainability. Similar to a plot Damien Thorn would hatch, Bromley’s ultimate plan is to placate the vampire population with synthetic blood while allowing the human population to replenish itself. With a larger stock, he plans to sell authentic humans at a premium, hunting these poor souls to season the meat. Bromley rejects a cure that would reverse the vampiric disease, choosing to enrich himself over saving the world. The strangely captivating villain’s end is a cathartic nightmare and fitting punishment for a wealthy man who places himself above everyone else. 

While the world may remember Neill for his signature role as a gruff but compassionate paleontologist going head to head with a raging T-Rex, horror fans may picture the versatile actor maniacally rocking back and forth in a filthy Berlin apartment, commanding a boardroom of corporate vampires, disappearing into the darkness of a haunted spaceship, sermonizing to satanists, or giggling over popcorn in a deserted movie theater. Or perhaps you have another favorite role in the beloved actor’s stellar career. But whether he was playing a hero or villain, Neill brought undeniable humanity to every role, redefining our idea of masculinity and the very nature of goodness vs. evil. By bringing such disparate characters to life, Neill challenged audiences with a variety of complex roles, asking us to examine the humanity of each character no matter how flawed or virtuous.

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Fans of The Evil Dead franchise have become accustomed to an excess of gore. From the low-fi horror of Sam Raimi’s 1981 original and the slapstick comedy of Army of Darkness to Fede Álvarez’s 2013 remake, which literally ends in a rain of blood, grotesque dismemberment and comedic violence are as important to an Evil Dead film as the outline of Bruce Campbell’s iconic jaw.

Sébastien Vaniček‘s franchise installment, Evil Dead Burn, follows suit with wall-to-wall violence and set pieces built around extreme carnage. As the Deadites rise once again, Alice (Souheila Yacoub) must fight to the death against her possessed in-laws hell-bent on punishing her for their family’s sins. 

Co-written by Vaniček and Florent Bernard, Evil Dead Burn follows the ill-fated Price family, descendants of Dr. Benjamin Price who discovered an ancient dagger capable of sending Kandarian demons back to hell. Newly uncovered from its protective spell, this dagger has called to the evil dead and led them to the family’s ramshackle home. Keeping plot to a bare minimum, Vaniček fills nearly every scene with powerful Deadites and their dastardly acts as they torture the Prices to find the weapon. Horrific moments like a woman drinking hot wax from a lit candle and a shocking post-credits child murder don’t even crack the top ten of disgusting, painful, and disturbing carnage that floods the film.

In any other franchise, we would be listing the film’s most gruesome kills. But fans of Evil Dead know that when we’re talking about the Necronomicon, mere death is only the beginning. 

10 ) Deadites Burn

Though Burn checks off all the Evil Dead boxes, its story is a franchise anomaly. Rather than possessing anyone who crosses their path, Vaniček’s Deadites have set their sights specifically on an unwitting clan, intent on recovering the powerful dagger. Resurrected from a nearby lake, Deadite Jessica (Greta van den Brink) informs us of this plan while murdering the eldest Price son. Will (George Pullar) is speeding down a deserted road when he slams into the malevolent demon standing in the middle of the road. After his car rolls off the deserted road, he awakens to find himself upside down, a strange woman lodged in his cracked windshield. 

As he desperately tries to reach his phone, Jessica slowly twists her head, tearing the skin of her distended neck. Completely detached from her shattered body, the demon’s head rolls out the window and begins chanting a Kandarian curse. Will’s car bursts into flames as Jessica vows to seek out the rest of his family. While burning alive, Will learns that he is merely the first on a deadly hitlist filled with the people he loves most. 

9) Dinner from Hell

Despite a remarkably streamlined plot, Vaniček hints at the Price family’s extensive dysfunction. An uncomfortable dinner erupts in aggression as they gather for lunch after Will’s funeral. Mother Susan (Tandi Wright) berates her recently widowed daughter-in-law while father Edgar (Erroll Shand) — already under Kandarian influence — blames younger son Joseph (Hunter Doohan) for his eldest son’s death. No one is safe as long-held tensions break through to the surface and family secrets ricochet through the air. 

With Edgar behaving erratically, Alice and Thya (Luciane Buchanan), Joseph’s girlfriend, try to move sharp objects out of his reach. But Edgar manages to get a hold of a fork and turns his rage on the family dog. As he stabs Max repeatedly in the face, Joseph tries to pull his father away. Both are injured in the struggle and rush to the hospital, leaving Susan and Alice to deal with the corpse. A horrific moment of animal cruelty, this scene sets up a no-holds-barred film in which anyone can be brutalized. But perhaps most disturbing is the viciousness already lurking in this troubled family, barely concealed resentments that existed long before the Kandarian threat. 

8 ) Bathroom Brawl

As Deadites possess the Price family, Alice barricades herself in an upstairs bathroom. She reluctantly shields her mother-in-law, despite Susan’s atrocious behavior. Almost immediately, Alice regrets this decision when the woman reveals the depths of her hatred. She rejects clear evidence of Will’s domestic abuse, continuing to blame Alice for their troubled marriage. Leaning her cheek against a scalding hot radiator, Susan submits to Kandarian possession and becomes a Deadite before our eyes. Though disturbing on its face, she seems to choose possession over an honest reckoning of her family’s dark secrets.  

Now a Deadite, Susan attacks Alice with broken shards of the toilet bowl and wraps the shower curtain around her head. Scampering across the ceiling, she hangs her daughter-in-law by the neck with the plastic sheet as Alice desperately gasps for air. With only her hand free, Alice gouges Susan’s face with a safety razor, finally managing to break herself free. As Deadite Susan taunts her from the corner, Alice revs up a brush trimmer and plunges the circular blade into her shoulder and chest. We cheer for Alice as she finally pushes back against Susan’s passive-aggressive disdain.

7) The Pen is Mightier

In a sea of blood-splattered dismemberment, one scene is so tense that it makes us squirm despite its lack of visual gore. With the family’s ailing matriarch possessed, Deadite Polly (Maude Davey) attacks Alice in the upstairs hallway, pressing her face against the bush trimmer’s still blade. Insisting that Alice has caused Will’s death, Polly invites the grieving woman to avenge her child by turning on the power tool. An instant before her mother-in-law can send the blade tearing into her cheek, Alice manages to escape by jamming a shard of glass into Polly’s eye. But not before the elderly demon can deliver a cringe-worthy injury. 

Though Alice struggles with all her might, Polly slowly drives a fountain pen into the younger woman’s ear canal. Ringing blots out all other sounds as Alice’s face twists in pain. We imagine a tiny object bursting through our own eardrums, puncturing the soft tissue lying beneath. Though Alice tries to extract the pen, she only succeeds in breaking it off, leaving half of the quill buried in her ear. She will eventually use tweezers to remove the tip, sparking another moment of deafening agony.  

6) Chekhov’s Dishwasher

As Susan prepares for the aforementioned family meal, Vaniček drops a delicious bit of foreshadowing. While the grieving mother thaws frozen food, she absently fills an old dishwasher whose door has long since busted its latch. Reminiscent of a scene from Final Destination, the faulty appliance falls open, leaving a shelf full of gleaming forks and knives suspended a foot above the floor, just waiting for their moment to strike. After returning from a fatal incident we’ll discuss in a moment, Deadite Thya returns to the Price home, hell-bent on retrieving the powerful knife. 

As she advances on Joseph, the frightened son retreats to the kitchen and brandishes a carving knife, subtly nodding to an ultra-violent kitchen scene in Álvarez’s Evil Dead. But Thya will not be deterred. Advancing on her boyfriend, the Deadite startles him into tripping on the outstretched door and impaling himself on the upturned utensils. She presses Joseph further onto the blades while he plunges a corkscrew into her throat. But even this will not stop the maniacal demon, who rips her throat open with the wine tool, dripping her blood over Joseph’s upturned face. Adding insult to injury, she marvels at his willingness to kill the woman he professed to love, casting a pall over their entire relationship. Not only gruesome and excruciatingly tense, but this moment plays into Joseph’s insecurities as the failed son of this disturbed family. 

5 ) On the Lake

Evil Dead Burn begins on a seemingly peaceful lake overrun with lurking Kandarian demons. Jared (Keanu Karim) is trying to enjoy a quiet day of fishing but can’t stop his friend Leo (Victory Ndukwe) from answering the phone. Along the dock, Jared notices a bite on Leo’s reel and eventually pulls up a severed head savvy viewers may recognize from Lee Cronin’s 2023 sequel Evil Dead Rise. Moments later, Jared finds himself ensnared by reels, hooks digging into the corner of his mouth and eyelid. As the fishing line wraps around his neck, he’s dragged, screaming, into the lake. 

Leo returns in the pouring rain and sees Jared desperately calling for help. He quickly boats out to save his friend, but a mysterious force pulls him down into the depths. Leo finally drags Jared back into the boat, only to see that his body has been cut in half, intestines spilling out of his bisected waist. As he struggles to make sense of this carnage, Deadite Jessica emerges from the lake and capsizes the boat, her clenched demon hands causing the water to boil. Though Leo manages to swim to shore, his skin is a blistered and bubbly mess. Deadite Jessica absently steps on his hand, easily peeling away flesh like overcooked meat. This jaw-dropping opener not only sets the stage for a brutal film, but situates the story in franchise lore while simply explaining the Deadites’ return.  

4) Car Trouble

The shocking trailer to Evil Dead Burns shows the aftermath of a vicious attack. As Deadite Thya crosses the family threshold, the camera reveals a car’s headrest still impaling her face. But this devastating sight merely hints at the cruel circumstances of her actual death. Incapacitated in the disastrous family dinner, Edgar slumps in the backseat while Joseph tends to his wounds. Though seemingly incapacitated, the possessed father snaps to attention and wraps his seatbelt around Thya’s neck, pushing against the back of her seat. Joseph holds a gun to his father’s head, but can’t bring himself to pull the trigger. 

As Thya tries to escape the car, Edgar viciously slams the door, severing four of her fingers. She manages to trigger a fire extinguisher, filling the car with cloudy white chemicals and giving Joseph a chance to escape. But Thya is not so lucky. Trapped in the car, she screams as Edgar pummels her with a detached headrest, stabbing the poles through her neck and face. Joseph watches from a safe distance as his father beats his girlfriend to death, knowing he was unable to save her life. 

3) Head Shots

When Deadite Thya comes stumbling back home, Joseph believes he’s seen the worst. Unfortunately, his misery is only beginning. After fighting off his newly-sadistic undead girlfriend, he tries to flee with his surviving family, only to find Deadite Edgar blocking his path. Flanked by Deadite Max, Edgar taunts his son by insisting that he should be dead in Will’s place and confirming the young man’s greatest fears. Edgar then does what Joseph could not and shoots himself in the head. 

The family screams in horror at this devastating sight, then freezes in stunned silence as Edgar does not fall. Grinning, the maniacal father shoots himself twice more, blowing gaping holes in the sides of his head. For the rest of the film, Deadite Edgar will terrorize his family with these unthinkable wounds, even tempting his wife with a bloody kiss. Vaniček mixes emotional devastation with gore as Joseph must watch his father’s suicide while confronting the truth of his own ineptitude. 

2) Down Through the Chimney

Along with references to the beloved Ash (Campbell), it’s become tradition for an Evil Dead film to reference the franchise’s signature weapon. But Vaniček subverts our expectations when Edgar’s chainsaw is out of gas. Instead, Alice employs a rusty bush trimmer to fight off her Deadite mother-in-law. Unfortunately, the extended weapon only shreds her flesh, leaving the monstrous woman still able to fight. Trapped in the attic, Alice must clamber out of an upper window with Deadite Susan hot on her heels. 

Having dropped the ceremonial knife off the third-story roof, Alice has no choice but to improvise. Toting the bush trimmer, she inches her way down the chimney, pausing to turn halfway down. As Susan follows her daughter-in-law down the chute, Alice turns on the bush trimmer and waits for impact. Vaniček brings us into the living room as buckets of blood and dismembered body parts begin to rain down over the hearth. It’s the kind of moment Evil Dead fans love, gleefully gory carnage via an unexpected power tool.  

1 ) Goodbye Stranger

Despite this plethora of grisly gore, Vaniček’s final act tops the list while delivering a poignant beat of empowerment. With the house on fire and the Deadites subdued, we believe that Alice is finally safe. But as she watches the Price home burn to the ground, the corpse of her husband walks out of the flames. He taunts her memories of their abusive marriage, insisting that she stayed because she likes the pain. Demanding the sacred weapon, Deadite Will chases Alice to a construction site and into an open hydraulic press. In the fall, Alice impales her ankle on a massive spike, leaving her trapped as the pit fills with boiling hot tar.  

But Alice finds the strength to save herself and pulls her ankle off the bloody spike. She distracts Will with a decoy knife, then pummels his chest with a jackhammer. Exacerbating her emotional pain, Deadite Will reminds her of his love. But it seems that Alice has had enough. She stabs him with the ceremonial blade, then crushes his head as it turns to ash. It’s a well-earned moment of empowerment as our final girl vanquishes her most powerful demon.

Vaniček’s crowd-pleaser continues the Evil Dead trend of gleefully crude massacres. Two extra scenes hint at a continuation of this gruesome massacre, promising more brutality in films to come. 

The post The 10 Most Disturbing Moments in ‘Evil Dead Burn’ [Spoilers] appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

From its aggressive English language title Rape Me to several scenes of unsimulated sex, Virginie Despentes and Coralie Trinh Thi’s 2000 film may not drip with the subgenre’s trademark blood and gore, but the story’s overwhelming nihilism feels like a middle finger to the patriarchal establishment.

Inspired by Despentes’s 1993 novel of the same name, Baise-moi stars adult film actresses Raffaëla Anderson and Karen Bach as Bonnie and Clyde-style criminals who rampage through France leaving a trail of bodies in their wake. But this fierce story has a tender core. When we peel back the layers of explicit sex and ostensibly senseless violence, we find the tragic tale of two young women desperate to reclaim their power in a world built on male entitlement. 

After a brief glimpse at our female criminals, Baise-moi opens in a local dive bar. A boorish man plays pool with his friends while callously dismissing his girlfriend’s concerns. She hasn’t seen him in nearly a week and simply wants to know if he plans to come home. But he angrily brushes her aside, insisting that he doesn’t have to answer for his selfishness. We will never see this couple again, but their one-sided dispute reflects a world in which women must beg for attention from men who see them as less than human. 

Throughout this uncomfortable argument, Nadine (Bach) has been drinking at the bar while men discuss her fondness for random sex. At home, she openly masturbates in the living room, refusing to be shamed by her nagging roommate. We learn that Nadine is a sex worker and follow her to a nearby hotel. Refusing to kiss her john on the lips, she dispassionately performs oral sex then watches TV while he fails to give her an orgasm. Despentes and Trinh Thi play with camera angles to show the extent of Nadine’s disinterest. More concerned with sausage being sliced on an infomercial, she has emotionally disconnected from her own body. 

We meet Manu (Anderson), an occasional porn actress, under much more traumatic circumstances. While chatting on a park bench, she and a friend are hauled into a dirty warehouse then savagely assaulted by three strange men. We watch as Manu’s friend (played by adult film star Lisa Marshall) is repeatedly punched in the face while her clothes are ripped off followed by an extreme close-up of actual penetration. It’s a disturbing sequence that rivals New French Extremity’s most infamous texts. But this is the reality of sexual assault and Despentes and Trinh Thi refuse to shield the audience from what we are watching.

Though her friend screams and tries to escape, Manu stares daggers at her attackers while stoically obeying their commands. Her dissociation repels the angry man and he walks away, complaining about “fucking a zombie.” Manu will later explain this emotional detachment to her traumatized friend, saying, “If you park in the projects, you empty your car ‘cause someone’s gonna break in. I leave nothing precious in my cunt for those jerks.” Though they’ve not yet met, both Nadine and Manu have become so accustomed to being used for sex that they see no value in themselves. Manu assures her sobbing friend that,”It’s just a bit of cock. We’re just girls. It’ll be ok now.” then continues on with the rest of her day. While disturbing in and of itself, her response hints at prior trauma and the long-term pain of navigating a world filled with predatory men. 

Despentes and Trinh Thi will spend the rest of the film subverting the classic rape-revenge structure. We never again see Manu’s attackers again and she is not driven by a newfound hatred of men. But her rage spills out wherever she goes, directed at anyone who dismisses her humanity. Manu’s brother responds with indignation and demands the rapist’s identities, seeming more upset about an insult to his family name than what his sister actually needs. When he implies that she somehow welcomed the assault, Manu shoots him in the head, steals his money, and walks out the door. Nadine finds herself in a similar position after strangling her conservative roommate to death. In parallel scenes we watch both women reach their breaking points and use murder to flee lives of shameful subservience. 

Manu and Nadine cross paths in an empty subway station after the last train has left for the night. With nowhere else to go, they cut a violent path across France, careening towards Nadine’s vague errand. Their first victim is a well-dressed woman murdered for her ATM card. Though Nadine confesses sadness in the aftermath of the crime, she eventually admits, “now I feel really great. So great I almost feel like doing it again.” We remember Manu’s final words to her brother — “Bastards like you always have to hit something to feel alive” — and watch these newly liberated women succumb to the same temptation. Their crime spree seems driven by a need to reclaim power by dominating anyone who gets in their way. 

Despite the carnage they leave behind, Manu and Nadine do not kill indiscriminately. Shortly after hitting the road, they pick up two strangers at a bar and have sex on their respective hotel beds. Though they do not physically touch each other, the scene ripples with intimacy as they gaze at each other instead of their men. In a traditional rape-revenge film, Manu would kill these unsuspecting paramours, punishing them for another man’s crimes. But she seems content with indulging in her own physical pleasure and the connection she establishes with Nadine. Both women have found a kindred spirit who will not judge them for asserting their own messy independence. 

This is not to say that men are safe around these two unpredictable outlaws. Manu shoots a man in the street when he catcalls Nadine and they ambush and murder a condescending gun dealer. When a prospective john balks at their unapologetic promiscuity and insists on wearing a condom, Manu brands herself “the fucking condom dickhead killer” while mocking the man for his self-righteousness. She degrades and sexually humiliates him before using her high heels to stomp in his face. 

Nadine has a similar response to another victim who tries to psychoanalyze her criminality. While opening his safe at gunpoint, the man flirts by insisting her crimes have been caused by a traumatic past only he can understand. Rather than fall for this faux empathy, Manu laughs in his face while Nadine shoots him to death on the living room floor. While certainly asserting their feminine strength, they do not lash out at just any man, but save their rage for male authority figures who condemn their feminist rebellion. 

Though they rage against the outside world, Manu and Nadine have no grand illusions of victory and expect to die in the violence they’ve sparked. On a peaceful stroll, the outlaws discuss different methods of suicide, rejecting self-immolation as too pretentious. After tossing around options, they agree to do a bungee jump without the cord, though Nadine admits that she may need help stepping off the edge. To maintain the appearance of control, Manu suggests leaving a banner behind to frame their deaths as a courageous act rather than submission to the establishment. They will not let anyone rewrite their story and insist on going out with their heads held high.  

It’s only through boredom that we uncover the hopeless heart of their true motivations. Blowing stolen cash on a fancy hotel, Nadine and Manu drink the day away while staring at the ocean, surprised that they have not yet been caught. With their faces on the cover of newspapers, they have achieved some notoriety, but failed to rock the system they despise. Simply described as two women, “one taller than the other,” their bombastic rebellion now feels more like screaming into the void. They may have found joy in rejecting rigid gender norms, indulging in random sex, and gleefully dominating toxic men, but the patriarchal world continues to turn. In this quiet moment, Manu and Nadine realize that they will not be remembered as vigilante heroes, but two waves crashing against an endless sea of male authority. 

As we grow more attached to the ferocious couple, Despentes and Trinh Thi remind us of the women’s villainy, directly resisting an anti-hero narrative. Dressed to the nines, Nadine and Manu storm a swinger’s club where women openly service men. In another film, they would be feminist avengers, shooting violent johns while setting helpless women free. But Manu and Nadine kill everyone they see, leaving no one alive in the establishment. As a climax to this massacre, they force the bartender to strip and kneel on all fours before penetrating him with a loaded gun. It’s a horrific act of sexual abuse that mirror’s Manu’s own ordeal. We’re reminded that while the women’s anger may be righteous, their actions are not. Perhaps this is a showy escalation designed to force police intervention. Or has Manu become the very thing that once destroyed her life: a bastard who hurts others to feel alive?

This crime spree ends just as erratically as it began when Manu is shot while stopping for gas. Nadine burns her corpse beside a frozen lake, ensuring that no one can claim power over what little autonomy her body still holds. Dressed in a man’s suit, the grieving woman prepares to join her friend in death and holds a gun to her head. But she seems incapable of pulling the trigger. While remembering their short but violently joyful time together, we hear a gunshot and see Nadine fall to the ground. Seconds later she opens her eyes to find herself surrounded by police. The spell of her connection with Manu has been broken and the world has finally come crashing in. 

We’re left to wonder what their rampage was for. They’ve failed to resist a dehumanizing social structure and will now be simply tossed aside. But the English translation casts an uncomfortable shadow over their motivations. Taken as a command, the worlds “rape me” seem to imply consent that is antithetical to sexual assault. It’s an unsettling turn of phrase that harkens back to a question Manu’s friend asked in the wake of her attack: “how could you let this happen to you?” Though it reflects the story’s aggressive tone, this translated title seems to blame the women for their destructive actions rather than interrogate the system they’ve tried to resist.

But there is an alternate interpretation, one that reflects the story’s tender core. A more accurate Enlgish translation would read “fuck me” or “kiss me,” perhaps nodding to sex positivity or the gentle kiss Nadine leaves with Manu before lighting her makeshift funeral pyre. These alternative titles seem to honor the women’s ferocious journey of self-discovery and empowerment.

Though flawed, villainous, and ultimately broken on a patriarchal wheel, Nadine and Manu have found a way to reclaim something precious in their unapologetic strength and authenticity.

Baise-moi is currently available to stream on Shudder.

The post Why ‘Baise-moi’ Is Still One of the Most Controversial Horror Films Ever Made appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

Emily (Zola Grimmer) is still reckoning with her involvement in a horrific tragedy when she accidentally contributes to the death of her best friend, Charlie (Giselle Morison). Unable to move on, the traumatized teen takes a job at a rural summer camp, hoping to forget her own sorrows by looking after at-risk kids. She quickly connects with a counselor named Clara (Alice Wordsworth) and finds comfort in her close-knit group of female friends. But a mysterious whisper from deep in the woods warns that they may be leading her down a darker path.  

Fast burst onto the scene in 2022 with Honeycomb, a psychological horror film that follows a burgeoning matriarchy. Known for their focus on “Girl Horror” stories, the talented young filmmaker tackles similar themes in Camp as Emily leaves the modern world behind to embrace a dark vision of self-discovery through magic.

Ahead of the film’s U.S. release on June 26, Bloody Disgusting sat down with Fast to chat about the nebulous nature of good vs. evil and the intoxicating power of female-driven horror. 

Bloody Disgusting: What inspired this unique story? Did you go to religious summer camps when you were young? 

Avalon Fast: I did. I went to lots of different summer camps, but all of them were primarily Bible camps. The memory I have of camp is kind of strange. I was very homesick as a kid, and I didn’t necessarily enjoy all my time there. I definitely remember meeting some interesting girls at camp and having that presence of religion hovering around the whole experience. 

BD: I really love the film’s gorgeous natural setting. Camp is the kind of surrealist nightmare that you don’t just watch. You feel it too. How did you approach creating this world? 

AF: Well, a huge part of it was working with my cinematographer Eily Sprungman, who’s a very close friend. We spent years prepping, shot listing, storyboarding, and mood boarding. She’d had a similar experience to mine. We grew up around the same place, and so we understood each other’s visions from the get-go. But there are so many other pieces that came together. The costuming, the art, and the animated sequences were done by Sofiya Iurkevych. One of our producers, Taylor Nodrick, was obsessed with shooting on Super 8 film. I’ve always wanted to as well, so all the memory sequences were shot on Super 8. It was just a lot of people with an understanding and a vision for what this project was. I’m really happy with the way it turned out.

To the extent that you’re comfortable sharing, what’s your relationship to witchcraft, and what does Camp have to say about modern witches?

Well, that’s the question of Camp. It’s not that I don’t resonate with any of these things, but I specifically wanted Camp to be a little bit ambiguous around what witchcraft looks like. Is this witchcraft? Are these girls witches? Emily explicitly asks if that’s what’s happening here, and the answer isn’t yes. The film isn’t going to answer that question for you. My relationship to magic and witchcraft? It’s tough. I feel like there’s so much magic, connection, and spirituality that comes from these friendships, the closeness of these women, and what’s happening around them. A lot of what Camp is trying to say or show is just that magic can come out of friendship.

I loved watching these female friendships develop. And you’re right. No one ever says the word “coven,” but you can feel that connection, and you can see a change in Emily as those relationships grow. I’m also really fascinated with the way Camp plays with the idea of good and evil. At one point, Clara says, “Maybe God drew us to the devil,” which stopped me in my tracks. How do you view witchcraft or the magic these girls are experiencing in regard to good and evil? 

That was such a huge part of the script’s construction. The story is really trying to keep a balance between those two things. I like asking people if they think these girls are good or bad, because I feel like a lot of people come out of the film thinking one or the other. They’ll say things like “thank God Emily found her people” or “God, I really wish she’d gone home.” I just don’t think there’s ever an answer. I wanted to explore the idea of going down the wrong path, especially coming out of grief. What makes you a bad person, and does healing mean you’re looking to become a better person? I don’t have an answer, but I do feel like that’s a huge part of what Camp is asking. What is good? What is bad? Why did God bring me to the devil? 

Yes, because this is all happening at “God camp” in Emily’s words. So how can both of those things exist at the same time? Along those lines, I’m also fascinated by the voice Emily hears in the woods. Without spoiling too much, what is this voice asking, and what is required in return?

Emily comes to camp with a shout into the void, asking can anyone hear me? Does anyone want to? And it’s answered so clearly by these girls, specifically responding only with love, care, support, and trust. It’s like her prayers were answered. It doesn’t mean that everything is going to be alright, but Emily is looking for peace. She’s looking for a moment where she feels pure good. And I think, even at its surface level, she does get that experience. 

Personally, I don’t really think people are good or bad. I think we all exist somewhere in the middle. Camp centers traditionally villainized characters, but that’s where Emily seems to find her peace, however you choose to define it. 

I also wanted to show the experience of having decided that you are a bad person, you’ve made mistakes, and you feel cursed. Then when you meet other people who have done things that you would consider worse, you can actually feel good in their presence. You feel like less of a bad person. I think that’s a huge part of the story as well. Emily’s finding her version of other fucked up people, and she feels less fucked up around them. I’ve found that in my own life. It’s a cool thing. I don’t think it’s bad.

I don’t think it’s bad either. It’s finding your home, your people. We meet Emily in the aftermath of unthinkable trauma. Is this a story about mental health and healing? 

Witnessing it myself. witnessing other people experience tragedy and then move through grief, you hear a lot of talk about healing or coming out the other side. There’s so much conversation around what that looks like, with self-care and showing up for yourself. I always felt really averse to it. It annoyed me. I think the beginning of the film speaks to that. The therapeutic version of what getting help looks like is obviously very different from what Camp is showing. And again, I don’t have an answer for what you’re supposed to do. But I think that’s another question I was asking: how do you heal? Do you heal at all? Is that the end goal, or are we just trying to get better? It’s something I experienced in my own grief. And the answer, for me, at least now, is just that I’m not looking to get better. So I felt like I hadn’t. I found it hard to find people to have those conversations with. And I think that’s what I ultimately wanted to make a film about. 

I love that unanswered question. In my own experience, I’ve had to reframe what healing actually looks like. There’s not really an endpoint. It’s just finding a way to keep going. There’s also an element of sacrifice in this story, particularly regarding another counselor named Jo (Sophie Bawks-Smith). What role does she play in Emily’s journey? 

For me, Jo is this human embodiment of Charlie, Emily’s friend. As Jo, she had a life at this camp before meeting Emily, and then was kind of taken over by Charlie’s spirit. I think a lot of people view Emily’s final choice as horrendous and tragic. In a way it is, but for me, if Jo becomes her angel, it’s almost like a self-sacrifice. Jo knows that by sacrificing herself, she’ll be giving Emily power to move forward. In the original script, the girls were supposed to bring out another counselor, JB (Aidan Laudersmith), and burn his body. But I just thought, there’s no way sacrificing this guy could give the girls enough power. There’s just no way, right? Logically, that just didn’t line up for me. 

I’m glad you mentioned JB, because he has his own tragic arc. How do men factor into the world of Camp? 

The way men factor into my world is so bizarre. I have such little respect for them in my films, which is something I’ve been called on. I think I have to challenge myself in the future to make a movie about a boy because, these boys … It’s not that the men in my films aren’t redeemable, but there’s no depth to these characters. They’re just treated with such disrespect. I don’t know why I do that, actually. That’s something for me to look into. It was the same with Honeycomb. They’re just such peripheral characters. I’ve had people ask about Kayne (Henri Gillespi), the scary guy at the fire, what happens to him? I just think, I don’t know. I don’t care. That’s not the point of the story. 

Well, I can say after a lifetime of watching women on the periphery of the story, the course correction feels nice. In a similar vein, I’m in love with your homepage, avalonfast.com. There’s an image of girls on a film set and then a still from Honeycomb in which a blood-covered girl is screaming at the sky. And in the middle, it just says Girl Horror. It’s a really powerful statement that gives me chills. How do you define Girl Horror, and what draws you to these types of stories? 

I was obsessed with the term when I started making my movies. It was something I’d come up with to kind of brand myself and describe what I was doing. Then I went through a period where I felt like it was a bit gender exclusive and didn’t interest me as much. But now I’ve come full circle on the term. I think it’s a bit of a commentary on youth and the horror of growing up female. But I think everybody can relate to that experience. I don’t want it to feel like this exclusive thing, that I make movies exclusively for girls, because I don’t think I do. I’m interested in exploring what Girl Horror means. Originally, it was just a title, something I came up with, and now it’s become something that resonates with people. You said it gave you chills. That’s cool for me to hear because there’s obviously some depth there. 

Are you working on anything new? 

Yes. I am actually making a movie about a boy. That’s the next thing. 

That’s exciting! The more I think about feminism, the more I end up coming back to men and boys, because they have a place in the world of Girl Horror too.  

Absolutely. It’s all just part of being human.

The post Avalon Fast on Women, Witches, and the Intoxicating Nature of Girl Horror ‘Camp’ appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

The unrivaled Master of Horror made a splash in 1974 with his debut novel Carrie and has been terrifying readers ever since. Two years later, Brian De Palma brought this shocking story to the screen with an equally electrifying horror film that remains a genre classic and a prototypical example of “Good For Her” horror. This dual debut seemed to open the floodgates, unleashing endless waves of Stephen King films.

From the highs of Misery, Cujo, and The Shawshank Redemption to the schlocky fun of Cat’s Eye, Creepshow, and Children of the Corn, the last five decades have seen just about every notable horror creator take a stab at the author’s massive collection. 

In recent years, this singular subgenre has begun to burst at the seams, expanding to include Stephen King-esque fare. In 2016, brothers Matt and Ross Duffer debuted Stranger Things, a sci-fi series heavily inspired by two of King’s most famous books. The Netflix series remixes Firestarter and It by following a little girl with psychic powers and an intrepid group of kids on bikes who must battle an otherworldly foe and a sinister government agency. With its clever blend of modern effects and comforting nostalgia, this gateway horror series paved the way for Andy Muschietti’s It adaptation which remains the highest grossing horror film of all time. 

Four years later, Mike Flanagan would create Midnight Mass, a spiritual adaptation of King’s second novel Salem’s Lot. Published in 1975, the book sees a tiny New England town torn apart by a centuries-old vampire. Though Flanagan’s story is perhaps more tender, both iterations of the classic horror tale follow close-knit communities shaken to their core by the presence of an  ancient evil. 

In addition to these recent hits, 2025 was a banner year for the Master of Horror. Audiences delighted in six mainstream adaptations, including the massively popular It: Welcome to Derry which chronicles earlier cycles of the titular clown’s reign. With this boost to King’s cultural cache, it’s no surprise that we’ve begun to see more unofficial adaptations of the author’s work and horror creators who build their own unique castles in King’s creative sandbox. 

So what defines a Stephen King-esque story?

For the past fifty years, the prolific author has dipped his toes in nearly every subgenre from supernatural stories and grisly gore to western fantasy and science fiction. Including his vast catalogue of short fiction, King has tackled ghosts, demons, werewolves, zombies, aliens, mutants, and self-driving cars, not to mention bizarre monsters of his own creation. But what truly unites this vast array of horror is King’s focus on relatable characters. In his 2000 memoir/instructional text On Writing, the prolific author describes the amusement he finds in writing disparate characters, placing them in horrific scenarios, then exploring the ways they try to survive.

An unofficial Stephen King adaptation may take place in the author’s native New England — bonus points if it’s set in Maine — and reference his well-known heroes and villains. But what makes the King connection unbreakable is a character-driven story about average people who band together in the face of abject terror. 

Weapons Captures Small Town Stephen King

Following his 2022 shocker Barbarian, Zach Cregger returned with Weapons, a sprawling story that begins in a doomed elementary school. On an otherwise ordinary day, Justine (Julia Garner) arrives at her desk to find that all but one of her students have disappeared. As the mystery grows increasingly violent, Justine and Archer (Josh Brolin), the father of a missing boy, find their way to the home of Alex (Cary Christopher), the class’ only surviving student. In some ways reminiscent of Salem’s Lot, Weapons swings wildly through the unfortunate town, introducing us to its flawed inhabitants as we watch their lives fall apart.  

Cregger’s setup nods to a pair of King short stories. Both “Suffer the Little Children” and “Here There Be Tygers” tackle monstrous presences in elementary schools, but as Weapons reaches its final act, Constant Readers may remember another Stephen King tale. Featured in his 1985 collection Skeleton Crew, “Gramma” introduces us to George, a little boy tormented by an aging witch. On an afternoon alone with his sickly grandmother, the frightened child gradually realizes that the imposing old woman has been waiting for an opportunity to cast a spell that will extend her own life by possessing his body.  

Alex finds himself similarly tortured by his aunt Gladys (Amy Madigan), a garish witch who orchestrates a desperate plot to sustain her own strength. Transforming humans into mindless weapons, Gladys has taken over Alex’s family home and lured his classmates to the basement. Holding them in a comatose state, she syphons off their energy to extend her own supernatural life.

Vastly different in many ways, both “Gramma” and Weapons hinge on a sinister witch who uses horrific magical spells to sacrifice the bodies of her vulnerable prey. 

Hokum Echoes The Shining and 1408

It’s nearly impossible to watch a film about a haunted hotel without thinking of King’s third novel, The Shining. This icy story follows Jack Torrance, an angry writer struggling with his sobriety and a shameful incident haunting his past. Accompanied by his wife and young son, Jack has taken a job as the winter caretaker for the Overlook, a haunted hotel situated high in the Rocky Mountains. Snowed in, Jack finds himself tormented by dangerous ghosts who amplify his greatest fears. 

Damian McCarthy’s Hokum follows a similarly troubled figure. Ohm Bauman (Adam Scott) is a surly writer who travels to the Bilberry Woods Hotel in rural Ireland to spread his parents’ ashes. Haunted by his own tragic past, Ohm finds himself trapped in the honeymoon suite, a decaying room that’s been permanently closed to protect visitors from a dangerous witch trapped within its walls. Visual nods to King’s text abound with woodcut figurines and an animated clock, mirroring ominous descriptions found in King’s text. 

Another terrifying sequence sees Ohm staring with horror at a closed door, the only thing separating him from the approaching witch. As the door knob slowly turns, Constant Readers remember Jack’s narrow escape from the ghostly woman in room 217. And Ohm’s popular Conquistador books directly reference King’s long-running fantasy series The Dark Tower which follows a gunslinger named Roland Deschain tasked with protecting the nexus of the universe. 

In addition to these thematic comparisons, Hokum bears striking resemblance to King’s terrifying short story “1408.” Collected in 2002’s Everything’s Eventual, the terrifying story follows Mike Enslin, a dejected writer who’s risen to fame penning essays about his adventures in haunted locations. Mike arrives at the Hotel Dolphin and bullies his way into the titular room, despite the manager’s dire warnings. McCarthy nods to this story with an ominously misplaced hotel room door, reminiscent of King’s entry to 1408, an unsuspecting portal that appears to move each time Mike looks away. 

However, McCarthy’s most direct reference lies in a minicorder Ohm uses to capture notes. Trapped inside the dreaded honeymoon suite, this device offers well-timed messages while sitting next to a decomposing corpse. Mike records his time in 1408 with his own trusty minicorder. Described for the reader, his tape has captured the man’s slow descent into madness as the room prepares to swallow him whole. With conclusions that differ wildly in tone, both Ohm and Mike find their lives irrevocably changed by encounters with the supernatural realm. 

Widow’s Bay Builds Its Own Version of Castle Rock

Katie Dippold’s Widow’s Bay has taken the idea of an unofficial King adaptation and turned it into an art form. The Apple TV series sees the residents of the titular island plagued by a curse that dates back centuries. Not only does the picturesque hamlet not accommodate wifi connections, those born on the island face certain death should they ever try to leave. Desperate to modernize the tiny town, Mayor Tom Loftis (Matthew Rhys) draws in waves of tourists just as a new cycle of terror begins. 

Blending horror with deft comedy, Dippold makes cheeky references to King’s body of work. Tom warns that, “there’s something in the fog,” reminding readers of King’s 1980 novella The Mist. And Loftis’ own stay in the town’s haunted hotel sees him tormented by the ghost of a murderous clown. We even spy a vintage King hardback peeking out of a local book trade box.

In many ways Widow’s Bay feels like a new iteration of the author’s Little Tall Island, a tiny village off the coast of Maine. In addition to the 1992 novel Dolores Claiborne and a handful of harrowing short stories, this quaint fishing village is also the setting for King’s 1999 teleplay Storm of the Century. Premiering on ABC primetime, this tragic tale follows a terrified group of islanders who batten down the hatches for a dangerous Nor’easter only to find a more sinister threat lurking within. 

Constant Readers may also be reminded of Castle Rock, the author’s favorite fictional town.

First introduced in the 1981 novel Cujo, the charming village becomes the star of Needful Things, King’s satire about consumerism. After several Castle Rock stories, we’re reintroduced to its residents as they gossip about the arrival of Leland Gaunt and the grand opening of his curio shop. Anything their hearts desire can be found in his varied inventory, so long as they’re willing to pay the price. Pitting cantankerous neighbors against each other, Gaunt ignites a wave of grisly violence by exploiting long-held resentments and feuds. 

The town’s only defense against this supernatural threat is beleaguered sheriff Alan Pangborn. Still grieving the deaths of his wife and younger son, Alan struggles to connect with his older child and pick up the pieces of his shattered life. Also a widower, Loftis struggles to raise his own restless son and explain the strange details of his wife’s tragic death. Attempting to unravel the island’s dark secrets, Tom is aided by quirky residents including a surly fisherman named Wyck (Stephen Root) and Patricia (Kate O’Flynn), an earnest Town Hall employee. King’s own novels feature many of these proactive alliances with disparate characters combining their strengths to overcome insurmountable odds. 

With Widow’s Bay renewed for a second season and Mike Flanagan’s Carrie series on the horizon, the future seems bright for new King adaptations, both spiritual and directly pulled from his catalogue. The prolific author also shows no signs of slowing down with two publications nearing release. His upcoming novel, Other Worlds Than These, is the long-awaited third Talisman book which teases direct ties to his Dark Tower world. Holly Forever will be a new installment of his crime series, offering a different kind of genre fare.

This embarrassment of riches spawning multiple worlds seems ripe for spiritual adaptation and will likely inspire horror creators for decades to come.

The post How ‘Weapons’, ‘Hokum’, and ‘Widow’s Bay’ Continue Stephen King’s Horror Legacy appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

Known for excruciating violence and gore, what often distinguishes these visceral films is the depiction of emotional turmoil manifested as the destruction of human flesh. Few filmmakers make this comparison so literally as Marina de Van.

The French writer/director burst onto the scene in 2002 with her shocking In My Skin, a tale of self-discovery via grisly self-harm. Eleven years later, she would write and direct Dark Touch, the harrowing story of a traumatized girl who expresses her pain through telekinetic force.

Though they differ wildly in tone and subject, both In My Skin and Dark Touch deal with the horror of unexpressed agony and its tendency to break the skin, ripping and shredding through anything in its path.

In My Skin (2002): Self-Harm as a Response to Emotional Repression

This intensely personal film stars de Van as Esther, a corporate analyst on the verge of having it all. Her adoring boyfriend Vincent (Laurent Lucas) is poised to move in, and she’s been targeted for promotion thanks to her diligent work. During a high-pressure networking party, Esther wanders outside and trips over an open construction site, ripping her pants on an abandoned tool. It’s only later that she notices blood on the floor and realizes that she’s torn the skin of her calf as well. Surprisingly, Esther has not felt a thing.

The surgeon who stitches up the wound marvels at this lack of sensitivity, wondering if the problem is not her shredded flesh — she’s still able to feel the lightest touch — but a misalignment in her head. This wound unlocks a disturbing pattern of dissociative self-mutilation as Esther begins cutting and gouging her skin to cope with moments of emotional stress. 

Her first intentional act of self-harm follows a minor mistake in a document. After noticing that she’s misused a word, Esther fixes the error, then sneaks away to slice her thigh with a stray piece of metal. Though she has caught the mistake herself, Esther anticipates punishment for imperfection. The subsequent wound on her thigh is proof that she has paid for her transgression and can now return to solid ground, having completed the cycle of shameful correction. 

As we peel back the layers of Esther’s life, we’re aghast at the toxicity of her environment. The inciting fall happens shortly after she politely declines a dinner invitation from her older colleague, an inappropriate sexual advance dressed up as an offer for mentorship. At another party, her male coworkers drag her towards the pool, threatening to pull off her pants when she screams that she’s not wearing a bathing suit.

Esther flees this disturbing scene, but not because of the men’s aggressiveness. She’s disturbed to find that her struggle to break free has reopened the still-healing wound on her leg, causing unsightly blood to seep through her pants. Like many women in the corporate world, she’s been conditioned to view her presence as an optional privilege and to create comfort for her male colleagues. Should she negatively react to their atrocious behavior, they may deem her “too emotional” and take away her hard-earned position. 

But this toxic environment only exacerbates Esther’s need to self-harm. At a working dinner, a wealthy client pressures her to drink expensive wine, then continues to refill her glass. Increasingly unmoored, Esther finds her hand creeping onto her dinner plate. After repeatedly dragging it out of her food, she notices the appendage lying limp on the table, completely disconnected from her upper arm. This surrealist moment in an otherwise grounded film is a turning point in her violent journey. Esther sees how desensitized her body has become and the lengths she will go to perform unobtrusive compliance. 

Desperate to regain control, Esther gouges her forearm with a steak knife stolen from the table, hiding the carnage under a napkin. Humiliated, she concludes the evening in a nearby hotel, where she indulges this dangerous new compulsion. For hours, Esther lovingly slices her arms and legs, gnawing on loose flesh and suckling blood from extensive wounds. She seems enamored with her ability to feel again without being perceived by anyone else. 

Disturbed by her scars, Vincent offers shaky support while contributing to Esther’s unexpressed pain. During an intense discussion about buying their first home, Esther forgets her PIN at an ATM and bursts into tears on the street. Vincent offers an easy solution, only showing his frustration behind closed doors. He lashes out at his stunned girlfriend, conflating her emotional stress with his own inadequacy.

Clearly destabilized by her tears, Vincent baits Esther into soothing him, an echo of the cycle she performs at work. We see that even at home, her emotional needs come second to men who are unequipped to handle their own feelings. Esther has internalized the responsibility of managing Vincent alongside the message that any break in her calm demeanor will lead to more suffering later on. 

In the wake of this argument and a rebuke from her boss, Esther suffers a panic attack while walking to work. In a daze, she buys another knife, then takes a hotel room for the day. Blood runs over Esther’s face as she again luxuriates in self-mutilation. De Van finds an uneasy juxtaposition between gruesome carnage and euphoric escape. Alone again with her exquisite pain, Esther seductively runs the knife over her face, digging into the skin around her eye. She chemically preserves a severed piece of flesh then lovingly tucks it inside her bra, a keepsake to honor this violent vacation.  

The next day, Esther prepares for work, pulling office attire over her blood-stained skin. De Van does not follow her out the door, leaving us to imagine how she will be received by the men in her life. Will they finally see what they’ve put her through, or will life continue as before, with Esther pretending that nothing is wrong and performing perfection until her body gives out? De Van ends the film with the striking image of Esther lying on the hotel bed, fixing the audience with a knowing stare. Though she carefully hides her fragility, we alone have seen the true cost of survival in this destructive world. 

Dark Touch (2013): Trauma, Abuse, and Supernatural Revenge

In many ways, this shocking story of catharsis through violence feels like a thematic response to In My Skin and Esther’s unexpressed pain. Also written and directed by de Van, Dark Touch follows an Irish girl named Niamh (Missy Keating) who becomes the sole survivor of a massacre.

 We first meet this little girl screaming from her bedroom window, then running through the stormy night to the house of family friends Nat (Marcella Plunkett) and Lucas Galin (Pádraic Delaney). Niamh’s parents smooth over the incident, presenting the illusion of a happy home. It’s only when the doors are closed that we realize something is dreadfully wrong. De Van implies the worst as the sinister couple creeps into their daughter’s room, commanding her to be a “good girl.” But Niamh is saved from horrific abuse by furniture that seems to move on its own. 

De Van leans into her French Extremity roots in what will become a gruesome execution. Niamh’s mother is crushed by a splintering bureau, a loose screw driving itself into her face. Her father watches his wife’s grisly death, then falls on the blades of an ultra-modern light fixture. Flames spread through the house as Niamh cradles her infant brother in a tiny cupboard. When rescuers arrive on the scene, we learn that the baby boy has died, mysteriously smothered by an inhuman force. Now an orphan, Niamh goes to stay with Nat and Lucas, who struggle to meet her emotional needs. Unable to explain her traumatic past, Niamh finds that things move whenever she cries, an outward manifestation of her silenced rage. 

Though Nat and Lucas offer support, they only seem to make things worse. Lucas volunteers to stay in Niamh’s room when she has a bad dream, oblivious to the discomfort his presence might cause. Growing impatient when she can’t fall asleep, a snide comment betrays his empty concern. Niamh finally finds solace in photos of the couple’s older daughter, who died from cancer years ago. She clings to an image of the little girl blowing out birthday candles while covered in bruises, drawn to the familiar juxtaposition of a child suffering through visible pain while going about life as if nothing is wrong.

But this too enrages Lucas. When he finds the pictures under her bed, the weeping father shakes Niamh and demands to know what gives her the right to bring up such a devastating memory. While perhaps understandable, Lucas’ reaction tells the traumatized girl that his comfort is the true priority, and she is not allowed to soothe herself. 

Niamh’s only friends in the tiny town are young siblings from a similarly violent home. Whistling to them in the night, Niamh uses her emerging telekinesis to kill their abusive mother in an attack similar to the one that destroyed her own family. When Nat arranges for Niamh to attend a birthday party, she bristles at the other girls’ treatment of their baby dolls. They slap and rip at their faux children’s hair, seeming to process their own quasi-abusive upbringing. As she bursts into tears, Niamh spreads fire through the party and melts the faces of the mistreated dolls. That night, she lures the children to school and then destroys the building, violently disrupting what she interprets as a continuous cycle of child abuse. 

Next, Niamh turns her attention to her foster parents, telepathically trapping them in her former home. For hours, she puts them through a series of torturous humiliations we assume she endured at her own parents’ hands. Now, Nat and Lucas must suffer in silence as Niamh finally reveals the extent of her misery. Forced to sit with their tormentor at a dinner table, Nat and Lucas quietly weep as flames spread throughout the home. Like Naimh once did, they go through the motions of a happy family, unable to protect themselves. Their foster daughter smiles as the fire consumes them all, finally putting an end to her tragic life. 

Despite this murderous conclusion, Niamh is not a traditional villain. She’s a horrifically abused little girl who can’t find a way to express her pain. Though she’s managed to remove herself from immediate danger, every attempt to heal is met with stigma, resentment, or the burden of caring for someone else. When her trauma becomes too uncomfortable, she’s advised to simply stay out of sight.

Like Esther, Niamh exists in a world that expects her to create comfort for everyone else, regardless of the suffering it causes her. But Niamh’s agony can no longer be contained. Abandoning all hope for a happy life, she channels her rage and destroys anyone who crosses her path. Perhaps this is not fair to Nat and Lucas or the children of this tiny town. But what happened to Niamh is also unfair, and her trauma can no longer be ignored. 

Though they do not narratively connect, Dark Touch feels like a spiritual successor to In My Skin. Both Esther and Niamh try to swallow their pain, but find it too great to be contained. We leave Esther struggling to stay afloat in a world of male toxicity. Picking up Niamh’s story at a similar moment, we watch the child escape her own abuse only to find that the world doesn’t really care. Her community will only offer support if it doesn’t disrupt their own lives.

Though de Van does not offer us hopeful endings, there’s grim satisfaction in revealing the world as it is, one built on the expectation that women will suffer in silence. Both In My Skin and Dark Touch seem to argue that a society built on women’s pain does not deserve a second chance. 

The post How Marina de Van Uses Body Horror and Pain to Explore Trauma in ‘In My Skin’ and ‘Dark Touch’ appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

As The Boys concluded its epic run, an eerie sense of prophecy seemed to plague the fifth and final season. Based on the comics by Garth Ennis, the Prime Video series takes place in a world where superheroes are real, but must contend with all-too-human flaws. Over forty episodes, we’ve watched Homelander (Antony Starr), a sinister twist on Superman, bully and brutalize his way into the highest levels of geopolitical power.

As life continues to imitate art, the supervillain’s fifth-season arc features shocking parallels to our reality and a certain U.S. President, including a life-sized golden statue and a vision of the superhero as Jesus Christ. Surprised by these coincidences, series creator Eric Kripke insists he based Homelander’s dramatic fall on historical examples of authoritarian creep, quipping, “It’s just really hard to out-satire this world.”

The series finale features an epic showdown between Homelander and his mortal enemy, resistance fighter Billy Butcher (Karl Urban), who leads a ragtag team known as the Boys. Butcher and his partner in crime, Kimiko (Karen Fukuhara), find themselves aided by Homelander’s estranged son Ryan (Cameron Crovetti), in an epic battle that nearly destroys the West Wing.

But strip away the superpowers, capes, and bombastic effects, and this climactic battle is a modernized version of another classic political thriller. Stephen King’s The Dead Zone features a similar face-off between an unexpected vigilante and a villainous politician destined to bring about the end of the world.  

The Dead Zone’s Greg Stillson laid the groundwork for Homelander decades ago

First published in 1979, King’s award-winning novel follows Johnny Smith, a doomed schoolteacher who spends five years in a coma after a near-fatal accident. He awakens with clairvoyant power and the ability to access anyone’s deeply held secrets through physical touch. Smith locates his doctor’s long-lost mother and assists the sheriff of a neighboring town in unmasking the identity of a serial killer by holding the hand of his most recent victim.

King parallels Smith’s mysterious journey with the career of an ambitious businessman. We’re first introduced to Greg Stillson as an enterprising bible salesman who kicks a barking dog to death after checking his surroundings for witnesses. 

As he rises up the political chain, Stillson bribes his way to a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives. With a biker gang working as his personal strongmen, he will stop at nothing to amass more power. We watch as he threatens his political rivals and arranges the death of an FBI agent investigating his many crimes. Perhaps most disturbing, Stillson knows how to charm an audience, enjoying meteoric political success thanks to his talent for deception and a mega-watt grin that effectively hides his villainy. David Cronenberg’s 1983 adaptation of the story casts Martin Sheen in this pivotal role, sixteen years before he would play the beloved President Josiah Bartlet in Aaron Sorkin’s long-running series The West Wing.

Homelander is also adept at this cleverly concealed dichotomy, hiding his own murderous rage behind highly orchestrated acts of heroism. We first meet the blonde superhero as he stops a dangerous bank robbery, then pauses for selfies with his adoring fans. Literally draped in the American flag, he constantly reminds the world that civilians and first responders are the true heroes, downplaying his own actions to maintain a humble facade.

It’s only behind closed doors that we see who Homelander truly is. While attempting to save a hijacked plane, he accidentally kills the pilots too, sending the commercial jet plummeting to the ocean below. Because he can’t let the world know that he has failed, the callous hero refuses to save anyone onboard and allows hundreds of innocent passengers to sink along with the plane’s wreckage, sacrificing their lives to preserve his pristine reputation. 

As the seasons go by, Homelander slowly becomes more powerful, eliminating or vilifying anyone who stands in his way. He’s surrounded by a loyal group of sycophants who enable his increasingly egregious acts through a complex system of propaganda and misinformation. But the psychopath’s ambition knows no bounds. When the sitting U.S. President balks at his desire to eliminate Congress and imprison or kill the opposition, Homelander crushes the politician’s head and installs his loyal fixer in the coveted role.

Both villains mask violence behind patriotic spectacle

Having injected a rare serum granting him immortality, Homelander plans an Easter address in which he will declare himself the second coming of Christ and order the world to fall to their knees. Fortunately, Butcher and the Boys force their way into the Oval Office, determined to stop him once and for all.  

King’s The Dead Zone condenses this epic saga into a single vision of the future, instead focusing on the veracity of Smith’s clairvoyant power. By the time he crosses paths with the sinister political candidate, we firmly believe that these outlandish visions serve as an iron-clad prophecy. Shaking his hand, Smith glimpses a terrifying future of Stillson’s presidency, the man’s angry temperament sparking a nuclear war that will bring about the end of the world. Burdened with this knowledge, Smith knows that his singular vision cannot combat Stillson’s benevolent facade and decides to take matters into his own hands. He buys a rifle and stakes out the setting for an upcoming political rally, hiding in the auditorium’s balcony. 

As Stillson delivers a well-received speech, Smith misses his first shot, allowing his target time to defend himself. Frightened for his life, Stillson grabs a nearby toddler and holds him in the path of danger. Unwilling to kill the child Stillson uses as a human shield, Johnny relents and is fatally shot, but not before a photographer captures a damning picture of Stillson in this unforgivable act. King stops short of killing the horrific villain, allowing him to suffer the consequences of his own cowardice. Though Stillson survives this climactic showdown, Smith’s final vision reveals a political career in tatters. The once-powerful man will never again be able to convince the world to see him as anything but a conniving fool.

The Boys’ bombastic series finale features a similar end for Homelander. As the world watches his live address, he announces himself as God before slipping into familiar rage, threatening death to anyone unwilling to worship his name. Butcher interrupts this terrifying speech, sending cameramen fleeing for their lives without thinking to cut the live feed. In a brutal fight, Butcher and Ryan subdue the struggling villain while Kimiko unleashes a radioactive blast designed to eliminate superhuman abilities.

When the dust settles, Homelander regains his footing only to find that his eyes no longer emit deadly laser beams. His attempts to blast off into the sky result in a series of pathetic jumps no higher than a few feet off the floor. With the cameras still rolling, the world can see that Homelander is no longer a superhero, but a flesh-and-blood human just like them. 

Why The Boys ending is more brutal than Stephen King’s original vision

Without his steel skin, lightning-quick reflexes, and super speed, Homelander finds himself easily outmatched by the seasoned fighter. Butcher effortlessly stops his feeble punch and begins pummeling the man’s now-fragile face. Terrified, Homelander begs for his life, offering Butcher the full weight of his obscene power. Denied mercy, Homelander debases himself at the man’s feet, offering to eat his shit on live TV.

We remember the eerily prescient words of another fallen hero, delivered in the season’s first episode. Just before Homelander snaps his neck, A-Train (Jessie T. Usher) insists, “Take away these powers, and what are you, huh? A pathetic, weak, snivelling fucking loser.” With cameras still rolling, the world now sees the true nature of their self-professed savior. Like Stillson, he has been defanged and revealed as the weakling he truly is. 

Despite these similarities, Kripke has a more brutal end for his humiliated villain. In an interview with Deadline, he explained, “People have asked me, ‘Well, why don’t you send him out in the world powerless, wouldn’t that be the ultimate punishment?’ I’m like, it would, until he gets his hands on some more Compound V, and then you’re back to where you started.”

Thanks to this in-world serum, Homelander has been able to subdue his enemies with brute force and the ever-present threat of death. After all, the blue injectable allows him to instantly slaughter massive crowds with a simple flick of his laser eyes. Kripke continues, “So, he cannot walk out of that room alive, but we can spend time with him powerless to really reveal what everyone’s been saying all season, which is, ‘Take away those powers and you are nothing.’”

As the world witnesses their hero laid low, Butcher exacts his long-awaited revenge. He drives a crowbar into Homelander’s forehead, then cracks open the top of his skull. Homelander’s brains spill over the Resolute Desk while his body falls gracelessly to the floor. The camera lingers on the shocking demise before Butcher abruptly cuts the feed, leaving the world to grapple with the image of their former hero’s mangled body and proof that no one is indestructible. 

King wrote The Dead Zone in the aftermath of the Watergate Scandal and Richard Nixon’s unprecedented fall from grace. Explaining his inspiration for the novel in his 200 memoir On Writing, the author remembers wondering if a political assassin could ever serve as a protagonist. Though Smith fails in his stated mission, he ultimately succeeds in revealing Stillson’s true nature before he can bring the world to the brink of disaster.

But The Boys exists in a different time. Decades later, we’re now plagued by so-called “alternative facts” and a populace determined to believe anything that maintains their delusions of unrivaled strength. Nothing short of complete destruction will force Homelander’s devout followers to accept the truth: that their empire has been built on lies.

While Stillson could be allowed to destroy himself, we must see the mighty Homelander fall to understand that he has always been nothing more than a fragile man in an empty suit. 

The post ‘The Boys’ Series Finale Explained: Homelander’s Fall Mirrors a Classic Stephen King Villain appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

Not only would we have to say goodbye to our favorite heroes and villains, but considering the show’s ultra-violent playfulness, their ends would likely be unthinkable. And Kripke did not disappoint. 

From the first of eight final episodes, The Boys’ swan song has been a cavalcade of grotesque kills. We wouldn’t have it any other way. We’ve watched the show’s US President have his head abruptly crushed in the Oval Office and a human guinea pig bled to death through his asshole, spraying blood all over his prison cell. But on a list of season five’s most horrific expirations, these don’t even crack the shocking top ten.

What sets this season’s death scenes apart is the weight of finality and a current of emotion running alongside the body horror. After all, we’ve run out of canon fodder, and most of the following kills cut deep, providing heartbreaking or cathartic closure for characters we’ve come to either loathe or love.   

10) A-Train’s Final Race (Episode 1)

As promised, season five begins with an excruciating death that takes us back to where we first began. After years executing Homelander’s violent whims, A-Train (Jessie T. Usher) has finally broken with Vought and begun working with the Boys. Now going by Reggie, the world’s fastest man joins their mission to infiltrate an internment camp to free a handful of resistance fighters. As Homelander (Antony Starr) tries to prevent their escape, we watch in awe as a slow-motion sequence follows Reggie running through the chaotic scene, taking pins out of grenades and saving Hughie (Jack Quaid) from Homelander’s deadly laser vision. When the dust settles, he speeds off into the night with Homelander hot on his heels. But when a civilian steps into his path — a mirror to the grisly collision that kicked off the show’s first episode — A-Train proves that he has truly changed by moving out of the way to save her life. 

Unfortunately, this sends him careening through the dense woods, smashing into large trees at the speed of light. Homelander quickly catches up and snaps his neck, but not before the fallen hero delivers a blistering critique that will become eerily prophetic as the season unfolds. As Homelander holds him by the throat, Reggie laughs in his face, saying, “Take away these powers, and what are you, huh? A pathetic, weak, snivelling fucking loser.” It’s a painful yet redemptive moment for a character who’s finally found the courage to stand up for what’s right. 

9) Firecracker Freed (Episode 5)

As Homelander grows increasingly unstable, others begin to doubt their place in his army. Firecracker (Valorie Curry) has always been a loyal follower, but Homelander discovers that she’s been sharing her doubts with his father, Soldier Boy (Jensen Ackles), in the afterglow of their secret affair. He confronts Firecracker about her faltering belief just moments after she’s publicly burned all connections to her former life. Yet even this self-destruction is not enough and Homelander asks her to pack her things and go.

Desperate to stay in her hero’s good graces, Firecracker professes her love for the caped crusader and begs to stay. But something in her sycophantic tone pushes the monster over the edge. After a gentle caress, he smashes her face into a nearby statue of a bald eagle, impaling her head with its outstretched wings. Blinking as her body collapses, Firecracker finally understands that no amount of devotion will ever fill the gaping hole in Homelander’s heart.

8) Oh Father, Where Art Thou? (Episode 8)

After five seasons, we’ve come to expect exploding heads in The Boys universe, but the disturbing death of Oh Father (Daveed Diggs) tops them all. The pastor-turned-superhero is not only known for his proselytising, but also for his forceful voice, strong enough to literally blow people away. The only downside is that his destructive screams can be quite dangerous in the throes of sexual gratification. So, to celebrate her ascension to the presidency, his wife Ashley (Colby Minifie) buys him a heavily reinforced ball gag designed to muffle the most catastrophic sounds.

When the Boys break into the White House, Oh Father attempts to stave them off and opens his mouth to pulverize Hughie. Spying Ashley’s kinky gift, Mother’s Milk (Laz Alonso) uses the gag to stop this deadly blast, reversing Oh Father’s power and popping his head. Once again, Hughie is covered with gore as brain matter splatters all over the room. On the other hand, perhaps it’s better that Oh Father’s life ends this way rather than his head exploding from vocal enjoyment of a sexual act. 

7) Adam Bourke Takes a Bow (Episode 5)

Adam Bourke (P.J. Byrne) has long been a heel in The Boys’ universe. We first meet the problematic and foulmouthed director on the set of Dawn of the Seven, an in-world film designed to smooth over Homelander’s disastrous romance. But Bourke has finally left Vought Studios behind and is now helming an off-broadway play about the Bee Gees that just happens to star Justin (Nathan Mitchell), a.k.a. Black Noir II. Unfortunately, The Deep (Chace Crawford) discovers Noir’s secret gig and jealously sabotages his chance at fame.

While Bourke “drops a deuce,” Deep sends an eel through the toilet bowl to burrow itself into the director’s rear end. Coming to his rescue, Black Noir extracts the bloody creature, but rips out Bourke’s intestines as well. He dies a fittingly undignified death, bleeding on a dirty bathroom floor while quipping about how his asshole hurts. This grisly vignette not only allows Mitchell to pull off his mask and show his face for the first time in Boys history, but combines the series’ trademark irreverent humor with shockingly violent special effects.  

6) Karma Catches The Deep (Episode 8)

Thankfully, Deep does not get away with his atrocious acts. After five seasons of bro-ing his way around and blaming others for his own mistakes, the cowardly hero has finally run out of places to hide. In retaliation for Bourke’s death, Noir damages the oil pipeline Deep has just endorsed, creating a horrific oil spill that kills millions of fish. The so-called Lord of the Seven Seas is unceremoniously warned by a shark named Xander — hilariously voiced by Samuel L. Jackson — that if he dips a toe into any body of water, the fish will immediately rip him apart. Word has spread, and every aquatic animal now blames him for what they call the Pipeline Genocide as well as the death of Ambrosius (Tilda Swinton), Deep’s octopus lover, whom he betrayed to curry favor with Homelander.

Unfortunately, Deep finds himself far offshore after a grueling fight with Annie (Erin Moriarty). As cries of “justice for Ambrosious” ring in the air, a massive sea creature rises from the murky depths. Sharks close in while one giant tentacle encircles Deep’s waist and another juts out of his open mouth, paralleling the sexual assault he perpetrated in episode one. It’s a moment of long-awaited karmic retribution for a pathetic, yet all-too-familiar character.

5) Strangled by a Love Sausage (Episode 1)

Throughout the Boys’ audacious run, we’ve seen a variety of unusual powers, from a man burrowing through the earth by blowing the dirt out of his butt to a “hero” capable of duplicating himself to create a human centipede. But perhaps the strangest is Love Sausage (Derek Johns), whose abilities stem from a monstrous penis he controls like an octopus’ tentacle. Long tormented by this depraved supervillain, Mother’s Milk now finds himself held prisoner in a Vought camp where Love Sausage serves as a prison guard. But when Butcher and his crew infiltrate the bunker, M.M. sees his chance for revenge.

Warning, “I’m gonna chop that thing up like a party sub,” he tries to evade the lunging man who uses his elongated dick as a whip. M.M. is finally able to grasp the appendage, repeatedly stabbing the tip with a jagged stake. Finally subdued, he wraps the shaft around Love Sausage’s neck and slowly pulls it tight, marking the first time in mainstream television history that a man has been strangled to death by his own genitalia.  

4) Synapse Snapped (Episode 7)

As Homelander nears his strange announcement, the insecure supe begins wondering if the masses will actually accept him as their God. To weed out everyone but true believers, he’s assembled a team of devious psychics to read minds and identify any doubt. Synapse (Steven Yaffee) is a deranged psychic who receives a pardon for multiple crimes in exchange for running interference for Homelander. Holding Hughie and Butcher (Karl Urban) hostage, he digs into their subconscious thoughts and disguises himself as Joe Kessler (Jeffrey Dean Morgan), a painful figure from Butcher’s past. But Hughie turns the tables on this sinister man, recounting his knowledge of the villain’s first kill.

As grisly crime scene photos flash before our eyes, we learn that a young Synapse mentally forced his seven-year-old brother to eviscerate himself with their mother’s corkscrew. This bloody anecdote proves to be an effective distraction, and Butcher is able to free himself, impaling the psychic with two of his waspish tentacles. As he pulls them apart, Synapse’s body is ripped in half, his entrails spilling all over the floor. This peek into the mind of a murderous man reminds us just how devastating superpowers can be.

3) Jetstreak, Rock Hard, and Soldier Boy (Episode 2)

As the Boys search for Homelander’s Achilles heel, they replicate an experimental virus engineered to kill all supes while leaving humans essentially unharmed. Hoping to test the concoction’s strength, they plan to inject it into an indestructible hero known as Rock Hard (Andrew Iles) and observe the results. But when they arrive at his Vought-arranged home, they discover that the man has severely let himself go. Rather than a muscle-bound hero made of stone, he’s now a rocky head sitting atop a massive pile of molten lava created by untold hours of pleasuring himself to volcano porn.

Wearing a protective mask, Frenchie (Tomer Capone) opens the vial in the sealed basement alongside a teen supe called Jetstreak (Dylan Colton) and Soldier Boy, who’s been sent to retrieve the unstable substance. The Boys watch in horror as the infected heroes vomit black goo, their skin beginning to bubble and blister. Rock Hard’s face cracks open and crumbles, revealing brains and viscera underneath. They are the first victims of this dangerous plague, yet only two will remain dead.

2) That Was a Crazy Game of Poker (Episode 5)

The moment Jensen Ackles first appeared as Soldier Boy in season three, fans of Kripke’s long-running series Supernatural began clamoring for a larger reunion. Season five delivered in spades with a hilarious gore-fest also featuring several of Hollywood’s funniest stars. Searching for the elusive V1, Soldier Boy, and Homelander travel to the home of Mr. Marathon, a former member of the Seven, played by Ackles’ onscreen Supernatural brother Jared Padalecki. With Misha Collins in tow as Malchemical, the two have devised a plot to kill Homelander via Soldier Boy’s power-removing blast. This leads to a fantastic meta conversation in which Ackles, Collins, and Padalecki contemplate abandoning Kripke’s new characters and retreating to the comfort of old times. But Soldier Boy demures, setting up a chase-turned blood bath in the Hollywood mansion. 

As Soldier Boy crushes Malchemical’s throat, the famous men sitting at a nearby poker table panic and try to flee. First, the lightning-fast Mr. Marathon collides with Will Forte, splattering his body all over the washed-up athlete’s designer track suit. Next, Soldier Boy slows down his attacker by throwing Kumail Nanjiani, Christopher Mintz-Plasse, and Craig Robinson in Mr. Marathon’s way. Finally, he hurls Seth Rogen at the hero, his speed shearing the comedian’s body in half. Upstairs, Mr. Marathon slips on his own baby oil, giving Soldier Boy the upper hand. Demanding answers, he shatters both of the hero’s feet before Homelander stomps on his upturned head. By far one of The Boys’ most gory scenes, this gleeful vignette revives some of Supernatural’s most beloved tricks in delightfully wacky fan-service fun. 

1) Homelander Powers Down (Series Finale)

As the show’s final season barrelled toward its jaw-dropping conclusion, there was only one question on everyone’s lips: can anyone stop Homelander? Butcher has dedicated his life to this quest after the psychotic Superman raped and impregnated his wife, eventually leading to her accidental death at the hands of their superhuman son Ryan (Cameron Crovetti). Now that Kimiko (Karen Fukuhara) possesses Soldier Boy’s blast, Butcher and Ryan brawl with the monstrous hero, destroying the Oval Office along the way. As they hold Homelander in place, Kimiko unloads the full force of her power, knocking everyone to the floor. 

Homelander arises and tries to fly, only to find out that he has lost his superhuman abilities. Butcher wades in and begins pummeling the now-fragile villain again and again as blood sprays from his fracturing face. Brutalized and bleeding, the sniveling hero begs for his life, echoing A-Train’s prophetic final words. With the world watching on live TV, Butcher drives a crowbar into Homelander’s forehead then pulls up, cracking off the top of his skull. The audience watches in horror as their would-be saviour is revealed to be human after all. 

The post ‘The Boys’ Goes Out With a Body Horror Bang: Ranking the Gruesome Deaths of Season 5 appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

The humble writer from Portland, Maine, published his debut novel in 1974 and quickly became a household name. By 1978, he’d released five incredible books that continue to dazzle modern readers. Carrie, ‘Salem’s Lot, The Shining, Night Shift, and The Stand run the gamut of horror subgenres, exploring everything from vampire lore and feminism to haunted houses and the apocalypse. But despite these differences, each story is a showcase for the prolific author’s ability to create intensely relatable characters forced to confront their darkest fears.

To celebrate this unparalleled legacy, Vintage Books presents a stunning reissue of King’s first five publications.

Adorned with gorgeous new covers from award-winning illustrator Gary Pullin, this series combines each story’s retro vibe with the timeless terror we’ve come to associate with the man now known as the Master of Horror. 

Carrie (1974)

Considering his later success, it’s surprising to learn that King’s debut novel almost ended up in the trash. When he first envisioned the bloody story, King was a young father living paycheck to paycheck on a teacher’s salary, supplementing the family’s meager income with short stories published in men’s magazines. Frustrated with what was shaping up to be a longer work, King famously gave up on his draft of Carrie and threw the first few pages away. Fortunately, his wife and fellow writer Tabitha pulled the manuscript out of the wastebasket and encouraged him to continue writing. 

Carrie follows a lonely high school girl whose telekinetic abilities blossom with the late arrival of her first period. A victim of relentless bullying, Carrie White finds herself the target of a vicious prank when her popular classmates orchestrate her unlikely election to prom queen, then douse her with pig’s blood at the moment of coronation. Humiliated, Carrie unleashes the full force of her awful powers on the laughing prom-goers, sparking a fire that threatens to destroy the town. 

The slim novel sold modestly upon initial release, but became a worldwide phenomenon thanks to a masterful adaptation from Brian De Palma. Featuring powerhouse performances from Sissy Spacek and Piper Laurie, Carrie (1976) remains a beloved genre classic and an early example of Good For Her horror. There’s even a new series adaptation on the way this year.

Vintage Books’ rerelease features an introduction from feminist author Margaret Atwood, who — upon the novel’s 50th anniversary — called its upsetting themes “still horrifyingly relevant.”

‘Salem’s Lot (1975)

King’s second novel highlights the author’s talent for creating abject terror while exploring the nuances of small town life. Haunted by an incident from his childhood, widowed novelist Ben Mears returns to the titular town intent on renting the Marsten House, a crumbling mansion said to be haunted by the ghost of its former resident. Unfortunately, he returns to find the home purchased by Kurt Barlow, a mysterious European antiques dealer, and his more visible companion, Richard Straker. Meanwhile, residents of the sleepy town find themselves shunning the light and inexplicably thirsting for human blood. 

A modern retelling of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, King reverses the legendary text’s exploration of Victorian technology with characters so convinced of their rationality that they reject the growing vampire threat until the moment it bites them on the neck. Several sequences remain among the most frightening of King’s vast catalogue, but ‘Salem’s Lot is at its best when following the residents of the secretive town. One mesmerizing chapter begins with farmhands working in the pre-dawn hours before circling through a series of scandalous vignettes featuring a cantankerous bus driver, an elementary school bully, a corrupt real estate mogul, and an unfaithful housewife. The chapter ends when two young brothers are stalked through the darkening woods, kicking the vampiric horror into overdrive.

In some ways, ‘Salem’s Lot encapsulates the best of King’s distinctive style. Ben Mears serves as the first writer protagonist, while folksy side characters juxtapose fantasy elements with the grounded reality of everyday life. Neighboring the infamous Chamberlain — the town nearly destroyed by Carrie White — ‘Salem’s Lot also begins a literary connected universe still rippling through pop culture more than five decades later. 

Vintage Books’ rerelease of the novel that inspired multiple adaptations comes with an introduction by horror author Joe Hill.

The Shining (1977)

Not only King’s first hardcover bestseller, The Shining also introduces readers to his signature brand of storytelling through unflinching self-examination. The terrifying tale follows Jack Torrance, a failed teacher and fledgling playwright struggling to maintain his sobriety. Hoping to get his life back on track, Jack accepts a job as the winter caretaker at a luxury hotel set high in the Colorado Rocky Mountains. Joining him in this eerie assignment is his watchful wife, Wendy, and son Danny, a little boy gifted with immense telepathic powers. But solitude begins to wear on the fracturing family as the spirits who wander the empty halls want to claim the child’s talents for themselves. 

On the surface, The Shining is a nerve-shattering tale of a haunted hotel filled with vengeful ghosts. But beneath this horrific exterior is an intimate story of addiction-fueled domestic violence and a man consumed by the worst parts of himself. Written several years before the author entered recovery, King has described Jack as a vessel for exploring his own relationship with alcohol and the pressures of early parenthood.

Four decades later, he would write Doctor Sleep, a sequel following an adult Danny Torrance struggling to make peace with his father’s legacy that would also be adapted into a feature film.

Night Shift (1978)

King’s first collection of short stories is a thrilling showcase for the author’s unparalleled creativity. Lean, mean, and often grisly, these twenty tales pack a powerful punch while spanning a variety of subgenres and subjects. “The Mangler” features an industrial steam ironer accidentally possessed by an unlikely demon, while “Sometimes They Come Back” follows a traumatized high school teacher who must battle disruptive students from beyond the grave. “The Lawnmower Man” is an Arthur Machen-inspired curio blending folk horror with the tedium of suburbia, while “Graveyard Shift” sees a factory worker devoured by hordes of mutant rats. 

In a nightmarish return to his tortured town, King bookends the collection with “Jerusalem’s Lot” and “One for the Road,” wildly different short stories which serve as prequel and coda, respectively, to ‘Salem’s Lot. Though many entries see King gleefully lean into the uncanny and gross — like “Gray Matter” in which a father is consumed by moldy beer — others are more poignant. “The Last Rung on the Ladder” follows a brother forced to reckon with his wayward sister’s legacy, while “The Woman in the Room” sees King explore the experience of watching his mother slowly pass away. 

With most entries clocking in under twenty pages, Night Shift is surprisingly cinematic and has spawned a staggering number of adaptations.

To date, thirteen feature films and TV series have risen from the collection’s pages, not including ten sequels to Fritz Kiersch’s campy classic Children of the Corn. With Rob Savage’s The Boogeyman — inspired by Night Shift’s sixth short story — terrifying audiences in 2023, this curious collection continues to fuel the horror genre with new iterations of unimaginable fear.

The Stand (1978)

The same year Night Shift became a national bestseller, King published The Stand, a sprawling apocalyptic fantasy inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. This harrowing story opens with a malfunctioning gate and a frightened security guard fleeing a chemical weapons research facility just minutes after a disastrous breach. Weeks later, the Superflu or “Captain Trips” has spread across the United States, decimating the population as the army frantically tries to maintain control. 

King shows the collapse of society through a handful of disparate characters who somehow prove immune to the virus and find themselves left behind in a country strewn with rotting corpses. As each struggles to pick up the pieces, some are drawn to an old woman playing guitar on a humble porch, while others dream of a Dark Man wandering deserted roads throughout the night. After a brutal summer, these two factions find themselves in a desperate battle between good and evil where the prize is the very soul of humanity. 

At a whopping 1,152 pages, King’s longest work to date was originally released in 1978 with dramatic edits removing around 400 pages of colorful prose. Vintage Books’ rerelease features the “Complete and Uncut” version of King’s epic novel, originally restored in 1990. Among other exciting sequences, this expanded tome features the Dark Man lurking within a massive tornado and a beer-swilling miscreant known as the Kid who pays an unthinkable price for his treachery.

The Stand is now considered a masterpiece and one of America’s best modern novels thanks to King’s skillfully balanced characters who contemplate the awful price of war and our collective ability to better ourselves. A poignant conclusion asks the reader, if given a clean slate to start again, would we find the courage to stand for what’s right or wind up remaking the same mistakes? 

Five decades after they first hit bookshelves, King’s first five novels continue to unnerve readers with stories that still feel frighteningly familiar. The Stand proved eerily prophetic during the 2020 pandemic, inspiring The End of the World As We Know It, a collection of in-world stories contributed by  Paul Tremblay, Tananarive Due, and more of the genre’s most popular writers.

Tobe Hooper’s 1979 adaptation of ‘Salem’s Lot just received a stunning new 4K rerelease while Stanley Kubrick’s 1980 masterpiece The Shining continues to shape the look of modern horror, prominently referenced in blockbusters like Ready Player One and Coralie Fargeat’s awards darling The Substance. And no one goes to prom without thinking of a wide-eyed Carrie White doused in blood on the high school stage. Mike Flanagan’s upcoming miniseries adaptation promises to modernize Carrie’s brutal themes, bringing this disturbing tale of bullying into the digital age.

There’s never been a better time to pick up a copy of Vintage King and join the vast community of Constant Readers.  

The post Vintage Stephen King Collection Captures Enduring Legacy of Horror Master’s First Five Novels appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

For years, social media has blasted us with conflicting messages about how to achieve a “healthy weight,” while the medical establishment continues to push outdated information about the body mass index. With Looksmaxxing and 90s thinness now dominating online spaces, it’s never felt more frustrating to live comfortably in a human body.

Writer/director Natalie Erika James combines this highly-charged topic with one of horror’s oldest taboos in Saccharine, a body horror tale about the confluence of cannibalism and diet culture. With the tag line, “you are who you eat,” this surrealist film blends girly pop style with the devastating experience of disordered eating. 

Hana (Midori Francis) is a medical student obsessed with losing weight. Hoping to impress her gym crush, Alanya (Madeleine Madden), she signs up for a 12-Week Challenge in which she’ll monitor her caloric intake while completing a series of intense group workout sessions. As Hana diligently tracks her plateauing progress, an old friend reappears with a miraculous, yet pricey, diet pill. Using her scientific expertise to recreate the formula, Hana makes a horrific discovery and must decide if she’s willing to consume the unthinkable in order to achieve the physique of her dreams.

James’ powerful film combines supernatural elements with grounded gore while exploring the pain and grief of self-acceptance. To unpack this surrealist vision, Bloody Disgusting sat down with the Australian-American filmmaker for a candid conversation about the horror of diet culture and the art of human consumption.

Bloody Disgusting: I’m obsessed with movies about cannibalism. It’s my favorite cinematic taboo, but it can be equally taboo to talk about diet culture and body image. What led you to combine these two topics? 

Natalie Erika James: I was fascinated by this idea of desire towards another person as an avenue in which to fill a void in yourself, or projecting your aspirational self onto someone, and how that can morph into a desire to possess and objectify. I think that’s what cannibalism does. It is the ultimate possession and the ultimate way to objectify someone. 

BD: I felt really seen by Saccharine. Who would you say your target audience is, and what message do you hope to send to people who may have a complicated relationship with food and their own bodies? 

NEJ: My aim was to speak to an audience that has dealt with similar struggles, with eating disorders or body dysmorphia. When I was growing up, there wasn’t anyone talking about this kind of subject matter in such an explicit way. I think horror allows you to do that. Whereas a lot of the films that I saw on the subject seemed to have this neat packaging around it, an almost moralistic kind of messaging. I didn’t feel like it captured both the thickness of certain feelings and the highs of compulsive behavior. That was what I was trying to accurately convey. But at the same time, I feel like the audience is broader than that. It’s anyone who would want to have an insight into that experience or can relate to it through any sort of addiction or compulsive behavior. I think all of us have something, whether it’s scrolling or shopping addiction, anything that relates to the feeling of trying to fill a lack in yourself through external means. 

I know that the topic of eating disorders can be difficult to navigate because it’s often very triggering. What was the culture like on set, and how did you approach developing Hana’s character with Midori Francis?

We definitely had a real awareness of the sensitivity of the subject matter. We consulted with The Butterfly Foundation [an Australian charity dedicated to serving those impacted by eating disorders and body image issues] and had an intimacy coordinator who was on set for our actors as a backup resource. We also had language and tone setting meetings with the crew to create an environment in which these things aren’t taken lightly. It’s definitely the nature of diving into an uncomfortable topic that you have to have a lot of uncomfortable conversations. Oftentimes, I found that what makes things uncomfortable is that people are very well-meaning and try to be almost overly sensitive, but there hasn’t been a discussion about what the right language is. It requires a very intentional kind of understanding from everyone. 

I shared my own experience with Midori, and she was very open to leaning on some of that as well. I think in the film, there are so many fantastical kinds of heightened moments, but we were always able to come back to, okay, what’s the real-life experience of that, and how do we build a performance?

 I think that comes through in the film. In the spirit of uncomfortable conversations, I want to be careful how I ask this question because I make it a policy not to comment on people’s bodies. But I think in a film like this, it does matter. I really love Danielle Macdonald’s performance as Josie. Why was it important to feature this role and different types of bodies in this movie? 

I think Josie is so crucial to Hana’s story because she almost acts as a foil to Hana, but is also her anchor. She’s a woman in a larger body who is so self-possessed and confident. She thinks of herself as worthy and has love in her life. It’s all the things Hana really wants for herself, but is trying to achieve in the completely wrong way, by becoming smaller. And so she really is the voice of reason for Hana and also a source of connection. I think the act of being seen or accepted by someone is what really shrinks that sense of shame that Hana carries around. Josie is crucial in so many ways, and I think Dani as a person just embodies Josie. She is that grounded and has this effortless confidence in herself. She’s the perfect fit for the character. 

Watching Josie push back on this idea that smaller is better was so refreshing, but the moment that made me cry was a scene in which Hana looks at herself in a really vulnerable position and seems to finally find compassion. Is this a story about self-acceptance and body grieving?

Yes. Hana’s arc goes from one of self-destruction to self-acceptance, at least for a while. It’s about dismantling a sense of shame in yourself and recognizing how much that shame can imprison you. That scene is so pivotal because I think you hear the word self-love a lot, especially in online and wellness spaces. But what does that look like? How do you cultivate it? It can be as simple as looking back at a younger version of yourself and having empathy for where you were and an acknowledgement of how hard you’re trying. I’m glad to hear it resonated.

 Throughout this struggle, Hana is haunted by Bertha, a ghost that seems to grow larger in relation to Hana’s compulsions. How do you view her place in the story? Is she a villain, a victim, or something else? 

Bertha’s role is twofold. On one hand, she is the entity on which Hana projects all of her worst fears about herself. On a surface level, you could read it as a larger person depicted as a menace and read fatphobia. For me, or at least my intention was, we’re dealing with a character who has internalized this fatphobia. So we’re seeing Bertha through Hana’s lens. Her monstrosity is really driven by shame and self-hatred. It’s not so much about the literal size of her body. I think it’s really important that at the end of the film, we understand that Bertha is a real person and actually very loved.

I want to ask a similar question about Alanya, particularly her 12-Week Challenge. I think society creates a lot of conflicting messages about the right way to have a healthy body, and it can be really confusing. How do you view Alanya’s role in Hana’s life?

Maddie Madden had an interesting challenge in the sense that again, so much of Alanya is viewed through Hana’s aspirational lens and objectification. But I think she did an incredible job of grounding the character and making her very compassionate as well. Through association, Hana tries to create a new version of herself. I also feel as though there are hints that Alanya has gone through some sort of eating disorder journey of her own. 

There’s a sense that we’ve moved on from the diet culture discourse of the early 2000s, where women’s bodies were absolutely torn apart. Now this idea of thinness as an aspirational ideal has definitely come back at full force. But now it’s couched in wellness language. It’s about self-improvement, and it can be tied to mental health as well, but a lot of the underlying sentiment is the same. There is a line between self-improvement and self-erasure, something that we have to be really conscious of because it’s masquerading as something positive; there can be seeds of the same energy. I think Alanya has a mix of that. She’s well-intentioned, but even the poster that she has up in the gym has this before and after imagery. There are mixed messages there. 

I don’t want to spoil anything, but I absolutely loved the ending. It was the last thing I expected. I also love how queer the film is. At one point, Josie asks Hana if she’s decided whether she wants to be with Alanya or if she wants to be Alanya, which is a question that comes up a lot when exploring one’s sexuality, but it also ties back to what you were saying about objectification and consumption. So Josie’s question becomes quite literal. Where do we leave Hana and Alanya? 

In the end, Hana has an opportunity to forge something really authentic with Alanya. All the while, she’s been projecting her desires onto her, and there is this sense of fantasy tied up in it. When it comes to accountability, which Alanya kind of forces her to confront, Hana has an opportunity. But unfortunately, at that time, shame overrides it and wins. It becomes this all-consuming drive. That’s the tragedy, that she has all the tools and yet, if you can’t fill yourself up, there’s no external thing or person that’s going to do that for you. 

On a lighter note, I am obsessed with the way you film food and eating in this movie, particularly this credit sequence in which mouth-watering treats are merged with medical procedures. What do these moments say about the connection between food and the body?

Throughout the film, food is many things. At some points, it is a dopamine high and the ecstatic thrill of consumption. It’s kind of like a ride. That’s why we tried to infuse it with color and texture. On the other hand, it can be this source of nauseating, inescapable oppression. So the mix of those two things is what we tried to capture in those end titles. At the same time, food is also nourishment. It’s the first nourishment we get from our mothers as babies. It’s love. It’s caretaking. It’s Hana’s dad cooking her pancakes inexplicably, as well as her mother’s use of food as a means of control. So it’s many things. It’s not just nutrition. It’s very charged. 

It’s also something we can’t escape. Unlike other substance abuse issues, we have to eat to survive, and so we’re forced to navigate a relationship with food. I think a lot of the way we do that is shaped by how we were raised. What role do Hana’s parents play in the story? 

It felt crucial to truly understand the depth of Hana’s preoccupation with weight, food, and her body. When you think of appearances, it can feel very artificial or superficial. Who cares if you’re 10 kilos, 10 pounds heavier? What does it matter? But so much of how Hana views those things is tied up in love and value and acceptance. Once you understand that, then it becomes an existential crisis. It’s not just about looking good so you can go to a party or something superficial like that. It’s like, how do I exist in the world and feel okay? That’s what’s at stake for her.

Well, speaking of existential crises, I am a huge fan of Relic (2020) and Apartment 7A (2024). Along with Saccharine, I think they both feature elements of female life that we don’t often talk about. Why do you think it’s important to bring issues like aging, caregiving, abortion, and disordered eating to the screen?

When I start a project, there’s nothing more exciting than asking questions you don’t know the answer to, the things you want to think about or explore within the work. I think it’s inevitable that the things I grapple with are female-skewed and uncomfortable, but worth talking about because it’s territory that feels unmined or unearthed. 

I find that you’re often telling these stories in a surrealist way. I’m particularly thinking of the dance sequence in Apartment 7A. Sometimes I find that your films are softening the edges, and sometimes I find them sharpened in a really appealing way. How do you approach telling these heavier stories? 

I think particularly with that [scene], there was a very conscious sense of spectacle, like masking something horrific. But I’m always concerned with the subjectivity of the character and how she experiences it. The hard-hitting moments come later, after the fact, when something’s already occurred. I’m always concerned with how to externalize what’s happening internally. And often, surreal elements of horror are great for doing that. 

I think horror allows you to push things a little further, always with the intention of having the right emotional impact as well. It’s not as effective to just push things for the sake of it. It always has to be tied to some emotional truth. But I think horror allows you to go to places where you can balance absurdity alongside these really harrowing subjects.  

Saccharine opens in theaters on May 22, 2026 from Independent Film Company and Shudder.

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Midway through Scott’s Alien (1979), the audience watches as Kane (John Hurt), an industrial spaceship’s crewmember, begins seizing over his dinner plate just hours after his body is attacked by a spider-like entity now called a facehugger. Known as the chestburster scene, this infamous sequence concludes with a baby xenomorph pulsing against Kane’s fracturing ribcage, ultimately tearing a fatal hole in his chest. Merging body horror with pregnancy, this revolutionary moment in genre history forced male audiences to confront the pain we’ve long-since accepted as commonplace in female life. 

Following this jaw-dropping scene, the franchise leans into the terror of birth as a variety of parasitic monsters use the human body to procreate. While Fede Álvarez’s Alien: Romulus makes the allegory explicit, perhaps no film in franchise history parallels Kane’s disturbing death like Prometheus and its harrowing c-section scene.

While this medical ordeal is a stomach-churning example of body horror, perhaps most disturbing is the way the scene encapsulates the dehumanizing struggle to seek reproductive care in the modern United States. Released ten years before the fall of Roe v. Wade — a Supreme Court decision guaranteeing the right to abortion care — Prometheus offers a prophetic glimpse of the hell many women must now navigate. 

Elizabeth Shaw’s Pregnancy and the Horror of Lost Bodily Autonomy

Heralded as Scott’s long-awaited return to the Alien world, connections to the franchise remained vague until a post-credits scene featured a prototypical xenomorph. Functioning as a prequel to the 1979 film, Prometheus begins with a humanoid figure drinking a mysterious black liquid, which causes his body to disintegrate. Close views of this visceral death reveal his DNA reconstructing itself into what may be the beginning of human existence. Millenia later, archaeologists and partners Elizabeth Shaw (Noomi Rapace) and Charlie Holloway (Logan Marshall-Green) will call these beings Engineers and track them across the galaxy to unravel the secrets of life itself. 

Unfortunately, they arrive on a distant moon to find the Engineers have long since died. Not only that, but LV-223 appears to be a military outpost dedicated to creating a biological weapon intended to destroy humanity. While exploring their deserted station, the crew’s android David (Michael Fassbender) secretly returns to the ship with an inky, black liquid he subtly slips into Holloway’s drink. When this results in the archaeologist’s mysterious death, Shaw finds herself under quarantine. David scans her body and thankfully pronounces her free from illness, but declares that she is three months pregnant. 

Shaw is shocked by this diagnosis, insisting that it’s impossible. We remember a recent conversation with Holloway in which she tearfully reveals that she cannot conceive, pushing back on her partner’s callous comment about the easy nature of creating life. Anyone who has struggled with infertility likely sees themselves in her somber rebuttal as Shaw reminds us that women are not defined by their wombs or their ability to carry a child. But the frightened archeologist is also disturbed by the timing of this pregnancy. Though she was intimate with Holloway, their encounter happened the night before.

Three months ago, she and the rest of the crew were in deep cryosleep on the multi-year journey to LV-223, implying an unconscious assault. Thankfully, David allays this fear while introducing a more frightening scenario: the fetus’s size proves that her pregnancy is not “traditional.”  

Horrified, Shaw begs for a c-section, demanding David “get it out of me.” With a placating grin that reveals his intentions, David gently states — without consulting the crew’s medical officer — that they do not have the personnel onboard to perform this relatively simple procedure. In his opinion, the best course of action is to return her body to cryosleep as the mysterious pregnancy runs its course. Considering Holloway’s grisly death, Shaw knows that allowing the fetus to fully gestate will likely be a death sentence. As David gives her a sedative, she becomes a living incubator, her own life now less valuable than the collection of cells in her uterus.

Fortunately, Shaw has a backup plan. Fighting her way out of quarantine, she rushes to the ship’s MedPod, an automated surgery table presumably reserved for the crew’s ultra-wealthy captain. Initiating the device’s emergency protocols, Shaw tries to program a cesarean, only to find that this MedPod has been calibrated to service only male bodies. Yet another impediment to accessing care, it’s a hurdle familiar to millions of women. Much of Western medical research has been built around the concept of the 70-kg Man.

Also known as Reference Man, this model was assumed to be the standard human body type and used to study everything from the effects of radioactivity to organ transplants and public health. While this framework may provide a baseline for comparison, it’s a limited and myopic paradigm that ignores physiological differences between the bodies of women and children, not to mention men of varying sizes. 

An Extreme C-Section From Hell

Though Scott will eventually reveal the reason for this MedPod calibration, its setting reflects an unfortunate truth about the medical world. With male bodies viewed as the norm, women are treated as variants, and women’s health is viewed as an optional specialty. Female patients have routinely been left out of clinical trials studying ailments like diabetes and cardiovascular disease. The agony of IUD insertion is still widely dismissed, and companies did not test feminine hygiene products with actual human blood until the year 2023. We’ve been conditioned to see pain as an acceptable part of female life and told that legitimate symptoms are in our heads, harkening back to the days of hysterectomies and lobotomies performed on inconvenient and ungovernable women.  

But in the year 2089, Shaw is able to find a workaround. Describing her condition as a penetrating wound, she recalibrates the machine to perform the removal of a foreign body.

Shaw climbs into the machine and injects herself with local painkillers, bracing herself for surgery. As the fetus visibly pulses inside her womb, a laser descends to make an incision across her abdomen while mechanical arms spread the wound apart. Metal forceps then plunge into her belly and pull out what looks like a grayish sack. This membrane instantly bursts, splashing blood and viscera all over her torso. Shaw frantically reaches inside herself to roughly sever the umbilical cord while the squid-like creature tries to escape the grip of the MedPod’s metal arms. 

This moment of extreme body horror is frighteningly similar to cesarean birth. The mother is typically strapped to an operating table and remains awake throughout the procedure, numbed with a spinal block or epidural. On the other side of a surgical drape, doctors create an incision similar to Shaw’s and manually stretch the skin apart. Many believe that doctors remove vital organs, placing them on top of the mother to get to the baby. While organs typically stay inside the body, it’s common to feel aggressive movement as the bladder and intestines are jostled around. Once a pathway has been cleared, the baby is cut from the uterus and then taken to receive its own medical care. 

The MedPod Scene Reflects Real-World Fears

While cesarean deliveries can be beautiful and empowering, Shaw’s experience is unthinkable. She is not presented with a crying infant, but an alien creature desperate to attack the body from which it emerged. Seconds after the machine closes the eight-inch incision, shooting rapid-fire staples into her flesh, Shaw frantically opens the MedBay doors and slides past the writhing creature. This again mirrors the experience of a cesarean birth, as many women begin nursing their infant while doctors are stitching their bodies back together. That’s not to mention those denied maternity leave who must return to work before they’ve adequately recovered from major surgery.

I do not write this essay to problematize C-sections or vilify the dedicated doctors and nurses who perform them every day. I was born through a cesarean and delivered both of my children surgically. But I wish someone had prepared me for the torturous experience of an emergency c-section, not to mention the pain of recovery. Like Shaw, I remember being horrified by the feeling of hands moving inside my body, pushing and pulling my organs around. We’ve been conditioned to see birth as a beautiful moment of bonding and connection between mother and child, leaving first-time parents unprepared for the messy and often frightening reality.  

Women living in the United States now have fewer reproductive rights than they did when a baby xenomorph burst out of Kane’s chest in 1979. Prometheus and its hellish c-section remain a mirror to this frightening scene, but now reflect a more hellish reality, confronting modern audiences with the terror of healthcare denied. After all, it shouldn’t be only in science fiction where pregnant women have the resources to save their own lives. 

The post The Most Horrifying Scene in Ridley Scott’s ‘Prometheus’: The C-Section from Hell appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

In the wake of unprecedented box office success, a slew of copycats were released. Films like Mako: The Jaws Of Death (1976), Piranha (1978), and Blood Beach (1981), not to mention three outright Jaws sequels, attempted to cash in on the film’s surprising appeal. Some iterations, like Grizzly (1976) and Claws (1977), even made their way onto dry land.

For twenty years, we saw retreads and spoofs of Peter Benchley’s original source material: a killer shark or similar beast terrorizes scientists, fishermen, and ignorant bathers, leading to an explosive showdown on the stormy seas. By the mid-90s, this formula had begun to run dry as audiences tired of the same basic story. Until, that is, a surprising contender brought the shark horror subgenre splashing back to life. 

Renny Harlin’s Deep Blue Sea opens with a familiar scene. Two couples on a catamaran are attacked by a massive shark that seems intent on destroying their boat and eating them once they fall in the water. But this massacre is stopped by a rugged stranger who manages to subdue the fish at the last possible moment. Carter (Thomas Jane) is a stoic shark wrangler aboard a deep-sea research facility studying sharks to eradicate Alzheimer’s Disease.

But their test subjects are no ordinary fish. In order to harvest usable sample sizes, Dr. McAlester (Saffron Burrows) has genetically modified three gigantic Mako sharks to drastically increase the size of their brains. This results in a team of super intelligent predators who will do anything to escape their enclosures and kill their captors one by one. 

This admittedly ridiculous premise shouldn’t work as well as it does, but the veteran director fully commits with a series of spectacular action set pieces. The maniacal Makos use a life flight helicopter to destroy the facility’s radio tower, feign sleep to sabotage an underwater lab, and stalk their human prey through corridors and kitchens by systematically flooding the station.

In one of the film’s most shocking moments, wealthy financier Russell Franklin (Samuel L. Jackson) is snatched off dry land by one of the fish that launches itself out of the water, bites the proselytizing man in half, then drags his mangled body back into its tank. This stunning death — which takes out one of the film’s marquee stars — set a new bar for shark attack sequences and action horror films in general. 

While the science of Deep Blue Sea is flimsy at best — sharks do, in fact, get cancer — the idea of genetically mutated killer fish would push the floundering subgenre in a new direction while transitioning away from the Man vs. Nature model. After all, these animals aren’t innocent fish simply trying to eat and make baby sharks. They are scheming killers who work together to execute their sinister plan. But they were created by a scientist who uses her altruistic intentions to dramatically change the natural order.

Most shark horror of the 21st century would veer away from rogue anomalies targeting unsuspecting swimmers in favor of punishing humans who corrupt their environments.  

Shark Horror’s B-Movie Monster Mash Era

After the surprise success of Harlin’s splashy blockbuster, other creators jumped on the genetic shark train. With Jaws rip-offs having run their course, attention turned toward more schlocky creature features, most stemming from one particular source. The Sci-Fi Channel (later Syfy) debuted in 1992 as an arm of the USA Network. The fledgling outlet was originally conceived as a haven for long-running genre series and classic monster movies, but a 2001 initiative increased the focus on original films. Usually made for under $2 million dollars, these B-movies were often reverse-engineered by title, tossing around audacious creature matchups then piecing together a shoestring plot. 

Though early titles ran the gamut of sci-fi topics, we can see the influence of Deep Blue Sea in releases throughout the aughts and teens. Python (2000) and Sabertooth (2002) both involve genetically mutated predators, while Deep Shock (2003) concerns sea monsters released from a deep ocean trench. As the trend began to establish itself, directors leaned into absurdity with films like Boa vs. Python (2004), Frankenfish (2004), and Hammerhead (2005), which follows a father researching his son’s cancer treatments when he accidentally merges his own DNA with that of the curious oblong shark. Jack Perez’s schlock spectacular Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus (2009) not only presents the titular monsters as mortal enemies frozen in time, but sees the prehistoric fish bite the Golden Gate Bridge in half and pull a commercial jetliner out of the sky. 

This pattern reached surprising ubiquity with Anthony C. Ferrante’s bombastic crowd-pleaser Sharknado (2013). When an approaching hurricane manages to sweep up an unprecedented number of schooling sharks, the aptly named Fin (Ian Ziering) must save his family from torrents of the bloodthirsty man-eaters, somehow flying through the air. With tongue planted firmly in cheek, Fin allows a great white to swallow him whole only to cut his way free — while rescuing his previously eaten ex-wife — with a whirring chainsaw blade.

Capturing the attention of early Twitter users, reactions to the film went viral, transforming this unapologetic gorefest into a cultural phenomenon. Sharknado has become a catchall description for gleefully ridiculous storytelling while spanning five sequels, complete with cheeky subtitles like Oh Hell No! and The 4th Awakens.

Shark Week’s Arrival Chums the Waters of Fact and Fiction

While these ridiculous B-movies spiraled out of control, another channel was raking in ratings by embracing science over spectacle. The first Shark Week hit the Discovery Channel in 1988 with ten hours of original programming. Largely dedicated to ocean conservation and reversing popular misconceptions about marine wildlife, the modest block reached a record number of viewers and quickly became a yearly tradition. The summer event vastly expanded in 2000 — one year after the release of Deep Blue Sea — by pulling in celebrity hosts and shark-themed installments of popular shows like Dirty Jobs and MythBusters. 

Discovery’s summer juggernaut made its way into mainstream cinema with the dressed-up B-movie Shark Night. David R. Ellis’ teen slasher meets aquatic horror film follows a group of raucous college students terrorized by various man-eating fish on a weekend getaway to Lake Pontchartrain. Inspired by Shark Week and Faces of Death (1978), a group of sadistic content creators has outfitted a collection of exotic sharks with cameras and set them loose in the lake, intent on selling homemade footage of real attacks.

Like a deep sea version of Jurassic Park (1993), Ellis highlights a smorgasbord of killer fish, each with their own specialties. From bull sharks, threshers, and hammerheads to the little-known cookiecutter shark, which leaves round puncture wounds in its victims’ skin, the film is a veritable who’s who for shark superfans, of course concluding with a special appearance by the dreaded great white. 

Though Carcharodon carcharias has become the shark world’s final boss, the deadly fish is dwarfed by another aquatic predator. Fossils prove the existence of a giant Mackerel shark known as Megalodon that ruled the seas 20 million years ago. Now extinct, rumors persist about these massive carnivores lurking in the ocean’s uncharted depths. Shark Week 2013 lit a fire under these conspiracies with Megalodon: The Monster Shark Lives, a faux documentary claiming to prove the existence of the ancient fish, along with a government conspiracy to hide this proof from a vulnerable public.

Still the most watched show in Shark Week history, the faux documentary received swift backlash from the scientific community and viewers duped by its verisimilitude. While disclaimers were added to subsequent broadcasts, a Discovery Channel poll taken after the event found that 70% of viewers were convinced that Megalodon continues to roam the seas. 

Five years later, this extinct apex predator would reign supreme over aquatic horror with Jon Turteltaub’s blockbuster The Meg. Adapted from Steve Alten’s 1997 novel, the film stars Jason Statham as a beleaguered rescue diver forced to save a team of scientists from a Megalodon that has somehow escaped through a channel in the Mariana Trench. Explained away with bare-bones science, Turteltaub delivers an action-packed crowd-pleaser by remixing the subgenre’s greatest hits while exponentially increasing the size of the shark. Ben Wheatley’s Meg 2: The Trench would harken back to Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus by pitting a plethora of jaw-dropping monsters against a multitude of giant sharks.

Based on a True Story Trends in Shark Horror

While B-movie fans were delighting in unrealistic creature fun, indie studios turned to the archives for more harrowing inspiration. Chris Kentis based his 2003 shocker Open Water on the 1998 disappearance of American scuba-divers Tom and Eileen Lonergan, who were left off the coast of northern Australia by an egregiously botched head count. Likely inspired by the low-fi success of The Blair Witch Project (1999), Kentis attempts to recreate the missing couple’s final days. His intimate, handheld style brings us into the ocean with the doomed couple as they helplessly float for excruciating days while unseen sharks swim ever closer. 

Andrew Traucki’s The Reef is based on a similarly haunting true story. The 2010 indie gem follows a group of friends yachting through Australia’s Coral Sea when their boat is capsized by an underwater rock. Forced to choose between the sinking vessel and an extended swim to an unseen island, the survivors are stalked by a great white shark as they navigate the rocky current. Both films represent genre evolution as swimmers are left without a way to escape an inevitable watery death. After decades of screams to “get out of the water,” modern shark horror leaves its characters with no other choice.

Fictionalized versions of this endurance test format made their way to larger studios in a pair of similarly structured films, trapping empowered young women in the shark’s habitat. Jaume Collet-Serra’s 2016 film The Shallows follows Nancy (Blake Lively), a solitary surfer who manages to overcome an exploratory bite, but finds herself trapped on a narrow rock while a shark constantly circles the lagoon. With only a wounded seagull for company, she must outwit the massive predator and make it back to dry land before succumbing to her injuries and dehydration. Lively carries this grisly survival film that eventually trades verisimilitude for a stunning showdown with the apex predator.  

The following year, Johannes Roberts would add new fear to this equation by dismantling a long-held safety net. 47 Meters Down follows sisters Lisa (Mandy Moore) and Kate (Claire Holt), whose ramshackle shark cage disconnects from its boat and plummets to the ocean floor. With only the oxygen left in their tanks, they must find a way back up to the surface while dodging the sharks lured in by their guide. Playing with the darkness of the open sea, Roberts wrings out the horror of thalassophobia (fear of large bodies of open water) with this nightmarish reframing of the shark’s deadly world. 

Man Versus Nature in Aquatic Horror’s Latest Evolution

Though the aforementioned trends are here to stay, modern variations tend to pit human characters against shark-adjacent human enemies. Sean Byrne’s Dangerous Animals (2025) forces a kidnapped surfer to overcome a sadistic shark enthusiast who dangles his victims over the water, then films the wild fish tearing each one apart. Kiah Roache-Turner’s Beast of War (2025) sees a group of Australian soldiers hunted by a great white shark when their carrier is sunk by enemy fire. Both films present sharks as neutral yet deadly extensions of the ocean itself while interrogating man’s capacity for violence and the human instinct to survive. 

Renny Harlin’s Deep Water showcases a similar exploration of humanity. When a careless passenger on a commercial jet causes a catastrophic midair explosion, pilots Ben (Aaron Eckhart) and Rich (Ben Kingsley) try an emergency landing on a shark-infested coral reef. Scattered among the rapidly sinking wreckage, a handful of survivors must band together to escape the vicious feeding frenzy. With no true antagonists, Harlin nonetheless presents a series of jaw-dropping disaster scenes that nod to his 1999 shark spectacular while maintaining focus on a surprisingly touching message of unexpected bravery.

Twenty-seven years after reinvigorating the shark horror subgenre, Harlin’s newest entry may signal a new iteration of these visceral films. With renewed focus on oceanic conservation and rising threats of global warming, most films position sharks as a pure force of nature fighting back against a human threat. While sharks are simply doing what they do, it’s people who have transgressed by entering or abusing their territory. And only those who respect the natural world will live to swim another day. 

The post From ‘Deep Blue Sea’ to ‘Deep Water’: A Quarter Century of Modern Shark Horror appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

As part of the new wave of French Extremity, Fargeat blends the movement’s trademark violence and gore with previously established subgenres to highlight the dangers of a patriarchal world. 

After studying at the prestigious La Fémis, Fargeat turned heads with her 2017 feature debut, Revenge, a hot pink rape-revenge fantasy which ignited newfound calls for diversity behind the camera. Seven years later, her body horror nightmare The Substance would provoke similar conversation, upending Hollywood with Oscar nominations for Best Director, Best Original Screenplay, Best Actress for star Demi Moore, and Best Picture, not to mention a win for Best Makeup and Hairstyling.

Though they differ wildly in subject matter, both films see Fargeat use her stunning visual flair to eviscerate the cinematic male gaze, revealing the damage sexualized objectification can cause.

Our understanding of the male gaze as seen in modern filmmaking dates back to a 1975 essay from feminist film theorist Laura Mulvey. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” describes the harmful practice of depicting women as objects of desire for an audience assumed to be heterosexual men. Denied agency, female characters exist as ornaments or components of a male-driven plot.

By contrast, films told through the female gaze center on women imbued with empowerment. Rather than dehumanized tools to facilitate male need, they are complex characters with interior lives. We are invited, not to simply view their bodies but to join in their emotional journeys.  

Warning: Spoilers ahead.

Revenge (2017)

Fargeat’s first feature explores this dichotomy with overtly contrasting imagery. Revenge begins with a tightly-framed man looking toward the camera in a pair of mirrored sunglasses. As if reflecting the male gaze back at us, Fargeat slowly pans out to reveal a blond bombshell sitting just over his shoulder. We will soon learn that Richard (Kevin Janssens) is a wealthy businessman on an illicit getaway with his mistress, Jen (Matilda Lutz). With the male gaze on full display, Jen climbs out of a helicopter and waltzes into his desert cabana, suggestively licking a lollipop.

The camera zooms in on her scantily clad body in a cropped pink top and short, pleated skirt. Moments later, Jen kneels to perform oral sex, visually confirming her place in the story: an object to facilitate male desire. 

Though she expected time alone with her boyfriend, Jen is surprised to find his “associates”, Stan (Vincent Colombe) and Dimitri (Guillaume Bouchède), have arrived a day early for their hunting trip. Caught off guard, she reverts to a position of submissiveness and accommodates their ogling with gracious flirtation, assuming Richard will protect her from any unwanted advances.

But the next morning, Jen wakes to find Richard away on an errand, having left her alone with his lecherous friends. She politely tries to brush off Stan’s awkward propositions, but he throws her sensual behavior back in her face. He implies that her feigned interest from the night before now obligates her to sleep with him and prepares to force himself on her. 

As Stan violently presses Jen against the bedroom window, they notice that Dimitri is watching from the open doorway. He stares at this uncomfortable scene — with Jen clearly in distress — and calmly munches on a snack. Fargeat zooms in on his lips and teeth as they rip apart the marshmallowy treat, highlighting the consumptive nature of his voyeurism. He is the male gaze personified, ignoring Jen’s humanity while finding gratification in her subservience. Dimitri walks away and turns on the TV to drown out Jen’s screams, turning away from the violent rape happening just out of sight. 

Richard’s response to this assault is heartbreaking. In a soothing voice, he explains that Jen cannot go home and must start her life over in Canada to keep from negatively impacting his own. Still an object in his eyes, she’s now outlived her usefulness. When Jen balks at this horrific “solution,” Richard chases her, barefoot, into the desert and pushes her off a high cliff. She lands on a dead tree, impaled by a branch that protrudes from her stomach, a visual representation of the unwanted penetration that has dramatically changed the course of her life. 

From here, Fargeat intentionally switches to the female gaze. Somehow managing to survive the fall, Jen frees herself from the tree and evades the men now hunting her. When Dimitri tries to drown her in a dirty lake, she stabs him in the eye with his own hunting knife — symbolic punishment for passively watching her assault. Finding refuge in a cave, Jen tends to her wounds, numbing the pain with hallucinogens that cause a disorienting psychotic break. Fargeat again zooms in on Jen’s body, this time lingering on her gaping wound. As she removes the branch from her abdomen, we’re confronted with the visceral pain caused by the men’s objectification. 

Outside the cave, Fargeat formalizes this narrative shift as a hardened Jen uses binoculars to survey the dusty landscape. No longer dressed in supple pink, she is now outfitted for battle. Her hair — darkened by blood and dirt — hangs limply down her back while her black utilitarian underwear is accessorized with Dimitri’s heavy weapons. After cauterizing her wound with a flattened beer can, Jen’s stomach now bears the branded outline of an eagle, symbolizing her phoenix-like rise from the flames of male entitlement. Only a pair of bright star earrings reminds us of the eroticized bombshell she used to be. 

Fargeat follows Jen’s quest for grisly revenge as she hunts her attackers through the desert. Reversing the chase that sent her over the cliff, Jen manages to drive a shard of glass into the sole of Stan’s foot, a tender penetration that mirrors his abhorrent attack. Next, Jen tracks Richard back to the cabana, the scene of his ultimate betrayal. Like a raging bull, he chases her, naked through the house, his dangerous masculinity on full display. 

Blood pours over the camera and covers the walls as Richard shames Jen for fighting back, incensed that she would dare prioritize her own safety over his convenience. In a final act of catharsis, she sticks her hand in his abdominal wound, then shoots him with his own phallic weapon. The film ends with Jen walking towards the sound of an approaching helicopter before turning to stare back into the camera. Mirroring Fargeat’s opening shot, we no longer see Jen through Richard’s demeaning gaze, but have fully aligned with her emotional journey. 

The Substance (2024)

Fargeat’s second feature begins with the female gaze while exploring women’s complicity in a disturbing pattern of dehumanization. The Substance introduces us to Elisabeth Sparkle (Moore) on her 50th birthday as she leads a popular workout show. After encouraging her audience to persevere through the daunting routine, she blows a kiss to the camera and urges us all to take care of ourselves.

Next, she walks down a crimson gauntlet decorated with life-sized portraits from her career, displayed to show her advancing age. In the bathroom, she overhears network executive Harvey (Dennis Quaid) demanding a younger, more beautiful replacement. Similar to Richard’s predatory gaze, he sees her as nothing more than a sexual object and is now preparing to toss her aside. 

Harvey delivers this news to Elisabeth while devouring a plate full of messy prawns, smearing creamy sauce and mangled carcasses all over his side of the table. Fargeat focuses on the disgusting man’s lips and teeth, amplifying Dimitri’s grotesque snack. As the producer of a popular show, Harvey sees women as nothing more than pawns in his own career advancement. He’s made a fortune from objectifying Elisabeth while training the audience of men and women to join this voyeuristic consumption. 

Desperate to recapture her fading youth, Elisabeth begins a mysterious treatment called the Substance, which promises to unlock a “better” version of herself — simply defined as “younger and more beautiful.” We feel Elisabeth’s despair as she gazes at herself in the bathroom mirror, mourning the relentless passage of time. But Fargeat scans her body with loving care, presenting the naked actress as beautiful regardless of her age or size. Labeled Activator, the bright green serum initiates a harmful male gaze as Elisabeth’s back opens like a seam, giving birth to a fully formed younger woman. With her older self lying lifeless on the floor, Sue (Margaret Qualley) marvels at her body in the mirror, seductively stretching to display her newly restored physical perfection. 

Like early scenes following Jen, Fargeat presents Sue with an explicit male gaze. Her workout show becomes a graphic dance, barely recognizable as exercise. In close shots of her body, we watch as Sue leans into this objectification, pleased with her ability to tantalize. Winking at the camera, she also reminds the audience to take care of themselves, but Sue’s delivery feels more ominous. No longer a compassionate message of self-care, she seems to be warning viewers to maintain their physical attractiveness or face losing their worth in a patriarchal world. 

The Substance’s only non-negotiable rule is that subjects must evenly split their time, switching back and forth every seven days. This zero-sum system reveals the impossible standards of physical beauty as each sign of humanity becomes an amplified flaw. When Elisabeth binges on rotisserie chicken, the shape of a wing pops up on Sue’s body, creating an unsightly lump. And each time Sue overstays her allotted time, Elisabeth’s body is irreparably harmed. Her fingers and legs become gnarled with unsightly wrinkles and liver spots while her hair grows gray and wiry.  

Hoping to bolster her self-esteem, Elisabeth makes a date with an adoring old beau who calls her “the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world.” But as she’s preparing to walk out the door, Elisabeth catches a glimpse of Sue’s perfect body and immediately feels inadequate. She begins modifying her look, wiping off lipstick and adding clothes, until she eventually breaks down in angry tears. This devastating yet relatable scene perfectly captures the pain of the internalized male gaze. Caught in an endless cycle of objectification, Elisabeth can only find value in her outward appearance. 

As the story barrels towards its breathtaking conclusion, the women inevitably turn on each other. Elisabeth mirrors Harvey’s grotesque eating style — implying she’s adopted his dangerous gaze — while Sue dramatically overstays her time, transforming the older body into a twisted hag. This mutual disdain and misplaced anger explode into a vicious fight to the death. Sue bashes Elisabeth’s face on the bathroom sink, the site of her internalized degradation, then tosses her mangled body aside. But just moments later, she realizes that by giving in to her rage, she has permanently cut off the source of her vitality.

With no more stabilizing fluid to drain from Elisabeth, Sue’s body begins to fall apart in the hours leading up to an all-important New Year’s Eve show. Facing certain death, she injects herself with the leftover Activator, expecting to birth a younger, more perfect version of herself. But what emerges from her bisected spine is a hideous merging of the two women’s bodies. 

Monstro ElisaSue is a humanoid composite of bulbous flesh and appendages sprouting from formless lumps that seem to be piled on top of each other. While Sue’s face is marred by melted skin, Elisabeth silently screams from halfway down the creature’s back. Determined to take the stage, Monstro ElisaSue styles what remains of her flowing hair and refashions Sue’s billowing blue dress to cover her misshapen form. With a picture of Elisabeth’s face plastered over her own, she lumbers back to the studio and the audience eagerly awaits the show, including Harvey, who boasts about his success in shaping a new male fantasy. 

Though Monstro ElisaSue pleads with the audience to look past her imperfections — necessitating their use of the female gaze — they scream and run away in fear while men begin pushing her back and forth. As her malformed body deconstructs, severed appendages spray blood all over the studio, painting the audience with the horror of their own complicity. Though the sobbing creature eventually makes it to her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, perhaps finding comfort in her past success, Fargeat’s message is clear: Elisabeth’s dedication to appeasing the male gaze has come at the expense of her humanity. 

Both Revenge and The Substance conclude with torrents of blood, exposing the brutal violence underlying the male gaze. Though she ultimately transcends objectification, Jen is punished for existing as a beautiful woman in a world where men see her as a sexual commodity. Elisabeth’s own tragic demise is the culmination of a lifetime spent internalizing this predatory lens and trying to maintain an impossible ideal. But Fargeat deftly uses the female gaze to remind us that both women are victims of a degrading system in which we all participate. Her shockingly violent films challenge us to interrogate our part in a world designed to dehumanize women, lest we all end up with blood on our hands.  

The post Blood and Bubblegum: Coralie Fargeat’s Feminine French Extremity Films ‘Revenge’ and ‘The Substance’ appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

Now 27 years later, the veteran director is jumping back into the surf with Deep Water, the harrowing story of a commercial jet forced to crash land in shark-infested waters. Aaron Eckhart and Sir Ben Kingsley lead a sprawling multi-lingual cast as airline pilots determined to save a handful of frightened survivors from the feeding frenzy that follows an unthinkable midair catastrophe. This action-packed adventure sees Harlin remix the best of his iconic filmography, from the man vs. nature nightmare of Cliffhanger to the airline horror sequences of Die Hard 2 and the intimate terror of his The Strangers reboot trilogy. 

Adding a bit of rock ’n’ roll flair is the film’s surprising executive producer. Kiss frontman and producer Gene Simmons has partnered with Gary Hamilton of Arclight Films to develop a slate of action, thriller, and genre films beginning with Harlin’s Deep Water.

Bloody Disgusting sat down with Harlin and Simmons to chat about the challenges of filming inside a fully submerged aircraft, the emotional core of a disaster story, and Harlin’s relationship with horror itself.  

Bloody Disgusting: Deep Blue Sea is one of my favorite movies. I remember seeing it in theaters and absolutely falling in love with shark horror. What made you want to jump back into the water? 

Renny Harlin: I felt like I had a few tricks left that I didn’t get to show in that movie. I just love the ocean. I love working in the water, and I love all the creatures of the ocean. I’m actually very pro shark and do conservation work. The idea of this movie is not to say that sharks are bad. It’s more about people being bad because they go into the shark’s environment, and then they pay the price. 

BD: Well, the sharks in Deep Water certainly are terrifying, but you’re right. They aren’t villainous. Aside from one troublesome passenger, who is just so much fun to hate, there really are no villains in this story. What is Deep Water saying about people and humanity? 

RH: My favorite genre when I was growing up in the 1970s was the disaster genre and all those great movies like Airport, The Towering Inferno, and The Poseidon Adventure, where you take a collection of characters from different walks of life, and you put them in a situation that is extreme but not impossible. I wanted to make [Deep Water] very realistic. In terms of our plane crash, it was created based on factual details. This crashed plane ends up on a coral reef with the tides. Sharks really do stay around reefs because that’s where the fish are. That’s where their food is. We all remember that story told in Jaws about the [sinking of] the USS Indianapolis, where more than a thousand men went into the water, and only a few hundred survived. 

So it’s all very realistic, and I wanted to show something about humanity. What happens to people when they are stripped of all the things they rely on, when they’re put in a life and death situation, where they can choose to just care about themselves or care about other people? It’s about people pulling together. Of course, not everyone pulls together. In this kind of situation, you really see what people become. Sometimes the people you didn’t expect to be brave become the heroes, and sometimes the ones you think would stand up for others really become bastards. 

BD: I think that reflection of humanity is what’s always drawn me to horror in general, but specifically disaster horror. I love watching a group of disparate people all forced to contend with each other in the worst scenario imaginable. 

Gene Simmons: We’ve also got an international cast of actors on the screen. Aaron Eckhart, a great actor, and Academy Award-winning Sir Ben Kingsley, who’s been knighted by English royalty. Every one of the extras was vetted by Johanna [Harlin], Renny’s wife, who wanted to make sure every single person who appears on screen isn’t just somebody walking by. You really care about them. You know, the movie is really exciting. There are jokes. There are thrills and chills, but you’ve got to care about the people, or it doesn’t work.

BD: There’s also a really strong emotional core to the story. I found myself tearing up during the plane crash sequence. It’s definitely terrifying, but you linger on these quiet moments with the pilots and the passengers as they’re literally bracing for impact. Why was it important to make room for those emotional beats? 

RH: I really wanted to make the audience feel like they are on that plane. In the face of a disaster like this, it’s kind of morbid to say, but in this unique situation, they would know maybe minutes before this horrendous thing happens. They know they’re going to crash, and they know that most likely, by the laws of physics, they will die no matter what they do. They can brace themselves and prepare for it, but when that impact happens, it’s probably going to tear everybody apart. So to have those characters there and have them exchange those looks … there are no more words. They just look at each other, and they all know, this is destiny. Nothing can stop this. 

In the first part of the crash sequence, it’s very noisy, and you hear seats ripped off, the engines on fire, and every part of the plane being torn apart. But right before the impact, I wanted to strip all the sound out and just play music. Not action music, but something very different that actually goes against the imagery. Sometimes in a movie, when you fill it with sound and bombastic music, it becomes entertainment. But when you strip it down to the very basics, it forces the audience to actually be there in the scene. They have to fill in all those emotions for themselves, and that’s when it becomes really relatable. 

BD: I can’t imagine that this was an easy film to make. You’ve got this jaw-dropping plane crash sequence and then a variety of different set pieces in the sky and on the water. What was the biggest challenge?

RH: I love technically challenging movies, and I love going to a complicated location. I’m not a person who gets his kicks out of going on a soundstage and doing everything neatly and quietly. I like to do it extreme. In this case, we built several parts of the plane. Everything was physically real, and some parts of the plane were sunk 30 feet down to the bottom of a water tank. 

GS: Upside down!

RH: And they were upside down! Every day, everybody had to get wet and work in the water. Of course, you’re not supposed to think about it when you’re watching the movie, but the actors have to get from their trailer to the plane. You have to get the crew there and be able to work in that space, which is an airplane. [Laughs] If anybody’s been on an airplane, it’s tough enough when there’s a big guy in your next seat, and you’re trying to get out to go to the bathroom or get your bag from the overhead compartment. It’s already impossible to get anything done in a plane, let alone when there are sharks attacking you. People are panicking, running around, and there’s a full film crew trying to capture it all. So it’s just done slowly and in small pieces, and then if it all comes together correctly, then you have a physical and emotional roller coaster. 

BD: I think you can definitely feel that roller coaster. And that’s before the sharks even enter the scene! These animals look so real, and we get to see them in and out of the water. What was it like to film these sequences? 

RH: That was maybe the toughest part, not just for me and the crew, but for the actors. These are digitally created creatures, so we had to use all kinds of toys on the set. Sharks made out of styrofoam, sharks made out of different materials and different colors that supposedly attack people and do things to make the water splash. To be able to always get the actors into the right frame of mind, mostly it is about telling them, do more. They see a styrofoam puppet come toward them, and they think, “That’s scary!” No! This is the most ferocious, biggest shark in the world with a mouth full of teeth! You’ve got to freak out. It’s about the actors trusting me in the process. I had basically 12 emotional levels in the movie, and I told the actors, “I’m going to always tell you where we are because I don’t want you to be at 12 all the time. But when I say I want you to be 11, I want to see 11.” And that’s how I sort of mapped out the movie.

GS: A film always begins with those first words on a page, and then the magic begins. The lights go down, and it’s the actor’s job to make those words come alive, but only in the hands of a director. A strong director will pull that performance out of the actor.

BD: I completely agree. Renny, I’m a huge fan of your genre work. I’m particularly obsessed with Devil’s Pass and Mindhunters. What excites you about creating horror?

RH: In my life, horror goes back to when I was six years old. My mom loved movies, and my dad was always busy working. He was a doctor. So my mom decided to take me as her date to the movies. So that’s how I learned about Alfred Hitchcock and Roman Polanski. I was six years old when I saw Rosemary’s Baby in a movie theater. So I was traumatized for life from a very young age, but in a good way. [Laughs] I just learned to love horror films. 

As a filmmaker, I love the idea of manipulating the audience, making them feel certain feelings because that’s why people go to the movies, for that collective experience. Whether you go there to laugh or cry, fall in love or get scared, you want to feel something. I love that about horror. You can literally lead the audience down the path. It’s not about throwing something in their face and creating a cheap jump scare. It’s kind of like flipping a coin, where telling a joke is on one side and scaring you is on the other. You have to have a setup, you have to develop it, and then you get to have a payoff. I just love doing that. 

Since I was a kid, I’ve loved horror novels, horror comics, and horror movies. Before I even had a camera, when I was just a little kid, I would record these horror plays with a tape recorder at home. I would do all the sound effects myself. Hitting the window, for example, creates a great sound of thunder. I would make these very scary horror plays with just audio, and then I would play them out the window of our house. The whole front lawn would be full of neighborhood kids. There was no picture, but they would pay me five cents a piece and come listen to my horror movie. I remember seeing the neighborhood kids grab each other and listen with their eyes wide. It was just such a thrill, and now I get to do it for millions of people across the world! 

BD: I definitely would have paid to listen! [Laughs] Deep Water signals the beginning of a producing partnership focusing on thrillers and genre films. Gene, can you tease anything else that might be coming up? 

GS: Well, Renny’s going to be busy for the rest of his life. He’s got so many projects lined up. I’m just glad to be around. [Laughs] This is a special motion picture. There are thrills and chills, but every time we get to the end, you get that lump in the throat. It’s a classic motion picture, and I fully recommend you go see it in your local movie theater on May 1st. Go see it with your friends, your enemies, but don’t go see it alone!

The post Renny Harlin and Gene Simmons Wade Into ‘Deep Water’ Challenges and Disaster Thrills [Interview] appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

In a recent discussion for Interview, horror icons Samara Weaving and Sarah Michelle Gellar debated this well-loved character trope while promoting the release of their upcoming film Ready or Not 2: Here I Come. After decades of starring in genre films and TV, Gellar explains her frustration with the moniker, wondering, “I almost feel like it needs to be rebranded because Final Girl makes other women seem unsuccessful.” Weaving replies, “At least [call us] final woman, we’re not young [Laughs],” before musing, “It is quite dismissive, isn’t it?”

As a lifelong fan of Final Girls, I will admit to being somewhat taken aback by this frank exchange. It’s not an exaggeration to say that my life was changed when I first met Sidney Prescott (Neve Campbell) in Wes Craven’s meta-slasher masterpiece Scream. I’ve been obsessed with Final Girls ever since, finding strength in their onscreen empowerment and resilience as I’ve matured alongside the evolving archetype.

But could these two titans of feminist horror be correct? Considering their combined experience, Gellar and Weaving undoubtedly have a unique perspective on the topic. After decades of watching our favorite Final Girls survive a wide array of slasher killers, is it time to finally let her die?

Who Is the Final Girl?

The term Final Girl was codified in Carol J. Clover’s 1987 essay “Her Body, Himself: Gender in the Slasher Film” (later published in her seminal book Men, Women, and Chainsaws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film). She introduces us to the paradigm by describing the character as “the one who does not die.” Clover follows this oversimplified definition with a detailed analysis of slasher theory while situating the Final Girl in the well-loved subgenre. “She is the one who encounters the mutilated bodies of her friends and perceives the full extent of her preceding horror and of her own peril; who is chased, cornered, wounded; whom we see scream, stagger, fall, rise, and scream again. She is abject terror personified.”

For the next thirty pages, Clover continues to expand on this theory, placing the Final Girl in direct opposition to the Slasher Killer. We’re usually introduced to this formidable antagonist through first-person point of view sequences as he watches our heroine from afar. Young and usually naive, she will slowly find strength by taking it from her predator.

Clover bases much of her theory on Laurie Strode (Jamie Lee Curtis), the teen protagonist of John Carpenter’s genre-defining Halloween (originally titled The Babysitter Murders). In addition to prototypical examples like Sally Hardesty (Marilyn Burns, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre) and Marion Crane (Janet Leigh, Psycho) — ironically played by Curtis’ mother — Clover includes a multitude of heroines from the ’80s heyday of slasher film. Though she notes the trope’s absence of sexual transgression, Clover reminds us of the Final Girl’s defining attribute: she survives as a relatable heroine, becoming a proxy for the audience’s emotional journey. 

The Weapons of Empowerment

As the story barrels toward a final showdown, the Final Girl grows increasingly paranoid, aware that someone is watching her. After discovering the bodies of her slaughtered friends, she must find a way to survive on her own, coming face to face with the slasher villain, a monstrous symbol of masculinity. Clover explains, “the killer is with few exceptions recognizably human and distinctly male; his fury is unmistakably sexual in both roots and expression; his victims are mostly women.”

While many female characters fall to his invariably phallic weapon — a knife, machete, drill, or chainsaw — he is bested by the Final Girl, whose empowerment defangs his patriarchal authority. For example, Michael Myers (Nick Castle) is credited in Carpenter’s original Halloween as simply the Shape, a blank-faced spectre of a violent man. 

Each element of the slasher formula serves this inspiring characterization, from a growing paranoia to the killer’s masculine appearance. By the time we reach the blood-soaked finale, we have fully switched our point of view and now align with the vulnerable young woman we’ve been symbolically stalking through the killer’s eyes. Clover describes the Final Girl’s unique empowerment as she picks up his phallic weapon (or an approximation thereof) to finally wield it for herself. Vanita ‘Stretch’ Brock (Caroline Williams) concludes The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 by waving a chainsaw over the decimated Sawyer family while Laurie stabs Michael with her own makeshift blades: knitting needles and a straightened coat hanger. 

Dropping the Knife

Moments after this triumph, the Final Girl often relinquishes the adopted weapon, reverting to her feminized self. This transition is known in horror academia as “dropping the knife,” a symbolic return to societal order. Many critics take issue with this startling move, balking at what could be read as an intentional abdication of power or a conflation of weakness and femininity. But I’ve always found strength in the Final Girl’s stark display of vulnerability as she buckles under the weight of unthinkable trauma. I tend to agree with Clover that dropping the knife does not imply a loss of strength, but shows that “gender is less a wall than a permeable membrane.”

In fact, the Final Girl rises alongside her killer, proving that even a vulnerable teenage girl can withstand an overwhelming patriarchal force. Heather Langenkamp, who stars as iconic Final Girl Nancy Thompson in Craven’s 1984 classic A Nightmare on Elm Street, has repeatedly discussed interactions with fans in which they thank her for modeling empowerment.

They invariably note the moment when she turns to face the monstrous Freddy Krueger (Robert Englund) to bravely say, “I take back every bit of energy I gave you” before defiantly sending him back to the dream world. In an interview with Bloody Disgusting to celebrate the film’s 40th anniversary 4K release, Langenkamp describes Nancy’s legacy: “She’s really become a touchstone for so many people — not only women, but men too, for her strength and her intense character.” 

The Final Girl Evolves

In the decades since Laurie and Nancy first graced our screens, the Final Girl continues to change with the evolving slashers she occupies. Scream (1996) serves as a deconstruction of the formula Craven himself helped establish as Sidney takes charge of her own narrative. In addition to reclaiming the Final Girl’s sexual liberation, she not only defeats two maniacal killers, but shuts down Ghostface’s attempt at a supernatural rise with her definitive, “not in my movie.” Sidney also does not survive alone but alongside franchise stalwart Gale Weathers (Courteney Cox), a flawed yet intensely relatable character who shatters Clover’s archetypal description.

We’ve seen our share of Final Boys, most notably Jesse Walsh (Mark Patton) in Jack Sholder’s A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy’s Revenge and Alex Browning (Devon Sawa) in James Wong’s Final Destination. Of course, there’ve been countless subversions of the formula itself from Urban Legend to The Descent, which both remix standard slasher mechanics while spiraling into exciting new fields.  

Director Scott Glosserman would further explore the parameters of the archetype in his 2006 cult classic Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon. This meta-slasher and faux documentary takes us behind the scenes with Leslie (Nathan Baesel), a self-styled murderer planning his upcoming killing spree. In-world director Taylor Gentry (Angela Goethals) and her crew follow the would-be villain through meticulous preparation, capturing detailed explanations of slasher tropes, from the importance of crafting an iconic mask to his painstaking search for a “survivor girl.”

But this scrupulous honesty hides a shocking bait and switch revealed when his ostensibly virginal victim is caught enjoying raucous sex. We realize that Taylor has been Leslie’s target all along, the character with whom we’ve grown to identify. Recent news of a long-awaited sequel brings the promise of further genre exploration, perhaps featuring the trope’s most recent iteration.

The Legacy Final Girl

This unique concept arguably originated with Steve Miner’s Halloween H20: 20 Years Later, which catches up with Laurie Strode (Curtis) on the 20th anniversary of the Shape’s first attack. However, the trend would reach ubiquity two decades later in David Gordon Green’s alternative sequel Halloween (2018) and its subsequent chapters, Halloween Kills (2021) and Halloween Ends (2022). Eschewing all but Carpenter’s original 1978 film, Green’s trilogy reunites us with Laurie (also Curtis) as a hardened and solitary grandmother living on a survivalist compound. Now practiced in the art of mortal combat, she’s spent the last four decades obsessed with the monster who derailed her life and patiently waiting for his return. 

In the wake of Green’s success, other reboot/sequels have seen similar reimaginings of classic Final Girls like Sally Hardesty (Olwen Fouéré) in Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2022) and Julie James (Jennifer Love Hewitt) in I Know What You Did Last Summer (2025). While the results vary in quality and success, each legacy sequel or slasher explores the long-term effects of trauma on our beloved characters who still wrestle with memories of their original attacks.

Now forced to confront her darkest fear, the Legacy Final Girl must once again defend herself while imparting wisdom to a younger version who will carry the torch for the next generation. In fact, Green’s Halloween concludes with Laurie’s granddaughter Allyson (Andi Matichak) gripping a knife as she’s rushed to the hospital, intentionally upending decades of “drop the knife” fare. 

More Than Mere Survivors

Perhaps because of this new iteration, interest in the Final Girl has skyrocketed, with many new fans confusing the term. I bristle at a seemingly endless series of social media posts arbitrarily naming fan favorite characters Final Girls regardless of their movie’s plot. From Wendy Torrance (Shelley Duvall, The Shining) and Clarice Starling (Jodie Foster, The Silence of the Lambs) to Adelaide Wilson/Red (Lupita Nyong’o, Us) and Dani Ardor (Florence Pugh, Midsommar), all manner of female horror characters are now being classified as Final Girls, seemingly because they survive their films.

While each of the aforementioned characters is important in their own right, they are respectfully not Final Girls and serve their stories in different ways. To misuse the term Final Girl not only erases her unique contributions to the landscape of horror but also reduces a complex array of female characters to the simple dichotomy of survivor and victim. 

Several years ago, another genre icon, Barbara Crampton, took issue with a similar trope in her revelatory op-ed “Don’t Call Me a Scream Queen.” Explaining her dislike for the titular term, Crampton writes, “Being a Scream Queen implies that you’re good at two things: howling at the top of your lungs and being a woman.” To extend this concept, our pop-culture understanding of the Final Girl seems to have devolved to simply: a female character who does not die.

While this does harken back to Clover’s initial definition, it negates the thirty pages of analysis that follow. These characters do more than survive while female, from their gender-coded climaxes to the trauma of a stylized killing spree. Calling all female protagonists final girls dramatically reduces the role of women in a genre that has always served as a feminist haven.

Is There a Future for Final Girls?

Misuse of the term seems to weave through Gellar’s conversation with Weaving and their frustration at being called a Final Girl. It must be said that neither actress is known for roles as the sole survivor of a slasher film. Gellar is perhaps best remembered for starring as a tough-as-nails warrior in the long-running series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, in addition to a pair of spectacular deaths in I Know What You Did Last Summer and Scream 2, and a starring role in the American J-Horror remake The Grudge.

Weaving has made a name for herself in a wide array of genre roles. To date, she’s played a seductive satanist (The Babysitter, The Babysitter: Killer Queen), a horror academic and early victim (Scream VI), an escaped cult sacrifice (Azrael), a nailgun-toting avenger (Mayhem), and a tortured bride (Ready or Not, Ready or Not 2: Here I Come). While some of these films may be slasher-adjacent, none of these characters are Final Girls.

Perhaps therein lies the rub. After embodying some of the genre’s most important roles, pop culture idols who inform our collective understanding of female strength, it’s understandably frustrating to have this nuance reduced to a single archetype. 

But is there a future for the Final Girl?

The blockbuster success of Scream 7 — which itself introduces a younger version of the trope in Sidney’s teen daughter Tatum (Isabel May) — proves that younger audiences are hungry for new reimaginings of the slasher formula updated to reflect our changing world. And Sally, Laurie, Sidney, and Nancy continue to welcome in new waves of burgeoning horror fans who find strength in the Final Girl’s empowerment. 

Perhaps the problem lies not with Final Girls themselves, but in the fallacy of lumping them together with every other surviving female character. Maybe instead of constantly trotting out this singular term, we can find more accurate ways to describe a breathtaking landscape of female characters. From mother, witch, seductress, monster, bride, warrior, crone, or queen, there’s power in acknowledging the differences in the many female characters who populate our favorite horror films.

Maybe it’s not the Final Girl who needs a rebrand, but the way we describe women in general. After all, we are more than our womanhood and the fact that we live to fight another day. 

The post Is It Time to Kill the Final Girl? appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

French Extremity is not for the faint of heart. Often described as films about violence rather than violent films, the European phenomenon is expressly political while maintaining an earthy verisimilitude which distinguishes it from the salacious gore of the Torture Porn subgenre that arose alongside it.

While the original New French Extremity movement emerged shortly before the turn of the 21st century, it seems we’re in the midst of a renaissance. More recent entries are not only helmed by female creators, but they also feature inherently feminist stories. 

Arguably sparking this second wave is Julia Ducournau. The writer/director made waves at the 2011 Cannes International Film Festival with Junior, a graphic short film that follows a teenage girl who sheds her skin like a reptile. Subsequent features would continue to explore this theme of grotesque metamorphosis while deconstructing some of our oldest taboos. The daughter of a gynecologist and a dermatologist, Ducournau often locates her stories’ horror within the female body.

Her 2016 feature debut, Raw, is a cannibal coming-of-age tale, while her sophomore outing, 2021’s Titane — which won the festival’s coveted Palme d’Or — follows a young woman impregnated by a muscle car. Her latest feature, Alpha, sees a mother and daughter torn apart by a virus that converts human bodies to stone. Each follows a stoic female protagonist who must negotiate her place in a callous world. 

Though not connected by character or plot (albeit with similar naming conventions), these films combine to explore the symbolic transitions of female life. Often known as the triple goddess, this cycle includes the maiden: a naive idealist entering womanhood, the mother: a selfless nurturer who sacrifices her body to create the next generation, and the crone: an aging woman gradually releasing her connection to society while passing on her wisdom to the maiden. While this trio is rooted in femininity, each persona should be viewed as a figurative representation of the human experience accessible to all, regardless of biology.

In fact, Ducournau’s work serves to deconstruct gender-based tropes, breathing life into rigid archetypes. Each film centers on a painful transformation in which a female character rips through these socially accepted limitations, challenging the audience to shed our own stifling skins and reveal true humanity in the visceral mess.  

Raw (2016)

Ducournau’s first feature film centers on one of the oldest cinematic taboos. Justine (Garance Marillier) is a strict vegetarian entering her first year of study at a prestigious veterinary school. Arriving on campus, she reunites with her rebellious older sister Alexia (Ella Rumpf), now a popular upperclassman. Doused in blood as part of a barbaric hazing week, Justine must also partake in an annual sort of communion by eating a raw sliver of rabbit meat. This act of consumption triggers an insatiable desire for human flesh as she shakes off her parents’ restrictive values to explore her burgeoning womanhood.

After choking down the uncooked chunk, Justine’s body erupts in a horrific rash, her skin peeling off in itchy strips. Compulsively chewing on her own hair, she’s surprised to also find herself craving meat and must abandon the moral high ground of her vegetarian upbringing. This new oral fixation begins to merge with an awakening appetite for carnal pleasure, and Justine discovers that she can only achieve sexual gratification by biting into human skin. But the story’s true turning point comes when Alexia accidentally severs her finger during a botched bikini wax. As her older sister passes out with shock, Justine pops the severed digit into her mouth, chewing and swallowing before she can consider what she’s just done.

The sisters cover for each other, and we learn that Alexia has struggled with her own cannibalistic urges. But rather than bite her sexual partners, she’s been satiating her bloodlust by causing accidents on an isolated stretch of country road, then eating the drivers as they die in the wreckage. It’s not until she kills and gorges herself on Justine’s roommate that the sisters’ dark secret comes to light.

After visiting Alexia in prison, Justine’s father reveals the source of this taboo trait, lifting his shirt to reveal extensive bite marks and scars. We realize that her mother, known only as La mère (Joana Preiss), is also a cannibal, her own bite a form of sexual release. She has kept this practice secret from her daughters, dooming them to stigma and ostracization.

Ducournau should be commended for not aligning Justine’s sexual exploration with romantic connection. Aside from anonymous hookups and experimentation with her queer roommate, she has no emotional attachment to a boyfriend and engages in sexual acts solely for her own pleasure. But left to navigate this tricky transformation on her own, Justine is dangerous to her sexual partners, while Alexia is a serial murderer. Both are cast out of their community for failing to embody feminine norms, and cannibalism becomes a metaphor for the vilification of sexually liberated women in a patriarchal world.

Titane (2021)

Ducournau’s second feature explores the transition to motherhood through the lens of gender nonconformity. This complex story follows Alexia (Agathe Rousselle), a motor show dancer with a titanium plate in her skull, the result of a childhood car accident. It seems this augmentation has sparked an affection for metal, and we watch as Alexia has a sexual encounter with a strangely anthropomorphized car. Days later, she’s horrified to learn that she’s pregnant and attempts an agonizing self-abortion.

But her stomach continues to itch and expand, her womb leaking motor oil. As Alexia’s delicate condition progresses, so does her urge to kill. She brutally attacks her new girlfriend, then winds up killing everyone else in the house. These unprovoked attacks feel like an outward manifestation of rage over losing control of her body and the growing fetus she can’t terminate.

Hoping to evade the police, Alexia cuts ties to her former life. On a whim, she poses as Adrien, a young man who’s been missing since he was a boy. To complete this metamorphosis, she cuts her long, bleach-blond hair, shaves off her eyebrows, and viciously smashes her feminine nose. With her breasts and belly tightly bound, she’s able to pass for the long-lost Adrien and accompanies his father Vincent (Vincent Lindon) back to his firehouse home. The well-respected station chief introduces Alexia/Adrien to his trainees, who quickly clock the prodigal son’s deception. But Vincent will not be deterred.

In a rare moment of beautiful honesty, he reassures the frightened imposter, “I don’t care who you are. You’re my son. You’ll always be my son.” Unlike Alexia’s own cruel father — whose disdain caused her devastating accident —  Vincent is offering unconditional love, and Alexia’s urge to kill fades away. This unflinching devotion also hints at atonement for Vincent’s previous failure to support Adrien’s gender fluidity.

Despite their growing emotional connection, both Alexia and Vincent continue performing traditional gender norms. To maintain his alpha dominance, Vincent injects hormones each night before putting his body through grueling exercise. Alexia continues to painfully wrap her belly and breasts, creating angry lacerations on her expanding torso. Eventually, this itchy skin splits to reveal a titanium womb lurking beneath. In a brutal delivery scene, the baby bursts through Alexia’s abdomen, and she bleeds to death on the floor. After desperately trying to escape her feminized body, pregnancy has literally torn her apart.

Ducournau provides hope as a byproduct of this tragedy. Failing to save the new mother’s life, Vincent cradles the infant to his own chest, unbothered by its titanium spine. Though tragic, Alexia’s physical body has given way to a new evolution of maternal love. No longer bound by traditional gender norms, Vincent finds peace in nurturing this extraordinary child.

Alpha (2025)

Ducournau’s third film completes this transformative trilogy by exploring the relationship between a mother and her growing child. The story follows Alpha (Mélissa Boros), a thirteen-year-old girl who lives with her single mother, a doctor known only as Maman (Golshifteh Farahani). When Alpha gets a tattoo with a dirty needle, she exposes herself to a mysterious virus that slowly petrifies the human body.

Victims cough out clouds of chalky dust while a spiderweb of marbleization slowly petrifies their limbs. Through flashbacks to Alpha’s childhood, we learn that Maman’s brother Amin (Tahar Rahim) also suffers from the dreaded disease, a result of intravenous drug use. One devastating sequence shows Maman collecting a sample for biopsy and accidentally ripping out half of her brother’s back, his flesh shattering into a pile of rocks.

While Alpha waits for her test results, Amin returns to his sister’s home, seeking care and a safe place to stay. Cast out by society, his suffering mirrors Alpha’s own brutal treatment at the hands of ignorant classmates who view her body as dangerous. Even the school administration supports this bullying after several bleeding incidents turn her into a pariah. A clear allegory for the AIDS epidemic, Amin becomes an untouchable, shunned by everyone but his sister and others suffering from the disease. Though he clings to his humanity, the virus slowly turns him into a spectacle, a marbleized statue frozen in time.

We eventually learn that Amin died of the virus long ago, his ghostly return triggered by Alpha’s own exposure. While the titular teen may be our protagonist, Maman becomes the story’s heart. Finally forced to reckon with her inability to cure Amin, she must find a way to let her daughter go. She realizes that her love has morphed into hypervigilance and a self-sabotaging need to protect and control. A heartbreaking conclusion sees Maman let go of Amin’s ghost as he dissipates in a storm of swirling red wind. Alpha watches this devastating scene, completing the cycle of feminine experience.

As the crone, Maman will take the wisdom from her brother’s final days and use it to guide her relationship with Alpha, who is nearing her own feminine transformation. But unlike Justine’s La mère, she will not allow her daughter to pass through this treacherous conversion alone.

Though their stories differ in tone and plot, Justine, Alexia, and Alpha share an observant stoicism as they navigate their respective worlds. Shunned by their communities, they eventually reach their turning points and reject the stereotypes of female life. They rip, tear, and shatter these gender norms and, by proxy, allow us to challenge our own understanding of womanhood.

While we may not be having cannibal sex, pregnant with a titanium child, or watching our bodies turn to stone, we identify with these mostly silent characters and challenge our own conformity. Does the skin we wear reflect who we truly are, or is it an external creation handed down by generations of patriarchal conditioning?

Ducournau presents each metamorphosis as a violent reclamation of the flesh and blood humanity we all hide beneath a protective shell.

The post The Horrors of Metamorphosis: Dissecting Julia Ducournau’s Body Horror Triptych appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

Every horror fan has seen their fair share of death scenes. A defining characteristic of the genre, we also all remember the first time we had to cover our eyes or frantically look away from the screen, convinced we’d pushed ourselves too far outside our comfort zones. For many Gen Xers and Elder Millennials, this rite of passage occurred while watching the 1978 film Faces of Death.

John Alan Schwartz’s faux documentary purports to demystify the so-called final transition with a series of death sequences presented in unflinching and authentic detail. Nearly fifty years later, the proliferation of social media has made us all unfortunately familiar with the real face of fatality through increasingly disturbing viral content, rendering the novelty of Schwartz’s film essentially moot. In a fictionalized reimagining, Daniel Goldhaber’s Faces of Death resuscitates this notorious franchise while exploring the reasons behind its controversial success and why we still can’t seem to look away. 

Margot (Barbie Ferreira) is a content moderator for Kino, a thinly veiled approximation of TikTok, who has taken herself completely offline. Using a dumb phone and borrowing her roommate’s computer, she nonetheless spends her days reviewing videos flagged for offensive content. Mixed in with the drunken accidents and stoner inanity, she’s unnerved to see what appears to be a beheading carried out by mannequins.

Days later, a second video passes through her feed. A bound man is led to an electric chair by the same mannequins while a dulcet voice narrates the horrific action. Convinced this may be real, she reports the video to her supervisor, who dismisses it as DIY horror and advises her to pass it through. Those familiar with Schwartz’s film immediately recognize this disturbing scene, notable for its jailhouse framing and the distinctive tape covering the victim’s eyes. When a third video recreates the infamous monkey brains scene, Margot reaches out to an online community that refers her to the 1978 release.

Luckily, her roommate Ryan (Aaron Holliday) owns a copy — complete with its puffy, plastic VHS cover — and explains the movie’s strange appeal. After a surprisingly lucrative theatrical run, the original Faces of Death became a cult phenomenon mostly through the VHS rental market. A trailer for Goldhaber’s reboot describes the faux documentary as a generational rite of passage, while Ryan calls it the first viral video. 

Faking the Face of Death

By modern standards, the original Faces of Death is surprisingly sedate. The film opens with close-up footage of cardiac surgery as the camera zooms in on a beating heart. From there, we’re introduced to pathologist Francis B. Gröss (Michael Carr), a self-proclaimed connoisseur of death. Gröss’ narratives archived footage of rotting human corpses before explaining a series of brutal animal murders (some fake and some unfortunately real). Next, he unpacks a variety of human fatalities from executions and police shootouts to tragic accidents and ritual killings. 

To his credit, Schwartz — who released the film under two pseudonyms — has admitted to using special effects. Committed to the premise of demystifying the taboo topic, he purchased archive footage and outtakes from news teams and morgues. But watching this compilation proved not only to be immensely sad, but also narratively boring. With nothing to string the film together, it became an onslaught of tragedy porn. Schwartz decided to switch focus, adding Gröss’s commentary while staging each scene with actors and low-budget special effects. Hoping to retain verisimilitude, he and the crew pored over footage of actual fatalities, trying to replicate as much detail as possible.

The result is a surprisingly restrained tone. Schwartz resists salaciousness, and Gröss’ narration adds an almost clinical feel. Interspersed with footage of actual corpses — and one authentic skydiving death — it’s possible to believe that we are watching a series of real deadly incidents caught on film. In fact, some were so convincing that Faces of Death was decried as snuff, earning bans in several countries and a place on the UK’s infamous Video Nasties list. 

What is a Snuff Film?

Experts believe the concept of real human death as entertainment dates back to Guillaume Apollinaire’s 1907 short story “A Good Film,” which follows a newsreel photojournalist who orchestrates and records a murder to spark public engagement. Decades later, poet, musician, and activist Ed Sanders would coin the term “snuff” in his 1971 book The Family: The Story of Charles Manson’s Dune Buggy Attack Battalion.

Written in the wake of the shocking Tate-LaBianca murders in August of 1969, the meticulously researched tome chronicles the rise of cult leader Charles Manson and his “Family” of violent followers. One witness describes Family members filming homemade pornography, which culminates in a decapitation. However, no such footage has ever been found, and the book’s own witness admits to never actually watching the tape. 

Nonetheless, this shocking revelation seems to have birthed a new urban legend. Rumors of murder videos began circulating, popularized by the 1976 release of Snuff. Filmed under the working title “Slaughter,” husband and wife team Michael and Roberta Findlay’s low-budget movie follows a cult leader named Satán (Enrique Larratelli, uncredited) and his female bikers who embark on a killing spree in South America. Shot, “where life is cheap,” the story plays out like a typical exploitation film until its jaw-dropping final scene. In lieu of credits, the camera reverses focus to capture the director brutally murdering one of the actresses, the crew scrambling to cover the bloody carnage. 

The Appearance of Snuff

Of course, genre creators have always sought to make their films as persuasive as possible, some going to extreme lengths to fool audiences. The 1980 Italian exploitation film Cannibal Holocaust, which follows a group of doomed filmmakers slaughtered in the Amazon rainforest, was so convincing in its brutality that director Ruggero Deodato was charged with obscenity and forced to produce this cast — all alive and well — to avoid conviction.

Actor Charlie Sheen was reportedly so disturbed by a 45-minute dismemberment sequence in Hideshi Hino’s Guinea Pig 2: Flower of Flesh and Blood that he called the FBI to report what he’d seen. A long-standing Hollywood legend claims that the 1959 biblical epic Ben-Hur contains real footage of a stuntman’s death in the story’s harrowing chariot race scene. And while a freak accident can be seen in the final release, the stuntman in question survived the incident. Similar rumors persist about the ultra-low-budget South American films Snake Feast and Gator Bait Ten, but they are to date unconfirmed. 

While these titles certainly push the envelope, a true snuff film has yet to be found. Experts disagree on an exact definition, but our generally accepted understanding of snuff stems from the seminal 1994 text Killing for Culture: An Illustrated History of Death Film from Mondo to Snuff. Authors David Kerekes and David Slater describe the notorious media as “a human sacrifice (without the aid of special effects or other trickery) perpetuated for the medium of film and circulated amongst a jaded few for the purpose of entertainment.”

Most scholars exclude videos made by serial killers like Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka, the Dnepropetrovsk maniacs, and Vester Lee Flanagan II because — while extremely upsetting — their videos were not created for the purpose of financial gain. They similarly do not include footage of natural disasters or footage of tragedies like the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. Some argue that this is splitting hairs, and it’s definitely possible that real snuff films created in secrecy have simply not yet broken through public consciousness. 

The Snuff of Legacy

With technological advancements and widespread access to evolving home video, we’re split on the ethics of watching death content. While some warn of exploitation, others note the power of witnessing atrocious acts. It’s true that it’s nearly impossible to downplay the effects of terrorism, gun violence, or police brutality when you see the carnage with your own eyes. However, each time a video featuring real fatality goes viral, it comes with dire warnings about the mental toll viewing such scenes can cause. In the wake of Luka Magnotta’s highly publicized crimes, viewers filmed reaction videos of themselves watching his recorded acts of depravity, many of which are disturbing in and of themselves. 

Goldhaber’s new Faces of Death attempts to unpack our fascination with carnage caught on camera. The tagline, “we dare you,” nods to the phenomenon of adolescent horror fans challenging themselves to see how much of the original faux documentary — and its ignominious sequels — they can bear to watch. However, Schwartz’s original premise has merit.

For each viewer with a juvenile desire to see something taboo, another may seek to genuinely make peace with their own mortality or the recent loss of someone they love. However, we must ask ourselves if this enlightenment should come at the expense of privacy. Death represents the ultimate loss of autonomy, and there is no way to ask a corpse if they consent to having their final moments used as a source of entertainment, no matter the intent. 

The Cost of Deadly Entertainment

We learn that Margot errs toward privacy. Flashbacks show that several years ago, she convinced her younger sister to shoot a dance video on busy train tracks, believing they would have time to get out of the way. We eventually learn that her sister slipped and was struck and killed by an oncoming train. The shocking event was caught on camera and later leaked by local police. (This disturbing backstory feels like an echo of a scene from the original Faces of Death in which a biker’s remains must be scooped off the street after a fatal collision with a massive truck.) Years later, she has become known around the world as Train Girl while her sister’s demise still circulates as a cautionary tale for reckless content creators. 

In a blood-soaked climax, Margot manages to escape the killer, revealed to be an ostensibly mild-mannered computer tech named Arthur (Dacre Montgomery). While preparing to murder her in his next video, the amateur filmmaker reveals his obsession with Schwartz’s movie and a psychopathic desire to recreate each sequence using actual human victims.

Thanks to Margot’s online sleuthing, the public has taken notice of his videos, pushing them to viral status. Reactions vary from disbelieving fans excited for his next release to moralistic naysayers warning against fanning the flames of his content’s appeal. Arthur watches in amazement as comments and reactions flood his feed, knowing controversy means he has truly gone viral. Yet Margot’s own video will top his success. 

Empowerment in the Face of Death

Hoping to save a pair of hostages, she seemingly walks into Arthur’s trap. Armed with Narcan and a knife disguised as a lipstick tube, she turns the tables on his attack and manages to savage him with the knife and a long, metal spike. Only then does she reveal the camera tucked in her bra. Margot has not only recorded Arthur’s candid confession, but also their bloody-soaked brawl. As the serial killer slowly dies, he comforts himself with the conclusion of Schwartz’s original film, flipping to the scene in which he describes a séance piercing the veil. 

Meanwhile, Margot addresses the camera, chastising viewers for their disbelief. Throughout the film, she’s been fighting to get others to take her concerns about the videos seriously. Her manager encourages her to allow the flagged content, knowing notoriety will drive up engagement. After reporting her suspicions to authorities, Margot is met with flat disbelief and can scarcely find anyone to take her claims seriously enough to investigate.

Even worse, she overhears other officers eagerly anticipating the release of Arthur’s next video, openly speculating about their veracity. It seems the addition of a camera/screen has created a sense of detachment, and they no longer recognize the victims’ humanity or their duty to protect the public. 

This seems to be Goldhaber’s overarching message: that normalizing death through social media leads to loss of humanity and detachment in the viewer. It is a persuasive argument. Not only do we see that Margot still suffers from becoming a viral main character, but she reminds us that her sister was a human being with friends and family who still grieve her loss. However, Margot ultimately finds comfort and peace in uploading a video of her deadly fight, which lingers on Arthur as he passes away.

After risking a heavy-handed morality play, Goldhaber’s Faces of Death becomes a nuanced exploration of fatality entertainment when our heroine ultimately achieves empowerment through the publication of her own video. Like the subject itself, there are no easy answers, and we’re left with a personal decision each viewer must ultimately make for themselves. 

The post ‘Faces of Death’ and a Legacy of Snuff On Screen appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

Not only are ’90s slashers usually stylish and fun, but they serve as gateway texts for a new generation. Falling just before the proliferation of smartphones and a new era of geopolitical strife, the decade also feels like a simpler time. Riding a wave of U.S. prosperity, the decade was remarkably free from the international conflicts and xenophobic paranoia that would dominate the next century. Instead, we turned to internal fears.

Many ’90s slashers focus on enemies lurking within our own social circles. From untrustworthy boyfriends to plotting best friends, the villains of these slashers often come from the systems we’ve built to protect ourselves and the places in which we thought we’d be safe. 

Jamie Blanks explores these themes through a gendered lens in a pair of thematic slashers clocking in at the tail end of the trend. Young and hungry, the Australian filmmaker threw his name in the hat to direct Scream, then auditioned for the I Know What You Did Last Summer director’s chair by filming his own speculative trailer. Though he ultimately lost both bids, Phoenix Pictures tapped the 25-year-old to direct an upcoming slasher set on a college campus.

Urban Legend follows a group of unlucky coeds who fall into the gears of familiar folklore. Three years later, he would direct Valentine, a feature adaptation of Tom Savage’s 1997 novel. Reviving the trend of holiday-inspired slashers, the film follows a group of gorgeous young women tormented by a sea of eligible bachelors.

Both films feature villainous women disguised as faceless boogeymen whose motives ultimately revolve around pleasing men. With casts also filled with empowered female characters, Blanks explores the dangerous world women must navigate and the surprising villains intent on tearing them down.

Women get cutthroat in Jamie Blanks’ feature debut, Urban Legend

Though Urban Legend is often dismissed as a copy of Scream, it’s doing something altogether different.

Rather than interrogating the genre itself, the film is a meta-analysis of the urban legends on which we’ve built our system of collective morality. The film begins with a familiar tale. A woman is frightened by a creepy yet ultimately innocent man and fails to notice the actual threat lurking in the back seat of her car. From there, Blanks delivers a smorgasbord of campfire tales, repackaged for a modern world. From The Kidney Heist and The Dead Boyfriend to the blood-curdling Aren’t You Glad You Didn’t Turn On the Lights, each story explores the insidious ways women are taught to navigate an unsafe world. 

Though it does feature a diverse cast, including teen drama stars Jared Leto, Michael Rosenbaum, and Joshua Jackson alongside genre icons Robert Englund and Brad Dourif, Urban Legend is a decidedly female story. The story’s final girl, Natalie (Alicia Witt), is a former cheerleader struggling to heal from a traumatic past. Her friend Sasha (Tara Reid) is an outspoken shock jock known for highlighting female sexuality, while her roommate Tosh (Danielle Harris) is an icy goth who delights in drug-fueled one-night stands. All three are tormented by a parka-clad killer who uses ironic twists on urban legends to punish them for their empowerment.

The urban legends that put them in danger involve some variation of trusting a man and putting themselves in vulnerable positions. The stories exist to remind women that the world is filled with predatory men and that their safety is their own responsibility. Though the killers put them in impossible situations, they are punished for transgressing and not remaining virginal. Tosh dies because she invites a stranger into her room, while Natalie nearly dies on an ill-advised trip to Lovers’ Lane. After years of vocal feminism, Sasha dies because no one believes her cries for help. 

We eventually learn that the killer is Brenda Bates (Rebecca Gayheart), Natalie’s flirtatious best friend. In an elaborate monologue — complete with ’90s-era visual aids — she explains that Natalie unknowingly ruined her promising life. Along with Michelle, the film’s first victim, she participated in a dangerous prank that claimed the life of Brenda’s fiancé. While her grief is, of course, understandable, Brenda’s other complaint is that her latest crush, an ego-centric journalism student, only has eyes for Natalie. The woman who once took her fiancé’s life has now stolen her second chance at happiness. Never mind that the attraction seems to be mostly like with Paul. Brenda cannot blame the man who’s rejected her, but the woman who’s beaten her for his love. 

Natalie is eventually saved by Reese (Loretta Devine), a campus security guard who styles herself after genre icon Pam Grier. But a last-minute twist sees Brenda falling into a rushing river, and we learn that the body was never recovered. In a final stinger, we see Brenda emerge, this time with straight hair, to recount her own story to a new group of coeds. With a green ribbon tied around her neck, the message is clear: the stories we tell to guide women’s actions in a patriarchal world will never truly go away.

They will just be repackaged and sold to us in another format. Even more upsetting, it’s often women passing these messages along to each other, guiding the next generation in hacking survival instead of conquering predators head-on. 

 Flawed characters get struck by Cupid’s bow as Valentine carves its way toward a killer climax

Blanks’ second film narrows this theme by exploring the dangers of modern dating. Valentine follows a group of gorgeous young women struggling to find worthy men. The film opens on a middle school dance in which a dorky boy named Jeremy (Joel Palmer) is rejected by a series of popular girls. Eventually, he finds success with fellow outcast Dorothy (Kate Logie) and the two begin kissing underneath the bleachers. But a group of boys breaks up this scene and, hoping to distance herself from her nerdy beau, Dorothy accuses Jeremy of sexual assault.

As Jeremy’s nose begins to bleed, the boys empty the punch bowl over his head, drag him out from under the bleachers, strip off his clothes, and administer a brutal beating while the rest of his classmates cheer them on. Years later, he will seek bloody revenge, but not on the boys who beat him up, but the girls who would not dance with him. 

Flashing forward thirteen years, we reunite with Kate (Marley Shelton) and her friends as they navigate a world full of awful men. While Shelley (Katherine Heigl) survives an atrocious first date, Paige (Denise Richards) and Lily (Jessica Cauffiel) try their hand at ’90s-era programs like speed dating and video introduction services. Now a beautiful young woman, Dorothy (Jessica Capshaw) is enjoying the spoils of her father’s wealth, but can’t see that her entrepreneurial boyfriend is taking advantage of her generosity. And Kate has just ended a serious relationship with fellow journalist Adam (David Boreanaz), until he deals with an out-of-control drinking problem. From arrogant mansplainers and Playboy artists to lecherous detectives and leering neighbors, these women are plagued with a series of horrifically undateable men, none of whom are worth the gorgeous women’s time. 

While fending off these oafish bachelors, the women receive grotesque and violent valentines promising to do them bodily harm, each signed with Jeremy’s initials. One by one, a killer in a cupid mask taken from that long-ago dance begins picking them off in brutal ways. Each time, a drop of blood flows from his nose, confirming that the killer is Jeremy. But in the decade since the traumatic dance, they’ve lost touch. Any of their disappointing suitors could be Jeremy hiding behind a new name and a handsome persona.

After finding her remaining friends dead at a climactic Valentine’s Day house party, Kate fights with the killer. But just as the killer is about to strike a fatal blow, a mysterious savior shoots him dead. Though she thought he might be the killer just moments ago, Kate rushes into Adam’s arms. He pulls off the killer’s mask to reveal Dorothy’s face underneath. 

Blanks sacrifices clarity for this jaw-dropping final twist and leaves us to piece the details together. Perhaps Dorothy is the real killer, determined to punish her attractive friends for what she views as pretty privilege? In hindsight, this lines up with her insistence that her beautiful friends still see her as an ugly duckling. Or perhaps Adam has been the real killer all along and somehow convinced Dorothy to don his disguise? More likely, they’ve been working together, rekindling their clandestine kiss and vowing to seek revenge against their more popular tormentors. If this is the case, then Adam has saved his ultimate rage for Dorothy herself, the girl who once betrayed him with a false accusation that ruined his life. 

Regardless of who actually committed this gruesome string of murders, we’re left with an uncomfortable climax. Though Kate and her young friends are admittedly cruel to Jeremy at that fateful dance, adolescent rejection should not warrant a death sentence. What’s more, the film opens with a young boy trolling from girl to girl, hoping someone will accept his proposal to dance. As soon as one pretty girl rejects him, he immediately moves on to the next. He doesn’t actually care about any of them and is simply trying to boost his own ego by dancing with a pretty girl. Years before incel became a well-known word, we see that the grudge he’s been harboring for thirteen years is not against the boys who actually assaulted him, but the women who rejected him. 

Though we’ll never know exactly who the killer is or how the whole thing came to an end, we do know that a woman will be blamed for this series of murders. Dorothy will be remembered as the formerly fat girl who sought revenge on her attractive friends after lying about a sexual assault and dooming a boy to institutionalization. Brenda will be remembered as a hysterical woman driven to kill rather than face life without a man. Both have based their happiness on romantic partnership. And they’ve murdered women who found a way to find happiness within themselves.

Natalie, Kate, and their respective friends may enjoy flirting and dating men, but their lives do not revolve around romance or approval from guys who don’t deserve them. But both Dorothy and Brenda debase themselves for men who are not interested, nor are they worthy of either woman’s time. But rather than admit that fact and move on alone, they find it convenient to blame women. Seeking to tear down other women rather than trying to build themselves up. 

The ’90s were not the best time for women. In the midst of third-wave feminism, we created impossibly high standards for female beauty and behavior, and then viciously punished anyone who caught our eye. Brittany Spears and Paris Hilton, just to name a few, proved that no amount of beauty, talent, or success could appease a ravenous crowd addicted to destructive objectification. We told these women to try to be perfect, then tore them apart for the sin of flawed humanity. While men certainly contributed, it was often women leading the charge. This reflected misplaced rage at these impossible expectations that we ourselves could not fulfill. But rather than set our sights on a system designed to dehumanize women, we spent our energy on tearing each other down.

Jamie Blanks’ films, while certainly not perfect, reflect a dangerous world for women. But what makes them stand the test of time is not only presenting a cast full of diverse and empowered female characters, but also allowing young women to be villainous too. After all, women feed the patriarchy too. His films help us examine the enemy lurking within our own ranks. 

The post Jamie Blanks’ ‘Urban Legend’ and ‘Valentine’ Reflect a Dangerous World Through Its Cutthroat Women appeared first on Bloody Disgusting!.

Ghostbusters II, for example, still holds a special place in my heart because it introduced me to the haunted world of 80s-era New York City long before I watched Ivan Reitman’s 1894 classic. 

In many ways, sequels have an easier path than other films. With a built-in audience often demanding its existence, the sequel can forgo cumbersome table setting and get down to business in a previously established scenario. Audiences sink back into a familiar realm and watch known characters embark on a new adventure. Or at least that’s what’s supposed to happen.

As horror fans, we know that the genre is littered with forgettable sequels lining discount VHS bins or languishing at the far end of streaming menus. Is Randy Meeks (Jamie Kennedy) right when he posits that, “by definition alone, sequels are inferior films” in Wes Craven’s beloved Scream 2? 

Ready or Not 2: Here I Come breaks this ominous pattern by building on the surprise 2019 hit Ready or Not, a blood-soaked romp through a sinister family estate. On the night of her wedding, Grace (Samara Weaving) is pulled away from the honeymoon suite and roped into a bizarre family tradition. After drawing a card from a devilish deck, she becomes the target in a violent game of Hide and Seek that doubles as ritual sacrifice. Having barely escaped that horrific ordeal, she now finds herself hunted by maniacal in-laws determined to cut her out of their family tree.

Directed by Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett, Ready or Not 2: Here I Come adds genre darling Kathryn Newton to the cast as a partner for Weaving’s intrepid survivor. This thrilling odyssey through feminist empowerment is the latest in a handful of horror sequels that manage to distinguish themselves from the pack.

Though good sequels may be exceedingly rare, the ten following franchise entries perfect the art of continuing the story and arguably surpass the films that sparked their existence.  

Bride of Frankenstein (1935)

Director James Whale was reluctant to follow his 1931 hit Frankentstein, believing he’d mined every drop of inspiration from Mary Shelley’s 1818 source material. After several false starts, Universal coaxed Whale back to this monstrous world by agreeing to produce another passion project. Already satisfied with Frankenstein, Whale decided his sequel would shoot for the moon and wound up creating one of horror’s most memorable stories.

Bride of Frankenstein picks up the original’s narrative threads as the titular mad scientist creates a female companion for Boris Karloff’s lonely Monster. With a single scene and zero lines of dialogue, Elsa Lanchester’s Bride has become one of the most enduring images in genre history, a symbol of monstrous femininity. Following nine decades of sequels and inventive reimaginings, Maggie Gyllenhaal’s 2026 feminist fantasy The Bride! proves that Whale’s masterful film is still just as relevant to modern horror audiences. 

Dawn of the Dead (1978)

While some sequels continue an original story, others take a relatively simple concept and drastically expand the world. The follow-up to George A. Romero’s iconic Night of the Living Dead features a new cast of characters struggling to survive a world overrun with hungry corpses. Set in a Pennsylvania shopping mall, Dawn of the Dead builds on themes of bodily autonomy and consumerism while again presenting humans as the story’s true monsters.

Filmed in color, this action-packed nightmare also features the work of legendary SFX creator Tom Savini — fresh from active service in the Vietnam War, which kept him from working on Romero’s original. Though Night remains one of the genre’s most influential titles, its sequel set the standard for the modern zombie film. 

Aliens (1986)

James Cameron’s Aliens also has the dubious task of following a cinematic masterpiece. Ridley Scott’s 1979 “haunted house in space” story follows a crew of industrial astronauts as they’re hunted by a parasitic entity who nests inside their abdominal cavities. Bigger, bolder, and more bombastic, Aliens sees sole survivor Ellen Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) once again tasked with exterminating the so-called Xenomorphs, this time with the help of Colonial Marines. Rather than a single extraterrestrial monster, Ripley must face a massive Alien Queen and her hordes of similarly dangerous children.

Cameron builds upon Scott’s themes of pregnancy horror with an empowering portrait of motherly love and one of the most exciting final showdowns in the history of horror. Determined to save her surrogate daughter, Ripley dons a metal exoskeletal loader to throw down with another ferocious mother. 

Evil Dead II (1987)

Lionized by genre author Stephen King, Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead II: Dead by Dawn boasts a larger budget, expanded timeline, and a new menagerie of special effects. Bruce Campbell reprises his role as the heroic Ash, essentially recapping the original film in a delightfully campy opening act. From there, things get truly weird. Periodically possessed by Deadites summoned by another ill-conceived recitation of the Necronomicon, Ash finds himself tasked with saving the world from maniacal demons. This time sporting a chainsaw for a hand, the strong-jawed hero blasts his way through hordes of creatures before he’s sucked into an alternate dimension.

Exceedingly creative, Raimi’s Evil Dead II plays with prophecy before turning the story upside down in a shocking cliffhanger ending that deftly sets up Army of Darkness, another beloved horror sequel.  

Hellbound: Hellraiser II (1988)

Tony Randel’s Hellbound: Hellraiser II leans into the gore of Clive Barker’s decadent original while transporting the story to hell itself. After surviving the dreadful Cenobites, Kirsty (Ashley Laurence) finds herself dragged into a labyrinthine netherworld to prevent her stepmother Julia (Clare Higgins) and her sinister paramour Dr. Channard (Kenneth Cranham) from once again opening the puzzle box. Inside, she encounters a mysterious beast known as the Leviathan, a “god of flesh, hunger, and desire.”

Also written by Barker, Randel’s breathtaking film not only presents Julia as the rightful Queen of Hell, but offers a disturbing backstory for the franchise’s most evocative creatures. Hellbound: Hellraiser II begins with a harrowing vignette in which a curious human solves the Lament Configuration and finds himself transformed into the alluring Hell Priest (Doug Bradley), more commonly known as Pinhead. Now a connoisseur of pain, we see that Pinhead and his fellow cenobites were once flesh and blood humans just like us. 

Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991)

Five years after the extravagant Aliens, Cameron would take a similar approach to the long-awaited extension of his 1984 sci-fi hit The Terminator. As humanity inches toward nuclear annihilation, Sarah Connor (Linda Hamilton) rots away in a high-security mental institution, leaving her young son John (Edward Furlong) utterly defenseless. Once again, a killer machine has been sent back in time to prevent his future leadership by terminating the boy at a more vulnerable moment. In one of cinema’s most exciting twists, Arnold Schwarzenegger reprises his role as the T-800, but this time serves as the story’s hero, a Terminator programmed to ensure John’s survival.

Cameron also interrogates his own central concept with altruistic coder Miles Dyson (Joe Morton), who inadvertently creates the monstrous AI while genuinely trying to save the world. Featuring revolutionary special effects, Terminator 2: Judgment Day is a surprisingly poignant rumination on the value of human life disguised as an action-packed spectacle. 

Scream 2 (1997)

Upon the surprise success of Wes Craven’s now-iconic Scream, Miramax executives rushed a follow-up into production. Despite a tight timeline and script leaks revealing the originally planned killers, Craven managed to create a thrilling meta-slasher sequel that many believe surpasses its original film. We reunite with final girls Sidney (Neve Campbell) and Gale (Courteney Cox) on the campus of Windsor College when the notorious Ghostface killer rises again. While the aforementioned Randy and his fellow film students debate the nebulous sequel “rules,” Craven continues his own exploration of the well-trodden slasher genre with Stab, an in-world parody of Scream itself. An ingenious twist ending ties the two stories together in a heartwrenching final act, proving that creative lightning can indeed strike twice.