Editorials
[Horror Queers] Post-Breakup Ghosts and an Open-Ended Conclusion in the Icelandic ‘Rift’
Each month in Horror Queers, Joe and Trace tackle a horror film with LGBTQ+ themes, a high camp quotient or both. For lifelong queer horror fans like us, there’s as much value in serious discussions about representation as there is in reading a ridiculously silly/fun horror film with a YAS KWEEN mentality. Just know that at no point will we be getting Babashook.
***SPOILERS for Rift follow.***
Synopsis for Rift: Gunnar (Björn Stefánsson) receives a strange phone call from his ex-boyfriend, Einar (Sigurður Þór Óskarsson), months after they broke up. Einar sounds distraught, like he’s about to do something terrible to himself, so Gunnar drives up to the secluded cabin where Einar is holed up and soon discovers that there’s more going on than he imagined. As the two men come to terms with their broken relationship, some other person seems to be lurking outside the cabin, wanting to get in.
Queer Aspect: The film centers entirely around the relationship between two male ex-lovers.
Trace
“My name is Leemoy.”
Rift isn’t a horror film that’s filled with frights, but damn if that line didn’t chill me to the bone. This was my second time viewing the film, and I’ve got to say I appreciated (and enjoyed) it a lot more on a repeat viewing. I still didn’t enjoy it quite as much as my husband did (he gave the film a stellar 4.5-skull review when it premiered at Fantastic Fest last year), but I was certainly more engrossed in what was unfolding on the screen before me. There is a lot to unpack in Rift, so I’ll just jump right in.
On the surface, Rift is about two men sorting out unresolved issues before the “he was dead the whole time” twist rears its head. Upon closer inspection, however, the film could be about a few things depending on how you interpret the clues that writer/director Erlingur Thoroddsen peppers throughout the film (and this is a film that leaves a lot up to interpretation). Here are three possible explanations that I came up with for what happens in Rift:
- Einar called Gunnar to come back so they could work out their unfinished business before he committed suicide OR was murdered by a one-night-stand.
- Gunnar saw Einar commit suicide before the events of the film and was traumatized and repressed the memory. He then fabricated Einar’s call and the film is his attempt to come to terms with his death (or maybe his role in Einar’s death).
- The old man has been murdering people for years, including young Leemoy, who – as a ghost – tried to get young Einar to find his body out in the Disappearance Fields. That same man later murdered Einar and Einar’s ghost is now trying to come to terms with the end of his relationship with Gunnar.
Of course, there could be other interpretations as well, but these three are the most likely. The more straightforward explanation would be Option 3, but I prefer to look at the film believing that Option 1 is the intended meaning (Option 2 is a bit too much of a downer for my taste). No matter which way you look at it, the ending of Rift begs for post-viewing discussion.
What may turn off more impatient viewers is the pacing of the film. Those expecting a more traditional ghost story filled with suspense will most likely find themselves disappointed, though those last 25 minutes are quite unsettling (especially the night-vision sequence). In short, though, Rift could have benefited from a heavier hand in the editing room (I actually wrote “lots of walking around” in my notes).
Joe, what did you think of Rift? Were you as drawn into these characters as I was? What was your interpretation of the end of the film? And wasn’t the cinematography so pretty?
Joe
Let me begin by thanking you, Trace – or perhaps I should thank Ari? – for picking this Icelandic gem. Erlingur Óttar Thoroddsen’s film has been on my radar since last year when it made a buzz at various film festivals, but I had never sought it out. Thankfully I knew going in that the film favours slow pacing so going into the screening armed with that knowledge was helpful because it helped me to relax and just let the film unfold.
This is a heavy film, which isn’t something that I was expecting from the plot description. The logline and those opening few minutes definitely seemed to suggest that the film was a ghost film or a psychological thriller, which I was a little wary of (I find that ghost films frequently rely on spectral apparitions that aren’t there when people take another look, while psychological thrillers, when poorly executed, tend to sideline their characters in favour of shocks).Thankfully Rift (mostly) avoids both of those pitfalls, tapping into the conventions of both subgenres without relying on them.
I’m glad that you raised the ending right off the top because I have a feeling that it will be divisive. I was more than comfortable with the decision to leave it open-ended, but that was mostly because the “mystery” wasn’t what was driving the film to me. (I did consider a plausible fourth option, however: Einar was drunk and he fell into the starvation rift and froze to death).
Ultimately there are far too many clues that Einar has met an untimely end – the foreshadowed bottle falling off the balcony, the fact that Gunnar can’t find him when he first arrives at the cabin, literally every conversation with the female neighbor, the way Einar disappears from the bluffs after telling the chilling story of the sheep and, most significantly to genre fans, the red raincoat that can only evoke Nicolas Roeg’s classic 1973 film Don’t Look Now (if you haven’t seen it, drop everything and seek it out). When Gunnar finally finds Einar’s body curled up into the fetal position, it’s not so much a surprise as the inevitable payoff to an anticipated event.
The peppering of these hints, matched with the creepy visuals involving the doors and windows that creep open on their own, are enough to satisfy audiences looking for a mild spooky thrill, but that’s not what drew me into Rift. To me, the film is so fascination not because of its supernatural elements, but because of the relationship between its leads, the strong performances from both actors and that gorgeous cinematography you mentioned, which really serves to reinforce Rift’s themes.
What did you make the sexual initiation stories, Trace? Would you consider this an inherently “queer” film (I was shocked by the number of reviews that made a point of mentioning how the leads could have been substituted out for a more conventional male/female relationship)? And does the film make you want to visit Iceland?
Trace
Thoroddsen actually said in Ari’s interview with him that Don’t Look Now was a big influence when he was writing the script for Rift. Both films have a very specific style, and while Thoroddsen may not quite be on the same level as as Nicolas Roeg (yet), he at least shows a tremendous amount of promise, especially since this is only his second film (his first is the pretty great Child Eater). This is a film that deals very heavily with how a person processes the end of a relationship, much like how Don’t Look Now centers on a married couple processing the accidental drowning of their daughter (i.e., the end of their relationship with their daughter). I’m glad you caught the connection Joe!
I don’t want to say that I hate it when films give queer characters such a tragic sexual backstory because I don’t (and things like that absolutely do happen), but it all too often seems like a crutch that films fall on with those types of characters. It’s like some screenwriters go “Okay I need to give this person a tragic backstory. What can I do? Oh! He’s gay. Let’s have him be raped.” I’m not saying that Thoroddsen did this (and if it sounds like I’m being critical of the film I promise I’m not), I’m merely saying that it’s a trend I see all too often in queer cinema. That being said, Stefánsson acts the hell out of that scene and it’s truly heartbreaking to watch.
It is understandable that so many reviews make a point of mentioning how the leads could easily be switched out for male/female counterparts, especially when you consider that the normalization of queer culture is a primary goal for some members and supporters of the queer community. That is a bit of a tricky subject, because while the normalization of queer culture would ideally result in acceptance, by definition it assumes that queer people want to be “normal,” whatever that means. It belittles the trials and hardships that many of us have gone through. I understand the intent behind those types of statements in reviews for the film though. There aren’t a lot of queer-specific aspects to the narrative other than the fact that Gunnar and Einar are a gay couple and the aforementioned tragic sexual initiation stories.
Discussing that topic reminds me of when I was criticized in the comments of our Hellbent article for writing too much about queer issues and making everything about my sexuality (that person has since deleted his comments, hopefully because he realized that he was wrong). Statements like that always bother me because they are usually made by people who come from a position of privilege. When you grow up not being able to safely talk about something that is a part of who you are it’s only natural to want to talk about it as much as possible when you find a space that is safe. For me, Bloody Disgusting is one of those safe places for me – douchebag comments aside. I like talking about something that makes me different and also finding things in film that I can relate to. Queer horror is one of those things.
I imagine that some privileged people might say something similar about a film like Rift. “I don’t have a problem with gay people but I just don’t want to watch a movie about it” or “Why does it have to be about gay guys?” Is it a good thing that Gunnar and Einar could easily be switched out for a straight couple and the film wouldn’t be much different because of it? That is ultimately up to audiences to decide; while I wouldn’t necessarily call it “good,” I wouldn’t call it bad either. Thoroddsen should be applauded for even making a film like Rift. The queer community has very little representation in the horror genre so for something like this to even see the light of day is inspiring. If anyone has a problem with that then they might want to consider the positive effect it will have on a queer person watching it. You’d be amazed at how life-changing seeing someone like you represented on screen can be.
I feel like I’ve digressed a bit from the film though, so I’ll pass it back over to you Joe. What were your thoughts on those final 20 minutes? It’s arguably the most “horror-y” part of the film so did that transition work for you or did it seem out of place? Did you find moments like Gunnar hiding in the closet to escape a predator to be a bit heavy-handed in their symbolism? Or did things like that work for you (confession: they worked for me)? Oh, and I absolutely do want to visit Iceland now.
Joe
Before tackling those final, more genre-specific minutes, I want to echo your sentiment. I raised the point about the interchangeability of the characters because I was considering the argument myself while watching the first half of the film. Part of me wondered if the film was queer enough until the truth about their first sexual encounters came out, then it felt like Rift clicked and became a very explicitly queer film.
You’re right, Trace: these kinds of traumatic (childhood) sexual experiences are not universally applicable to all gay men and they’re certainly not exclusive to our community (countless cinematic female narratives have and continue to be established on this same premise). The silence that both men wound up using as a coping mechanism to deal with their trauma struck me as one of the queerest elements of the entire film.
There’s an entire political movement based around the idea of silence = death in the queer community. We are the only ones who speak out for ourselves. We are still marginalized and pushed to the magins. We, along with a few other unlucky groups, continue to be persecuted, attacked and murdered in higher than average numbers. (Hell, I live in a city where there was an active serial killer targeting the queer community and the police blamed us for not helping to catch him earlier).
This is why we continue to need and demand queer stories such as Rift: because if Gunnar’s sexual assault confessional to his dead lover (who may have been murdered because of his sexuality) helps to reinforce that these kinds of encounters happen, that they’re not ok, and victims (and by extension) need to have the safety to tell their story, then that’s powerful and important.
Alright, let’s climb off of our soapbox and get back to the nuts and bolts of the film. As I previously mentioned, the climax was the least successful element of the film to me, but that was primarily because Thoroddsen had to focus on wrapping things up in some kind of satisfactory way. Endings are tough nuts to crack and, unfortunately, they’re the last impression in audiences’ minds, which makes it easy to fixate on how a film did – or didn’t – come together in the end.
In the case of Rift, I think the film’s nightmarish dream visuals catch up with it. When Einar is coming and going early in the film, there’s enough uncertainty to make it work. When Gunnar is climbing through holes in the wall, hiding in closets (sigh), hearing childhood imaginary friends and even fending off blows from a psychotic old perv, it’s definitely the closest that the film comes to horror, but it also feels far less compelling to me. The relationship between the men is what drives the film, but by this time Einar has disappeared in order to drive the plot to its logical conclusion, so all that we’re left with is Gunnar wandering around piecing together the mystery. For my money, Rift works better as a relationship drama than a mystery to be solved, though I recognize that I may be in the minority. If you prefer violence and tension, this is likely the part of the film that works best for you.
For me this last burst of violence is necessary, but also a tad perfunctory. The Don’t Look Now homage of an attack in a confined space is spot on, however, and the aforementioned sight of poor Einar’s lifeless body packs a nice emotional wallop, so I really can’t complain too much.
What does intrigue me, and lends additional heft to the idea that there is something supernatural going on, is the fleeting wrap-around visual of Gunnar standing, looking stunned, with blood all over his face. This is the very first image we see when the film begins and it’s repeated again within the climax. It could mean three things: 1) this is a compelling image to open the film with, 2) it’s foreshadowing for Gunnar’s journey or 3) the timeline is all messed up (in which case your point about Einar already being dead before everything we see and Gunnar is working through stuff is entirely plausible).
I think it’s likely a combination of 1 & 2, but I appreciate the fact that Thoroddsen deliberately refuses to wrap up the events that led to Einar’s death with a tidy bow. Some audiences hate a lack of closure, but I love a good open ending so that’s another point for Rift in my books.
Next on Horror Queers: Join us on a journey to pervy, voyeuristic New York City where we discuss Phillip Noyce’s 1993 erotic thriller Sliver!
Rift is available to stream for free for Amazon Prime members.
And don’t forget to catch up on our previous Horror Queers articles right here!
After fifty years of continuous writing, Stephen King has become a genre unto himself.
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.
Kate O’Flynn, Stephen Root and Matthew Rhys in “Widow’s Bay,” now streaming on Apple TV.
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