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!
College kids, strippers and vampires—those were Donald P. Borchers’ only requirements when he approached Richard Wenk about writing and directing a movie for New World Pictures. As requested, Wenk cooked up Vamp (1986), a tailor-made blend of the decade’s teen movie craze as well as its horror boom.
Grim and earnest stories were still very much a part of the ’80s horror landscape, yet Vamp is something of a comedy. One difference between it and, say, Saturday the 14th, though, is the former avoids using schtick. Wenk’s movie proves that horror comedies also don’t have to subtract thrills from their recipes. Of course, it takes a minute before reaching that point; college antics and culture shocks preface this one macabre misadventure.
Vamp‘s initial setup is apt for a typical college-set, sex-driven comedy; to bribe their way into a fraternity house, two pledges (Chris Makepeace, Robert Rusler) go looking for some adult entertainment. Without wasting time on any further exposition, the characters embark on an all-in-one-night trip that quickly detours into terror.
To procure their elusive MacGuffin—a stripper willing to gyrate for some frat boys—Keith (Makepeace) and AJ (Rusler), plus a third wheel named Duncan (Gedee Watanabe), trade the safety of their remote college campus for the seediness of some unnamed city. The setting is recognizably L.A. by day, but as soon as night falls, downtown, along with the characters, slips into a kind of surreal universe. Director of photography Elliot Davis gave this early entry on his prolific résumé an unusual yet distinctive look; that Mario Bava-esque, magenta-green lighting is omnipresent, so much so that it’s almost its own character.
Chris Makepeace and Robert Rusler in Vamp
The faint comparisons to Martin Scorsese’s After Hours are merited, although not just because of Vamp’s distinguishing nighttime aesthetic. Save for the primary characters, the supporting roles in Wenk’s movie are also quite colorful and transactional in their behavior. The difference here, though, is the additional urge to ruin Keith and his friends at every turn. Some of that harm is humorous and tolerable enough, whereas the moment Vamp dishes out its first fatality, it’s abundantly clear how this movie qualifies as horror.
Vamp falls into that category of horror movie that reveals its genre with a scream rather than a series of whispers. The opening scene can function as a hint of what lies ahead—things are not at all what they appear to be—but otherwise, Wenk is more than happy to hold off on the horror. When that time does come, though, it catches the viewer off guard. In addition to the pure shock value is that sudden decision to upend the movie’s foremost feature. Or so it would seem.
If afraid of major spoilage, those new to Vamp would be wise to stop reading here. There’s just no skirting around the fact that the central fellowship in this buddy movie hits a serious snag when AJ is killed. That development causes the story to become more of a “long, bad night” journey for Keith and his romantic interest. So while Wenk scores points for subverting expectations, there is also a touch of sadness in his decision. Because if Vamp does anything well, it’s making the characters likable.
Something that comes easily to Vamp—and other teen horror movies from this same era—is its ability to invent young characters worth caring about, or at the very least, are interesting and not so immediately off-putting. More impressive is how Wenk did all this without actually fleshing out those characters. Still and all, Keith and his kind are a grade above cookie-cutter, and in some cases, aren’t completely devoid of growth.
Grace Jones in Vamp
Vamp appeals with an assorted cast of characters. No two are the same, nor are they operating on the same wavelength. The cinematically extroverted AJ, whose actor conveyed charm and vulnerability in near equal amounts, comes alive when he’s at his most undead. Makepeace then makes the chronically cautious Keith a sympathetic fellow, even as he’s more and more affected by the night’s bizarre events. Meanwhile, Duncan is indeed the designated loser of the whole bunch, but Watanabe still manages to humanize him. As a bonus, the role didn’t require him to pull a Long Duk Dong.
As for Dedee Pfeiffer, she is plain adorable as the mysterious After Dark server nicknamed “Amaretto”. She spends all night fixing her dress strap while at the same time trying to get Keith to remember how he knows her. As their offbeat romance grows, it becomes another highlight of this movie. Whether or not Pfeiffer’s character is really a vampire also creates some welcome tension in the story.
Like a lot of its contemporaries, Vamp went on to become a bit of a cult classic. That current status is determined by several factors, but without a doubt, the casting of Grace Jones is the most considerable. The image of her writhing on that unique-looking chair, a Keith Haring original, springs to mind whenever this movie is brought up.
Chris Makepeace, Billy Drago and Paunita Nichols in Vamp
Prior to that first display of unequivocal horror, local vampire queen Katrina (Jones) took to the stage and delivered a strip show like no other. One would expect nothing less from that renowned model and performance artist. By now reports of Jones’ tardiness on set are no secret, yet it’s also hard to deny her commitment to the part of Katrina. It was, in fact, Jones who took charge of her character’s appearance—on top of Haring painting her body and that now-iconic chair, she had Andy Warhol handle her costuming. And not too many actors could seize a room’s attention without saying a single line of dialogue.
In 2022, Vamp received a retrospective novelization from Encyclopocalypse. This literary union of preexisting source material—Wenk’s original screenplay—and new ideas from author Christian Francis amounts to a more comprehensive visit to the After Dark Club. The basic story there is no different than what’s shown on screen; however, Francis gets creative with the characters’ origins and designs, and he enhances a number of key scenes.
The novelization expands on the urban and social decay of the main setting, and supplies a background for the After Dark Club. Sandy Baron’s character, Katrina’s emcee and familiar, is given ample motivation for sticking around; up until the fiery end, he is loyal to his friend and former business partner “Squeak”, who looks like he was “fed through a combine harvester, and left as nothing more than a heap of mangled remains”. Then there is Billy Drago’s character Snow, the leader of a street gang called The Dragons. His reason for menacing Keith and AJ is more altruistic than in the movie; he and his peers act tough to scare off any potential food for the vampires.
Lisa Lyon in Vamp
If not for all the backstories, Francis’ Vamp would be a hell of a lot shorter. Instead, this tie-in read dives into how AJ met Keith—the orphaned Anthony Joseph hailed from a broken home back in Brooklyn—and how their friendship flourished over the years. Keith’s archership is no longer just an assumed part of his entire being; it’s a confidence-building extracurricular for a boy who got picked on before coming into the protection of the new kid in town. These supplemental, in-depth looks at the protagonists, plus their close connection, are maybe unnecessary. The movie already did a fair and concise job of addressing their platonic intimacy without the need for flashbacks and insights, specifically in that scene where AJ lays it all out as he sacrifices himself.
Where the novelization gets off course is its approach to the minor characters. Intermittently backstorying the likes of Katrina’s indentured servants, Seko (Leila Hee Olsen) and Vlad (Brad Logan), ends up disturbing the flow of the writing. Was it absolutely essential that readers know Vlad was the Grand Duke of the House of Romanov, or how Snow’s accomplice Maven (Paunita Nichols) became so dentally challenged? No, not really. However, one’s mileage with these random biographies may vary.
The novelization is a more substantial experience, but for a movie like Vamp, less is more. And as plentiful as they are, it never simply coasts on its campy charms, either. The character work sits comfortably in that realm between cursory and meticulous, the script is sharper than first realized, and Greg Cannom’s vampire makeup is straightforward yet effective. Most of all, the movie didn’t squander its out-of-the-box concept. Richard Wenk made his vision of a “comic nightmare in which just about anything that can go wrong does” come true, and it is very enjoyable.
You must be logged in to post a comment.