Editorials
Confronting Carter Smith’s Queer Horror Short ‘Bugcrush’ [Formative Fears]
Formative Fears is a column that explores how horror scared us from an early age, or how the genre contextualizes youthful phobias and trauma. From memories of things that went bump in the night, to adolescent anxieties made real through the use of monsters and mayhem, this series expresses what it felt like to be a frightened child – and what still scares us well into adulthood.
Before he directed The Ruins, photographer-turned-director Carter Smith adapted Scott Treleaven’s story “Bugcrush” from the book Queer Fears II. Like the source material it is based on, this half-hour movie follows a teenage boy whose curiosity about a new classmate leads him and the viewers to a dark place. Grant (Donald Cumming) is the alluring new student whose mystery and defiance catches the attention of Ben (Josh Cara), and when Grant reciprocates those feelings, Ben’s troubles truly begin.
The horror genre is a source of comfort for people everywhere, and the reasons vary from one fan to another. Generally, there is something about seeing characters trapped in dire situations, where they often only have themselves to count on, that can be empowering to watch. Catharsis comes in waves, victory is celebrated, and against all odds, the survivors persevere and emerge ideally braver and stronger than before.
Yet with scarring horror like Bugcrush, finding consolation is complicated. The initial frustration I feel when watching Ben’s nightmare unfold is further followed by unavoidable reflection in light of my own similar experiences.
The excitement is evident as Ben accepts Grant’s invitation to his house one fateful day. The only hitch, however, is Grant’s two pals tag along for the “date.” Once they all arrive at the outlying location, Grant seduces his guest with endearments first and then a suspicious anecdote. In this amatory account of his, Grant details the chance encounter with an unusual bug whose bites induce immense ecstasy and sedation. It’s not long before Ben and Grant are alone somewhere else with a conspicuous bed on the floor. The nervousness of the scene is swiftly replaced with outright dread as Ben feels a sharp bite on the back of his neck. Using an embrace as cover, Grant applied one of the aforesaid insects to his admirer in hopes of relaxing him. Ben’s panic subsides momentarily before he realizes what’s in store for him as Grant’s friends now enter the space.
What happens next is unmistakable even without direct confirmation. It is also disturbing because of the fact we never see anything beyond a series of ominous signals before the end credits roll. The focus on Grant’s unbuttoned fly as he hovers over his subdued prey, Ben’s isolated and paralyzed stare as he is helplessly flipped onto his stomach, and a din of disembodied, guttural grunts from the perpetrators – everything here suggests the final scene finishing with a gang rape. Young queer stories frequently chronicle the malicious side of coming out, or the violence inflicted on someone for simply existing as their authentic selves; Smith and Treleaven uphold the tradition with severity. What we ultimately wanted to happen between Ben and Grant, never does, and for that, we as the audience feel guilty for encouraging the encounter in the first place. Never did we want such a thing to happen to Ben, but perhaps we were more invested in our own entertainment than his actual safety.
This achievement in unexpectation also winds up being a discerning study of a gay teen who seeks approval among his straight peers. Like so many of us raised in heteronormative cultures where being seen as different can have adverse consequences, it only makes sense Ben tries to fit in as a way to not stand out. He has to traverse the confusing social landscape that is high school and gauge how to act around different groups there. He can be fairly open with close friends, but with people like Grant, Ben treads carefully. He approaches the object of his affection with temperate eagerness and becomes silent when his lackeys teasingly ask him if he likes girls. Although pretense ebbs once Grant shares his tale of autoerotic discovery in the woods, Ben still tries not to overstep his bounds in this circle of seemingly heterosexual males; even if both sides were testing the waters earlier on to see what unspoken rules have some flexibility.
When growing up in a conservative area without a visible safety net of queer friends and allies, you may learn to toe the line and never loudly oppose the implicit agreement that heterosexuality is the de facto norm. Relatedly, Bugcrush is set in an average small town that appears rural but is still developed despite Treleaven noting the area hadn’t made the same “giant social strides” as the big cities. Given that detail and words of caution from friends when he tells them he likes Grant, discretion is a must for someone like Ben because one false move could get him ostracized or hurt. He wants to follow his heart like any other lovestruck teenager, but there are caveats like his needing to be with someone he can trust with his secret. Of course, Grant ends up taking advantage of Ben – emotionally and physically – and that betrayal is why this story is accessible to anyone caught on the receiving end of duplicity.
In the absence of touchable closure, Bugcrush ends abruptly without making the victim’s fate known. Other stories about sexual violence are prone to showing some kind of resolution, whereas here, we see a person robbed of his agency, then dehumanized again and again until the screen cuts to black. This might read like a case of showing torture for entertainment, but so much of what befalls Ben can be applicable when trying to communicate a singular and devastating experience to those unaware. Following such trauma, it can be difficult describing those specific feelings felt during, much less years after the fact. So it is jarring how vividly Smith captured that distinct elixir of hopelessness, shame and terror which, for some people, will never quite go away — but it may become more manageable with time and help. How Ben would cope is something we will unfortunately never know.
Bugcrush does not make an easy play for comfort, and any solace it does inspire, may just be incidental. At best, the movie’s irresolute conclusion can urge others in a roundabout way, including myself, to close those chapters of our lives that keep us feeling so very haunted. And for my own sake, I hope to start working toward the ending I only wish Ben could have had.
I compare a movie as open-ended and contestable as this to a recurring bad dream which stops at the same place each and every time. Just as it gets to the most intense part of the sequence, I wake up to a flurry of unsettling emotions and thoughts now needing context and appraisal. My interpretation of such a raw and brutal story won’t be the same as someone else’s seeing as how I personally identify with Ben’s ordeal, but without a doubt, Smith’s push for harsh uncertainty will bring out a visceral reaction in everyone as they watch a hapless ‘bug’ get crushed.
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.
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