Editorials
Why the World Needs More Diversity in Black Horror
English poet William Cowper coined the saying “variety’s the very spice of life” in the late 1700s. Knowing who he is isn’t as important as understanding what was correct in his time is still valid in ours. Especially when it comes to horror. A world with just slashers or just ghost stories or only monster movies isn’t a world any of us want to think about, much less live in. Seriously, just writing that sentence makes me sleepy.
Solely relying on one type of movie hinders the genre and blows out any ember of creative fire. More importantly, it continuously reinforces one image while cementing a larger narrative that’s hard to diffuse.
This is why Black trauma can’t be the only form Black horror movies exist in. At the moment, it’s tough to look at and continues an American tradition of profiting from Black pain.
Get Out started a trend of filmmakers and studios mining America’s most pronounced sin—racism—for scary movie material. How couldn’t it? Jordan Peele’s rookie movie is a masterpiece that made money hand over fist and is now part of our country’s shared lexicon. We got content like Lovecraft Country, an exploration of systemic racism through pretty damn artful sci-fi and horror in its wake. Artists found creative ways to have conversations that some still view as “uncomfortable” while doing their very best to entertain.
Through their eyes, we saw Black people beaten, berated, harassed by cops, and harassed by neighbors, all for the crime of being Black people in a white country. Yet they survived. Some of them even became superhuman and thrived. In short, it felt great. It’s cathartic seeing people who look like you triumph over true evil in ways our ancestors could only dream of. And even then, just dreaming about getting even was reason enough for them to lose their lives to a rope or a gun.
“Lovecraft Country”
But then 2021 kicked off with more Black men and women dying at the hands of cops. More families were crying on TV because their loved ones are no longer breathing. Which, of course, meant more continuous coverage of Rev. Al Sharpton, Benjamin Crump, and state press conferences. At one point, we heard from Daunte Wright’s grieving mother during the recess of the Derek Chauvin murder trial. Our pain—Black pain—was once again on display for the entire world.
Whether on TV, social media, or movies, Black trauma is a staple of American pop culture. Struggling to survive and the will to overcome historically define an entire race partially because those images are fed to the world on a semi-regular basis. To George Floyd’s family, he was flesh and blood with hopes and dreams. But the world sees him as a symbol, another short film about our trials and tribulations, with another family’s tears as the soundtrack. We are more than physical and emotional punching bags for racists who claim there’s no prejudice bone in their bodies.
Believe it or not, Black people also fear haunted houses and getting lost in unfamiliar territory with a group of friends. We, too, worry about falling asleep one night and not waking up the following day. And yeah, a boogeyman in a William Shatner mask gets our heart rate making wind sprints just as much as the next person’s. Zombies don’t scare us because we’re Black; they scare us because we’re human. Like all people on this planet who breathe oxygen, there is complexity in what keeps us up at night. But there’s a reason universal fears are precisely that.
Putting too much focus on a particular fear that only afflicts one group of people is an easy way to dehumanize and “other” them rather than empathize. That’s why Antebellum, Them, and even Lovecraft Country are hard to reckon with. Their shared message of things changing only to stay the same is needed since there are still people who believe racism went the way of the do-do bird or the Model-T. Antebellum even goes so far as to point out Black bodies and Black pain are used to entertain. But all three perpetuate images we’re way too used to in this country. Also, it’s not like the market overflowed with Black horror films, even before the pandemic. We have minimal real estate to build on, so we need more than one type of horror flick with more than one message.
‘Antebellum’
Black characters can occupy the same spaces usually dominated by white characters. I love the idea of a group of Black teenagers trying to outsmart Freddy Krueger or fleeing from Jason. No, not as the token diversity members of an ensemble, but as part of a cast of fully-realized Black characters who are easy to love, hate, and everything in between. Just like any white person in any horror movie ever made.
This isn’t to say horror as graphic as Lovecraft Country doesn’t have merit in 2021. There is always a need for horror to say something important when the world feels like it’s falling off its axis. And unfortunately, some people don’t respond to subtlety. However, we need balance. Not just for multifaceted stories and scares, but also for the well-being of Black horror fans. Seeing the latest update on the most recent woman or man slaughtered in the street because of the melanin in their skin is depressing. Turning to horror for a brief respite only to relive that trauma is emotionally taxing. And I’m just tired.
A little variety goes a long way.
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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