Editorials
Aliens, Love Triangles and Sexuality in British Sci-Fi Horror ‘Prey’ [Horrors Elsewhere]
Horrors Elsewhere is a recurring column that spotlights a variety of movies from all around the globe, particularly those not from the United States. Fears may not always be universal, but one thing is for sure — a scream is understood, always and everywhere.
Although the British film industry struggled to stay afloat throughout the 1970s, there was no shortage of creativity and bravado in the few homegrown movies coming out. A notable example of such cinematic boldness is Norman J. Warren’s 1977 film Prey—the hurriedly made and unofficial adaptation of D. H. Lawrence’s The Fox stands out when analyzing the decade’s genre offerings. The film is replete with depth and discussion about gender and sexuality. This peculiar story centers around couple Josephine (Sally Faulkner) and Jessica-Ann (Glory Annen) opening their pastoral home to a suspicious stranger (Barry Stokes). What the women do not realize is, their unexpected and very odd male guest is really Kator, an extraterrestrial scout sent to survey the planet.
Prey came together in a matter of weeks; outlining, pre-production, and shooting all happened over the course of one month. Max Cuff’s script was still a work in progress, so the actors were never completely sure what was in store for them until the day of filming. Satan’s Slave director Warren had little time to prepare before the 10-day shoot commenced on the bucolic backlot of Shepperton Studios. The crew—many of whom were coming straight off The Pink Panther Strikes Again—had to make do with a £60,000 budget, including having some of the cast provide its own wardrobe, letting stuntmen and non-actors play speaking parts, and using props and sets left behind by other productions.
A sequel called Human Prey was in the works at one point and would have picked up where the first movie left off. Now knowing Earth was overflowing with food “high in protein,” Anderson and his kind proceeded to round up humans like livestock in the follow-up. Stokes would have had the chance to play multiple roles since the other aliens also adapted Anderson’s appearance. On account of the original film’s meager success at the time, the sequel was ultimately abandoned.
This tinderbox of a movie begins with Jessica awakening one night to the mysterious sounds of Kator’s arrival on Earth. She instinctively rushes to Jo for comfort despite recently moving into her own room to evade a spell of recurring nightmares. What is happening nearby, however, is real; a parked couple is killed by Kator, who then assumes the dead man’s appearance. The next morning, Jo and Jessica find the alien, now humanlike and going by the name of Anders Anderson, limping around the manor.
The domineering Jo views Anderson as a threat to both her relationship and her own preconceived notions about the opposite sex. She immediately lumps their guest in with other men who she believes are all inherently weird and animalistic. The longer Anderson stays though, the more she becomes perplexed by his atypical behavior and obsessed with discovering what makes him tick. Her wretched need to find his Achilles heel is why she allows him to stay the night. Meanwhile, Jessica is equally bothered by Anderson; she is thrown off by his utter sexual apathy toward her. He is not aroused by either woman, and for the time being, Jo and Jessica let their guards down and behave openly as if he does not even exist. They make love—a protracted and tender scene largely ad-libbed by the uninstructed actors—with the door unlocked and ajar.
Things finally start to boil after Anderson kills Jo’s nuisant fox. The animal supposedly killed her beloved hens in the middle of the night—the only animals Jo showed any affection for in the film, possibly because they are female—and she flew into another fit of rage after discovering their grisly slaughter. Yet once Anderson presents the fox’s carcass, Jo softens for a moment. Perhaps her overstated antipathy toward men is based on choice rather than reason. As part of a celebratory dinner, they plaster Anderson’s face with makeup and put him in a full-length dress. What could be viewed as a form of acceptance—the women do not see Anderson as a man no longer and therefore, they can trust him—is also part of Jo’s test; she still wants to see Anderson’s soft underbelly, so to speak. While Anderson is unbothered by the dress because human gender norms do not exist where he comes from, Jo now sees him in a completely different light. She temporarily abandons her disdain for men and attempts to kiss Anderson while he is in full makeup and wearing a dress. Much to her own surprise though, Anderson recoils and effectively rejects Jo. She then soon resumes her previous stance on him and all men.
With a title like Prey, the movie undoubtedly looks to analyze its predatory relationships. The most obvious is Anderson, who dawns an admittedly goofy-looking and wolfish visage as he hunts down pesky coppers and foxes. The other discernible and pressing predator-prey relationship is Jo and Jessica’s. While the manor belongs to Jessica’s family, Jo has moved in and completely taken over. Further exerting her control over her latest dalliance, Jo disposed of Simon, a previous rival for Jessica’s affection. Annen’s character discovers the bloodied evidence, including a large and phallic switchblade, in Jo’s belongings and starts to question who she should really be afraid of now—her lover or the weird man in their house. The confusion worsens during a game of hide-and-seek as Jo plays the apt role of hunter; Anderson tells Jessica she’s “like a caged animal” while they are holed up in a closet. She claims she is free to do whatever and go wherever she pleases, but deep down, Jessica knows she is only kidding herself.
It is reasonable to believe Jessica invited Anderson into her home to satiate her longing for male companionship. Earlier, her request to go on a brief trip by herself is met with angry disapproval from Jo; she tells Jessica they “can’t risk it.” It is clear Annen’s character yearns to see other people, but Jo has since isolated Jessica from not only society—the two are local pariahs based on Jo’s “you know they talk about us” comment—but also her own sexuality. Jessica misses Simon, and as audiences have since learned, his sudden disappearance is deliberate. Jo literally eliminating the competition and denying Jessica the right to explore all sides of her sexuality is uncomfortable to watch. In its own unique way, though, the movie pegs the erasure that bisexual people endure.
There are mixed messages here about Jo and Jessica as well as sexuality in general. On one hand, the two women’s love is depicted frankly and without euphemism; Jo is blunt when expressing their status to Anderson. They also have problems other couples can relate to on some basic level—Jessica with her desire for independence and experience and Jo’s jealousy and control issues. Had Jo been swapped out with a male actor, though, the script would require only minor revisions. The stereotypic gender dynamics remain intact regardless of the fact there are two women in this relationship. In contrast to the way other queer folks were routinely represented by the media in those days—they were caricatures, mentally unsound, or criminals—Jo and Jessica are still handled with some thoughtful consideration in spite of the blatant toxicity in their relationship.
Prey is oppositely minimal and intimate in comparison to movies where alien invasions are often carried out on a grander scale. The story lacks big, external action and instead relies on the three main characters’ innermost disturbances and darkest natures manifesting under duress. In the meantime, this brooding thriller cooks on a low flame until the explosive denouement comes into view. Punctuated by violence and sexploitation, and made tenser with Ivor Slaney’s synthesized score, Warren’s radical and layered sci-fi-horror film earns its complicated legacy. It goes without saying, not everyone will take a liking to this uneasy ‘70s oddity, yet there is so much here for fans of experimental cinema to enjoy and analyze.
Editorials
How Marina de Van Uses Body Horror and Pain to Explore Trauma in ‘In My Skin’ and ‘Dark Touch’
Pain is the language of New French Extremity.
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.
You must be logged in to post a comment.