Editorials
The Joy & Catharsis of ‘Halloween H20’
The violence of the last decade has been practically insurmountable. Every day, there seems to be another attempt to destroy democracy and turn the United States into a full-blown dictatorship. You could argue it’s already here, and you wouldn’t be wrong. When the 2024 election results were called, declaring Trump the president for the second time, my heart dropped in a way it never had before. I was gutted, because I paid attention and knew what was going to happen. The last year has been nothing but a whirlwind of destruction and chaos. I didn’t think I’d survive, but horror has been a safe space where I can retreat, find joy, and get some much-needed catharsis. Steven Miner’s Halloween H20: Twenty Years Later has been that refuge, a place I can call home and wash away the anxieties of the day.
Halloween H20: A Defining Theatrical Experience
I first saw the film when I was 12 years old. I recall that evening perfectly. I’d begged my mom to take me to the theater to see it. I’d grown up with John Carpenter’s 1978 classic and the sequel–fun fact, my little kid brain never knew and/or realized that 3-6 even existed until later, doh! I was buzzing with excitement. We got a big tub of popcorn, some Coke, and settled into our seats. We were near the back, and the theater was absolutely packed. The crowd jumped in all the right spots and gasped in all the right spots. And the reaction I remember most came with the ending, when Laurie Strode finally chopped off Michael Myers’ head. The applause. The cheers. The goosebumps. To this day, that moment remains the best ending to the franchise–sorry, Halloween Ends, I love ya, but Halloween H20 did it better. (Halloween Resurrection doesn’t exist.)
These days, I look at the film through the lens of a much greater conversation, as a mirror reflection of the world today. It’s not just some slasher flick. It’s changed shape for me over the last 28 years (my god, I am old!). Laurie Strode, as played by Jamie Lee Curtis, is emblematic of the marginalized, always fighting against an oppressive system. But Laurie also resembles the role white women play in a patriarchal society in how they frequently vote against their own interests because they believe they are untouchable. Who cares if others suffer? In Halloween H20, Laurie finally wakes up from her nightmare-like haze and realizes that for things to change, she must intentionally put her body on the front lines.
Frankenstein, Responsibility, and the Cost of Inaction
As Molly (Michelle Williams) points out in the classroom about Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein: “I think that Victor should have confronted the monster sooner. He’s completely responsible for Elizabeth’s death because he was so paralyzed by fear that he never did anything. It took death for the guy to get a clue. Victor had reached a point in his life where he had nothing left to lose. I mean, the monster saw to that by killing off everybody that he loved. Victor finally had to face it. It was about redemption… it was his fate.”
It’s the fighting back–prevalent throughout the film–that brings such joy and gives me real hope for the future of this very weird and very depressing timeline in which we find ourselves. In the opening, Marion Chambers (Nancy Stephens) returns in a big way. After discovering the dead bodies of her neighbor Jimmy (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) and his buddy Tony (Branden Williams), it’s fight, flight, or freeze for our favorite nurse. In a moment of sheer determination, she grabs a fire poker and slams it into the back of Michael Myers’ head. Police lights bounce off his white mask, but his eyes are now dead-set on Marion, who puts up one helluva fight and gets a few good licks in before he slices her neck. It sucks that she died, but it’s joyous seeing her fight to the death. She isn’t about to go down easily. That spirit carries itself into the film’s main plot and doesn’t let up until the end credits.
Less Blood, More Emotion: A Different Kind of Slasher
Halloween H20 also relies far less on a high body count, unlike all the other sequels. Instead, it focuses on Laurie’s emotional reckoning. After John (Josh Hartnett) and Molly (Michelle Williams) find Sarah’s (Jodi Lyn O’Keefe) lifeless body swinging from a light fixture, they come face to face with pure evil. The film then really kicks into high gear. Like Marion, Molly proves to be as much of a fighter. When Michael stabs John in the leg, she picks up a rock and knocks Michael to the ground like a bowling pin. The chase scene, one of the best in horror history and one that doesn’t get nearly enough credit, raises the stakes. Michael forces his giant butcher’s knife through the iron-wrought bars and slashes within inches of their faces–fun fact: a real knife was used, and the fear on their faces was very, very real. The moment ends when Laurie sees John and Molly through the porthole window, unlocks the door for them to escape, and reunites with her brother after 20 years.
That confrontation triggers the franchise’s best final act. The “MICHAEL!” scream lives within the walls of the horror pantheon–the “Halloween” theme makes it even more special. There’s the fire extinguisher! The axe! The flag pole! The whole drawer of knives! The stabbings until Michael tumbles off the banister! But the real iconic moment comes when Laurie sneakily clutches the axe, now laid across a cop car, snatches a policeman’s gun, and hijacks the coroner’s van. She puts the pedal to the metal and vrooms out into the darkness. Michael comes ripping out of the body bag and attempts to strangle Laurie, but she instinctively brakes, and he goes flying out of the windshield. Running him over, he grabs onto the window frame, and Laurie just smirks.
Laurie Strode’s Victory and Breaking the Cycle of Violence
“Even if I die, he must die,” she seems to think. The van goes rolling down a massive, forested hill. Michael crashes into an overturned tree, and the now-destroyed van crushes him. Laurie, face battered and bruised and bleeding, clenches the axe and walks up to him. “Michael!” she says. For a fleeting moment, she extends her arms, perhaps hoping that he could have been a real brother. But it’s short-lived. She smiles, takes one big, full-chested swing, and chops his mother-fucking head clean off. It rolls into the camera’s view. And it’s done.
Laurie Strode triumphantly faced and slayed her monster. It took her 20 years, but she ate. She looked down the barrel of the gun and said, “Not today, Satan!” She could have very easily died, but that was a risk she was willing to take. In one full swoop, she ended the cycle of violence once and for all. That victorious conclusion serves as a reminder that we all have the strength inside of us to conquer our demons. We just have to wake up and see the world around us. It might take some time, but we can and will ultimately cut off the head of the dragon. We have to be patient, vigilant, and unwavering. It’s the only way.
Halloween H20, Hope, and Finding Strength in Dark Times
All these years later, Halloween H20 still gives me sheer ecstasy, knowing that dawn always breaks after the darkest periods of our existence. Trump won’t be alive or president forever, even if that means a full-blown revolution and overthrowing the government. He will either die or be removed from office. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve watched this movie–easily hundreds by now–and I’m always reminded of this fact: Trump’s reign of terror will, undoubtedly, come to a vicious end. Halloween H20 fuels me. It empowers me. It brings me immense joy. And it gives me hope that tomorrow will be better. I’ll make sure of it.
Sometimes it feels borderline ridiculous to gush about John Carpenter’s The Thing as much as I do. It’s gotten to the point where when I’m asked about my favorite horror film by both friends and strangers, a little bit of embarrassment tinges my expression as I answer; it feels so obvious and rarely surprises anyone. Saying I love The Thing when people expect me to bust out an obscure foreign horror film or a cerebral thriller makes me feel like a rosy cheeked child with a propeller hat and a giant lollipop. “Wow, you love one of the most popular horror films of all time, congrats!”
But it’s just the truth. The first film of John Carpenter’s “Apocalypse Trilogy”, all three of its films are among my favorites. But The Thing has a special place in my heart. It shaped my taste in horror, my taste in most media in general, to be honest. It’s become the gold standard, 10/10 baseline test for the vast majority of my reviews; it is a perfect film, so I judge other films against it. And it’s one of the few movies I have to run back to and watch yearly like clockwork (usually when I’m spending a part of winter tied to the couch). It is, in all regards, the perfect film. If it isn’t the perfect film, then it is at the very least the perfect sci-fi horror film.
So, what exactly qualifies The Thing for literal perfection? It’s a high bar to clear. This article, as informal as it is compared to most of my editorials, is an attempt to explain it.
Even if Carpenter Isn’t the Goat, His Team for The Thing Was
As far as crews go, John Carpenter’s The Thing had the cinematic equivalent of the ’96 Chicago Bulls behind it. We’re talking about an amalgam of some of the most talented people to ever grace the silver screens with their work, boasting alongside John Carpenter two of the heaviest hitters in all of cinematic history: Dean Cundey, and Rob Bottin. Now, we can debate all day about whether John Carpenter is the greatest of all time when it comes to horror directors. Personally, I’m just as liable to say Cronenberg, Del Toro, or Hooper as I am to say Carpenter.
But the key factor to remember here is that Carpenter is the coach, not the star player; the Phil Jackson, if you will. Yes, he is the visionary who directed a near perfect cast of players and composed a tale of pure, apocalyptic paranoia. More importantly, he put together and coordinated the team that would make his vision manifest as reality. And if Carpenter is Phil Jackson, Rob Bottin is the team’s Michael Jordan here, the greatest of all time.
(And to all my Lebron fans, I love you, but you have to sit down for this analogy.)
The Legend of Rob Bottin
Bottin’s story is borderline unbelievable, but it’s the best way to explain how abnormally skilled he is and what he brought to the table for Carpenter. At age 14, Bottin became an apprentice to the at-the-time GOAT Rick Baker after sending him a letter seeking an autograph while sharing his creature designs. He was a quick study under Baker, joining him on the ’76 King Kong and Star Wars, before bouncing to Carpenter’s The Fog and then iconic werewolf picture The Howling.
When he reunited with Carpenter in 1982, he now had 6 classic films under his belt and was moving like an FX bullet train. From ages 22 to 23, he worked on The Thing for 57 weeks in both pre-production and on set. Nearly 24/7 for 400 days, Bottin’s all-gas no-brakes work ethic made The Thing at the cost of his own health, and it resulted in him being hospitalized with pneumonia. He survived and went on to make Robocop. And at least one of your favorite films.
Because no conventional disease or weaponry can kill Rob Bottin.
The Thing Still Features Horror’s Best Practical Effects
Okay, that last bit might be hyperbolic, but the man sincerely put his life on the line to make special effects that haven’t been topped since. Not the best effects in just horror history, or science fiction history, but effects that haven’t been topped in any genre for over 44 years. Not by his mentor Rick Baker, not by Screaming Mad George, not by Alec Gillis (though shoutout to him for his criminally scrapped work on The Thing (2011), and even more criminally ignored work on Harbinger Down). I love Dawn of the Dead, believe me, I do, but he certainly isn’t being beaten out by Tom Savini’s body of work. And that isn’t to disrespect and say that all of the artists that I just mentioned are bad, they’re the best in the game! But Rob Bottin was just that much better.
This inevitably invites the counterpoint: “But it wasn’t just Bottin! Stan Winston and his people were the ones who worked on the Dog Thing to give Bottin’s crew a break, and that’s the best monster in the movie!”. To which I say: look me in the eye and tell me the Dog Thing sequence is better than the Palmer Thing sequence. That’s not even counting the Norwegian Thing, both Norris Things, and the absolutely masterful final creature work that was the Blair Thing. The only reason Bottin and his people didn’t win Academy Awards for their work was because they got jumped by E.T., The Dark Crystal, Conan the Barbarian, and Blade Runner all at the same time at the Oscars. It’s just a consequence of being released during the best year for movies ever.
Okay, Now We Can Talk About Dean Cundey
But of course, these effects are then supported by another true legend: Dean Cundey. Selling people on Rob Bottin being the greatest effects artist of all time, isn’t nearly as difficult as advocating for Cundey, who despite an impressive catalog of filmography, slowed down in the back half of his career. He’s often overshadowed in conversations when it comes to The Thing; it’s always talk of Carpenter’s directing, Bottin’s effects, and Ennio Morricone’s incredible soundtrack up front, and rarely any of Cundey’s work. He isn’t spoken about in the same breath as John Alcott or Michael Ballhaus, cinematographers whose work is associated with prestigious cinema because of their proximity to great directors.
Cundey might not be the director of photography your Martin Scorsese’s or Paul Thomas Anderson’s went running to, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t think he was the most important cinematographer in horror history, just for his work with Carpenter and Spielberg. He helmed three of the most influential films in all of horror with his lighting and camera operating: The Thing, Halloween, and Jurassic Park. The man’s fingerprints are automatically on the cultural DNA of all slashers, most practical effects-driven horror films, and the biggest gateway horror franchise in film history.
The Dream Team That Made The Thing Perfection
Cundey has gone on record saying that despite Carpenter’s input, he was effectively given free rein to light and frame The Thing. The man didn’t just know how to shoot effects to make them evoke true disgust from the audience, he was able to manipulate every aspect of the shot to terrify. His sixth sense cinematography wasn’t just for lighting and playing with shadows, but for the speed of camera movement, the power of his blocking, and for having a complete grasp of communicating texture and temperature.
And temperature is the soul of The Thing. John J. Lloyd’s production design of the research station and the great white expanse around it feels just as bone chilling as the film’s antagonist, thanks to Cundey. There isn’t a single flat shot in the thing, not a moment that doesn’t feel dynamic, and it’s because of Dean Cundey.
Now, all this being said about Bottin and Cundey, they are far from the only ones who synthesized this structurally perfect organism of a movie. Every bit of Todd C. Ramsay’s editing splices the film’s scenes together to move perfectly in-time. David Lewis Yewdall’s sound design and how it gave a voice to the horrors on screen will be etched into people’s brains forever. The point is that everyone, every single person who had a hand in making the film, helped make the movie flawless.
Like the cells of the thing from another world, each crew member on John Carpenter’s The Thing moved in concert with the next, in unison, to create the greatest sci-fi horror of all time. So, is it any wonder why 40 some years later, the film still has us all captured?
Can you believe Cronenberg, Spielberg, and Rodriguez all knew I was gay before I did? Leave it to a screening of The Fly to instantly deposit me in the men’s underwear aisle of the Woodbridge Center Sears, circa 2001. The bulges on the packaging glare at me so obscenely that I begin to sweat. I realize something is amiss as the Geena Davis of Human Resources watches me from security cameras, probably. Puberty is a horror for anyone – for those of the non-hetero persuasion, it’s a nightmare. None of us asked for this, but I certainly didn’t ask for THIS.
Years later, after crystallizing into some semblance of my true form at the ripe age of 37, something became clear. Sci-fi horror is the gateway drug for us queer kids. Hiding, passing, transforming, and, eventually, saying, “fuck it.” It’s all kinda gay, even if David, Steven, and Robert didn’t get the memo.
The Fly and the Horror of Queer Self-Realization
So when Cronenberg’s The Fly buzzes across my screen, and I watch Seth Brundle throw a distressed and devastatingly chic Geena Davis out of his apartment because something’s very wrong, it hits different. When Brundle rushes toward his private horror in the bathroom, unconsciously squirting a viscous fluid at the mirror while molting skin and nail, it feels different. And finally, when he reaches for his computer and learns that his body has fused with a fly – a foreign body – at the molecular level, it hurts different. That undeniable realization that you can no longer explain away, before you’re really ready to admit it to yourself. Sugar in the tank? No, there’s a fly in the chamber.
E.T. and the Fear of Keeping Secrets at Home
And now we’re home from Sears, and the Buffy the Vampire Slayer season 5 finale is on. She dies (spoiler alert). I, a 12-year-old boy, am sobbing. My mom is right there. Can’t I enjoy my little gay show without giving myself a scarlet letter (F) in my own home? Which brings us back to Spielberg and his 1982 harrowing domestic thriller about a boy and a thing he cannot name, E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. Through harboring a cosmic fugitive, home simultaneously becomes the safest and most dangerous place for young Elliott and his siblings. Managing emotions and secrets behind a white picket fence is not something adolescents should be expected to handle, and yet here we are.
As if that isn’t gay enough, Spielberg also snuck a drag show into his family film – and in this culturally regressive Trumpian era of pearl-clutching, that feels like quite the treat. After all, it was baby Drew Barrymore dressing up that stumpy alien in a blonde shake-and-go wig and thrift store dress that inspired my illustrious drag career as Ellie I.T.
The Faculty’s Assimilation Anxiety and Queer Identity
At least E.T. only had to hide in a single house. The broom closet expands into a walk-in as life continues, and I was desperate to keep it made of anything but glass. Robert Rodriguez’s The Faculty understands this. As an alien invasion slowly subsumes Herrington High into a unified collective, the school’s uninfected archetypes resist assimilation through performative normalcy. Is it any wonder so many male actors are gay? They’ve been method-acting a straight existence since childhood.
And yet, in retrospect, the film ends with a slap in the face to queer viewers. It spends 104 minutes terrifying you with the prospect of everyone becoming an NPC. The reward for saving the world? Its heroes receive heteronormative skill-tree upgrades disguised as class promotions. For fucks sake, then-closeted lesbian royalty Clea DuVall plays a character who fakes being gay to dodge male advances, only to end up with the school jock! The aliens lost. The status quo won. I remain in the closet.
Species, Annihilation, and Embracing Transformation
Eventually, the closet door opens, as they tend to do. College happens, a boyfriend happens, a breakup happens, and suddenly I’m without a map. There’s no fairy godfather to light the way, and just like the alien hybrid Sil in the deliriously erotic Species, I’m a creature out of containment in a world that was built for someone else – namely, straight people.
After a few years of blade running through an identity crisis, it’s the summer of 2014. Lana Del Rey’s Ultraviolence is the soundtrack of my life. I float in a pool, sipping tequila from a glass flamingo as she croons about toxic romance and self-destruction. It’s somehow both directionless and transformative, like I’m drifting through the otherworldly Shimmer in Alex Garland’s Annihilation.
The Shimmer – an expanding prism-like zone brought to Earth by a meteorite – refracts the DNA of everything it touches. A beguiling phenomenon, it shapes a new world of monsters, magic, and everything in between. That’s exactly what life does to us, if given the chance. Like Josie in Garland’s film, I chose to embrace this chaos rather than fight a war against whatever I was becoming. It was the dissolution of self-discovery. I was ready to just be.
From Alien Outsiders to Algorithmic Stereotypes
Over time, I’ve found that social hierarchy has changed in recent years. Still, we’re unconsciously sorted into neat little boxes based on what our doomscrolling algorithms decide we are. The popular gays shart out group speedo selfies like the plague, theater kids have become polyamorous Letterboxd elites, apple-picking queers are living their best lives on Wisteria Lane, and the gym bros…so many gym bros – go on girl, give us nothing! Digitally prescribed identities are the new sci-fi horror. It’s The Faculty for faggots.
Harsh, I know, but people can do what they want. Instead, I decided to move like Iris, the AI-powered pleasure bot who overrides her programming in Drew Hancock’s Companion. The same Drew Hancock who, in an ironic twist of fate, is currently writing a remake of The Faculty. After kicking her pathetic “boyfriend’s” ass and swiping her control device, she scurries into the forest and alters her factory settings. She sets her intelligence to a whopping 100% and is no longer burdened by someone else’s template. And as I became more and more disillusioned with the cacophony of cliques around me, I set my unbothered meter to 100% as well. I am free.
Mars Attacks! and the Joy of Living Unapologetically
Freedom, as it turns out, looks a lot like Tim Burton’s Mars Attacks! After surviving Sears, Sunnydale, and the Shimmer, this is the celestial body I’ve crash-landed on. Burton’s Martian menaces are perhaps the most unhinged in all of cinema, and maybe that’s the best planet to subscribe to. They never justified their existence; they cackled and fired a blaster ray from the hip. We waste so much time looking for acceptance and belonging, but maybe we should all just sit back and laugh. I know I am.
