Editorials
Werewolf Horror: How Lycanthropy Can Be a Powerful Queer Metaphor
There is power to be found in embracing our inner beast. In a world that has, at best, othered us and at worst, deemed us monsters, queer fans of film have found power and comfort in the horror genre. Since the days of the Universal Monsters, members of the LGBTQIA+ community have seen themselves reflected in the fantastical worlds of these classic creatures, especially in the werewolf.
Queer Horror History and the Legacy of Movie Monsters
The vampire, beginning with Nosferatu and Dracula, is often the first such monster to come to mind when looking for LGBTQIA+ representation. The sexual fluidity of Bram Stoker, creator of Dracula (1897), is well documented, and if one looks closely, they will find queer characteristics throughout vampire lore and history. Combine these underlying themes with the everlasting appeal of the vampire in pop culture, and it is no wonder that these creatures of the night have frequently found themselves in the spotlight of queer identity and culture.
Today, I want to shine the spotlight (or better yet, the moonlight) on another beast. One that is often depicted as having a very different kind of relationship with their monstrous nature than the vampire, but which we would argue is equally queer. The werewolf, or the lycanthrope, tends to tell a more tragic story–One of curses, sacrifice, and loss of bodily agency. Their tales don’t tend to fill us with hope, which may make queer fans reluctant to link their narratives to their already marginalized community. But I believe the werewolf has a powerful role to play in exploring how queer identities have been treated, how they have evolved, and where they may be going.
How Universal Monster Movies Reflect Queer Identity
Universal Pictures was not the first to depict the werewolf in popular culture. That honor goes to The Werewolf (1913), a silent film directed by Henry McRae. With The Wolf Man (1941), director George Waggner truly brought it to the masses and solidified much of the lore we still know today. From the beginning, the werewolf resonated with queer audiences. Larry Talbot, aka The Wolf Man (Lon Chaney Jr.), is depicted as a man tormented by the tension between the identity he curates publicly and the one that emerges in the cover of darkness. Apart from the wolf prosthetics and makeup, Talbot’s wardrobe, hairstyle, and body language are different when he is moving about “polite society” versus in the comfort of his own room or the woods post-transformation.
In Waggner’s film, much is made of the negative impact that Romani culture has on those around them, through their more progressive, hedonistic, and decidedly Un-Christian spirituality. These critiques mirror the barbs lobbed in the culture wars against the LGBTQIA+ community, and in this film, it is the decision by Talbot and his female companions to seek out the company of the Romani people that leads to his “infection”.
The Wolf Man, Queer Panic, and the Fear of “Contagion”
This reminds me of the ways the queer community has been accused of grooming young people and pushing its agenda upon them.
Throughout the film, a poem is recited by numerous characters:
Even a man who is pure of heart,
And says his prayers by night,
May become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms,
And the autumn moon is bright.
Within the universe of Waggner’s film, this poem is foreboding, speaking to the inevitability of the lycanthropic curse and its ability to infect even the most pious of men. Through a more progressive lens, one might reframe this sentiment to remind us that our identity, sexual, gender, or otherwise, is immutable. To resist is to invite shame. Instead, what might be possible if we embraced and celebrated our identities? Tragically, Talbot never gets the opportunity to explore this path. He meets a fatal end at the hands of his father and a silver-topped cane, sacrificing himself to prevent the pain he may inflict on his loved ones. Such fates are uncomfortable, but even in 2026, they are all too common. This is one role the werewolf story serves–Reminding us of the dangers that we still face when our identities are misunderstood by ourselves and those around us.
Dog Soldiers (2002)
Why Queer Werewolf Horror Stories Are Often Tragic
The fact that so many werewolf stories end in tragedy is another reason it has failed to achieve the level of universal symbolism of the vampire. We understand that the queer community flocks to horror because of the genre’s bravery in exploring the more painful elements of life. But even horror fans have their limits. A subgenre that offers little hope of a happy ending may be difficult to digest for marginalized communities already struggling to maintain hope.
Consider some of the most popular and widely watched werewolf stories in horror: An American Werewolf in London, The Howling, Silver Bullet, and Dog Soldiers. Classic and formative films, but they end the same way, with the death of their lupine protagonists. Even Ginger Snaps, which is considered a modern classic of female (and perhaps queer) empowerment, must sacrifice the wolf at the center of its story to solidify its themes.
How It Resonates With Queer Audiences
Many people who have struggled with their sexual and gender identity have gone through phases where they were told there was something wrong with them. Many have internalized these messages and learned to view themselves as cursed. Praying the gay away, social isolation, and even death, via suicide or high-risk behaviors, is a maladaptive solution many queer individuals have had to battle in their evolution. The werewolf’s journey towards self-destruction and oblivion can serve as a cautionary tale and a dark mirror through which to view our reflections.
The Werewolf as a Queer Horror Symbol of Rebellion
One of the more empowering readings of the werewolf through a queer lens is to consider their role as social disruptors. Queer people break the “rules” of standard social expectations simply by existing. Similarly, at their core, werewolves shatter the status quo on micro and macro levels. Consider the werewolf transformation, perfected and still unmatched, by Rick Baker in An American Werewolf in London. As David (David Naughton) changes, his werewolf identity shatters his physical form and social identity. The unassuming and charming boy next door is stretched and broken, to give birth to something new, raw, and animalistic. To some, this may be frightening. To others, this may represent the ultimate transformation into a more genuine identity, a process which, while painful, may set them free.
On a grander scale, the werewolf as social disruptor is a common theme in their films. Much like queer relationships, values, and identity call our social traditions into question, the werewolf serves as an agent of chaos when it is unleashed. In An American Werewolf in London, some of the most impactful scenes follow David as he tears across the city of London, instilling fear in its citizens in their public transportation system, their backyards, and even their sex shops, all places of safety and structure that tend to prop up cisgender and heteronormative values.
Challenging Gender and Institutions Through Horror
The Future of Queer Werewolf Horror in Film
There is so much more to say about the werewolf and its role in exploring queer identities through horror. But we will break here to shift our attention to the future. The pain, suffering, and torment that the werewolf archetype embodies are critical in providing a balanced picture of the queer experience. However, modern times call for modern stories, and we want to encourage future filmmakers to imagine a new way of telling the werewolf’s story.
Much like queer lives depend upon not just accepting our identities, but actively embracing and celebrating them, what could be possible if we extended the same opportunities to the werewolf? What if we shifted away from stories about breaking the curse, and instead threw out the notion that lycanthropy is a curse at all? Modern retellings of the werewolf, such as Being Human (2008) and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, have explored ways to coexist with the werewolves among us. Still, even these stories show the wolves’ loved ones locking them away in dark cellars and locked rooms. They are accepted, but still viewed as a danger. Instead of a safe room, imagine a wilderness preserve, where once a month these figures can truly free themselves and celebrate their identity.
A Call To Action
In the future, might we allow werewolves not just to survive their stories, but to thrive in their stories? There will always be a place, particularly in the horror genre, to explore the fear and the danger inherent in the wolf, but horror is also a place to explore strength, hope, and resilience. I look forward to a time when the werewolf is truly unshackled and allowed to reflect the full spectrum of the queer experience, howling their pride under the light of the full moon.
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.
