Editorials
Horror, Men, Queer Love, and Cars: ‘The Hitcher’ & ‘Christine’
When thinking about the historical and traditional symbols of heteronormative male culture, two main things come to mind; women and cars. Cars are such an essential part of this identity that an entire franchise is dedicated to the power of cars. So utilizing cars, and the culture around them, to tell stories about queer identity and sexuality is fruitful territory. Christine (1983) and The Hitcher (1986) take on these ideas but utilize them differently. Christine is a movie about a killer car that entices a nerdy boy desperate to be a man, while The Hitcher is about a man who accidentally picks up a killer that he becomes inexplicably attached to. Ultimately the two movies give our main characters two options; repress their identity or accept their transformation. In one tale, we see how this struggle drives two best friends apart, and the other brings two strangers together. Yet both highlight how our focus on traditional societal values and binary identity can cause immense harm, destruction, and death.
Queer Moments in Car Culture
While car culture is traditionally seen as a part of heterosexual male culture, these two movies have many queer moments specifically in and around the car. Both movies start with sexually charged scenes between the characters as they enter the car. In Christine, Dennis picks Arnie up to go to school. Immediately the conversation turns sexual as they talk about blowjobs which prompts Dennis to talk about how they need to “get Arnie laid”. Eventually, Dennis comments that Arnie “can count your life savings between your legs”. Insinuating that Dennis knows that Arnie has a big dick. In The Hitcher, Jim picks up John, making the excuse that he needs someone to keep him awake during his long drive. The first thing he says to John is, “My mother told me never to do this”. The time spent on the ride is filled with awkward first glances and touching. Eventually, someone stops them on the road, gets the vibe that they are a couple, and says, “Get going sweethearts”. These two first encounters show us how a car is a place where these men can be alone with each other. And the atmosphere often feels like an awkward first sexual encounter or a nervous first date. They offer a secluded location where the outside world does not influence these characters.
Symbolism of Cars in Christine and The Hitcher
Cars are used in other ways as well. By all accounts, Christine is meant to be looked at like a woman. The car is frequently sexualized by the camera. When she’s destroyed by Arnie’s bullies, it’s filmed like a rape scene. And there is the iconic “show me” scene in which she repairs herself in front of Arnie. It’s shot like a seduction scene. In The Hitcher, cars are not given a personality, but they are a tool. John rear-ends Jim, which has clear sexual allusions. They’re used as weapons and home to deviant behavior like the multiple murders that John commits. It is the mode in which the two can stalk one another. John uses cars as a weapon to destroy the heteronormative world, killing families, cops, and young girls. And it feels like a big coincidence that both movies have a scene with a flaming car, which in and of itself is clearly a queer implication.
When Jim and John are not in cars, they are frequently framed coming in and out of doorways, gates, and car doors. Jim is also frequently in gas stations, diners, and bathrooms. Several times we see Jim sexualized in the bathroom spaces. We see him constantly changing into “clean” clothes, and even showering. He tries to be clean, but John continuously brings him back into the dirt, filth, and everything deviant. Jim even dreams about John, his conscious and subconscious, wholly focused on this one man. As the movie goes on, they begin framing Jim the same way they frame John, a subtle nod to the transformation he is going through. By the end of the movie, when he is given the opportunity to move on and leave behind the events he has faced, he actively chooses to turn around to find John and become the deviant killer John wanted him to be. They constantly compare their actions up until the end, when they are truly aligned. Where Arnie has an unspoken supernatural connection with Christine, Jim has a similar connection with John. These forces can sense each other.
Barriers to Connection in Christine
In Christine, Arnie and Dennis are always positioned with something or someone in between them; girls, parents, tables, and even a case of beer. It alludes to how the two are constantly separated by status, societal pressure, and Christine. Arnie’s transformation aligns with a girl in a teenage comedy where the nerd takes off her glasses and becomes hot. There are also moments in The Hitcher when John and Jim are separated in a similar way, but as they consistently show us, all you have to do is reach across the table or divide to get to each other. This is evident especially in the scene at the diner when Jim pulls a gun at John, and John moves his finger closer and closer to the barrel. In The Hitcher, they constantly find ways to touch and be physical with each other. Whether by fondling each other with weapons, or John holding Jim’s face tenderly. They even swap saliva, licking or spitting on each other at different times. These strangers have an immediate physical connection, one that Arnie and Dennis would probably envy. Yet they cannot find it in themselves to act on or entertain these ideas. Ultimately Arnie and Dennis are doomed because they cannot take that next step, they don’t try to reach for each other.
There are also women in the movies that stand between the men. Both women are androgynous or masculine in style and appearance. Even their names are masculine (Leigh and Nash). Leigh has strong, traditionally handsome features like her dramatic jawline. She usually wears pants and tops with little to no hint of cleavage. This is a stark difference from Roseanne, who has a crush on Dennis but cannot get his attention. She is nerdy and has a similar stoic presence as Dennis. In the final scene, she is styled like Arnie and has a similar stoic personality to Dennis. She is a combination of the two, which makes her a perfect cipher for them. If they cannot be with each other, they can be with a woman that reminds them of each other. She is also part of the status symbol Arnie needs to be seen as a “man”. He has the car, the makeover, and the hot new girl, so he does not feel emasculated for the first time in his life. In the movie’s final scenes, Leigh and Dennis are immediately very physical, in a way he never could be with Arnie. So when Arnie is gone, she can fill the void.
Nash as a Symbol of Heteronormativity in The Hitcher
Nash has a short bob haircut, is very casual, and dresses in jeans and t-shirts (also styled similarly to the men). In The Hitcher, John sees Nash as a potential lifeline for Jim. She is the only person that believes he is not a killer. She represents a return to a heteronormative life for Jim. In John’s eyes, she needs to be destroyed. John acts like a jealous lover when confronting Jim about her. Nash never gets the opportunity to understand what is going on. She asks Jim, “Why didn’t he kill us?” and “Why did you pick him up?”. But Jim is never able to answer. He wants to believe that he is another victim or that he picked John up out of kindness, but the truth is perhaps more complicated. They have an unexplainable connection to the outside.
It is fair to question if John is a real live person or a representation of the “deviant queer” lifestyle that Jim is seduced by. John has no record, and the police cannot find any information on him. Jim is framed for John’s crimes because he is always at the same place the crimes happen. He even has evidence on him. So it all begs the question, are these just two strangers who are inexplicably drawn to each other, or does the idea of deviance entice Jim, and John is simply a part of him that he cannot suppress? It’s all centered in a desolate area tied to hitching and truck stops, and queer culture is essential to these ideas. Even the name John brings to mind the idea of “a John” like a client of a sex worker. It’s steeped in ideas in and around historically “deviant” sexual culture. Christine and John are strong forces influencing others, one towards repression and one towards acceptance.
Repression and Masculinity in Christine
Christine is centered around repression and masculinity. Arnie is emasculated because he is a nerdy gawky kid. He is the target of bullies. Even Dennis unintentionally emasculates him by being at Arnie’s side, constantly fighting his battles. If Arnie has romantic feelings for Dennis, it is covered by his resentment of Dennis. On the other hand, Dennis does this out of love. He wants the two to be close and gets visibly emotional as Arnie drifts further away from him. He is even jealous of Christine as soon as Arnie sees her. Dennis can be vulnerable and emotional with Arnie, but as Arnie transforms into more of a heteronormative man, he pushes their emotional connection aside. Much of it is distilled in the last conversation the two have when Arnie brings up the idea of love:
Let me tell you a little something about love, Dennis. It has a voracious appetite. It eats everything. Friendship. Family. It kills me how much it eats. But I’ll tell you something else. You feed it right, and it can be beautiful, and that’s what we have. You know, when someone believes in you, man, you can do anything, any fucking thing in the entire universe. And when you believe right back in that someone, watch out world, because nobody can stop you then, nobody! Ever!
Dennis wants this monologue to be about him, fears it is about Leigh, and finds out it is actually about Christine. Arnie always thought Dennis stuck around out of pity because of his internalized self-hatred. Yet these complex emotions are too much for these high school boys to unpack. So Arnie gets consumed by repressive gender norms and traditional values.
Repression vs. Acceptance
They both have a similar “kill your queers” ending. Unsurprising, although still too present in mainstream media. But the stories have subtle differences in portraying the last men standing. In Christine, Arnie is killed, and Dennis is welcomed back into the heteronormative fold. While in The Hitcher, Jim is no longer the sweet innocent boy he was at the beginning. He becomes the violent hard man John wanted. Dennis becomes normal, and Jim is a deviant, now living in the queer-coded world. Whether looked at as cautionary tales or happy endings, it is clear that ideas around identity and sexuality permeate these movies. Making them interesting thought pieces on socialization and how heteronormative and toxic masculinity culture have made “being yourself” difficult and often painful. Whether choosing to repress or accept, you might end up taking a ride in a flaming car.
The Host (2006) may not be director Bong Joon Ho’s most acclaimed film, but it’s certainly the one that I find myself revisiting the most. At the time of its Cannes premiere in 2006, it was lauded for how effortlessly it handled both a mix of genres that make it hard to pin down and for how smoothly it delivered its social commentary. Beyond that, its dynamic directing and instantly iconic monster make a creature feature of a different caliber. 20 years later, it’s hard to say the film is anything but some of his best work, even against the impressive catalogue that Bong Joon Ho built up in the following two decades of cinematic excellence.
Among the likes of Best Picture winner Parasite, jaw-dropping crime thriller Mother, and even its much more popular creature-drama counterpart Okja, The Host stands as an incisive movie in Bong’s filmography that manages to cut right to the heart, even on rewatches. But what is it that makes it so endlessly effective, and so continuously cathartic, on every single watch through?
The Host, Real Life Ecological Horror, and Dirty Secrets
While kaiju films intertwined with ecological horror are nothing new (Godzilla as a franchise has revisited the well many times since vs. Hedorah in ‘71), The Host is one of the only kaiju films to succeed at really unsettling you with its subject matter. It has a verisimilitude that is undeniable, and the reason why is shocking: it’s actually inspired by a real-life story.
Before Shin Godzilla tackled the collapse of faith in civil authority, the dangers of bureaucracy, and the uncertainty of our ecological future, The Host was here to blend all of our contemporary fears into a thick slurry of sickening terror and add a dash of real-life depression to it. The movie is overtly inspired by the real-life McFarland Incident, in which a mortician named Albert McFarland, working at the U.S. Army’s Yongsan Garrison in Seoul, commanded a subordinate to dump 24 gallons of formaldehyde into the Han River rather than dispose of it properly.
The opening scene of the film is a recreation of this incident, overtly labeled the cause for the film’s monster, the Goemul, to mutate into what it does: a gargantuan, deformed, half-blind fish creature. What ensues from its birth is a harrowing few days in Seoul, as father Gang-du and his estranged family race to try and rescue his daughter Hyun-Seo from the creature. As the Park family’s search for its youngest member puts them on the path of opaque health officials and military hiding secrets about the creature, a clash between the public and the government begins to brew and threatens pure chaos.
Taking Large Scale Horror and Making It Personal in The Host
In the following decades since Bong’s heartbreaker kaiju born of pollution was put to the screen, the real life Yongsan Garrison painfully remains a symbol of ecological irresponsibility on the part of the American military. Its groundwater is saturated with insane amounts of carcinogens, nearly 30 times the permissible standard.
In the great knife twist of governments obscuring the truth, the status of forces agreement between the U.S. and South Korea gives them effectively carte blanche to dispose of chemicals without any sort of supervision or oversight, mainly for the sake of “keeping the peace”; it’s a dangerous and all too realistic parallel to the smokescreen the government uses in the film to keep the South Korean public in the dark, supposedly in the interest of public safety but more obviously in defense of optics.
There’s an ever present irony, and a hard to swallow misfortune in this fact, that makes the film’s biting commentary sting just a little worse and for much, much longer. As our delicate ecosystems hang in the balance, we live with a sword dangling above our heads; few still have hope that the powers that be can or even want to keep it from cutting us. That’s the real horror the film draws on, and it’s a soul draining theme that permeates it.
But amidst these large-scale societal fears that the script explores, Bong Joon Ho has added an emulsifier of sorts. One pivotal ingredient that takes the large-scale and makes it personal: a sense of alienation in everything. The way the film is structured, from how its characters are written, to how its narrative is split, to the very flow of hope and fear that it uses to pull at your emotions, relies on evoking a sense of alienation in the viewer.
A Cast of Characters Without a Country
Each of the characters within The Host is a man without a country. Each one alienated from the other, their estrangement is evoked for some very dry humor at times, but it’s a laugh that makes you cry. In what is possibly the film’s most overtly humorous scene, the Park family falling out and crying at the memorial service, Bong uses the physicality of the event and their clinging to one another before being torn back apart to represent the family’s irreparably divided nature. There’s a deep sickness of longing in the family, a sense of complete otherness from parent to child and sibling to sibling that is delved into as the characters progress throughout the film.
Our main character Gang-du, is the clearest example of a person who slipped through the cracks and simply ended up alienated from the entire world; he’s a child of poverty, malnutrition stunting his mental growth. Neglected by his father, he ended up resorting to picking around for scraps through the tradition of seo-ri, a type of subsistence by theft that becomes the film’s shorthand for the solitary nature of its characters.
Alienation and Family Trauma at the Heart of The Host’s Horror
His siblings both share this hunger, particularly Nam-il. Once a gifted student and political activist, it becomes clear later in the film that Nam-il has become alienated from his own political identity and sense of self. Becoming a cold and mean-spirited alcoholic, Nam-il has grown numb to hope for change as he is left behind by friends who have become part of the system he wanted to dismantle. Disillusioned by the state of government, Nam-il is consumed by nihilism and trapped in the very bottle he seeks escape through. Even the most accomplished of the siblings, Olympic archer Nam-joo, whom the family delights in watching, is alienated by virtue of becoming a symbol of her family and country’s success rather than being her own person.
A Camera That Embodies Separation
As the script puts together these characters consumed by alienation, Bong places them in the frame with the intention to make you truly feel their hopelessness and terror as the world falls apart around them. Bong favors wide shots of the cast, who often stand alone, contrasted against an encroaching threat. The close-ups he uses in conjunction with them are often uncomfortably intimate, reflecting the trapped state of the Park family, both emotionally and when physically endangered by the monster.
The Agent Yellow sequence is the film’s starkest example of this; each of the Park family being swallowed up by the rolling chemical cloud, scattered protestors starting to grow violently ill as they’re separated from their people. But if I had to hedge my bets on the most striking, it’s between two interspersed sequences: the scientists going to lobotomize Gang-du, and Hyun-seo’s daring escape attempt, which coincide at the end of the second act. They’re so radically different in just about every aspect, with Gang-du’s medical horror being bright and hauntingly sterile in its invasiveness; Hyun-seo’s prospective climb to freedom, mere feet away from the monster is caked in grime and masked in minimalist lighting.
Bong Joon Ho, The Maestro of Emotional Manipulation
But both of these scenes exemplify how masterful a filmmaker Bong truly is. After building up these tragic characters you feel dangerously close to and then placing them in nightmare scenarios, he’s able to get his hooks into you. The whole movie is filled with moments like this where Bong, through visual language and frame perfect editing, drags you up and down on an emotional rollercoaster.
He fills you with hope for the Park family and then shocks you with reveals that snatch your seat out from under you. By tapping into our own fears of the world and then placing us alongside characters whose fear of isolation compounds onto your own, Bong Joon Ho’s The Host stands as a film of true emotional power.
It’s a testament to just how truly moving and profound a horror film can be in the right hands, and of the way a genre film can be pushed to its absolute limits. Loneliness is a heavy weight to lay on the heart, and there are few films where it feels as heavy as The Host.
In May 2015, my father died. It wasn’t sudden, but it was difficult nonetheless. I had just moved to Rhode Island, no longer able to afford Boston. One evening that August, in the midst of my grief, I met up with a new friend I had made since moving to the Ocean State. We had bonded over our love of horror movies – the thrillers we loved, the new releases we did not, what we thought was missing from the genre. At some point, I thoughtlessly said, we should make our own horror movie.
So one fine Tuesday night, Brandon Perras-Sanchez picked me up to discuss this possibility. He shared an idea for a horror movie with me that he had with his friend, Christopher Dalpe. It started as an absurd riff on hookup apps. “Brandon and I knew we wanted to put a dick through a meat grinder,” says Chris. We picked him up and all drove to Ogie’s Trailer Park, a dive bar in Providence’s West End. As Brandon recalls, “our blood pact was made that night at Ogie’s.” That evening, we began building upon their ideas of what would become our first feature film, Death Drop Gorgeous.
I bring up my father’s passing because I think, in many ways, this project carried me through my grief. If you’ve watched Death Drop Gorgeous, this might be silly to read – that a John Waters meets 80s slasher drag queen exploitation film helped me process the loss of my father, but as Joni Mitchell once wrote, “laughing and crying, you know it’s the same release.” I’d find myself in cafes in Providence every weekend, writing pages and pages of what the three of us discussed, following our sticky note outline. Then, every week, we’d meet up and read the pages aloud. Brandon made it gorier. Chris made it wittier. We’d change scenes, switch the order, add more, delete less.
Go In, Completely Blind
In this process, we didn’t consider the road ahead. Prior to that, I had always been a type-A Virgo. I planned, I assessed, and I organized. None of us had shot a short film, never mind a full-length. Brandon had gone to school for some sound design, but he didn’t major in screenwriting or filmmaking. We didn’t bother ourselves with those trivialities. Letting go of that control and not considering what it would take to shoot a feature lent to our momentum. Maybe that naivety is in part the reason we finished it at all.
Building a DIY Horror Filmmaking Collective
At some point in pre-production, Brandon looped in his long-term friend, Wayne Gonsalves, to create a more realized character of Dwayne, and his partner, Ryan Miller, to help with finessing the story. We became a strange quintet, running around town, shooting scenes, figuring it out as we went along. No permit? No problem. (Not a joke, we’ve never got a film permit – not for lack of trying! They just never emailed us back.)
At some point, we realized we had to name ourselves. I think it was Chris who came up with “Monster Makeup”; it referenced our first feature: the drag, the gore, and special effects, but it also represented what we did: we made horror movies, we created monsters.
There were a lot of conventions we ignored. For me, this article is not only about reflecting on our work, but also about sharing our process. Like adulthood, there are milestones in a filmmaking career that you’re, allegedly, supposed to follow. I’m not insinuating they don’t help, but there are other ways to make your filmmaking dreams a reality.
The Coven Becomes a Collective
If you finish this article and remember any piece of advice, I want it to be this: if you’re going to shoot a DIY, shoestring-budget movie, you have to have community, and you must collaborate. No matter how intimate and personal your vision may be, filmmaking is inherently collaborative. As a collective, we had to shed our egos. Of course, over the decade, there have been a handful of disagreements, but we never saw our movies as these precious things that only one of us had the final say on.
Funding a Microbudget Horror Movie Through Local Support
Community is the reason our films exist. Death Drop Gorgeous was mostly set in nightlife, and most of us had been working in the bar scene for years. We knew the queens, the venues, what drew crowds and what didn’t. We called in favors to shoot a fake trailer. In addition to a crowd-sourcing campaign, to raise our budget, we also threw fundraising events from a drag show, to a (human) pup Best in Show, to an interactive murder mystery.
“Our projects would not exist without the immense support we received from our friends, family, and community,” says Chris. “Not just money. The spaces we’ve filmed (gifted and donated), the actors and talent (volunteers, many acting in front of a camera for the first time), costumes, makeup, pizzas for the crew – everything has been a labor of love from this weird village, and I’m eternally grateful.”
“We are forever indebted to our Providence family,” Brandon affirms. These films transformed from pipe dreams to community initiatives. As more folks joined our projects, the more it was helped along by others outside our core five. Our thank you speech could be its own feature-length. Somewhere along the lines, we convinced our city we were filmmakers, and eventually, we started to believe it, too.
Working With Your Community as Creative Inspiration
I emphasize collaboration and community because I think aspiring filmmakers feel limited by what they don’t have and not inspired by what they do have access to. We knew drag queens, we knew nightlife, we knew local music. It’s not just “write what you know,” it’s also “write what you have.” I also think some filmmakers have a sense of ownership of their work that doesn’t come from a place of pride but a place of possession. If you’re going to shoot a microbudget film, you need to learn when to take notes, and let others take the reins.
Trial-and-Error
What we learned in the previous film, we would apply to the subsequent project. Saint Drogo, our second feature, was an intentional shift. We lassoed in local photographer and musician Kevin Bowden (who scored a majority of Death Drop Gorgeous) to ensure a more visual spectacle. The quintet became a sextet. We wrote a leaner script without a B, C, and D plot. We wanted to explore another genre and demonstrate our growth. “Myself, and some of the other crew members, lean more towards dark, bleak, folk and fantasy horror,” says Brandon. “We really wanted to take a shot at it.”
While we didn’t want to limit the story, we did go into writing Drogo with the reminder of having undergone such a long production with Death Drop, which included an ensemble cast and numerous locations; we wanted to make filming more manageable for us. Sometimes, the pressure of limited setting or characters forces you to wrestle with the story, assess your resources, and really consider the necessity of scenes. In turn, producing more effective work.
Queen of the Rats and a Decade of Filmmaking Lessons
Our next feature, Queen of the Rats, feels like the culmination of what we’ve learned over the course of these ten years. It’s a meld of our first feature’s flippancy and chaos and the intentionality, cinematography, and nihilism of our second feature.
“I think you’re going to laugh,” says Chris of Queen of the Rats. “It’s a genuinely funny script with amazing characters. But there’s a lot of heart in it, and you might feel sentimental and nostalgic for a time and place that doesn’t exist anymore.”
“It’s even exceeding my own expectations,” notes Brandon. “I know every asshole in the biz will say ‘there’s really nothing like this,’ in regards to their own film, but in all sincerity, there really is nothing like this.”
Defining Success as a DIY Horror Filmmaker
Our method is not ideal for everyone. Sometimes, it’s not even ideal for us. Each project consumes a huge portion of our lives, with productions taking over two years, shot in between our day jobs, and we are still fundraising to make each one happen. But we’ve accomplished a lot and never let what we lack compromise the vision. What I am most proud of is our commitment. It’s also worth considering, however, what you as a filmmaker define as success. Sure, we have bigger dreams, but I still feel a great sense of fulfillment finishing these projects, like I’ve run a marathon.
All our lives have changed in the course of our collaborations. As Chris notes, “We’ve all grown up together. We’re a family, and these guys are my brothers. We’ve all changed jobs, boyfriends have come and gone. We’ve been to weddings and funerals together. We’ve watched the city that inspires our films change and transform…With each creative project we’ve taken on, our community and network has expanded, and it feels like our little creepy family just keeps getting bigger.”
“Being able to navigate through this dystopian pedophile pyramid scheme hellscape with a circle of some of your best friends is a blessing”, says Brandon. “There’s comfort and solace knowing that as our work/life balances wax and wane, our dedication, or addiction, to making horror films and content will always remain a sturdy axis.”
Why Queer Horror Stories Matter More Than Ever
Art carried me through the grief of losing my father. Horror helped me cope. These aren’t new, profound concepts, but something I want to highlight, especially given the current state of, well, everything. We need new voices in filmmaking. We especially need queer stories right now. As humans, we aren’t meant to withstand this much grief constantly. We’re going to need art to carry us through.
Monster Makeup is having a retrospective exhibit in Providence, RI, at AS220’s Aborn Gallery for the entire month of June. Opening reception is June 6th. On June 13th, we will be doing an artist talk at the Aborn Gallery and screening a preview of Queen of the Rats. Both events are free.
Final words of advice from the Monster Makeup crew:
“Make whatever you feel passionately about, no matter how successful it may or may not be. Letting that pass you by will always haunt you.” – Wayne Gonsalves
“Story matters. Whether you’re shooting with Richard Deakins or on an iPhone, if you don’t have a story, you’ve got nothing.” – Kevin Bowden
“Aim high. Make it work. Dedicate weekly time to writing, filming, whatever, and you do not stray from that schedule. Get creative. Do not compare your art to other art in a self-deprecating way. DO NOT GIVE A FUCK WHAT OTHER PEOPLE THINK.” – Brandon Perras-Sanchez
“Just get started, and you’ll learn by doing. Every mistake you make on set will just make you a better filmmaker. Utilize the resources within your community and its natural enthusiasm for filmmaking. It will only elevate your project many times over.” – Ryan Miller
“Follow people’s advice if you want to do what they’re doing. Follow your gut if you want to do something new. Regardless of which one you choose, do it with friends.” – Chris Dalpe
(Behind the scenes photos of Death Drop Gorgeous were taken by Chris Eastman. Behind-the-scenes photos of Saint Drogo were taken by Maxwell Snyder. All other photos by Kevin Bowden)
