Editorials
Transformed: A Trans Take on ‘Suspiria’ & ‘Possessor’
It’s a hard time to be a trans person. Not only do we have to sift through the identities projected upon us to discover our true selves, but every day an onslaught of anti-trans propaganda and legislature is lobbed in our direction to effectively ban trans individuals from public life. It is cruel beyond any sane measure to target self-expression when trans acceptance is an invigorating feeling. Discovering one’s transness is scary, yet it is by looking past societal expectations of gender and sexuality that we discover our true power and potential.
Suspiria (2018): Trans Identity as Radical Transformation
2018’s Suspiria is a film about how society bends self-expression into the political and how refusing conformity is in itself an act of radical transformation. The film’s protagonist Susie Bannion (Dakota Johnson) comes from a conservative Mennonite community, yet is drawn to Berlin, where the Markos Dance Academy resides. Once at the academy, Susie is swept up into the studio’s politics, as her peers fall out of favor with the studio’s lead instructor Madame Blanc (Tilda Swinton). Blanc quickly elevates her to the position of lead dancer as the other dance instructors dispose of her competitors using witchcraft.
The coven believes Susie will serve as a means for extending the life of the academy’s director Madame Markos. However, in an act of defiance, Susie interrupts their ritual, digging her hands into her chest and tearing it open to reveal a hidden, gasping organ. She breathes, her eyes falling shut in pained bliss. When she opens her eyes, Susie is transformed by the knowledge of who she is—a reincarnation of the coven’s deity, Mother Suspiriorum—and is empowered to destroy the coven that betrayed her.
Discovering My Trans Identity
Back when I first saw Suspiria (2018), I had accepted that I was queer, but what exactly that meant, I was unsure. Several years later, I awoke in the middle of the night, anxious with a knot in my stomach. I mulled over the source of my discomfort –a coworker’s insistence at calling me ‘man’ instead of my name—and came to a conclusion I had avoided considering: that I wasn’t a ‘man’, but rather, someone who didn’t align with my assigned gender. Much like how Susie’s power becomes undeniable once she awakens her true self, this revelation was one I knew I couldn’t force back inside myself. I had finally seen who I truly was and knew I couldn’t deny it.
Possessor (2020): Identity and Loss in a Sci-Fi Horror Lens
Brandon Cronenberg’s Possessor (2020) is a sci-fi horror film rooted in the existential, as Tasya (Andrea Riseborough), a hitman who biologically splices and possesses the bodies of those near and dear to her targets, finds the boundary between herself and the inhabited blurred. Tasya exists in a personal and professional liminal space, as her handler Girder (Jennifer Jason Leigh), urges her to assassinate higher-priority targets. Yet, she is drawn to the domestic life she once shared with her son and ex-husband. Despite this dissonance, Tasya agrees to inhabit the body of Colin (Christopher Abbott), the fiancé of a powerful tech mogul’s daughter. Tasya is warned of the risks of this operation, with Girder warning her that the implant that allows her to inhabit Colin’s body is designed to quickly degrade, requiring her to do daily calibrations to prevent her from losing grasp of her true self as she completes the hit.
As Tasya assumes Colin’s life, she immediately struggles to separate the personal and professional, regularly following her son and ex-husband as Colin despite the risk of miscalibration. While Tasya is tasked to kill Colin’s future father-in-law and then Colin himself, Tasya cannot kill herself and return to her own body, forcing her to go on the run, miss her regular calibrations, and lose track of where she begins and Colin ends. As the implant in Colin’s brain degrades, he fights for control of his body. Believing Tasya is responsible for frying his brain, Colin seizes control, breaks into her family home, and mistakenly slaughters her family as he wrestles with Tasya’s psyche for control.
The Cost of Losing Authenticity
While Possessor isn’t explicitly a trans film, it digs into themes of identity and the consequences of losing one’s true self. Tasya must not only take control of her victims’ bodies but also displace their consciousness. She reduces her targets to tools to achieve an end, but when Colin fights back, she wrestles control back by causing him to question if they are responsible for the deaths of his loved ones. This constant questioning of where the boundary between Tasya and Colin is causes it to blur, resulting in mutual destruction as their loved ones meet violent ends.
Weaponizing Identity: Transness in the Political Crosshairs
As trans people, the confusion that arises by questioning our gender is often weaponized against us by the right. Discovering one’s identity and choosing to express oneself because of these revelations is framed as mental illness, allowing conservative politicians to villainize and scapegoat trans people as dangerous, violent, and deserving of a sanitarium. Possessor shows what happens when one’s identity is torn away from them. As Tasya seizes Colin’s own body, she effectively strips him of his autonomy to kill his loved ones. Yet, the most horrific aspect of this method of assassination is that Colin’s loved ones believe him to be responsible for their deaths in their final moments. Tasya takes everything Colin sees himself as and wields it as a weapon, using his identity to create a convincing narrative to fit her agency’s purposes, much like conservative politicians constantly seek a narrative to demonize trans and LGBTQIA+ populations.
The Power of Self-Discovery: Trans Resilience in Film and Life
Much like Susie Banon’s transformation began with blood and suffering, searching inwards and discovering that a person’s true self isn’t the same as the one projected upon them is painful. But that discovery can be invigorating, making the transformed feel like they are just now seeing the world for the first time. To be trans requires a great deal of bravery and perseverance, yet we are politicized and weaponized as false narratives equate transness with the violent destruction of traditional family values.
Possessor is a film where the creation of untrue narratives and the slander of one’s true self results in equally devastating consequences for the perpetrator as the victim; however, while Tasya’s actions come back around to bite her, the enemies of the so-called trans agenda align themselves with fascism and illogical fallacies, hiding behind layers of privilege, wealth, and systematic loopholes. As trans people, we can only fight so hard without giving our opponents more fuel for their propaganda machine. Still, regardless of trans legislation throughout the world, our acknowledgment of our true selves and the power that comes from it is something they can’t take from us.
The United States spent most of this year celebrating its 250th anniversary. There have been parades, fireworks, and endless reminders of what the nation wants us to think are its founding ideals. Yet anniversaries are as much about what we choose to remember as they are about what we choose to forget. There is another anniversary this year. Five years ago this month, Candyman was released. The fact that both that film and America are sharing an anniversary this year may have been an accident, but that makes it no less significant.
Released amid another national reckoning over race, Nia DaCosta’s film asks a question that every celebration of America ought to confront: Is it possible to commemorate this nation without fully reckoning with the violence woven into its history? More than a sequel to a horror classic, Candyman is a meditation on the ghosts that haunt America because it has never fully reckoned with the past that created them.
How the Original Candyman Confronted America’s Racial History
The original Candyman understood this. Released in 1992 and set in the almost post-apocalyptic urban decay that was Chicago’s Cabrini-Green housing projects, Bernard Rose’s film arrived only months after the L.A. Race Riots, a moment when this country was coming to terms with the way the country’s relationship with Black folks was shaped by decades of segregation and racism.
Most audiences saw a supernatural slasher about a hook-handed killer summoned by saying his name five times into a mirror. But beneath the horror was a far more unsettling story. Candyman was about the lingering consequences of America’s racial history and the way white America has sometimes turned Black suffering into myth instead of confronting the systems that produced it.
The film’s true horror was never simply Candyman. It was the realization that monsters can be born from histories a nation refuses to face. That is exactly where the 2021 film expands the original’s vision.
Nia DaCosta’s Candyman Turns One Ghost Into Many
Bernard Rose’s Candyman explored the legacy of a single act of racist terror. Nia DaCosta’s film argues that the tragedy wasn’t confined to Daniel Robitaille, the man who became the monster. The 2021 film posits that Candyman is not one man but many.
Daniel Robitaille was lynched for loving a white woman. Sherman Fields takes on the mantle of the supernatural slasher because he was beaten to death by police after being falsely accused of harming a child. Anthony McCoy ultimately becomes part of the same legend. Their stories span generations, but they are connected by a nation that repeatedly produces the same injustice under different names at different points in history. The genius of the sequel is that it transforms Candyman from an individual ghost into a symbol of America’s recurring racial violence.
Candyman Shows How History Repeats Itself
History, the film suggests, is not something that happened once. It is something that keeps happening. That is why Candyman is one of my favorite films to teach in my Film and Philosophy course.
Students walk into class expecting a horror movie. They leave wrestling with questions about history, memory, and justice. We spend little time talking about jump scares or gore. (Because, let’s be honest, there is not much of that in the film.) Instead, we ask why some histories become legends while others are forgotten, what societies owe their victims, and whether a nation can ever move forward without honestly confronting the violence that shaped it.
The Horror of Remembering What America Wants to Forget
A good horror film reveals what we fear. What makes Candyman great is how it reveals what we would rather not remember. That is what haunted me the first time I saw it, long after the credits had rolled.
Five years after its release, Candyman remains one of the most unsettling movies in recent years because the history it confronts is not safely behind us. The original film understood that America’s racial violence could not simply be buried, while the 2021 film showed how easily that violence can be reproduced across generations.
Its Unquestionable Legacy in Horror
As America celebrates 250 years, Candyman reminds us that commemorating the nation’s founding requires remembering all this country’s history, including the parts that make the celebration uncomfortable.
We cannot exorcise a ghost by refusing to acknowledge why it exists. Perhaps that is the film’s most important lesson. The past does not haunt us because we remember it. It haunts us because we don’t.
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?
