Editorials
Embracing Ellen Ripley and Alien’s Genderfluid Motifs
The science fiction horror film Alien, directed by Ridley Scott and based on the screenplay by Dan O’Bannon, explores themes of sex, gender, the creation of life, and absolute isolation. Ellen Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) represents a strong, sensitive female lead that isn’t hyper-sexual and whose androgynous nature cements the character as a genderqueer icon and non-binary heroine. She, the crew of the Nostromo, and the three iterations of the alien creature reject traditional gender binaries.
Embracing My Genderqueer Identity Through Alien
In my adolescence, I didn’t define myself as a girl. I was often referred to as a tomboy. According to my mother, I wanted to rough house with my brothers and their friends, play with their toys, and didn’t dress as a girl should. I tried but never assimilated into society’s expectations of my gender. I bloomed late in many respects. It would be over a decade before I would learn about the umbrella of genderqueer identities and identify as both Queer and Non-Binary.
While I attempted to come out in my twenties, my mother’s reaction firmly pushed me back into the closet for several years. In my thirties, truly on my own for the first time after moving to Los Angeles, I finally had the agency to discover who I was and embrace my sexuality and gender unhindered by the opinions of others. It was around this time that I became reacquainted with Alien. I’d seen the film before, but I was viewing the film through a queer lens for the first time. I recognized myself in Ellen Ripley and the Alien.
Ellen Ripley: A Genderqueer Icon Defying Feminine Norms
In Michaela Barton’s essay, “How ‘Alien’ (1979) Queered the Binaries of Traditional Gender,” she states, “If we regard the Alien as a twisted representation of femininity, then Ripley’s prolonged fight against this creature can represent their continued refusal to assimilate into this supposed binary.” Ripley challenges societally prescribed feminine qualities, and I continue to find comfort in rejecting or lacking interest in what is traditionally considered feminine, like products targeted to women. Tamar Freundlich’s article, “Marketing to women: What we can learn from the past century,” notes that marketers used the ideal woman to drive their advertising, “This tactic was used to motivate women to purchase a product or service in order to close the gap between them and the perfect women that society expected.”
These ideals are detrimental to women’s mental health and well-being, but growing up, I was worried that not liking Barbie dolls, makeup, and the color pink meant something was wrong with me. I understand now that the things we like aren’t relevant to our gender identity. Barton notes that throughout Alien, Ripley fights against the “impending threat of being reduced down to biology.” My ongoing resistance to the traditionally feminine isn’t a character flaw. Like Ripley, I simply refuse to be defined by my sex organs.
Queer Sexuality and Violence in Alien
Sexuality is one of the queer motifs explored in Alien. After a confrontation with Ripley, Ash (Ian Holm) flies into an uncharacteristic rage, assuming the binary of a man as he attempts to suffocate Ripley with a pornographic magazine. Barton notes, “The use of a pornographic magazine as a means of suffocation could be seen as heteronormative sexuality and performance being forced onto Ripley.” The rolled-up magazine is phallic in appearance, and the act itself is disturbingly representative of corrective rape meant to force Ripley to assume the role of a sexual object and a cishet woman.
In his book, Beautiful Monsters: The Unofficial and Unauthorized Guide to the Alien and Predator Films, author David McIntee describes Alien as a rape film about sex and reproduction by non-consensual means. Ridley and O’Bannon intentionally exploit the sexual fears of men and women by exploring the sexuality and gender identity of their characters. In a revised version of the script that was edited for the theatrical release of the film, when discussing how to drive the Alien to the airlock, Ash states, “According to Mother, he’s a primitive form of encephlepod,” to which Lambert replies, “How come it’s a he?” Ash explains, “Just a phrase. As a matter of fact, he’s both bisexual or hermaphrodite, to be precise.” The explanation was cut from the film, leaving the creature’s gender up for audience interpretation, but it further solidifies the intentional rejection of traditional gender binaries. The creature experiences a sort of gender metamorphosis — evolving from the impregnating facehugger to the phallic chestburster and, finally, the amalgamation of all genders with the Xenomorph.
Genderqueer Representation in Horror
Alien is one of the unique instances in which the film’s heroine and villain represent genderqueer identities. The film also holds up a mirror to men of the horrors that women experience by inflicting that horror back on them through the Xenomorph. In his academic essay, “The Disruption of Hegemonic Discourses Through 70s Horror Films,” Robert Kelley notes that “Ripley plays a pivotal role in [female] representation and moving away from male-dominated science fiction and female over-sexualization…The xenomorph, also female, acts as the epitomal emasculation tool…The xenomorph controls the power to inseminate men with her children and effectively end their lives.” This reversal of power and break with traditional gender roles further proves the film’s queered sexual overtones and, ultimately, feminist subtext.
Ripley is a uniquely strong genderqueer symbol and an essential representation of non-binary and transgender individuals. She lives freely and fiercely, without restrictions that police sexuality, gender expression, and gender-affirming care. As someone whose gender identity is continually evolving and difficult to define with the numerous terms available, Ripley and the Xenomorph are one of the few instances in cinema where my gender is validated. Alien’s genderfluid motifs cement it as a queer horror film close to my heart and drastically ahead of its time.
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?
