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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Editorials
The Evolution of Black Religion & Spirituality in Horror

Jobs for Black actors were scarce in the early days of Hollywood, but that didn’t mean there weren’t Black roles in the films being made. The silver screen had a ceiling for Black actors but not for our culture. White audiences got a gag out of the Black caricatures that white actors portrayed whilst the dehumanizing regurgitation of our culture was used for plot development. Thus, one of the very first Black tropes was born: the magical negro. The early media depictions of Black spirituality were a tool to villainize the community off-screen. Some could say we’ve come a long way since then. I would say we still have a ways to go. The progress is still worth reflecting on, though.
Christianity is one of the largest faiths practiced in the Black American community. But before the missionaries spread the good Lord’s word, most enslaved people aligned with West African religious practices: using herbs, charms, and other metaphysical tools. Tituba, an enslaved Afro-Caribbean woman, was one of the first women accused of witchcraft during the Salem Witch Trials— except they identified it as ‘hoodoo’ or Vodou. It was later demonized as the seed that sprouted the uprising of enslaved Haitian people. With these stepping stones (and American imperialism in Haiti), white screenwriters had fuel for a genre on the rise: horror.
White Zombie (1932) is one of the earliest examples of Vodou in horror and, considerably, the first zombie movie. It isn’t the most harmful, though. Black Moon (1934) made history for a few reasons: being violently racist and starring the first Black American actress to sign a film contract. There’s too much irony in that.
The depiction of voodoo in Black Moon, like many other common Black tropes, reinforces black inferiority to their oppressors and makes a monster out of Black men. It wasn’t until 1941 that audiences saw an authentic portrayal of a different Black religion: Christianity. The Blood of Jesus (dir. Spencer Williams) stars an all-black cast and follows a woman on her journey between heaven and hell. It was a turning point for Black cinema as a whole.
Narratives such as this, Def By Temptation (1990), and, most recently, The Deliverance (2024) depict the liberation that Black Christians often find in their religion. They draw a direct connection between identity and virtue. Ganja & Hess (1973), however, takes a different approach. Director Bill Gunn doesn’t offer the Christian God as an entity of power capable of salvation. The ending is representative of the religious guilt that weighted Hess Green (played by Duane Jones). Neither vampirism nor religion can save him from the trauma he’s running from.
Almost any Black film that I’ve seen, Tyler Perry included, involved Christianity to some extent. 2023 was the first time I saw a Black religious practice given proper respect on screen. Stay with me here– The Exorcist: Believer (dir. David Gordon Green). Rarely have I seen a positive opinion on this extension of the franchise. Unfortunately, DGG left a bad taste in horror fans’ mouths with his Halloween films. I don’t think it’s so much of his style rather than the loyalty that fans have for these franchises. They have high expectations that very few people can meet. I admired the way he represented the beauty of Haitian culture, though. Particularly, hoodoo was an integral part of the story in a way I haven’t seen in mainstream horror. It wasn’t evil nor was it dramatic. The rootwork healer isn’t crushing bones or conducting blood sacrifices. Its authenticity was commendable compared to the genre’s predecessors that have demonized this very spiritual work for decades.
The late, great Tony Todd added to the list of authentic Black spiritual horror films this past year with The Activated Man (dir. Nicholas Gyeney). Todd stars as a lightworker, named Jeffrey Bowman, who helps the main character defeat an evil, fedora-sporting spirit. He’s dripped out with a rose quartz bracelet and a mala necklace. Though the movie suffers in its respective areas, it’s a tick in the timeline. It’s one of the few times that a Black character has helped to defeat evil with a spiritual practice and faith that isn’t Christianity. Like The Exorcist: Believer, its depiction of Bowman isn’t an unstable practitioner leading with dramatics. It’s easy to get lost in the fine details– some movies won’t live up to our expectations. However, even the most disappointing watch can shift the trajectory of cinema. Where Black characters were once monolithic religious apostles, modern cinema is more willing to diversify Black characters beyond those tired tropes.
Editorials
The Art of Politicizing a Dumb Killer Clown Movie

“Horror is not political” is a recycled firestorm on the internet. The smoke smells the same as it did before, the burn isn’t that bright, and the outcome is always the same: we’ve done this dance before, and we will do it again.
Damien Leone has joined the club of Joe Bob Briggs and dozens of others who have voiced that very hollow opinion that “Horror is not political”. Because I do, I think above all else, above the very clear negotiation with the part of his audience who got angry, the very clear fear of backlash for actor David Howard Thorton’s admonitions of the current Trump administration and his support for the LGBTQ+ community, is…
Hollowness.
“Horror is not political” is not an opinion.
It’s an absence of opinion. It’s a platitude; it’s meant to appease people. It’s a free dessert for the person raging in the restaurant that their soup was cold and that they won’t stand for it. It’s bargaining.
Are the Terrifier films Political?
Hopefully I never have to bring up politics publicly ever again but this desperately needed to be said on behalf of the Terrifier franchise 🙏 pic.twitter.com/b7soIj9P33
— Damien Leone (@damienleone) February 3, 2025
Mind you, this is not a call-out of those people angry at the concept of political horror, and I doubt you could call it a call-in post either; chances are you’re not reading this if you feel that so strongly. The goal is to do what I always do: talk about movies and what they mean, and this current firestorm is a very convenient way of doing that. It’s a well-timed way to toast my analytical marshmallow (promise, that’s the last fire metaphor).
So, what are the politics of the Terrifier films that Damien Leone wants to put away while the irate hotel guests are here? The Terrifier movies are political beasts by their nature, and their killer, the beloved jewel of the Terrifier franchise Art the Clown, is just as political as his actor’s commentary on current-day America. Because through and through, Art the Clown is a monster carrying with him the shadow of sexual violence, a harbinger of how truly despicable that kind of violence is, and shows how the world is not set up to help its victims.
And Leone has said as much to support that.
After all, he believes he’s tackled sexual violence quite well in the films. In an interview with Rue Morgue, he goes on to elaborate why he believes just that:
“I think I’m just so comfortable [tackling sexual violence] because I was raised by all women that I don’t think about those things when I’m doing it. […] I’m not trying to offend, so there’s really nothing I’m not afraid to show. There’s things I won’t show; There’s lines that I try not to cross, believe it or not. No matter how grotesque and intense these scenes get, I always keep it in the back of my head like, ‘How far can we push it [..]?’
And I find it fascinating, because no matter how much negative space Leone leaves in terms of explicit sexual abuse on Art the Clown’s part, that negative space speaks just as loudly as if it was actually on screen.
The Politics of Clownery
On a meta-textual level, the extremity, the explosive and sensationalized nature of violence in the Terrifier films, the draw that most people go to see at the theatre, puts sexual violence on a pedestal of shame. It makes it untouchable. Horror is the genre that explores the violation of bodily autonomy, the violation of human life, most freely. In making a spectacle of the wildest and most nauseating kills most filmgoers will ever see, turning the killer into a Bugs Bunny-esque monster that’s always pushing the envelope alongside the filmmaker orchestrating him, and then setting boundaries on what Art won’t do, Leone has made a political statement about the truly reprehensible nature of sexual violence.
Art the Clown is bad, but he’s a surreal type of evil. He is jokes and gaffs at the expense of chainsawing couples and bashing people with spiked bats, not the mutants from The Hills Have Eyes, or the hallway scene from Irreversible. He is not the sobering, disgusting kind of evil most people run into in the real world. He is evil incarnate, sans sexual violence. Because if it’s too far for Art, it has to be a special kind of unthinkably cruel.
On a textual level, I think the enduring and surreal violence Sienna and Jonathan endure throughout the series is a perfect metaphor for continuing through life after an assault of that magnitude and cruelty. The aftershocks of violence that permeate your whole being, long after society expects you to have just “gotten over it”. To walk through life, afflicted by paranoia, self-doubt, and self-hatred. To navigate being around other people after having experienced that, and more importantly, living without justice for the crimes done to you, is unthinkable.
True Crime and Horror Collide
And the way that the Terrifier franchise mocks a true crime culture that trivializes that suffering, something a lot of horror fans have to decry as the space tries to worm into the horror genre at large, gives another layer of credence and reality to the misery of Arts victims. Victims who have to see their pain commodified and treated as a tool, something many victims of sexual assault themselves have been forced through thanks to true crime.
And despite each film seeming to end off worse than the last, Leone highlights the grace of a victim escaping that pain and trauma by giving Sienna the means to fight back. Supernaturally granted or otherwise, it is a perfect encapsulation of victims’ desires to overcome seemingly unending suffering, that will to live, to thrive, that burns bright in all victims. It’s a glimmer of hope in a mostly hopeless franchise, and it serves as a mirror to the light at the end of the tunnel many sexual assault victims strive to reach.
At the end of the day, artists don’t really get to buy in or buy out of how political their art is, the same way you don’t get to buy in or buy out of living in a political system. Much like Art’s random and unpredictable violence, it sort of just happens to you. It happens whether it’s the high concept art film horror, or what most people see as a bog-standard dumb killer clown movie. But to embrace that political nature is one of the most important things you can do as an artist.
To leave that meaning behind, to try and void art of the political messaging people might find in it, is to do a great disservice to the people who found comfort and joy in that message. Because once that vessel has been emptied of the love people can find in it, the hate people had isn’t going to stay inside of it for long.
That hollowed art won’t be overflowing with a new audience of people. It will simply be empty.