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Is It Time for a Queer ‘Jaws’ Remake?

Is ‘Jaws’ (1974) queer coded? Jaws does pass the Bechdel test… once. Aside from a brief geographic conversation between wives, Jaws is homosocial and guided by men and their respective traumas and egos. “In the context of Jaws,” advocates author Jen Corrigan, “homoeroticism can flourish because women are taken out of the equation, but it’s not positioned as a reaction to the lack of women present.” Women are mentioned during the film’s second half, but merely as wives and past lovers. In a film centered around men, it is no wonder, then, that myself and other fans sense something queer is afoot, and maybe it’s time for Jaws to be loud and proud.

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In 2021, I joined comedians Matthew Schott and Chris Okawa on their podcast, The Adaptation Game. I was tasked to conceive my dream movie remake. I chose Jaws, and I reassigned the roles of Scheider, Shaw, and Dreyfus to actresses Kirsten Dunst, Lea DeLaria, and Tessa Thompson, respectively. I also developed a romantic storyline between Quint (DeLaria) and Hooper (Thompson). I believed this casting to be a pipe dream. However, after reading Jen Corrigan’s piece “Three Men on a Boat” in the groundbreaking essay compilation It Came from the Closet, and seeing The Shark is Broken on Broadway, I think we may be approaching a time when a queer remake is entirely possible. While Jaws is subtextually queer to some viewers, overt queerness could enliven the story for the millennium. For too long, horror fans have been dissatisfied with stale remakes of iconic horror films; we’re looking at you Friday the 13th (2009) and A Nightmare on Elm Street (2010). It is time for a fresh approach.

We Deserve a Queer Remake of Jaws.

On the surface, Jaws is a straightforward story of three men on a shark-hunting expedition. Subtextually, this story is brimming with male intimacy and vulnerability. The trio face their fears, talk about past trauma, and share constricted quarters. The tension built over days at sea, though thick, is often eased by moments of levity through touch, song, jests, and storytelling. The cast dynamic is fostered by genuine off-screen admiration and frustration for each other as people and actors, pushing themselves and their fellow actors to go further and do better. 

Jaws does pass the Bechdel test… once. Aside from a brief geographic conversation between wives, Jaws is homosocial and guided by men and their respective traumas and egos. “In the context of Jaws,” advocates author Jen Corrigan, “homoeroticism can flourish because women are taken out of the equation, but it’s not positioned as a reaction to the lack of women present.” Women are mentioned during the film’s second half, but merely as wives and past lovers. In a film centered around men, it is no wonder, then, that myself and other fans sense something queer is afoot, and maybe it’s time for Jaws to be loud and proud.

Male Intimacy in Jaws (1975)

Heather O. Petrocelli surveyed 3,774 queer horror fans for her new book Queer for Fear: Horror Film and the Queer Spectator (2023). Jaws did not appear in the top 25 favorites list among participants. However, Petrocelli reveals the adoration for haunting/paranormal films by queer viewers (91.6%), as well as monster movies (86%). “To be queer is to be haunted,” asserts Petrocelli. Stories of hauntings resonate with queer viewers, for we know what it is like to hide or be hidden away for our queerness. Who aboard the Orca isn’t haunted by something from their past? 

While in Amity and aboard the Orca, Quint, Hooper, and Brody discuss and face their myriad fears: drowning, shark attacks, being underestimated, losing communication with loved ones, and, of course, the erratic behavior of one of their crewmembers. Corrigan finds tenderness in their interactions and sees them as quite queer, especially when things get physical. “My queer reading stems from two aspects of covert communication,” states Corrigan, “the gaze and innocuous touch… Historically, queer interactions were dangerous, and, really, still are. The looks and touches between the men signal intimacy that is easy to overlook…” She then points to an early scene, when Quint asks to see Hooper’s hands. “Touching with hands has a significance in queer intimacy. It is a touch that is both erotic and personal yet can easily be perceived as casual… [Quint] takes Hooper’s hands in his and pulls Hooper toward him as if they are about to embrace…” The intimate moment abruptly turns sour, as Quint cheekily proclaims Hooper has “city hands,” used to handling money. Quint seems to relish intimidating and teasing Hooper. The two dominating personalities clash, but there is a twinkle there, an ineffable connection between the two men and characters that makes them captivating to watch. A romantic storyline does not seem too implausible in any adaptation (please, no more sequels!).

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The class difference between Quint and Hooper is a driving force for conflict. As extrapolated by The Shark is Broken, it is the acting methods of Shaw and Dreyfus that cause them to bicker off-screen. In the play, this resulted in a complicated yet sweet relationship between the actors, but not one without its blowups.

The Shark is Broken (2022)

Written by Ian Shaw and Joseph Nixon, and based on Shaw’s father’s drinking journals he kept while on set, The Shark is Broken is about the downtime between Robert Shaw (Ian Shaw), Richard Dreyfus (Alex Brightman), and Roy Scheider (Colin Donnell) as they wait for the shark to be, well, not broken during the approximately five-month shoot. Most Jaws fans know about the real-life tension between Shaw and Dreyfus, and how this tension fueled Quint and Hooper’s on-screen animosity. Shaw was a traditional theater actor, eventually moving into television and film. Dreyfus, who also found himself in theater and television, was on a quest for Hollywood stardom and fame. Though the two men clashed, often due to either Dreyfus’ ego or Shaw’s addiction, Dreyfus pined for Shaw’s approval and blessing as an actor. The Shark is Broken had a playful monotony that lent itself to both casual and intense conversations. There are tears, embraces, emotional and mental breakdowns, and painful revelations about alcoholism. And, in his downtime, Brody stripped down to a tight Speedo to sunbathe! While these moments were left off-screen, they allow audiences a glimpse at the type of intimacy that fostered the amazing chemistry between the three Jaws stars.

So, where do we go from here? Why make the subtext ‘text?’ I ask, why not? Recent sequels, including those of the Scream franchise, have been infused with new queer characters and/or plot points to much success.  Hellraiser, the 2022 remake, was applauded for casting the talented Jamie Clayton as Hellpriest/Pinhead, which is more aligned with Clive Barker’s original vision from “The Hellbound Heart.” Perhaps Jaws is too iconic to tinker with. But, Queer horror is having a big moment, and remakes have the power to boldly go where they were unable to go before.

Sources:

Corrigan, Jen. “Three Men on a Boat.” Essay. In It Came from the Closet: Queer Reflections on Horror, 95–104. New York: The Feminist Press, 2022.

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Green, Jesse. “Review: A Bloodless Postscript to ‘Jaws’ in ‘the Shark Is Broken.’” The New York Times, August 11, 2023.

Petrocelli, Heather O. Queer For Fear: Horror Film and the Queer Spectator. Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2023.

Abigail Waldron is a queer historian who specializes in American horror cinema. Her book "Queer Screams: A History of LGBTQ+ Survival Through the Lens of American Horror Cinema" is available for purchase from McFarland Books. She resides in Brooklyn, New York.

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Editorials

The Evolution of Black Religion & Spirituality in Horror

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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. 

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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. 

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Editorials

The Art of Politicizing a Dumb Killer Clown Movie

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“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.

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Are the Terrifier films Political?

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.

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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.  

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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.

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That hollowed art won’t be overflowing with a new audience of people. It will simply be empty.

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