Editorials
‘The Evil Dead’: A Meditation on the Five Elements of Horror
The Evil Dead (1981) is an undisputed horror classic. Whether it’s actually scary, however, is another topic. Of course, what makes a movie scary is subjective. Keeping that in mind, I will focus on some basic tenets of successful horror, inspired by Tim Waggoner’s writing craft book Writing in the Dark: Dread, Terror, Horror, Shock, and Disgust. Waggoner likens these emotional states to the primary colors of an artist’s palette in that they all have their place and benefit from being blended together. But what do all these capitalized terms mean?
The Evil Dead (1981) is an undisputed horror classic. Whether it’s actually scary, however, is another topic. Of course, what makes a movie scary is subjective. Keeping that in mind, I will focus on some basic tenets of successful horror, inspired by Tim Waggoner’s writing craft book Writing in the Dark: Dread, Terror, Horror, Shock, and Disgust. Waggoner likens these emotional states to the primary colors of an artist’s palette in that they all have their place and benefit from being blended together. But what do all these capitalized terms mean?
Is The Evil Dead a Horror Movie?
I’ll explain each state very briefly. Dread is the feeling of an unknown threat building and building, getting closer and closer. Terror is “the emotional and intellectual reaction to a threat,” which is a bit more complex than Horror. Horror is the immediate reaction to an awful realization. One can think of Terror as dealing with the future implications of a conflict while Horror is the kneejerk reaction. Shock is a malicious surprise to the characters, and hopefully to the audience as well. Lastly, Disgust is a physical feeling sparked by something gross and usually visceral. Now that we have the five emotional tenets of successful scares laid out, we can move onto their places in The Evil Dead.
Dread: Building Suspense from the Start
The first fifty seconds or so of The Evil Dead is from the point of view of an unseen force racing above a body of water. There are unidentifiable sounds. There is quite a bit of fog. We see something bubbling under the water. Then we cut to a close shot of a car containing five young friends, two of them happily singing. But this view only lasts for a couple seconds before we see a different angle, this one watching the car from the woods. We get another tracking shot of the unseen force, which is now racing through the trees. Before we’re even two minutes into the film, a threat is established. The friends are expecting a fun weekend, we’re expecting a series of malicious scenes.
Dread is built further by the “DANGEROUS BRIDGE” sign, leading to the car barely making it over the wooden beams, and the long tracking shot on the way to the cabin. The score becomes high-pitched and eerie, punctuated by a thudding beat later revealed to be a porch swing banging into the house, as we follow the car to the cabin. Suspense rises. We soon see Cheryl’s hand, apparently possessed, drawing a book with a face, followed by her vision of the hatch to the basement rattling and thumping. Later, when the friends play the mysterious tape and learn that the book brought up from the basement was “bound in human flesh and inked in human blood,” our suspicions that something is wrong with the cabin are escalated.
Terror: Contemplating the Unthinkable in The Evil Dead
Ash seems to have the most perspective of the situation and its potential aftermath, by embodying the state of Terror. When Shelly is possessed and attacks Scott and Ash, Ash is frozen in fear. Scott, meanwhile, shows little hesitance throwing his girlfriend into the fire, slicing her wrist, plunging a knife into her back, and yelling at Ash to “Hit her! Hit her! Hit it!” After Shelly is hacked into pieces, courtesy of Scott, Ash asks, “What are we gonna do?” and his friend deadpan replies “We’ll bury her.” Ash mumbles that “we can’t bury Shelly. She’s-she’ a friend of ours.” He clearly realizes the implications of the situation but doesn’t want to accept them, while Scott barrels onward.
The end of the movie is another example of Terror. The sun rises, Linda is headless, Cheryl and Scott have disintegrated, and Ash is alive. He walks out of the cabin, drenched in blood, to the sounds of a victorious score and birds chirping. The horrific events are in the past, in the night, we think . . . until that unseen force from the beginning reappears. It courses through the cabin and rams into Ash. The Terror is not over.
Horror: Immediate Reactions to Danger
Going back to Scott, the way he takes control of the situation with Shelly is indicative of Horror. He realizes that his girlfriend is dangerous and acts to stop her by whatever means necessary. He doesn’t stop to think of the repercussions of chopping his girlfriend into pieces. He only thinks of his survival in the present. His decision to leave the cabin and brave the woods alone also shows a lack of foresight. Since this is a horror movie, Scott pays for his feelings of Horror with his life.
Shock: Jump Scares and Disturbing Surprises
Shock is easy to detect in film, usually in the form of jump scares. An excellent jump scare in The Evil Dead is seen when Linda and Cheryl seem to recover from their possessed states and Ash goes to let Cheryl out of the basement. The background music stops, leaving only the sound of crickets. Ash leans down, key in hand, slowly reaching to unlock the hatch, when Cheryl’s hands burst through the floorboards to seize his neck. Just when we think the danger has abated, it comes back in full force. Another scene that elicits Shock comes much earlier in the film. This scene is notorious, and many members of the cast and crew have expressed remorse for keeping it in the final cut. I am speaking, of course, about the tree rape. We could very well understand that the woods harmed her without seeing branches forcing her into a helpless position and entering her. “It was the woods themselves,” Cheryl cries. “They’re alive, Ashley!” Thank goodness for shadows is all I have to say.
Disgust: Gore and Visceral Repulsion
Perhaps the most easily recognizable state in The Evil Dead is Disgust. The plentiful gore did lead to an X rating in the US and the film’s status as a “video nasty” in the UK, after all. Cheryl stabs Linda’s ankle with a pencil, Shelly chews off her hand, Ash decapitates Linda with a shovel, Ash gouges Scott’s eyes, cockroaches feast on the decaying bodies, etc. I’d say that tree rape also qualifies for Disgust. Think of the splinters!
Of course, as an artist may use all the colors on their palette but still produce a less than mediocre painting, we must ask if The Evil Dead is successful in its goal of scaring the viewer. The dialogue of the movie is less than stellar. Just look at the opening scene in the car:
CHERYL: You mean nobody’s seen this place yet?
SCOTT: Well, not yet.
ASHLEY: Well, it might not be that bad.
LINDA: No.
ASHLEY: Actually, it might be kind of nice.
LINDA: Yeah.
Not only is this snippet poorly written, but it also sounds stilted when performed.
The Evil Dead: A Horror Classic with Comedic Undertones
The Evil Dead has a fair share of both traditional horror aspects and those belonging to traditional comedy. The five emotional states of horror laid out by Tim Waggoner are certainly evident in the film, and although I’d say that the film leans toward horror, I do understand why some people put it firmly in the horror-comedy class. When I first watched it, I was unsettled and scared. With multiple viewings, I saw more of the comedic traits. There’s a great balance of the two, even though the team was most likely going for straight horror. With Evil Dead II: Dead by Dawn, it is clear that they embraced the comedic aspects of the first attempt and strove for a true horror-comedy.
My first feature film, Death Drop Gorgeous, was often described as its own disturbed piece of queer cult cinema due to its over-the-top camp, practical special effects, and radical nature. As a film inspired by John Waters, we wore this descriptor as a badge of honor. Over the years, it has gained a small fanbase and occasionally pops up on lists of overlooked queer horror flicks around Pride month and Halloween.
The Streaming Era and the Myth of Monoculture
My co-director of our drag queen slasher sent me a status update, ostensibly to rile up the group chat. A former programmer of a major LGBTQ+ film festival (I swear, this detail is simply a coincidence and not an extension of my last article) declared that in our modern era, “cult classic” status is “untenable,” and that monoculture no longer exists. Thus, cult classics can no longer counter-culture the mono. The abundance of streaming services, he said, allows for specific curation to one’s tastes and the content they seek. He also asserted that media today that is designed to be a cult classic, feels soulless and vapid.
Shots fired!
Can Cult Cinema Exist Without Monoculture?
We had a lengthy discussion as collaborators about these points. Is there no monoculture to rally against? Are there no codes and standards to break and deviate from? Are there no transgressions left to undertake? Do streaming services fully encompass everyone’s tastes? Maybe I am biased. Maybe my debut feature is soulless and vapid!
I’ve been considering the landscape. True, there are so many options at our streaming fingertips, how could we experience a monoculture? But to think a cult classic only exists as counter-culture, or solely as a rally against the norm, is to have a narrow understanding of what cult cinema is and how it gains its status. The cult classic is not dead. It still rises from its grave and walks amongst the living.
What Defines a Cult Classic? And Who Cares About Cult Cinema?
The term “cult classic” generally refers to media – often movies, but sometimes television shows or books – that upon its debut, was unsuccessful or undervalued, but over time developed a devout fanbase that enjoys it, either ironically or sincerely. The media is often niche and low budget, and sometimes progressive for the cultural moment in which it was released.
Some well-known cult films include The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (1994), Showgirls (1995), Re-Animator (1985), Jennifer’s Body (2009), and my personal favorite, Heathers (1989). Quoting dialogue, midnight showings, and fans developing ritualistic traditions around the movie are often other ways films receive cult status (think The Rocky Horror Picture Show).
Cult Cinema as Queer Refuge and Rebellion
Celebration of cult classics has long been a way for cinephiles and casual viewers alike to push against the rigid standards of what film critics deem “cinema.” These films can be immoral, depraved, or simply entertaining in ways that counter mainstream conventions. Cult classics have often been significant for underrepresented communities seeking comfort or reflection. Endless amounts of explicitly queer cinema were lambasted by critics of their time. The Doom Generation (1995) by Gregg Araki and John Waters’ Pink Flamingos (1972) were both famously given zero stars by Roger Ebert. Now both can be viewed on the Criterion Channel, and both directors are considered pioneers of gay cinema.
Cult films are often low-budget, providing a sense of belonging for viewers, and are sometimes seen as guilty pleasures. Cult cinema was, and continues to be, particularly important for queer folks in finding community.
But can there be a new Waters or Araki in this current landscape?
What becomes clear when looking at these examples is that cult status rarely forms in a vacuum. It emerges from a combination of cultural neglect, community need, and the slow bloom of recognition. Even in their time, cult films thrived because they filled a void, often one left by mainstream films’ lack of imagination or refusal to engage marginalized perspectives. If anything, today’s fractured media landscape creates even more of those voids, and therefore more opportunities for unexpected or outsider works to grab hold of their own fiercely loyal audiences.
The Death of Monoculture and the Rise of Streaming
We do not all experience culture the same way. With the freedom of personalization and algorithmic curation, not just in film but in music and television, there are fewer shared mass cultural moments we all gather around to discuss. The ones that do occur (think Barbenheimer) may always pale in comparison to the cultural dominance of moments that occurred before the social media boom. We might never again experience the mass hysteria of, say, Michael Jackson’s Thriller.
For example, our most successful musician today is listened to primarily by her fanbase. We can skip her songs and avoid her albums even if they are suggested on our streaming platforms, no matter how many weeks she’s been at number one.
Was Monoculture Ever Real?
But did we ever experience culture the same? Some argue that the idea of monoculture is a myth. Steve Hayden writes:
“Our monoculture was an illusion created by a flawed, closed-circuit system; even though we ought to know better, we’re still buying into that illusion, because we sometimes feel overwhelmed by our choices and lack of consensus. We think back to the things we used to love, and how it seemed that the whole world, or at least people we knew personally, loved the same thing. Maybe it wasn’t better then, but it seemed simpler, and for now that’s good enough.”
The mainstream still exists. Cultural moments still occur that we cannot escape and cannot always understand the appreciation for. There are fads and trends we may not recognize now but will romanticize later, just as we do with trends from as recently as 2010. But I’d argue there never was monoculture in the same way America was never “great.” There was never a time we all watched the same things and sang Madonna songs around the campfire; there were simply fewer accessible avenues to explore other options.
Indie Film Distribution in the Age of Streaming
Additionally, music streaming is not the same as film streaming. As my filmmaking collective moves through self-distributing our second film, we have found it is increasingly difficult for indie, small-budget, and DIY filmmakers to get on major platforms. We are required to have an aggregator or a distribution company. I cannot simply throw Saint Drogo onto Netflix or even Shudder. Amazon Prime has recently made it impossible to self-distribute unless you were grandfathered in. Accessibility is still limited, particularly for those with grassroots and shoestring budgets, even with the abundance of services.
I don’t know that anyone ever deliberately intends on making a cult classic. Pink Flamingos was released in the middle of the Gay Liberation movement, starring Divine, an openly gay drag queen who famously says, “Condone first-degree murder! Advocate cannibalism! Eat shit! Filth are my politics, filth is my life!”
All comedy is political. Of course, Waters was intentional with the depravity he filmed; it was a conscious response to the political climate of the time. So if responding to the current state of the world makes a cult classic, I think we can agree there is still plenty to protest.
There Is No Single Formula for Cult Cinema
Looking back at other cult classics, both recent and older, not all had the same intentional vehicle of crass humor and anarchy. Some didn’t know they would reach this status – a very “so bad, it’s good” result (i.e., Showgirls). And while cult classics naturally exist outside the mainstream, some very much intended to be in that stream first!
All of this is to say: there is no monolith for cult cinema. Some have deliberate, rebellious intentions. Some think they are creating high-concept art when in reality they’re making camp. But it takes time to recognize what will reach cult status. It’s not overnight, even if a film seems like it has the perfect recipe. Furthermore, there are still plenty of conventions to push back against; there are plenty of queer cinema conventions upheld by dogmatic LGBTQ+ film festivals.
Midnight Movies vs. Digital Fandom
What has changed is the way we consume media. The way we view a cult classic might not be solely relegated to midnight showings. Although, at my current place of employment, any time The Rocky Horror Picture Show screens, it’s consistently sold out. Nowadays, we may find that engagement with cult cinema and its fanbase digitally, on social media, rather than in indie cinemas. But if these sold-out screenings are any indication, people are not ready to give up the theater experience of being in a room with die-hard fans they find a kinship with.
In fact, digital fandom has begun creating its own equivalents to the midnight-movie ritual. Think of meme cycles that resurrect forgotten films, TikTok edits that reframe a scene as iconic, or Discord servers built entirely around niche subgenres. These forms of engagement might not involve rice bags and fishnets in a theater, but they mirror the same spirit of communal celebration, shared language, and collective inside jokes that defined cult communities of past decades. Furthermore, accessibility to a film does not diminish its cult status. You may be able to stream Tim Curry as Dr. Frank-N-Furter from the comfort of your couch, but that doesn’t make it any less cult.
The Case for Bottoms
I think a recent film that will gain cult status in time is Bottoms. In fact, it was introduced to the audience at a screening I attended as “the new Heathers.” Its elements of absurdity, queer representation, and subversion are perfect examples of the spirit of cult cinema. And you will not tell me that Bottoms was soulless and vapid.
For queer communities, cult cinema has never been just entertainment; it has operated as a kind of cultural memory, a place to archive our identities, desires, rebellions, and inside jokes long before RuPaul made them her catchphrases repeated ad nauseam. These films became coded meeting grounds where queer viewers could see exaggerated, defiant, or transgressive versions of themselves reflected back, if not realistically, then at least recognizably. Even when the world outside refused to legitimize queer existence, cult films documented our sensibilities, our humor, our rage, and our resilience. In this way, cult cinema has served as both refuge and record, preserving parts of queer life that might otherwise have been erased or dismissed.
Cult Cinema Is Forever
While inspired by John Waters, with Death Drop Gorgeous, we didn’t intentionally seek the status of cult classic. We just had no money and wanted to make a horror movie with drag queens. As long as there continue to be DIY, low-budget, queer filmmakers shooting their movies without permits, the conventions of cinema will continue to be subverted.
As long as queer people need refuge through media, cult cinema will live on.
Most of my early happy memories are of being released by my mother, free to wander the video store. I was at my happiest roaming the aisles when it was my turn, but I always walked a little faster going through the horror section, as this was before my love affair with the genre started. There was one VHS cover that particularly scared me, so I always avoided making eye contact with the sinister face on the front of Child’s Play.
A Video Store Recommendation That Changed Everything
Many years later, as I would return to the video store on my own as a teen, I was on a mission to watch as many horror movies as possible. I was also a closeted queer teen harboring a massive crush on the girl who worked the counter, who happened to like horror, and I took any chance I could to talk to her. One night, feeling brave and definitely not overwhelmed by gay feelings, I worked up the courage to ask for her any recommendations.
“Hey! I have a three-day weekend coming up, and was wondering if you had any suggestions for some movies I can just dive into all weekend. Horror preferred.”
“Do you like slashers?”
“Love them! Michael, Jason, Freddie. The classics.”
“Well, and of course Chucky.”
“The talking doll?”
Her eyes widened, and she walked around from the counter, making me realize I had never seen her from the waist down before. She grabbed my wrist and dragged me into the horror section.
“Your homework for the weekend is to watch Child’s Play 1 through 5. The first three are great, but Bride of Chucky is really where it’s at. You’ll see what I mean when you get there. If you make it to Seed of Chucky, we’ll talk.”
With a wink, she left me to do my homework assignment, and of course, I wanted to be a good student, so I picked up the DVDs, grabbed some Whoppers and a popcorn, and went home to study.
Discovering the Child’s Play Franchise as a Queer Teen
Child’s Play was instantly a hit for me. Maybe it was my childhood fear of Chucky, or maybe it was Don Mancini’s anticapitalist take on a killer in the form of something much smaller and cuter than the hulking slashers I was accustomed to, but I had to see how they would bring back my new favorite guy. While I have love and affection for 2 and 3 (I later named my cat Kyle after Andy’s foster sister), I rushed my first watch because I wanted to get to Bride of Chucky to see exactly what Video Store Girl was talking about.
Bride of Chucky was like Dorothy going from sepia to full-spectrum color for me. Having seen Bound at a very formative time for me, Jennifer Tilly was worshipped as queer royalty in my heart. She was instantly magnetic as Tiffany Valentine. The sheer camp of it all, combined with the fact that it had one of the first gay characters I’ve ever seen that was just a “normal” gay person, captured my heart. I dreaded the death David would face for the horrible crime of being a gay man on screen, but to my surprise and delight, he wasn’t punished for it. He was dispatched in the same gruesome manner as any of Chucky and Tiffany’s other villains.
Seed of Chucky and the First Time I Felt Seen
I was excited to get to Seed of Chucky, both because by this point I had fallen in love with the franchise, but also because I wanted to do a good job and impress Video Store Girl. What I didn’t expect was to have my core shattered in a way that I couldn’t fully express until I was an adult. Seed of Chucky is about a doll, first named Shitface by a cruel ventriloquist, that realizes Chucky and Tiffany may be their parents. Throughout most of the movie, Chucky and Tiffany argue over the gender of their child, whom they named Glen/Glenda. The name itself is a reference to the classic Ed Wood movie about a character that we would now likely call genderfluid, who likes to wear men’s and women’s clothing. At the end of the film, it’s clear that for Glen/Glenda, they are two souls inhabiting one body.
“Sometimes I feel like a boy. Sometimes I feel like a girl. Can’t I be both?”
Those words felt like someone was skipping rocks across my heart. It felt like a secret I wasn’t supposed to know, but it was the answer to a question I had never thought to ask. Gender fluidity wasn’t something that was discussed in my conservative home of Orange County. Did Video Store Girl see something in me that I wasn’t hiding as well as I could be? I loved my weekend watching the Child’s Play franchise, but I asked my mom to return the movies for me, as I couldn’t face someone who had seen me so clearly just yet.
Rewatching Seed of Chucky as an Adult
Seed of Chucky, a script that had been rejected by Universal for being “too gay” came to me again as an adult upon rewatch. Where I had found questions, I could not find the answer to in Glen/Glenda, I found acceptance through an unlikely character: Chucky. It’s in Seed of Chucky that our main character, Chucky, gives up the ghost and decides, for once and all, that he no longer wishes to be human. He loves himself exactly as he is for the form he chose for himself, a doll. If a psychopathic killer doll could love himself exactly as he was in a body that he chose to present himself in, why couldn’t I?
Don Mancini and Queer Voices in Horror
One of the best parts of having the same writer at the helm for every entry into the same franchise is that, unlike other typical slasher villains, Chucky gets to experience character development and growth. And because Don Mancini himself is gay, his voice behind the experience has been an authentic beacon of hope for queer audiences. “It has really been nice for me, again, as a gay man, to have a lot of gay, queer, and trans fans say that movie meant a lot to them, and that those characters meant a lot to them as queer kids.” He says in an article by Rue Morgue.
Why Chucky Remains a Queer Icon
One of my greatest joys was watching all three seasons of the cancelled too soon series, Chucky. Jake (Zacary Arthur), the show’s new gay protagonist, goes from clashing with his homophobic father (who is quickly dispatched by Chucky) to his first love and found family. Chucky with his own found family in Tiffany, G.G. (formerly Glen/Glenda), Caroline, and Wendell (John Waters). While the show has ended, I hope this won’t be the last we see of him, and I’m excited to see where Don Mancini takes the character for future queer audiences. One standout moment from the series is when Jake sits with Chucky and talks about G.G.
“You know, I have a queer kid…genderfluid”
“And you’re cool with it?”
“I’m not a monster Jake.”
If a killer doll could love his genderfluid child, I expect nothing less from the rest of society. Growing up feeling the way I felt about my gender and sexuality, I didn’t have peers to rely on to learn about myself.
But what I did have was Chucky. My friend til’ the end.
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