I have unintentionally surrounded myself with stuffed animals for most of my life. Not those ones, though. The ones seen in the antique shops I visit, and the museums I work at, sometimes covered by protective glass or left to gather dust. Some of them are beautiful, some hilariously horrifying.
My Grandfather’s Craft: Beauty in the Macabre
Bill Waldron, my grandfather, was a skilled taxidermist. I remember Christmases visiting my grandparents in Minnesota, sleeping in their dark, musty spare room in the basement. Adjacent was my grandpa’s workroom: a windowless, incredibly bright cave potent with chemical fumes from myriad acids, glues, and paints. He was self-taught, and his work was beautiful.
After hunting or fishing trips, he often gave my dad taxidermy pieces of the animals they caught together: bear, deer, walleye, and even caribou. This caribou hung in our family living room, a cobwebbed fixture high above the fireplace. It fell one year and would have killed our dog had he been sleeping in his usual spot.
A dead animal is a really weird thing to put on your wall. Americans have been doing this for centuries. Taxidermy was all the rage in the Victorian era: it was a sign of wealth, masculinity, and virility. A trophy won, stuffed, and displayed for guests to see in your entryway, man cave, or den. Teddy Roosevelt’s Sagamore Hill residence on Long Island is a perfect example of how we use the American wilderness as art and furniture. Bucks, bears; swordfish, Great White sharks; pheasants, wolves; and yes, even beavers have something to offer aesthetically.
The Role of Taxidermy in Horror Movies
While the taxidermy animal may have been a specimen of craftsmanship and a symbol of American masculinity, in a post-Psycho (1960) America, the image of the taxidermist became ominous. They were recluses with a weird hobby, one that, more often than not, insinuated murderous impulses. After all, several real serial killers slaughtered small animals in their youth and took up taxidermy as a hobby (or cover-up). Ed Gein and Jefferey Dahmer, the former being the inspiration for Norman Bates, are notable examples.
The products of the taxidermist’s work adorn haunted, cracked walls; hide secrets; torment the living; and serve as portentous reminders of life’s absurdity. These mounted, macabre monstrosities can be incredibly campy, too. In some cases, perhaps the chemical fumes got to the artist’s head. The horror genre has embraced taxidermy and the allure of the skillful yet dangerous taxidermist.
The following list of characters is neither a ranking nor an analysis of their use of taxidermy on human victims. Wings and/or four-plus legs are prerequisites, folks!
Jame & Bubba
While chainsaw-wielding Leatherface (TCM, 1974) and the deranged Buffalo Bill do not explicitly perform animal taxidermy in their respective films, it’s hard to imagine them not experimenting with animals before, well…
Gumb, due to his perceived gender dysphoria, is drawn to the beautiful world of bugs. His favorite, the Death’s Head hawkmoth, became a creature synonymous with the horror genre. The Asiatic moth, raised from eggs, nourished by honey and nightshade, was “loved” by Gumb. “The significance of the moth is change,” states Dr. Hannibal Lecter, “Our Billy wants to change too.”
Taxidermy exposes the delicate beauty of moths and butterflies, focusing on the vibrant wings. Gumb’s walls were covered with odds and ends, a mixture of fascist imagery and delicate butterfly paintings. I wouldn’t be surprised if a framed butterfly or moth taxidermy display was framed somewhere in that house of tortures.
Similarly, Bubba Sawyer, known as Leatherface, enjoys toying with physical change in his respective house of horror. But, his apparent taxidermy, littering the walls of the Sawyer home, has nothing to do with his desire to transform.
Bubba’s taxidermy is focused on what’s around him in the Texas heat: longhorns, deer, armadillos. While the monarch butterfly is native to Texas, I think that would have been too delicate a taxidermy for a Sawyer to attempt.
Joe, “I’m getting into taxidermy.” “Of course you are. Classic!”
Joe is a lesser-known horror slasher. He is new to the craft, but boy is he busy! You’re Killing Me (2015) is a coming-out-as-a-murderer story, with Joe fresh out of a psychiatric institution and ready to start dating… among other things. The small animals he targets are mainly chickens and canaries, though it looks like he also dabbled with reptiles.
We learn that Joe comes from a stifling home life with a domineering mother, like Norman Bates, who had him committed to the hospital to curb his impulses. Speaking of Norman…
Norman, “My hobby is stuffing things.”
For not knowing much about birds, Norman seems to specialize in them. All kinds of birds! He is the quintessential taxidermist of horror, surrounding himself with his craft. “I hate the look of beasts when they’re stuffed,” Norman reasons, why he chooses birds for taxidermy. Scholar Subarna Mondal argues that Psycho “brought taxidermy in mainstream narrative cinema at a time when taxidermy was beginning to be reviled.
Concern for animal rights, wildlife preservation laws and a clear shift in cultural response to taxidermy had already begun to see the art as the grotesque mind’s propensity to create grotesque bodies.” (Mondal, 2017). Norman’s birds are symbols of his caged madness rather than mere stuffed animals.
Norman’s birds of prey are impressive, and beautiful in their likeness, despite Norman’s assertion he knows “nothing” about them. His work is merely a “hobby… to pass the time, not fill it.” I argue horror’s most passionate taxidermist comes in the form of an Oreo-loving, vampire-killing, pot-smoking grandpa who may or may not be a member of the undead.
Grandpa, “Talk about a Texas Chainsaw Massacre!”
Grandpa Emerson of The Lost Boys (1987) is an endearing figure. We first meet him playing dead to scare his family, which is the perfect segue into his home décor. His man cave’s aesthetic is Teddy Roosevelt meets the American Southwest… on a budget. It’s “a real “Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” as put by his grandson, Michael. Grandpa’s taxidermy is neither threatening, as with Leatherface’s body of work, nor precise, like Norman’s. This is evidenced by the odd critters he decides to preserve and gift his family (and dates!).
Maybe all the stuffed animals in Grandpa’s house are decoys for Santa Clara’s vampires, to throw them off the living humans inside. After all, he saves his whole family from the vamps. When I think of horror taxidermists, Grandpa always comes before Norman Bates. I prefer my taxidermists to be heroes.
My grandpa won competitions and awards with his taxidermy. In a feature for Minnesota’s Detroit Lakes Tribune, he was cited as a mentor for a local man getting into the craft, particularly woodcarving and painting fish. “He (Waldron) said, ‘I don’t want to offend you, but you could use some help with your painting.’” (Bowe, 2010).
Being a lineman for most of his adult life, the profession took a toll on his body. He became addicted to opioids in his 70s, resulting in a downslide physically and mentally. He passed away in 2024.
I still have the sunny he preserved for me; one we caught together on the lake. Funny, he always reminded me of Quint from Jaws, with his torn hat, mustache, and rough hands. Quint just didn’t have the artistry in him, I suppose: “Back home, I have a taxidermy man! He’s gonna have a heart attack when he sees what I brought him!”