Editorials
The Evolution of Female Cannibals in Horror Films and TV
[This article contains spoilers]
Prior to the disestablishment of the Hays’ Code, filmmakers had to make depictions of cannibalism more palatable, diluting the depravity of the act with humor by concealing body parts in pies. Cannibal horror didn’t truly emerge as a subgenre until 1972’s Man From The Deep River drew controversy and intrigue alike. This film jumpstarted the trend of cannibal films centering on your so-called “civilized man” venturing into desolate, often foreign landscapes, only to be cannibalized by the natives. Modern cannibal media has pushed beyond this cliché narrative, depicting sophisticated cannibals that cook their food like fine dining or turn the horror of the act into something frighteningly sexy. But the kinds of cannibalism we see in film differs significantly depending on the cannibal’s sex.
Evolution of Cannibalism in Horror Media
From Grotesque to Sophisticated Cannibals
Cannibalism media used to be a genre divided into extremes. Your cannibal either had a grotesque, animalistic habit like Leatherface or a deviously delicious and sophisticated palate like Hannibal Lecter; however, as we’ve entered the 21st century, this binary has become more of a spectrum. Audiences don’t want to watch the same reveals of flesh furniture or dinner parties that serve human flesh to unknowing guests. They want cannibalism as metaphors, cannibalism as erotic fixation, and even cannibalism as a connection to the supernatural.
Male Cannibals: Power and Brutality
Be it Hannibal Lecter, Alfred Packer, or a member of the Sawyer family, the first cannibal you think of is likely a man. While most cannibal media has departed from stereotypical portrayals of cannibalism as indicative of some non-Christian barbarity, sterilized, almost surgical cannibalism has become more common but not the norm. Wes Craven’s The Hills Have Eyes (1977) present cannibals as inbred savages, trapping and tearing apart whoever comes across their path, yet films like Antonia Bird’s Ravenous (1999) and Jonathan Demme’s The Silence of the Lambs (1991) portray cannibals as calculated, intelligent, and capable of seizing power despite their brutal actions. The sheer number of cannibal films centering male cannibals has allowed more opportunity to test the boundaries of the genre, but that doesn’t mean we should discount the more recent wave of female-centered cannibal movies.
Rise of Female Cannibals in Modern Media
Female Cannibals in Yellowjackets
Female cannibalism is just now hitting the mainstream as Yellowjackets (2021-present) captivates its audience as it tells the story of what happened to a girls’ soccer team lost in the wilderness. However, while Yellowjackets lets its female protagonists be ravenous and brutal, female cannibals in film are often portrayed as sympathetic and less monstrous than their male counterparts.
Sympathetic Portrayals in The Hills Have Eyes
Cannibalism as Metaphor in 21st-Century Film
Raw: Cannibalism and Sexual Awakening
As we enter the 21st century, cannibalism in literature and film has evolved, often being a stand-in for sex as a character consumes the flesh of another to satisfy a deep, carnal appetite. Julia Ducournau’s Raw (2016) tells the story of a first-year veterinary student and long-time vegetarian Justine (Garance Marillier), who finds herself with an insatiable hunger for meat after a hazing incident gone wrong.
As she navigates the sexual and ritualistic traditions of the program, Justine often finds her new cravings for flesh, coinciding with sexual pleasure as she attempts to consume her sexual partners. The version of cannibalism created by Raw is sympathetic, humanizing Justine by creating parallels between an obscene act and one that is normalized and commonplace in our society.
Jennifer’s Body: Cannibalism as Revenge
Karyn Kusama’s Jennifer’s Body (2009) takes a supernatural approach, recounting the tragic story of Jennifer (Megan Fox), a teen girl who is sacrificed to a demonic entity only to be resurrected as a man-hungry succubus. When Jennifer rises from the dead, her acts of cannibalism invert the power dynamic imposed on her human body earlier in the film when a band drugs and sacrifices her body to gain a deal with a demonic entity.
Jennifer then seeks revenge on the male sex, consuming them in ways that are just as destructive as the way they imposed themselves upon her. Her cannibalism is an inversion of the violence she suffered as the band overpowered, bound, and sacrificed her to reach musical fame.
Exploring Cannibalism in Yellowjackets
Season 1: Power Dynamics and Survival
As Yellowjackets has completed its third season, the show has attempted to explore cannibalism in relation to queerness, psychology, and pack dynamics. In the show’s first season, we see the formation and shifting of power dynamics within the social structure of the girls’ soccer team, as captain Jackie (Ella Purnell) finds herself ousted from the group’s cabin by Shauna (Sophie Nélisse), resulting in her death. As the Yellowjackets begin to starve, cannibalism is thrust upon them as Jackie’s corpse becomes engulfed in flames, breaking the animal part of the teams’ brains and causing them to feast on their teammates’ flesh. After this shocking finale, the group finds themselves at a crossroads, having to choose their humanity or their survival, with most choosing the latter.
However, Assistant Coach Ben (Steven Krueger) refuses the ritual consumption of Jackie’s flesh, putting him at odds against Shauna and the other Yellowjackets. In this case, cannibalism becomes a rite of passage, drawing a line between those who are willing to survive by any means necessary and those who would rather die than commit such an act.
Seasons 2 and 3: Guilt and Pack Dynamics
In some ways, the consumption of Jackie serves as a means of keeping her at the forefront of Shauna’s attention, her guilt corrupting and turning her into a more cruel, violent version of herself to align with how she is portrayed in the show’s adult timeline. In some ways, this psychological effect of cannibalism mirrors that seen by more sophisticated cannibals such as Hannibal Lecter in the TV series Hannibal.
While Shauna isolates, the group finds themselves battling with the nature of their survival, with the other girls conspiring to create a method for fairly determining who they’ll have to cannibalize next. The group settles on a game of cards, where one unlikely drawer will be hunted for sport by the group, either ending up the groups’ next meal or successfully escaping into the freezing wilderness.
This kind of organized game displays a unique example in the context of female cannibalism, marrying the more cerebral decision-making seen in other female cannibals with the pack dynamics seen in movies like Texas Chain Saw Massacre.
Queerness and Cannibalism in Season 3
As Van struggles with a cancer battle, Taissa finds her mind drawn back to the wilderness, wondering if a sacrifice of blood is what is needed to prevent the nebulous entity known as the Wilderness from claiming Van’s life; however, while this theory proves at least somewhat correct, Van dies by another Yellowjackets’ hand, but the grief-stricken Taissa performs one last sickening act, consuming one of Van’s raw organs in almost a means to remain ever close with her now lost love.
Redefining Female Cannibals in Horror
Justified Violence and Human Complexity
Female cannibals in film are often justified in their violence, slicked in gore, but excused of the filth of the act. They don’t often get to keep heads on plates in their freezers or wear a necklace of their victims’ ears. The brutality of their acts can’t be reduced to shock value, because these films acknowledge that there is a human component to their violence. They aren’t animals reduced to eating human flesh for the sake of it. They make the decision to do so.
While there aren’t many female cannibals that lean into the filth of the act, maybe it is better that way. This archetype of a disgusting, subhuman cannibal who savors the act and displays heads on sticks is one based in historical assumptions of what it meant to be a cannibal. There is a racial component to attributing cannibalism to a foreign savagery, contradictory to the fact that many classic cannibal movies like The Hills Have Eyes are based on American or European accounts of cannibalism. Reducing cannibals to caricatures turns them trope-y and repetitive.
Modern cannibal stories, especially those centering on female characters, push the boundaries of the genre. Cannibalism can also be a trauma response, a devastating outcome to an unfortunate circumstance, or something that empowers and flips power structures. While the cannibal subgenre may be looked down upon due to its history, modern filmmakers continue proving that cannibalism isn’t as simple as eating human flesh.
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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