TV
All a Bit New: How ‘Torchwood’ Formed an Unexpected Gateway to Horror (and My Own Queerness)
As a repressed teen with a burgeoning interest in horror and a big lesbian awakening coming her way a decade later, Torchwood was something of a foundational show for me. It was one of the first pieces of media I can remember watching that made me question the concept of heterosexuality as the default setting. It was far from perfect in its presentation of this concept, but it was better than I was getting elsewhere.
And best of all, it could be scary. I was hooked.
Like a lot of nerdy kids growing up in Britain in the early 2000s, I had a major Doctor Who phase. During showrunner Russel T. Davies’ first tenure (2005–2010), I watched each new episode religiously, had action figures lined up along my windowsill, and even got some artwork featured on the kid-friendly companion show Totally Doctor Who (2006–2007). Yeah, I was just that cool.
My dad, a life-long science-fiction fan, was fully supportive of this phase and didn’t bat an eye as I rolled seamlessly into watching Torchwood, Who’s adult spin-off show, when it arrived on BBC Three in 2006. But while he would occasionally sit down with me for an episode of Doctor Who, he wasn’t particularly interested in Torchwood, so I watched it alone in my bedroom, unsupervised and unexamined.
I’m grateful for that. If my parents had looked a little closer at the show, I doubt I would have made it past the first episode, because Torchwood started as it intended to continue: splattered with blood and pretty damn queer.
As a repressed teen with a burgeoning interest in horror and a big lesbian awakening coming her way a decade later, Torchwood was something of a foundational show for me. It was one of the first pieces of media I can remember watching that made me question the concept of heterosexuality as the default setting. It was far from perfect in its presentation of this concept, but it was better than I was getting elsewhere.
And best of all, it could be scary. I was hooked.
“Modern” Talk and Subversive Stereotypes
When Doctor Who made its triumphant return to British screens in 2005, I was 12, living in a small, insular town on the east coast of Scotland. Homophobia ran rampant in my high school and the community at large. When I look back on my lonely, confused teenage years and wonder why I didn’t realize I was queer sooner, the answer is painfully clear. It was easier to hide, even from myself.
The British television landscape didn’t help. Queerness was largely absent on mainstream TV at the time; where it did appear, it was typically presented for laughs. Some of those jokes are still funny. Many cut deep, even now.
Openly gay showrunner Russel T. Davies certainly wasn’t afraid to insert queer jokes into Doctor Who and, later, Torchwood. But the humor tended to stem from the absurdity of homophobia, rather than coming at the expense of the queer characters themselves. In the Who episode “Gridlock” (2007), for instance, an elderly lesbian chastises Thomas Kincade Brannigan (Ardal O’Hanlon) for insisting on calling her and her wife “sisters,” with Brannigan responding that they should “stop that modern talk — I’m an old-fashioned cat.” The episode is set five billion years in the future on the planet of New Earth and Brannigan, a humanoid cat, is in an inter-species relationship with a human woman with whom he’s had a little of kittens. But two women being married? Still considered “modern talk.” Good fun.
But Davies’ queer influence on Doctor Who went much further than jokes. With the introduction of Captain Jack Harkness (John Barrowman) in the very first season of the revival, Davies gave Who not only its first-ever openly queer character, but a horny “omnisexual” who subverts stereotypes by looking and acting like an archetypal masculine hero, all while flirting with everyone in sight. Harkness even kisses both Rose (Billie Piper) and the Doctor (played at the time by Christopher Eccleston) on the mouth before his heroic self-sacrifice in “The Parting of the Ways” (2005).
As Davies told Pink News in 2020, he was “thirsty for that kind of material” growing up — and he clearly wasn’t the only one. Captain Jack immediately grew a fan following, making him the obvious candidate for a spin-off show.
That show is Torchwood, which continues Jack’s story following his death, resurrection, and realization that he has become accidentally immortal. Believing the Doctor can “fix” him, Jack hunkers down in Cardiff to await the Doctor’s inevitable return, joining and later leading the Torchwood Institute — an organization set up by Queen Victoria to defend the Earth against alien and supernatural threats — along the way.
With a presumed adult audience, Torchwood was able to turn the queer dial up several notches. But it also leaned harder into the horror elements that the more family-friendly Doctor Who could only flirt with.
Blood and Bodies (and BBQ Sauce)
After a brush with Halloween (1978) when I was far too young, it took me years to build up the courage to start watching horror movies again, despite my growing fascination with the genre. To ease the transition, I read a lot of scary books, looked at the pictures on horror DVD cases, and watched Torchwood.
Torchwood is not a horror-forward series, but it certainly has its moments. The debut episode, “Everything Changes” (2006), sees an alien creature with a face “like Hellraiser” ripping a custodian’s throat out with its teeth, sending gouts of blood spurting in every direction. The third season, known as “Children of Earth” (2009), deals with an alien threat demanding that the human race hands over 10% of its kids, claiming they will “live forever.” When we get a glimpse of the fate that awaits them, the image is truly nightmarish.
And then there’s “Countrycide” (2006), an early episode that feels like a Welsh folk horror take on The Hills Have Eyes (the remake of which was released earlier the same year), complete with corpses stripped down to bloody skeletons and a fridge full of human meat. The true horror of the episode? There appears to be no alien influence at play. When the traumatized Gwen Cooper (Eve Myles) demands an explanation for the murder and cannibalism, the all-too-human ringleader provides one that offers no catharsis or comfort, saying he did it “‘cause it made [him] happy.”
Sure, Torchwood could also be supremely silly — see the sexy Cyberwoman slathered in BBQ sauce getting pecked at by a pterodactyl (“Cyberwoman,” 2006). But I can’t deny that the series sparked my creepy curiosity. Episodes like “Countrycide” made me eager to seek out the films that influenced the writers. I also tracked down several of the series’ tie-in books, which could be even more explicit in their gore. Andy’s Lane’s Slow Decay (2007), involving an alien tapeworm that makes its hosts so hungry they’ll eat anything — rats, other humans, even their own flesh in a pinch — has always stuck with me.
What I appreciate most about Torchwood in hindsight, however, is not its willingness to show blood, which Doctor Who has always been squeamish about, but the way it challenged my small-town understanding of sexuality as a teen.
Quaint Little Categories and Problematic Queers
Jack Harkness’s sexuality was no secret going into Torchwood, so it’s no surprise that showrunners Chris Chibnall and Russell T. Davies seized the opportunity to delve deeper into this aspect of his character. In the second episode, “Day One” (2006), Torchwood’s medic, Owen Harper (Burn Gorman), comments that the only thing they know about the mysterious Jack is that he’s gay, because “period military is not the dress code of a straight man.” Tech wiz Toshiko Sato (Naoko Mori) challenges this narrow notion, noting that Jack will “shag anything if it’s gorgeous enough.” Jack, who was born in the 51st century, later teasingly chastizes his team for their limited 21st-century understanding of sexuality: “You people and your quaint little categories.”
Like Davies’ Who before it, Torchwood does not relegate Jack’s queerness to mere words. Throughout the series, we see him engaged in a will-they-won’t-they flirtation with Gwen in between making out with multiple men, from the closeted World War II captain (Matt Rippy) whose name he stole, to former-lover-turned-enemy Captain John Hart (Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s James Marsters). By season two, Jack is getting hot and heavy with Torchwood team member Ianto Jones (Gareth David-Lloyd). In the final season, “Miracle Day” (2011), he has same-gender sex scenes that were heavily edited for the UK broadcast and lambasted by bigots.
And Torchwood isn’t content to place all its queerness in Jack’s basket, though it struggles to handle its other characters’ sexualities with as much nuance. Owen, Toshiko, and Gwen all have queer encounters throughout the first season, with some even resulting in sex. None of these are what I’d call particularly good representation, however, especially by modern standards; all involve predatory elements and none are ever mentioned again, with the characters going back to exclusively heterosexual relationships afterward. The show’s understanding of gender was also limited, with the episode “Greeks Bearing Gifts” (2006) even shoehorning in an uncomfortably unfunny joke at the expense of an unseen trans character.
But it wasn’t all bad. By far, Torchwood’s best representation outside of Jack comes in the form of the aforementioned Ianto Jones.
Ianto Jones and Coming Into Your Queerness
Ianto undergoes a major evolution during his run on Torchwood, starting out as the unassuming “tea boy” and gradually growing more emboldened, funny, and heroic. At the same time, he’s coming to terms with the idea that he’s not as straight as he (and the audience) originally thought.
At the outset of the series, Ianto is trapped in a doomed relationship with a woman partially converted into a Cyberwoman. But as Torchwood’s first season progresses, Ianto begins to flirt with Jack; the two are implied to have hooked up in “They Keep Killing Suzie” (2006), with season two’s debut, “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang” (2008), making their relationship official as Jack asks Ianto on a date. Gwen later walks in on a steamy, shirtless moment between the two in the episode “Adrift” (2008).
By the time the third season rolled around in 2009, Torchwood’s already slight core cast had been decimated, creating more space for exploration of Ianto’s relationship with his newfound queerness. The season opens with Ianto nervously exhilarated by the idea that people recognize him and Jack as a couple. When Jack asks if it matters, Ianto admits it’s “all a bit new to [him].” Later in the same episode, in response to his sister asking him if he has “gone bender” (a British slang term for gay, usually used as an insult), Ianto explains that “it’s weird. It’s just different. It’s not men, it’s… It’s just him. It’s only him.”
While I know plenty of bisexuals who aren’t thrilled by the trope of a character only being attracted to one specific person of the same gender, the idea that you might not know you’re queer until you know really struck a chord with me. Years later, when I came to the gradual realization that I was a lesbian in my early 20s, I thought of Ianto Jones. There was no singular dashing Captain who unlocked my queerness. But it was all a bit new to me, too.
Ianto sadly did not survive the season. Following the grand tradition of burying your gays (and Torchwood’s own compulsive need to murder most of its cast), “Day Four” ends with Ianto dying in Jack’s arms, heartbreakingly telling the immortal man that “In a thousand year’s time, you won’t remember me,” with Jack promising that “I will.”
Fans remember him, too. A shrine to Ianto Jones exists in Cardiff Bay to this day.
Torchwood was Flawed Yet Formative — and Often Very Fun
I never finished Torchwood. By the time the fourth and final season rolled around, I was preparing to leave for university, had already dropped off Doctor Who, and was slowly graduating to more explicit horror media. Torchwood wasn’t what I needed anymore, especially in its newly Americanized form. I watched a few episodes but never found out how it ended.
A few years later, I would kiss a woman for the first time, and a few years after that I would finally admit to myself that yes, I was queer (duh). Another deeply queer, horror-tinged TV series, Hannibal (2013–2015), would play a crucial role in that self-acceptance, helping me find a queer community that made it easier to finally come out.
But for all its flaws and problematic tropes and BBQ-slathered sexy Cyberwomen, I can’t deny that Torchwood played a role, too.
TV
Hannibal: A Queer Love Story
Bryan Fuller’s 2013 adaptation of Hannibal is not your typical romance — after all, how many love stories focus on characters engaging in psychological warfare designed to destroy one another? Sure, it’s not a healthy relationship dynamic, but in the world of horror, this series created the pinnacle of the genre “horroromance.”
The Hannibal series is based on author Thomas Harris’ Red Dragon and follows empath Will Graham and his unexpected connection with the dignified, evil Dr. Hannibal Lecter. While the series starts as your typical police procedural, the second and third seasons explore the story Fuller really wanted to tell — and bring the queer undertones of these characters to light.
At a time when mainstream queer media was in its infancy, an unabashedly queer show like Hannibal was largely possible because of its status as psychological horror. When a debate on the ethics of cannibalism is on the table, folks are less likely to bat an eye at two men pining after each other. Embracing the horroromance label allowed Hannibal to shine and cement its legacy within queer media as a show in which body mutilation doubles as a flirtatious vehicle for romantic declarations, sapphic characters are flawed yet complex, and viewers are forced to reckon with the primal fear at the base of all love stories: whether we’ll ever be truly seen and accepted for who we are.
Bryan Fuller’s 2013 adaptation of Hannibal is not your typical romance — after all, how many love stories focus on characters engaging in psychological warfare designed to destroy one another? Sure, it’s not a healthy relationship dynamic, but in the world of horror, this series created the pinnacle of the genre “horroromance.”
The Hannibal series is based on author Thomas Harris’ Red Dragon and follows empath Will Graham and his unexpected connection with the dignified, evil Dr. Hannibal Lecter. While the series starts as your typical police procedural, the second and third seasons explore the story Fuller really wanted to tell — and bring the queer undertones of these characters to light.
At a time when mainstream queer media was in its infancy, an unabashedly queer show like Hannibal was largely possible because of its status as psychological horror. When a debate on the ethics of cannibalism is on the table, folks are less likely to bat an eye at two men pining after each other. Embracing the horroromance label allowed Hannibal to shine and cement its legacy within queer media as a show in which body mutilation doubles as a flirtatious vehicle for romantic declarations, sapphic characters are flawed yet complex, and viewers are forced to reckon with the primal fear at the base of all love stories: whether we’ll ever be truly seen and accepted for who we are.
“It really does look black in the moonlight.”
Some of the most horrific elements in Hannibal are also the show’s most romantic gestures, reflecting not just where Will and Hannibal are in terms of their relationship, but how they build intimacy.
We see this from the very first episode when Cassie Boyle is impaled on a rack of antlers with her lungs removed pre-mortem. Hannibal offers Will his “assistance” with the case by providing a stark contrast to the killer’s hunting ethics. Despite both characters being cannibals, Hannibal murders without kindness or a sense of necessity, but because it’s an art.
This act also serves as an attempt for Hannibal to gauge Will’s skill set, while giving Will his first insight into Hannibal’s psychological profile.
The cat-and-mouse game continues into Hannibal’s second season with Will attempting to ensnare Hannibal by offering his morality as bait, eventually succumbing to the allure of romantic mutilations himself when he combines the body of Randall Tier with the skeleton of a saber-toothed cat.. Later in the season, Will fakes the death of true-crime tabloid journalist Freddie Lounds by setting her body on fire as a gift to Hannibal, which Hannibal in turn honors by digging up Freddie’s corpse and posing it to resemble the Hindu god Shiva, both the creator and destroyer of worlds.
My favorite instance of a body horror grand gesture occurs in season three after Hannibal flees to Europe and leaves Will for dead. Although Hannibal told Will he forgave him for the betrayal, it’s Will’s forgiveness of Hannibal for killing Abigail Hobbs that prompts Hannibal to respond by leaving him a broken heart — an anatomically correct origami one made from the broken body of a queer male poet. Swoon.
“I love a good finger-wagging.”
Beyond the romantic dynamic between its leads, Hannibal depicts another set of complex, queer characters through the sapphic relationship between Alana Bloom and Margot Verger.
Margot is introduced to the audience as a patient of Hannibal’s who suffers multiple forms of abuse at the hands of her brother, Mason Verger. Despite her father disowning her for being a lesbian, Margot is self-assured in her identity and her desire to be a mother — particularly to provide an heir that would free her from her brother. By pursuing a sexual relationship with Will to fulfill that specific purpose, we see how cunning Margot is in her self-preservation. She is portrayed as far more than just a victim of her brother, especially as she continuously conspires against him, plots his death, and becomes partially responsible for his demise.
The most unexpected character development in the series is with Alana. Despite starting as a romantic option for both Hannibal and Will, Alana finally comes into her power — and her queerness — in season three. She has spent so much of the series being manipulated by Hannibal, and Will to some extent, that when she gives in to her desires for vengeance, it’s a refreshing direction for her character to take. She evokes a newfound confidence and stronger sense of self, which results in a casual “coming out” to viewers through a sex scene with Margot and a new collection of fashionable power suits.
Together, these survivors build a romantic connection based on mutual support and a desire to rid the world of certain evils and build a path forward for the two of them. Alana assists Margot in killing her brother and offers her body as a surrogate to give Margot the family she wanted. Though flawed, compared to the rest of the cast, the motives for their actions are the most realistic and understandable.
Their relationship is particularly remarkable because most on-screen sapphic relationships in the mid-2000s ended in the death of one or both characters. The last time we see Alana and Margot, they are alive and escaping the Verger residence with their son. Though this is a minor romantic subplot, their relationship is another example of how Hannibal fosters queer romance with bloody revenge at its heart.
“I let you know me. See me.”
Horror and romance are two sides of the same coin, especially with fear being so heavily associated with the act of falling in love. Our bodies react in the same way — hearts racing and anxiety mounting as we struggle with our desire to be seen for who we really are and be accepted for it.
The first two seasons of Hannibal address this core need. Hannibal is perfectly content living his life until Will waltzes in with his innate ability to “get inside a killer’s head.” Will’s empathy sets him apart from the other psychopaths that Hannibal interacts with, and when he witnesses Will’s lecture profiling the copycat killer who mutilated Cassie Boyle, he realizes that someone might actually understand him.
Of course, for Hannibal, being seen is a direct threat. While Will attempts to unravel the identity of the Chesapeake Ripper, the nickname given to the killer, Hannibal starts framing Will for his crimes to create distance between them. While it initially works, the moment Will sends someone to kill Hannibal, Hannibal’s hope for partnership is ignited.
Throughout season two, we see Hannibal let his guard down to accept Will. But this isn’t a one-way street — the whole time, Hannibal is also seeing Will for who he is and what he is capable of, which serves as one of the hurdles of their relationship as Will is forced to reckon with these implications himself. This results in what is essentially the third-act break up in the romance beat, as the characters realize they have different visions for a life together that neither are willing to commit to — whether it’s a life behind bars or being “murder husbands.”
Hannibal even says as much after he stabs Will. “I let you know me. See me. I gave you a rare gift. But you didn’t want it.” To which Will responds, “Didn’t I?”
But just like any other romance, being understood doesn’t mean anything if you’re not accepted. Even as they end season two with the realization that they have both been changed by the other, it’s the third season that delves into their struggle to reach that acceptance.
In true Hannibal form, that struggle results in a lot of attempted murder and cannibalism, but we eventually see Will find that acceptance — through attempting to destroy them both by hurtling off a cliff while they’re embraced in each other’s arms.
Despite the show only running for three seasons, Hannibal has been lauded for its impact on network TV, having been included on Variety’s 2023 list of “Greatest TV Shows of All Time” and building a fervorous fan base of “Fannibals.” Beyond all that fanfare, the series serves as a groundbreaking addition to queer media. It paved the way for other queer murder-romances, such as the Killing Eve adaptation, and even opened the door to more beloved media embracing the queer undertones of its source material, such as in Good Omens, which saw an on-screen kiss in 2023.
Fuller and the cast have loudly expressed their interest in returning for a fourth season, and I’d like to see how their dynamic would evolve. Hannibal’s fusing of romance and horror has already made canon a new, beautifully horrific love story.
TV
THEY’RE CREEPING UP ON YOU: The Most Disturbing Death in Creepshow
What is it about cockroaches that are so inherently unsettling? Is it how they secretly move into someone’s home, only letting their presence be known after they’ve already amassed a staggering army? Is it how their long antennae reach out in a way disproportionate to their bodies, with spiky, spindly legs to boot? Is it how they’re virtually indestructible, as they can survive shoes, nukes, and decapitation?
I will issue a big fat yes to all the above, with a sprinkle of “they carry disease” and a large scoop of “They’re Creeping Up On You.”
Between the films and Greg Nicotero’s Creepshow series, there has been no shortage of deaths within the Creepshow universe. Yet, nothing gives me the shivers like the case of Upson Pratt in the original Creepshow movie segment “They’re Creeping Up on You.”
Strap in Creeps: The most disturbing death in Creepshow is a roach invasion you’ll never forget. Behold, some of the best of bug horror.
What is it about cockroaches that are so inherently unsettling? Is it how they secretly move into someone’s home, only letting their presence be known after they’ve already amassed a staggering army? Is it how their long antennae reach out in a way disproportionate to their bodies, with spiky, spindly legs to boot? Is it how they’re virtually indestructible, as they can survive shoes, nukes, and decapitation?
I will issue a big fat yes to all the above, with a sprinkle of “they carry disease” and a large scoop of “They’re Creeping Up On You.”
Between the films and Greg Nicotero’s Creepshow series, there has been no shortage of deaths within the Creepshow universe. Yet, nothing gives me the shivers like the case of Upson Pratt in the original Creepshow movie segment “They’re Creeping Up on You.”
Strap in Creeps: The most disturbing death in Creepshow is a roach invasion you’ll never forget. Behold, some of the best of bug horror.
One of Creepshow‘s Best: They’re Creeping Up on You
Things start small in Upson Pratt’s highrise apartment. He spots a roach and quickly chauffeurs it to a super vacuum alongside his desk. The dead roach is shuttled off to places unknown, and we begin to get to know Upson Pratt a little better. Similarly to most intended victims in the Creepshow universe, Upson Pratt is, on no uncertain terms, a terrible person. His mentality is money overall, and he’s racist to boot.
But in another facet of his personality, there is the overwhelming need for complete sanitation. His apartment is whiter and brighter than a mental ward, and he is particularly unhappy about finding a roach in his house.
How Not to Deal with Roaches
An old saying goes, ‘If you see one roach, you have a hundred more.’ These pesky invaders like to hide from the light, and it’s a sentiment that I wonder if Upson Pratt knew. As he spots a couple more roaches and disposes of them, he’s eerily calm, all things considered. Granted, he gets on the phone angrily, demanding that the roach problem be dealt with immediately; he’s the owner of the building, after all. However, when it comes to being faced with an infestation of roaches, he’s surprisingly lackadaisical, so much so that he decides to enjoy a nice snack.
A Meal to Remember Creepshow‘s Upson Pratt By
Here, we’ve come to the moment that has haunted me and every cereal box I’ve ever owned since the first time I saw this film. After Upson Pratt has destroyed some roaches and thinks he’s safe, he treats himself to a nighttime mix of oatmeal made in a blender. Frankly, I’m surprised he wasn’t on the lookout for roaches to be elsewhere.
Because dear horror friends, in case you don’t know (n)or remember: mid-munch-session, Upson Pratt discovers roaches throughout his blender. He’s been ingesting them. He tips over the box of oatmeal, and roaches come spilling out.
At this moment, Upson Pratt begins to realize the magnitude of the problem he’s dealing with.
Bug-Invasion Horror Done Right
Roaches pour into his apartment through every crack and crevice, overflowing the sink and covering every surface. Overcome, Upson Pratt finally locks himself into a sanitized panic room.
However, a wriggle underneath the bedsheet quickly lets Upson Pratt know that he has far from won.
Hundreds of roaches scurry across the mattress within the sanitation panic room and begin swarming the man until he chokes and drops to the floor.
The beauty of this segment is the realism behind it. These aren’t some comically large roaches, nor are they CGI. These are the real deal, all different sizes and varieties of roaches. Creepshow director George A. Romero didn’t hold back from any uncomfortable close-ups, and those scurrying invaders with their long antennae never fail to give me the shivers.
Our final look at Upson Pratt shows roaches pouring from his mouth and bursting from his chest en masse. The final shot shows a dormant apartment, not a speck of movement until it pans to the sanitation room. There, roaches are swarming at least three feet high, where Upson Pratt once was now covered in crawling swarms of long antennae and spindly legs.
Should this subject matter make you fear a “death by cockroach,” never despair. The only person in recent years who died from cockroaches was a man who apparently suffered an allergic reaction after eating too many during a cockroach-eating contest. I didn’t want to know that, but here we are, uncomfortable together now. At least we can all take heed in knowing that roaches probably can’t kill us so long as we don’t consume them. That doesn’t make my haunted cereal boxes feel any more comforting, though.
This innate blend of horror and reality is precisely why “They’re Creeping Up On You” shines. Never mind that the invasion started seemingly negligible, as most invasions tend to do.
“They’re Creeping Up On You” works on a terrifying notion that sticks with a viewer long after watching. Who knows what’s creeping, just out of sight, ready to invade our late-night snacks? Utilizing real roaches, Creepshow created a story that felt possible and more horrifying. After all, if it can happen to the rich and powerful Upson Pratt in his sanitized highrise, what could happen to us? Creepshow undeniably gave us one substantial bug death to remember in horror.
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