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This is it, folks - an evolving, exhaustive (and exhausting) guide to all things queer in horror cinema. Got suggestions? Send 'em! Updated on a regular basis -- so check back every 5 minutes!

* Please note that I am NOT in the business of "outing" people -- if I make reference to a filmmaker or actor's sexuality, it is because they have either publicly stated the fact or, in the case of artists who have passed away, it is generally considered a true fact. In many cases I will refer to artists as "queer-friendly", which is neither an accusation of gayness nor an insult. Trust me.

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

The only person that deserves an apology is me, and perhaps my bitchy friends, for being forced to sit through this piece of poop. The bastard child of Eyes of Laura Mars and Cruising, this made-for-HBO crapper aspires to fabulousness but actually causes spontaneous napping. The atrocious Lesley Ann Warren (and it's hard for me to say that, it is -- remember, Clue is one of my favorite films) and the surprisingly handsome Peter Weller bitch, whine, and swat at each other like babies in an insipid soap opera plot disguised as Slaves of New York. It seems that a deranged killer is using sculptor Lily's Apology line (a tape machine that records anonymous apologies from New Yorkers to be used later in an installation) as a confessional, and of course ends up getting a little closer to the artist than she's really comfortable with. It's a damn shame that such a great idea and potentially fertile setup (come on -- New Yorkers apologizing? That's rich!) is played out so limply, leaving us to watch Warren smoke open-handed in an assortment of hideous Eastern European sweaters and shoulder pads that Walter Peyton would have killed for. Not to mention her hair -- I have never seen a woman allow herself to be repeatedly photographed with limper, more woofed-out hair in my life. At one point she actually leaves the house for an event with a plastic clip on her head. That's just wrong.

Now, aside from all the bad hair and outfits, there's also a random secondary plot that had me very confused: apparently there's another killer on the loose who is biting the cocks (or "shlongs" as they like to say) off of "gays" in Manhattan. God knows why, or why it's important here, but hell -- it was the '80s, right? Oddly, although Harvey Fierstein appears in this movie, he does NOT get his gay shlong bitten off, and in fact doesn't even play a gay -- he plays a homeless drunk who ends up gutted and hung upside-down in a stairwell like a dressed deer. So I'm not complaining, but still...

Future Sex in the City-er Chris Noth makes and early, handsome, and short-lived appearance, and there are some nice location shots of the city, but otherwise this one is definitely one to skip: it's boring, horribly acted, and ultimately both pointless and exploitative. To artists, that is. Earns its one skully for prominenly featuring a Nagel painting.

An occasionally engaging but entirely too self-conscious "mindfuck film", The Attic Expeditions feels like it was directed by several different people, or perhaps one person on several different drug binges. The beginning is pretty awful, detailing the arrival of Trevor (Andras Jones, of A Nightmare on Elm Street 4 and Sorority Babes at the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama) in the dastardly clinic of Dr. Ek (Jeffrey Combs, of several misguided attempts at translating H.P. Lovecraft to the screen, and one good one: Re-Animator), who is a flagrantly evil scientist with something very Scooby-Doo nasty up his sleeve. Thankfully, the action quickly leaves this arena and moves to the House of Love, a rehab grouphouse for crazies, populated with the likes of Douglas (Seth Green of Buffy, Austin Powers, etc.), Dr. Thalama (Wendy Robie, the eye-patched loonie Nadine of Twin Peaks fame, who has since maintained a steady diety of horror poopers like The People Under the Stairs, The Dentist II, and many more), and a few more. Here, at least, things start to get a little fun, and we watch as Trevor starts to hallucinate, have nightmares about a trunk in the attic, get laid by girls both living AND dead, and generally live a decidedly un-therapeutic lifestyle, all under the watchful eye of Ek and his visitor, Dr. Coffee (Ted Raimi, who must have owed someone a favor, as his character seems hastily written in at the last minute and serves absolutely no purpose other than a as sounding board for exposition). Is Trevor being visited by the ghost of his dead fiancee? Is he a murderer? And more importantly, did Douglas REALLY just try to kiss him?

Yes, this film has something queer going on. Early on Douglas tries to place one on Trevor, and I dismissed it as "ooh, crazy people -- they MUST be gay!". But by the end, when the shit has hit the fan and most of the cast is dead, the dead Faith inhabits Douglas, who chases Trevor around covered in blood, yelling things like "I love you!" and trying to make out with him. I'm sure we've all been in this same exact situation, but somehow with Seth Green involved it's a little more interesting to watch. Unfortunately, this glimmer of faggotry is almost completely buried in "look at me!" camera tricks, knockoff set design and plot twists that rob everything from Pink Floyd's The Wall to Beetlejuice, and a plethora of full-frontal female nudity (which is great and all when used properly, but here it's really distracting). While at times the script is clever in its "is-he-or-isn't-he" game (is Trevor nuts, not is Douglas gay), it gets bogged down in its own contrivances and unfortunately can't hold up. I'd say "better luck next time", but after a look at the director's photo on the IMDB (in sunglasses, smoking a cigarette), I say "get over your Vincent Gallo-ed self and make a movie" instead. Some good performances by Green and Robie make it less painful than it could be.

The movie that refuses to ask the important questions:

WHY does Debbie Rochon only drink out of red plastic cups?
WHY does Chris have the living room decor of a retired Floridian gay couple?
WHY are there so many naked male asses in a film featuring 3 -- count 'em -- 3 scream queens?

A psychological thriller that is neither psyhological NOR thrilling, Bleed is a pathetic entry into the dwindling genre of sincere slashers. Non-ironic and humorless (I consider this a good thing), the film is nonetheless completely sunk by atrocious writing, hammy acting, and what has to be the worst videography I have ever seen make it to wide DVD distribution. Budding B-queen Debbie Rochon plays Maddie, a transplant with a secret (and a not-altogether-interesting one, ultimately) who falls for a hunky and perhaps mildly retarded fella whose friends convince her that they murder people for fun. During an altercation at a parking garage, Maddie beats the living shit out of an annoying woman, and christens herself part of the club. Of course, the club was a hoax and now the California 7 have a killer on their hands, and the bodies start piling up.

This one is hard to figure out, really -- and I don't mean the inane plot. There's more male nudity than I've ever seen in a horror film and in the opening scene the victim is inexplicably in drag (and has his groin slit through his tidy-whities). This plus the scream-queen quotient leads me to believe that something queer is afoot in the proceedings. Look for Eric Cartman in the credits as "Production Accountant". And then look for something good to watch. Only worth viewing for the horrific continuity and lighting and for some amusing gore. And the asses.

Carnies, repressed homo teens, and Leslie-Ann Warren -- what more could you want from a Canadian film?!

Well, ask for it and you'll get it from gay director Thom Fitzgerald (The Hanging Garden, Beefcake, The Event) in this stunning, surprisingly queer tale of alienation, fear, and hatred in Canadian Suburbia. When the carnival comes to town, a group of mean-spirited local teens (including X-Men's Iceman, Shawn Ashmore) decide to go hunting for freaks -- their target? The poor, follicly-enhanced "Wolf Girl", Tara (Victoria Sanchez). Tara isn't really a Wolf, but when these nasty kids start messing with her, it brings out her inner Lobo and, well, things get hairy. Throw in Tim Curry as the Ringmaster, Grace Jones (!!) as the He-She, full musical numbers, and Trannie carnies dressed as coquettes (who shockingly doff their kit), and you've got the makings of an eerie queer musing on sexual repression and self-hatred (the revealing of the repressed lesbianism of one of the characters is quite effective in the final reel). Much like his earlier works, Fitzgerald's film is intelligent, quirky, and sincere. Let's hope he dabbles in the genre again.

It's really a drag when you have to watch big heaping quantities of your favorite ingredients (ghouls, drag queens, evil children, priests, hair dye) thrown together into a cinematic Dump Cake like this. Basic premise: Mallory, a once virginal bride, is set upon by her demon husband on their wedding night and kills him, committing herself to a lifetime tied to the forces of darkness. Mallory forms a motley crew of demon-slayers, including drag queen Vena Cava and mute telepath child Talking Tina, and spends her time between spectral visits from her Jack Skellington-inspired dead hubby slaying foul hoardes. When a new type of baddie appears, kidnapping the pope and impregnating nuns with ghoul-babies, it is up to the Manic Panic gang to save the world. Toss in kung-fu priests (wait -- make that HOT kung-fu priests), disappearing towns, mouthless succubi, and beheaded French vampiresses, and you can't go wrong, right?

Wrong. I don't know if it's because it's French or because it's badly lit or what, but much like my baptism (according to my mother), the movie just doesn't take. And as Martin Balsam once said: if it don't gel, it ain't aspic.

Bloody Mallory does have some clever and amusing bits, but the whole thing is way too broad to support the serious moments and too brooding to be real popcorn entertainment. The Mallory/dead husband relationship is way too Buffy/Angel to be taken seriously and Vena Cava is obviously just there for camp value and cheap laughs. Even delicious little moments like a maniacally laughing child running through the streets with an electric meat knife are so cheapy executed that they fall flat. And honestly, who could take a gang of evil-fighters seriously that rides Razors scooters? In all, this has the feeling of a made-for-Sci-Fi version of To Wong Foo.

Another in the seemingly endless series of David DeCoteau "D&A" diet-horror films, The Brotherhood 2: Young Warlocks is entirely without redeeming value beyond some assorted eye-candy that would seem more at home in a Gillette Mach 3 razor commercial.
The cute but apparently retarded John and his friends are outcasts at their prepschool until Luc, "the new kid", arrives and starts throwing his mojo around. Besides looking like every male flight attendant I've ever had, Luc is otherwise unthreatening, and the boys are even willing to engage in a "Girls Gone Wild"-style underwear pool party -- Seagram's and all! There's lots of shirtless men (including one of the most heinous actors I've ever seen -- keep your eyes peeled for Toad-Boy and you'll know exactly what I mean), not much plot, and when all is said and done nothing is any more shocking than what you'd see on an episode of Goosebumps. I mean, come on -- there's no nudity, no gore, not even profanity. If you're into SoloFlex infomercials, you'll find the same painfully overstated gay subtext and ham-handed filmmaking at work here.

A very, very odd film. Based on a graphhic novel about a cemetery groundskeeper whose real job is dispatching the zombies that rise from their graves every night, Cemetery Man is part horror film, part romance, and part existentialist drama -- all carried on the waxed and moisturized bare shoulders of gay actor (and Madonna collaborator) Rupert Everett. Along with his mute sidekick Gnaghi, Dellamorte keeps the undead at bay until he falls for the breathtaking Anna Falchi at her husband's funeral. After having some hot graveyard-sex, she's bitten and he must dispatch of her. But wait -- she comes back; so does this mean when he killed her the first time she wasn't a zombie? Things get very complicated for our oft-naked hero, and in the end we've wandered into decidedly post-modern territory, with our heroes at the end of the earth and Gnaghi speaking the final line. Although this destination might not be everyone's cup of tea, the trip there is quite interesting, with lots of splatter, fantastic cinematography, and plenty of naked Rupert. Director Michele Soavi, known for his giallo-influenced gore flicks of the 80's (the gay-friendly Stage Fright, The Church), is in fine form here.

As far as mesages from Planet Pretentia go, I have to say A Chronicle of Corpses is certainly better than most. Sure, it's incredibly mannered, hyper-stylized, self-important, and more than a little bit boring -- but it's also relentless, unwavering, and downright creepy. The story (using the term as loosely as is possible) involves the once-affluent Elliot family and their various slaves and servants as they are set upon by a mystery killer apparently intent on bumping off the lot one by one. The 19th-century plantation setting is certainly a change of pace from typical slasher flicks (or at least the costumes are -- I guess woods and barns are pretty much the same regardless of time period), as is the thrust of the film, which hovers between a meditation on the decline of the colonial farm family (lost both to inner decay and the rise of cities) and a bizarre indictment of class, religion, marriage, and just about anything else that America apparently stands for.

In reality, it's an "art film" wrapped up in a slasher package (and not the other way around, which is usually a disaster), and the bleak inevitability of the killer's progress (a true chronicle of corpses) is hypnotic and quite disturbing in its detached presentation. The acting (though very stylized in a "stare directly in front of you without wavering and deliver your lines without a hint of emotion" sort of way) is uniformly excellent, and the rhythm of monologues that carries the plot and allows each character his or her say is nostalgic of avante-garde theatre (or it at least owes more to this than to Friday the 13th). The costumes and period feel are very well accomplished (aided by excellent cinematography and a classical score), and quite queer in their affinity for a quainter, more formal time. I guess in the end you could say that A Chronicle of Corpses is the film that Andy Milligan would have made had he had any clue as to where to put a camera or how to direct an actor (commence hate-mail now).

But in addition to being simply affected, Corpses boasts an overt queer element as well -- the patriarch of the family has been having a love affair with his wife's brother for years (as his wife has been occupied with the stable boy). The relationship between the two men is touching in that wistful, naturally-lit Merchant/Ivory sort of way, and is presented bluntly and without judgement (at least, without any more judgement than befalls anyone else -- all are equally killed). The closing monologue by the elderly matriarch (Marj Dusay) is a drag performance just waiting to happen -- she's a tough broad on par with the best Grand Old Dames. I was a bit troubled by the surprising ending (as I was supposed to be, I guess), and in the end can't quite discern what writer/director Andrew Repasky McElhinny is getting at -- but like the best pretentious art films, Corpses at least inspires me to try and figure it out. Definitely worth a look for tangent-genre completists and those with a high threshold for vacant staring.

Two words: WHITE. HOT.

This is simply one of the hottest movies EVER MADE. Completely incomprehensible and lacking of all criteria that generally make a movie watchable, Click fortunately has enough teased-out hair and women in bikinis firing automatic weapons to more than make up for it.

The plost is entirely nonexistent: an ugly old photographer lures a group of women to his California ranch to ostensibly shoot a calendar of women brandishing deadly weapons (we don't see it, but we assume that mountains of cocaine are involved in this transaction). Unfortunately, the man is a thinly-veiled freakshow who, thanks to early-year abuse at the hand of a fat nurse, dresses up in drag and kills any woman he gets a hardon for. Think Psycho starring Sally Struthers as Mrs. Bates and you've pretty much summed it up. Fortunately, the filmmakers don't let things like plot get in the way -- nor, for that matter, film, acting, dialogue, continuity, or taste: what lies between the proximal ends of this 79-minute wonder is a treasure trove of bad filmmaking cliches and aggressively bad fashion. Think Eyes of Laura Mars meets Spookies. Think The Fan meets Gator Bait. Think whatever the hell you want -- there's no getting around the undisputable power of a woman in a crop-top screaming in agony as she fires a machine gun, only to be yelled at by the photographer, "You're holding on to it like a limp dick!".

Crossdressing and woofed-out hair aside, there's tons of camp elements here. The token male models have a very iffy relationship (one even gives the other a flower in a tender scene, prompting him to shyly respond, "You may not be so dumb after all") and one spends most of the time either shirtless or spasming in one of many bulletstorms he's forced to endure in the name of "high fashion". The girls are uniformly preposterous, with some of the most gloriously misguided costumes in the history of the cinema (watch for the "Bow Trio" accessory ensemble that makes the lead's head look like it came straight from a Sears Bridal Registry). Even the fact that Troy Donahue stumbles through a few scenes can't lend any cache to the tacky proceedings, and an endless parade of pathetic plot elements (such as the world's oldest private detective, a Britney Fox ripoff party band, and any number of mind-numbingly ridiculous photo shoot scenes, most of which closely resemble the last 15 minutes of The Wild Bunch -- only with more taffeta) keeps things intensely watchable. Turn it into a drinking game -- a shot every time they switch from film to video -- and you're in for a night of trashy, fabulous fun.

Side note: keep your eyes open for genre vets Susan Jennifer Sullivan (Friday 7), Jack Vogel (Demon Wind), and sequel queen Juliette Cummins (Friday 5, Psycho 3, Slumber Party Massacre 2).

Former Enfant Terrible Francois Ozon (who matured enormously in his fantastic later films, including Under the Sand, Swimming Pool, and 8 Women) turned in this nasty little gay fable early in his career, when his metaphors were a bit more up-front and his touch less graceful. Still, the film is an interesting watch and has some fantastic sexual tension and a clever play on the Hansel and Gretel tale.

Luc and Alice (the Lovers of the title) kill a classmate in a shower (upon Alice's request) and make a run for the countryside, where they hit a rabbit with their car and are taken hostage by a strange mountain man. Luc is then made to be the man's servant and eventual love object, while Alice is locked in the basement. Luc's sexual awakening (he was impotent with Alice) at the hands of this creepy man is interesting to watch, and his eventual ability to make love to Alice after their escape raises questions regarding sexual aggression and passivity more than just orientation. Of course, as this is a horror film, their Eden (complete with frolicking animals) is short-lived and Ozon deals out the punishment as he sees fit: death for one, incarceration for another, the isolation of self-knowledge for the third. Watch to find out which comes to whom.

How can you not love a film featuring none other than Australia's answer to Madonna herself, Kylie Minogue?

Well, when it's Cut -- that's how. Shoddy, cliched horror/spoof about a film crew trying to finish a film started years earlier, where production was halted to to some bloody murders -- including Miss Minogue herself, thus ending any reason to watch the rest of the film. Molly Ringwald, however, is unfortunately allowed to live (some horrible accounting error in Hell?) and is brought back years later by a plucky group of film students who have discovered the "curse" on the project (it's called "Hot-Blooded" -- eew) and want to finish the filming.

Fortunately, included in this group is a feisty lesbian (Hester, played by Sarah Kants), who is allowed a quick kiss on-screen and is NOT, oddly enough, used for tittilation purposes. Of course, she ends up in a log saw -- but baby steps, people -- baby steps! The flick has a few decent scare scenes (I liked the kitchen scene myself) but has such a stupid ending that ultimately you'll be disappointed. But on the bright side -- the killer's tagline, "Now... you die" (in a great Aussie accent) gave my friend David and I months of voicemail enjoyment.

Surprisingly sensitive and well-made account of Jeffrey Dahmer's spiral into madness. The film bases the origins of Dahmer's psychosis on a fumbled gay encounter in high school, which led to a cycle of shame and violence. Thankfully we are not made to watch any killing -- the story focuses more on the Whys than the Hows. Jeremy Renner gives a complex and admirable performance -- his attractiveness (which Dahmer shared) drives home the tragedy -- if Dahmer had not been so convinced that no one would love him, he would have done pretty well for himself (and of course spared dozens of innocent lives).

Let me be clear -- it's not a horror movie. Although there's lots of blood and some icky cannibalism stuff thrown around, this is a straight-up comedy with gratuitous male and female nudity and lots of over-the-top acting. And while I generally frown upon comedies masquerading as horror films, this one is so tied into the trashy B tradition (as opposed to just being a half-assed, middle-of-the-road "horror" movie that's watered down for the WB audience) that I have no qualms recommending it.

Julie Strain is, in a word, insane. Anyone who bares her breasts as much as she does in this film must either have some skin condition that makes her breasts sensitive to clothing or an endorsement deal with her plastic surgeon. Her portrayal of a house mother in a cannibalistic SoCal sorority is the best of its kind. The girls themselves (including half-sister Lizzie Strain and d-t-v staple Tiffany Shepis -- also seen in the club kid opus Shampoo Horns as the girl who takes too much ecstasy and wanders into traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge) are adequate, but Strain and Brinke Stevens really steal the show here. In one scene Brinke actually tosses her hair over her right shoulder before explaining how she and her friend fell into cannibalism as a necessity back in the 80's.

For a full review, click HERE.

Wow -- lit like a soap opera, acted like a lost episode of Saved by the Bell, and populated by intergenerational television has-beens, this one is really something special. This incomprehensible film starts in Connecticut (I think) with a scene stolen out of Exorcist 3 and then moves to Florida (I think) where we're treated to all the fun trappings of direct-to-video horror, namely: rich kids with the run of a gigantic house, nudity-free sex, booze, racial profiling, "raves", random FBI involvement, goofy masks, murders unrelated to the plot, and horrendous music. I mean, REALLY horrendous music. I will admit that there were a few clever scares (the fold-up ironing board, a tried-and-true gag since Clue, is still effective here), but mostly it was horribly contrived. Famously "outed" Dr. Quinn alum Chad Allen somehow reminds me of Anthony Michael Hall in his awkward Johnny B. Good phase, only with an added prescription medication addiction. Take note of the name of the lead actress - and avoid ever watching anything with her in it EVER AGAIN (it is telling that she plays "Young Martha Stewart" in the tv biopic). And it shakes me to the bone that I am about to write this -- Joey Lawrence is one of the strong points of the movie. Whew. I said it. Whoa!

Self-conscious and silly, this installment in gay director Araki's crusade to convince the world that LA is full of absolute maniacs boasts a handful of queer (or queer-friendly) glitterati: Amanda Bearse, Margaret Cho, Parker Posey, and -- get this -- gay porn star Zak Spears (billed as Khristofor Rossianov). The dialogue is painful, especially when coming out of Rose McGowan, and the gags are flat. Still, the ending pushes things just far enough to be a disturbance, and the battering of sexual boundaries of all kinds sets this apart from the crowd.

Desperately trying to keep its greasy head above the Skinemax water level, Embrace of the Vampire is a movie that can't commit to anything and therefore ends up as nothing. Pre-Charmed Alyssa Milano find her inner Shannon Tweed in this breast-fueled crapfest, which is staffed by one of the most confusing casts in recent memory: Milano, Martin Kemp, Rachel True, Jordan Ladd, and Jennifer Tilly all were somehow coerced into appearing in this by-the-book erotic vampire nudie. Was it the fact that the director, Anne Goursaud, was long-time editor for Francis Ford Coppola and had cut his epic Bram Stoker's Dracula? If so, pity for them -- this mess is more akin to One From the Heart.
In short, Alyssa is a Polly Purebred goodie-two-shoes who was raised by nuns and has a hunky yet "understanding" boyfriend. But of course, she is the possible reincarnated long-lost love of our resident nameless vampire, who is unfortunately cast by the homely (at best) Kemp. Right off the bat we have a problem: it is virtually impossible (in my mind, at least) to be either aroused or frightened by a man who looks like Alan Cumming dressed up for a Sadie Hawkins dance. In flashbacks stolen shot-for-shot from Legend, we see that the vampire was stolen from his bride by a few Penthouse Pets with fangs and cursed with his condition (and perpetually greasy hair) for eternity. When he sees virginal co-ed Charlotte, he decides to claim her. Enter the local bimbos, who try to get Charlotte laid any which way they can -- not to save her from the vampire, mind you, just because she's a drag. She proceeds to start snogging everyone in sight, including sharing an improbable yet fairly hot lesbian tryst with her photographer neighbor while her boyfriend nurses a terminal case of blueballs and the vampire follows her around like a Hare Krishna. Her boyfriend is eventually very nearly seduced by Tilly in the strangest scene of the film: Tilly is about to work some magic on him on a fire escape, when he comes to his senses and pushes her away. Recoiling, he sees that Tilly was actually Kemp in disguise (true -- the only thing more horrifying than potentially receiving oral pleasure from Jennifer Tilly would be potentially receiving oral pleasure from Martin Kemp)! This somehow clues him in to the fact that Charlotte is in danger and he saves her, and vampire returns to his loft to sulk and, hopefully, deep-condition. Wasted actors, no script, no gore, nothing. Unless you want to see Alyssa bring out the girls a few times, this is one to skip.

A completely inept late-period slasher (the craze was on its last legs by this point), Evil Laugh (directed by Dominic Braschia, the fat kid who gets the axe in his back in Friday 5, and written by and starring none other than Scott Baio's brother Stephen Baio) nonetheless manages to be a pretty entertaining watch purely for camp value. Easily one of the gayest slashers out there, Laugh features an abundance of male skin (including a full-frontal flash, if you're quick with your remote), the grabbiest bunch of guys I've ever seen, and a prolonged discussion about one of the male (and straight) characters' sexuality (the "kids" argue as to whether he's gay or not, for no apparent reason).

The setup and plot are standard stuff (group of students spend the weekend at the site of a former murder and are picked off), the kills are mostly bloodless and nothing interesting (the much-touted microwave murder is laaaame), and the acting is some of the worst I've ever seen, but this movie kicks ass for one reason: cleaning montage. Yes, kids -- any movie with a montage of people cleaning to bad pop music is instantly bound for infamy, in my book. Aside from the tacky scrubbing frenzy, there's also the intense fetishization of Mark (the weatherman-handsome and very fit Myles O'Brien) to deal with -- he's either in short-shorts, a Speedo, or bareass naked for almost the entire film (lucky us!). Check out the bizarre homoerotic scene where a nude Mark gets it on with a semi-nude Tina (Jody Gibson) and a man's hand comes up through the mattress and begins stroking Mark's buns. It turns out to be resident homophobe Barney (Jerold Pearson) playing a "joke", but the moment certainly lingers beyond your standard fratboy prank. If you're a fan of trashy, bad slashers and horrifying late-80's fashion, this one's definitely worth a look. Also of note is the lead performance of Kim McKamy (Creepozoids), who would shortly after become hardcore legend Ashlyn Gere (oddly, her nude scene in this film looks like it was done with a body double!) before returning to genre work in the Willard remake.

Some may wonder why this film would end up on a homo horror shopping list, but there is a striking, if subtle, gay subplot at work here.
We all know the story by now, but it's the telling that makes Friedkin's 1973 film a classic. Restrained (as restrained as a film that features a 12-year-old stabbing herself in the vagina with a crucifix while screaming "Let Jesus fuck you!" could be, anyway), meticulously paced, and boasting one of the most hushed tones I've ever seen (listen for the now-famous "Tubular Bells" theme, and you'll only find it once in the entire film -- and hardly a half-dozen other music cues besides). You have the feeling that you're spying on these people, and this forced intimacy is what pulls us into the microcosmic battle between good and evil. The performances are impeccable (Ellen Burstyn is at the same time a doting mother and a selfish bitch, and blameless in both regards, while Linda Blair has the distinction of reaching her acting apex before needing a training bra), the photography beautiful, and the mood impenetrable.

So what's the gay angle? Father Karras has a notable attachment to his mother (beyond just being Italian, that is), and is friends with a visibly effeminate priest who plays piano at Hollywood-type cocktail parties and is the last person to be with Karras before he dies (in a very tender moment at the close of the film). When the devil (through Regan) tells Karras to fuck father Merrin (Max von Sydow - not a pleasant thought even when not suggested by the living embodiment of evil), he's getting at something that's only hinted at in the film but in the novel (by William Peter Blatty) is the concrete cause of Karras's overriding malaise: his repressed sexuality. The film does not have a homo agenda by any means, but a queer reading does shed some light on what is an otherwise severely underdeveloped main character.

Now this movie has it ALL! Mommie Dearest herself Faye Dunaway plays a fashion photographer who likes to stage her supermodels in scenes of boody carnage. Her queer assistant Rene Auberjonois throws piano bar birthday parties for the sissy elite in his apartment. She has a pair of lesbianic models who live together and have a funny answering machine. Suddenly people start dying in scenes that mimic Laura's photos, and what do you know -- Laura can actually see through the killer's eyes as the murders happen! There's more camp in this movie than in Yellowstone fucking Park. The scene of Laura being chased through the warehouse while she sees herself running away through the killer's eyes -- screaming "Donaaaaaaaaaald! Donaaaaaaaaaaaaaaald!!" the whole time -- is one of the best scenes in film history. I can't believe that drag queens don't reenact this entire film word for word on an annual basis. Clever, gloriously shot, and with a fantastic 70's feel, this is one of the best queer-infused horror flicks out there. Oh -- and did I mention that Barbra Streisand did the theme song?

One of gay screenwriter Kevin Williamson's Big Three (along with I Know What You Did Last Summer and Scream), The Faculty is similarly referential fodder for horror and sci-fi geeks. Loaded with references to horror movies and teen movies alike, The Faculty takes the whole Body Snatcher structure and puts in a Texas high school that is oddly staffed by some fantastic character actors (Bebe Neuwirth, Piper Laurie, John Stewart, Robert Patrick, Salma Hayek, Famke Janssen). The kids themselves aren't anything to snigger at either, with career-launching appearances by Clea DuVall (Identity, Carnivale), Josh Hartnett (Halloween H2O), Elijah Wood (The Lord of the Rings), and Jordana Brewster (um... she dated Derek Jeter?). Fun, fast, and clever, the movie is actually a fun ride, with lots of references to keep you busy and some interesting gore and effects. DuVall stands out as the girl that everyone calls "dyke", and Wood emerges from puberty blissfully unscathed and ready for a career as an adult. Hats off to Robert Rodriguez for showing high school as the nasty, brutal place it is, and for giving the spotlight to the underdogs (in this tale, the pretty people aren't the ones you root for).

One of the most ridiculous and entertaining major disasters to ever hit screens. Lauren Bacall plays Sally Ross, a pickled old movie star trying to resurrect her career with a Broadway show called "Never Say Never". Unfortunately, her tobacco-stained idyll is threatened by the persistence of her biggest fan, Douglas (Michael Biehn at his cutest). As Douglas starts haphazardly slicing his way through the set pieces (including a YMCA, a gay bar, and Maureen Stapleton), Sally smokes her weight in 120's and desperately tries to keep James Garner from fleeing the picture altogether. Trashy, scareless, and boasting one of the most horrific musical sequences in history, The Fan is absolutely essential viewing for any horror homo.

For a complete review of this trainwreck, click HERE.

"Meet Andrew. The Road to Hell is Paved with His Victims."

Apparently this tag-line is supposed to encapsulate one of the most mind-numbingly scattered horror films I've ever seen. Part Omen, part Carrie, part Exorcist</