Editorials
Maila Nurmi, Vampira: Transgressive Sexuality & Queer Connections in 1950s America
Vampira and Elvira were not friends. Maila Nurmi, known primarily as Vampira, the original horror hostess of the 1950s, was a complicated, enigmatic, and profound woman. Amid 1950s-era misogyny, Vampira miraculously emerged among the smiling white housewives that plastered homemaking magazines and the objectified, doe-eyed young women in gentlemen’s magazines such as Playboy. Nurmi used these harmful images to her advantage, luring ogling men with her sleek black dress and come-hither voice, then subjecting them to her dominatrix attitude and piercing scream. Not to mention, B horror movies! “The shock value of Vampira,” explains W. Scott Poole in his book Vampira: Dark Goddess of Horror (2014), “came from her refusal to submit to the male gaze. She wanted to attack it instead […]. Vampira represented both homage and satire of the pin-up tradition. Cheesecake came with a heavy dose of gothic morbidity and transformed the sexual politics and imagery of mid-century America into a sandbox she could play in.” Nurmi’s albeit-brief success as a late-night horror hostess on The Vampira Show in the 1950s paved the way for her predecessor, Cassandra Peterson.
Peterson, known worldwide as the seductive and hilarious Elvira, modeled her Valley Goth Girl horror hostess character after Nurmi’s sexy macabre creation decades earlier. Studio executives advocated this aesthetic decision after Peterson tried first to have her character be more of an homage to the late Sharon Tate. Unfortunately, Nurmi did not appreciate the executives’ directive decision and took Elvira’s eventual stardom as a slap in the face. Despite Peterson’s consistent admiration for Nurmi’s Vampira, Nurmi would never accept Elvira as anything but a knockoff. However, the women had more similarities than Nurmi may have understood. Not only did both women share a seemingly spiritual bond with Elvis Presley, having both met and shared intimate conversations with the icon nearly a decade apart in Las Vegas, but they have both advocated for the marginalized and have clear connections to the queer community throughout their careers and personal lives. Camp and transgressive sexuality play a central role in their legacies as mistresses of the dark.
Peterson came out publicly as queer in her recent bestselling memoir Yours Cruelly, Elvira: Memoirs of the Mistress of the Dark (2021) after decades of being titillation for male horror fans (of which she lost many after her coming out). Throughout her life, Nurmi interacted with queerness through comics, friendships, and politics. Though we may never know for sure if her queer connections go beyond the platonic and salutatory, we do know that based on her life story, particularly as it is portrayed in Poole’s 2014 book as well as filmmaker R.H. Greene’s 2012 documentary Vampira & Me, she was an ally who inspired countless queer folks to be their authentic, creepy, campy selves. Critics and normals be damned.
From a young age, Maila was unafraid to explore the boundaries of gender expression, particularly in comics and in the theater. Her favorite comic strip, Milton Caniff’s Terry & the Pirates, which debuted in 1934, offered sci-fi adventure mixed with subversion. Her obsession with the villainous character of The Dragon Lady, a Chinese pirate queen, followed her throughout her life and helped to develop her ethos as a performer. The strip “offered transgressive visions of women and sexuality,” and by 1940, Caniff introduced Sanjak, a villain whose character is named after a Greek island near Lesbos. “Caniff,” explains Poole, “portrayed Sanjak as a French woman who cross-dresses by wearing a men’s uniform and had a monocle…”. Maila would also cross-dress in her high school Rhythm Club performances; one yearbook photo shows her as a vaudevillian “Chaplin-esque looking sailor.”
After graduation, Maila set her sights on New York City’s beatnik enclave of Greenwich Village. There, she associated herself with like-minded dreamers, poets, and activists. One such connection was Harry Hay, the gay communist organizer and founder of the Mattachine Society in 1950. This would not be the only time she associated herself with known queer figureheads and creatives. For instance, Maila debuted the rough draft for Vampira at Lester Horton’s Bal Caribe Halloween extravaganza. “The Bal Caribe,” Poole states, “represented the most outré gathering in 1950s Hollywood that brought together the city’s gay elite, political radicals, and a hefty portion of campy glamour. Horton had long been part of Hollywood’s gay scene.” Maila would go on to win Best Costume – Vampira found her first audience.
As her infamy grew with The Vampira Show (1954-1955), she met her “soulmate,” James Dean. Dean, the up-and-coming enigmatic young actor who lit Hollywood ablaze, was the subject of several rumors linking him to queer Hollywood and romantically to Maila, though the infatuation appears to have been one-sided. Dean himself was bisexual, though he never came out publicly. Another closeted Hollywood fixture, Liberace, paled around with Nurmi in Las Vegas in 1956. She joined his flamboyant nightclub act as the “local TV glamour ghoul” though her true role remains unclear. According to Nurmi, at one of Liberace’s performances, an audience member yelled “Liberace is a f**!” Nurmi spat on the heckler.
As Vampira/Maila’s star power was being extinguished thanks to the sudden cancelation of The Vampira Show, Maila was approached by B-movie director Ed Wood to star in his low-budget sci-fi alien zombie flick Plan 9 from Outer Space (1959). At this point in his personal life, Wood was known to be a cross-dresser, as alluded to in his semi-autobiographical gender horror flick Glen or Glenda (1953). While Maila in later interviews lambasted Wood’s ability to write dialogue, she accepted the role in Plan 9 for $200 due to financial troubles, which would follow her until she died in 2008.
In 1980, following a long drought in her acting career, executives at the cable network KHJ-TV wanted to revamp the horror hostess for a new generation. They approached Nurmi, though they intended to cast someone much younger. Nurmi initially agreed to the project to help find and train a new Vampira. However, she quickly grew disillusioned by the deal after the network supposedly rejected her idea of having either BIPOC actresses Lola Falana or Martine Beswick as the hostess. After Groundlings alum Cassandra Peterson was signed on, and the producers decided she would dress similarly to Vampira, Nurmi felt cheated. She would go on to sue both Peterson and the producers, but she couldn’t follow through in part due to a lack of funds. “The inventor is rarely honored for anything,” stated Nurmi in Greene’s documentary (2012). “I pity those people,” meaning, the copycats, most likely referring to Peterson. In her autobiography, Peterson describes the situation as unfortunate. Elvira became the most popular horror hostess of the genre, but Peterson insisted she did not mean to insult Nurmi with her spin on Vampira’s original look. It was in the meetings with KHJ-TV executives that Peterson first heard of Vampira, and until then, thought Vampira was just a generic name for a female vampire.
Lola Falana Martine Beswick
It is interesting how many closeted (and open) queer people Maila Nurmi attracted during her fame. Whether it be her camp sensibilities; her willingness to openly scoff at and reject social norms and gender roles; or her dedication to her role as Vampira, the spookiest, sexiest woman in town; queers felt comfortable in her presence in the hostile environment of 1950s America. Maila’s entire persona and dedication to performance art inspired countless drag looks for decades, including Peterson’s Elvira, a character beloved by the queer community. One can posit that, under less professional circumstances, Cassandra and Maila might have been friends or at least acquaintances, should the drama between the two creatives and the selfish actions of studio executives never occurred.
History doesn’t repeat: it rhymes. Peterson’s campy Valley Girl/Goth Royalty Elvira was an ode to Nurmi’s satirical Beat Generation ghoul Vampira. Likewise, Charles Addams’s subversive matriarch, The Ghoul/Morticia, inspired Vampira. Each was a variation of the other, all transgressive in their respective periods. “American culture had become a subversive burlesque,” writes Poole, “a sideshow with a sense that performing cultural identity always means some level of love and theft.”
Maila Nurmi personifies the power one can wield when being their own eccentric and kooky self. It is no wonder that queer people felt comfortable around her and continue to be inspired by what Vampira stands for. Vampira, for many, was a barren temptress who cared not about your opinions or classifications. It didn’t matter the social mores or gender roles of the period: when Vampira appeared on screen in the L.A. area, she tore up the rulebook and refused to compromise on her art, even when starving and penniless. Queers were transfixed by her one or two years of fame. They, as well as punks and goths, stood by her as her career took a downturn, bringing her food and gigs in her later years. These groups continue to conjure the ghoul goddess through drag. Maila Nurmi will always be a dark icon of the weirdos; her impact is not lost on us queers.
Check out R.H. Greene’s documentary Vampira & Me (2012) on Tubi!
Scott Poole’s book Vampira: Dark Goddess of Horror (2014) is available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Soft Skull Press.
Cassandra Peterson’s Yours Curelly, Elvira: Memoirs of the Mistress of the Dark (2021) is available wherever books are sold.
Editorials
Is It Time for a Queer ‘Jaws’ Remake?
Is ‘Jaws’ (1974) queer coded? Jaws does pass the Bechdel test… once. Aside from a brief geographic conversation between wives, Jaws is homosocial and guided by men and their respective traumas and egos. “In the context of Jaws,” advocates author Jen Corrigan, “homoeroticism can flourish because women are taken out of the equation, but it’s not positioned as a reaction to the lack of women present.” Women are mentioned during the film’s second half, but merely as wives and past lovers. In a film centered around men, it is no wonder, then, that myself and other fans sense something queer is afoot, and maybe it’s time for Jaws to be loud and proud.
In 2021, I joined comedians Matthew Schott and Chris Okawa on their podcast, The Adaptation Game. I was tasked to conceive my dream movie remake. I chose Jaws, and I reassigned the roles of Scheider, Shaw, and Dreyfus to actresses Kirsten Dunst, Lea DeLaria, and Tessa Thompson, respectively. I also developed a romantic storyline between Quint (DeLaria) and Hooper (Thompson). I believed this casting to be a pipe dream. However, after reading Jen Corrigan’s piece “Three Men on a Boat” in the groundbreaking essay compilation It Came from the Closet, and seeing The Shark is Broken on Broadway, I think we may be approaching a time when a queer remake is entirely possible. While Jaws is subtextually queer to some viewers, overt queerness could enliven the story for the millennium. For too long, horror fans have been dissatisfied with stale remakes of iconic horror films; we’re looking at you Friday the 13th (2009) and A Nightmare on Elm Street (2010). It is time for a fresh approach.
We Deserve a Queer Remake of Jaws.
On the surface, Jaws is a straightforward story of three men on a shark-hunting expedition. Subtextually, this story is brimming with male intimacy and vulnerability. The trio face their fears, talk about past trauma, and share constricted quarters. The tension built over days at sea, though thick, is often eased by moments of levity through touch, song, jests, and storytelling. The cast dynamic is fostered by genuine off-screen admiration and frustration for each other as people and actors, pushing themselves and their fellow actors to go further and do better.
Jaws does pass the Bechdel test… once. Aside from a brief geographic conversation between wives, Jaws is homosocial and guided by men and their respective traumas and egos. “In the context of Jaws,” advocates author Jen Corrigan, “homoeroticism can flourish because women are taken out of the equation, but it’s not positioned as a reaction to the lack of women present.” Women are mentioned during the film’s second half, but merely as wives and past lovers. In a film centered around men, it is no wonder, then, that myself and other fans sense something queer is afoot, and maybe it’s time for Jaws to be loud and proud.
Male Intimacy in Jaws (1975)
Heather O. Petrocelli surveyed 3,774 queer horror fans for her new book Queer for Fear: Horror Film and the Queer Spectator (2023). Jaws did not appear in the top 25 favorites list among participants. However, Petrocelli reveals the adoration for haunting/paranormal films by queer viewers (91.6%), as well as monster movies (86%). “To be queer is to be haunted,” asserts Petrocelli. Stories of hauntings resonate with queer viewers, for we know what it is like to hide or be hidden away for our queerness. Who aboard the Orca isn’t haunted by something from their past?
While in Amity and aboard the Orca, Quint, Hooper, and Brody discuss and face their myriad fears: drowning, shark attacks, being underestimated, losing communication with loved ones, and, of course, the erratic behavior of one of their crewmembers. Corrigan finds tenderness in their interactions and sees them as quite queer, especially when things get physical. “My queer reading stems from two aspects of covert communication,” states Corrigan, “the gaze and innocuous touch… Historically, queer interactions were dangerous, and, really, still are. The looks and touches between the men signal intimacy that is easy to overlook…” She then points to an early scene, when Quint asks to see Hooper’s hands. “Touching with hands has a significance in queer intimacy. It is a touch that is both erotic and personal yet can easily be perceived as casual… [Quint] takes Hooper’s hands in his and pulls Hooper toward him as if they are about to embrace…” The intimate moment abruptly turns sour, as Quint cheekily proclaims Hooper has “city hands,” used to handling money. Quint seems to relish intimidating and teasing Hooper. The two dominating personalities clash, but there is a twinkle there, an ineffable connection between the two men and characters that makes them captivating to watch. A romantic storyline does not seem too implausible in any adaptation (please, no more sequels!).
The class difference between Quint and Hooper is a driving force for conflict. As extrapolated by The Shark is Broken, it is the acting methods of Shaw and Dreyfus that cause them to bicker off-screen. In the play, this resulted in a complicated yet sweet relationship between the actors, but not one without its blowups.
The Shark is Broken (2022)
Written by Ian Shaw and Joseph Nixon, and based on Shaw’s father’s drinking journals he kept while on set, The Shark is Broken is about the downtime between Robert Shaw (Ian Shaw), Richard Dreyfus (Alex Brightman), and Roy Scheider (Colin Donnell) as they wait for the shark to be, well, not broken during the approximately five-month shoot. Most Jaws fans know about the real-life tension between Shaw and Dreyfus, and how this tension fueled Quint and Hooper’s on-screen animosity. Shaw was a traditional theater actor, eventually moving into television and film. Dreyfus, who also found himself in theater and television, was on a quest for Hollywood stardom and fame. Though the two men clashed, often due to either Dreyfus’ ego or Shaw’s addiction, Dreyfus pined for Shaw’s approval and blessing as an actor. The Shark is Broken had a playful monotony that lent itself to both casual and intense conversations. There are tears, embraces, emotional and mental breakdowns, and painful revelations about alcoholism. And, in his downtime, Brody stripped down to a tight Speedo to sunbathe! While these moments were left off-screen, they allow audiences a glimpse at the type of intimacy that fostered the amazing chemistry between the three Jaws stars.
So, where do we go from here? Why make the subtext ‘text?’ I ask, why not? Recent sequels, including those of the Scream franchise, have been infused with new queer characters and/or plot points to much success. Hellraiser, the 2022 remake, was applauded for casting the talented Jamie Clayton as Hellpriest/Pinhead, which is more aligned with Clive Barker’s original vision from “The Hellbound Heart.” Perhaps Jaws is too iconic to tinker with. But, Queer horror is having a big moment, and remakes have the power to boldly go where they were unable to go before.
Sources:
Corrigan, Jen. “Three Men on a Boat.” Essay. In It Came from the Closet: Queer Reflections on Horror, 95–104. New York: The Feminist Press, 2022.
Green, Jesse. “Review: A Bloodless Postscript to ‘Jaws’ in ‘the Shark Is Broken.’” The New York Times, August 11, 2023.
Petrocelli, Heather O. Queer For Fear: Horror Film and the Queer Spectator. Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2023.
Editorials
‘Pet Sematary’ (2019) is Scarier Than You Remember
The Pet Sematary remake brought us something new within a story we knew well. It created a horror we hadn’t gotten from the previous renditions. I am positively bewildered whenever I hear someone say that the remake of Pet Sematary wasn’t scary. As a standalone film, this movie is terrifying, and I am here to remind you why.
Before we begin, I want to preface this by saying that I hold Pet Sematary near and dear to my heart. The novel was the first full-length Stephen King book I ever read and watching the 1989 Pet Sematary movie for the first time with my older sister is a beloved childhood memory that left me scarred in the best possible way. Little gore and scares that stick with you? Little me was invested.
As with all things beloved, when the attempt to remake Pet Sematary was announced, I was equally excited and apprehensive.
I know some people refuse to partake in any excitement about remakes. These same people unknowingly have favorites of their own that are remakes, but I digress. The lengths people will go to downplay a remake, simply because it’s a remake, immediately gives any movie an uphill climb to endeavor. It reminds me of what Mark Twain said: “There is no such thing as a new idea. It is impossible. We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope.”
The Pet Sematary remake brought us something new within a story we knew well. It created a horror we hadn’t gotten from the previous renditions. I am positively bewildered whenever I hear someone say that the remake of Pet Sematary wasn’t scary. As a standalone film, this movie is terrifying, and I am here to remind you why.
Everything Making Pet Sematary (2019) Worth the Watch
We Don’t Talk About Zelda
There’s something I need to make clear right away. The point of this piece is to advocate for the Pet Sematary remake’s scariness; this is not a comparison piece against the original. That being said, it’s undeniable that the original left large shoes to fill when presenting this nightmare on screen, much of which the movie amounted to successfully. However, Andrew Hubatsek, the actor who played Zelda in 1989’s Pet Sematary, is the only Cinderella who can fill these slippers. As hard as I try to view the film as a standalone piece, this is one point that I cannot remove my expectancy bias. Zelda was the scariest part of 1989’s Pet Sematary, and the remake could not surpass his spectacular performance. There is some beauty in this, though, as the scariest parts of the 2019 Pet Sematary, directed by Kevin Kolsch and Dennis Widmyer, instead all came from the star, as it should.
Why Gage Didn’t Die in Pet Sematary (2019)
One of the biggest gripes we’ve seen about the film is its divergence from King’s material; on that note, I have two points. First, there’s nothing wrong with a horror director bringing the idea of someone else’s horror to life their own way. Dare to be different, so long as the original work is still respected.
Second, these divergences gave us the scariest parts of the movie- scares that were brand new to Pet Sematary lore.
Third, the movie is King-approved. Surprise, I had three points. But back to that second one.
Spoilers from here on out. Both King’s novel and the 1989 film adaptation of Pet Sematary have two-year-old Gage Creed die by the semi-truck that killed seven-year-old Ellie instead in 2019’s Pet Sematary. This change made fans furious for the apparent unnecessary blasphemous change to the plot.
Again, this isn’t a comparison piece, but after Miko Hughes’ performance as Gage Creed in the 1989 film, it would have been hard to see anyone else play that part anyway. Especially given that child labor laws are not the same today as they were in the eighties, that role would be tremendously difficult to pull off today with an actual toddler. Fun fact: Jete Laurence was 12 when Pet Sematary was released, and the role of Gage Creed in this film was played by twins Hugo and Lucas Lavoie.
Through this crucial change to the plot, we can see the perspective of someone who’d been brought back, allowing us to glimpse the darkness brought forth by the Pet Sematary like never before. Gage could only say a few words, so we were given the whole painful perspective for the first time through seven-year-old Ellie.
The Scariest Moments in Pet Sematary (2019)
“It’s only a tangle.”
From the moment Ellie returns from her resting place in the Pet Sematary, the movie is filled with a sense of dread. We know that Judd Crandall means it when he says, “Sometimes dead is better,” and that people don’t come back from the Pet Sematary quite right. This film gives us the added horrific splendor in the fact that Ellie returns in a body that was 1) mangled in a car accident and 2) had already started the process of decomposition after autopsy. (I can’t believe I even need to continue my argument for this film.)
As such, Ellie returns with a look that is evident in all that I previously mentioned. It’s a goreful tidbit I never realized was woefully absent from its predecessor and made every scene with Ellie that much more uncomfortable. There was no looking at her and denying what you were looking at.
Because of the added insight into what an exhumed body might look like, we’re treated to the horrific bathtub scene where Louis Creed brushes his freshly undead daughter’s hair. He hits a snag, prompting her to ask in her little, evil, woodsy voice, “What was that?”
“It’s only a tangle,” he says, as he reveals he’d snagged onto staples in the back of her head. (You know, from where they had to staple her head back together after she died? Yikes)
That’s far from the only horrific incident with Jete Laurence’s little she-demon, as Louis Creed lays in bed next to his daughter, who can’t sleep, and as she lay, quietly seething, she proclaims:
“I can hear the woods.”
A quick aside to mention that Jason Clarke’s role as the grief-stricken Louis Creed was so well done. He perfectly encapsulated this place between “I’m happy I brought my daughter back” and “Dear god, what have I done?”
These polarizing viewpoints on existence are thematic in the film, as we see Ellie go through her own crises, as she exists as a little girl, but something else entirely simultaneously. This junction is made clear by her dancing scene the morning after she comes back. Ellie’s changed back into the clothes she was buried in, twirling around like a ballerina, but with a vicious, malicious undertone growing in apparency until she smashes up the room. Ellie is the little girl she once was who loved to dance, but it’s all tainted with a growing darkness now.
Likewise, Rachel Creed is in her own existential crux, as she actively tries to avoid death due to her childhood trauma just to have it hit her right in her worst nightmare by losing her daughter (and subsequently being murdered by her).
Victor Pascal is also split between states of being. He exists in a limbo where his sole mission has been stopping Louis Creed from succumbing to the call of the Pet Sematary. Ironically, he more than likely perpetuates the spread of evil, as his messages alert Rachel to return to the house, securing her and Gage’s begotten fates. But I digress.
The dancing scene gets a lot of hate, but frankly, I’m obsessed with it because it hammers in these existential contrasts. These conflicts we see experienced by everyone on screen make these people all the more “real”, and the horrors they experience more palpable. Pet Sematary has always been a scary thought for parents in general, because at its heart, it investigates the wild recesses humans will explore when faced with every parent’s worst nightmare. The Pet Sematary remake leaned hard into this core issue, and as such, served us the same horror that made Stephen King’s story great in the first place.
An Unwarranted Hatred for a Legit Scary Movie
Overall, Pet Sematary (2019) is a remarkable scary movie and doesn’t deserve half the hate it gets. Undead Ellie was pure nightmare fuel through and through, and I’m bewildered how anyone else could say otherwise.
Is Pet Sematary (2019), in fact, trash? Is Undead Ellie not scary at all?
First, stop lying to yourself. Then, feel free to vent all your Pet Sematary-related frustrations to the Horror Press Instagram account. I won’t receive your messages, but I’m sure our Editor-In-Chief, Curator of All Things Horror Press, James-Michael Fleites, will happily pass them along to me if you remember to give us a follow while you’re there. Of course, you can always stop by to spread love, too, but do people go out of their way to do that?
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