The Queer Relief of Tragedy Girls

I hate horror. 

In undergrad, when I was a film major, I remember learning that Alfred Hitchcock said he deeply believed in and followed the advice of Sardou: “Torture the women.” I remember watching Silence of the Lambs and listening to my classmates talk about how radical the film was for its time, but not a single comment on the horrific representation of the trans identity. When I brought it up in class, I was told that I was applying “today’s standards” to the past, an argument I hated then and I hate now. I remember learning about the impact of the Hayes Code, which forbade queer relationships leaving us three decades (and much longer than that, honestly) with queer-coded villains because the only way we could see queerness on film was if that queerness was punished. 

How was I then to reconcile my love of vampires and witches? Because I grew up in an oppressively Catholic household, I had to sneak to watch Interview with the Vampire when I was about ten years old. Telling no one, I watched it every Halloween in secret until I was about 21. I was fully in love with Lestat and Louie and often imagined them as a couple in what I told myself was fanfiction. I imagined this so often that when I recently rewatched the film, I was surprised Kirsten Dunst was there. In my mind, I erased her. 

Imagine my surprise when I learned I hadn’t imagined the queer subtext in the film at all…

How was I supposed to reconcile with my love of Clue, a movie I still watch at least five times a year? It’s my go-to comfort movie. Or my love of The Craft or Happy Death Day? How was I supposed to explain to my mostly queer circle that I secretly loved a genre that often told me my only place in it was if I was dead. 

Recently, a friend figured me out. Read me to absolute filth. I had told her I hated horror, but every once in a while, I would let it slip that some of my favorite movies were under the larger umbrella. I’m lucky to have friends who listen in between the lines of my lies and call me out for it. And maybe one day, my multiple truths won’t be so stressful for them. 

So, out of respect to my friend, let me start again. 

I love horror. 

In undergrad, I found movies like Casablanca and Citizen Kane to be pretty boring, so I fled to the horror classes that were available to me. I strongly believe that horror is the best genre we have in regards to its allegorical exploration of mental illness, survival, and capitalism. Horror takes a sharp look at our society and holds a mirror up to the viewer. Jump scares might tempt you to look away, but you always look back, and that is a powerful tool in an art form that I haven’t seen fully utilized anywhere else. As a playwright, I am often grappling with “How do I get my audience to look back” after showing them something they’d rather not see. Horror has perfected this. 

And yet, for far too long, horror couldn’t figure out how to lend that same nuance to queer characters and queer stories. 

A few years ago, the friend I mentioned earlier suggested I watch Tragedy Girls. To be honest, I put it off as long as I could, but after her podcast, Nightmare on Fierce Street, hosted a watch party, I figured I could “watch” it while I did laundry and washed the dishes. That way, I could tell my friend I watched it without having to sit through yet another horror film in which queer people were either absent or the villain. It took me about fifteen minutes to realize this was something else entirely. As I walked away from the sink and sat down to watch the movie, I let out a literal sigh of relief. 

This is a sigh of relief that, as a queer person, happens so rarely that when it does happen, it’s worth clocking. 

Without spoiling too much of the film for anyone who hasn’t seen it (although if you haven’t, stop reading this and go watch it), there was something incredible about two young, queer-coded women not only getting away with multiple murders but also receiving praise for their bravery. As far as I can remember, the movie never confirms their queerness, but throughout the film, it becomes less of a wink and more of a side-eye. Sure, there’s a boyfriend present, but I’ve had boyfriends too. Still queer. 

The greatest relief about Tragedy Girls is the movie seems to understand the constructed standards that have been the blueprint for horror for the last forty years, and it turned those standards into a playground. Here were capable, confident, and hot villains who, you wanted to root for. Who you wanted to win. In a subtle yet powerful way, queerness took back the power, looked into the eyes of the Hayes Code, and said, “If I’m gonna be the villain, then I’m going to be the baddest bitch here.” 

And that I can respect. 

Horror has a long way to go in terms of queer representation. However, I do feel like we’re currently living in a queer horror renaissance. To say I was disappointed with X and Scream V is a massive understatement, but with shows like Interview with the Vampire on AMC and amazing films like Bodies Bodies Bodies and Bottoms, we’re seeing queerness take back the narrative more and more. My favorite thing about Bottoms was having queer heroes who got their hands a little bloody. As we continue into this queer renaissance, my hope is that we don’t forget movies like Tragedy Girls that brought us here.