Review: ‘Scream, Queen! My Nightmare on Elm Street’

I finally had the opportunity to catch Scream, Queen! My Nightmare on Elm Street, the documentary that explores the infamous homoerotism of the first sequel to Wes Craven’s 1984 classic A Nightmare on Elm Street. Co-directed by Roman Chimienti and Tyler Jensen, this heartfelt documentary examines this aspect of the oft-maligned ’85 sequel in a unique way—by focusing on the human toll the film’s reputation took on its leading man.

Mark Patton was just 25 when he was cast as the lead in A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy’s Revenge, quite the professional coup after leaving home in the Midwest at 17 to pursue his dreams of a career as an actor. Patton’s all-American good looks led to immediate bookings in national commercials, with his big break coming shortly thereafter when he landed a plum supporting role in the Broadway play Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean, directed by Robert Altman and starring Cher, Sandy Dennis, Karen Black, and a pre-Misery Kathy Bates—a role he repeated in the subsequent film version. By the time he landed the role of Jesse Walsh in the Elm Street sequel, Patton—who was gay and closeted, as the times dictated—had moved out to Hollywood where he met and began a relationship with Dallas actor Timothy Patrick Murphy.

Despite its commercial success, Freddy’s Revenge was widely derided and eventually became known in the early days of Internet film analysis as "the gayest horror movie ever made." Although time—and evolving social mores—have been kind to the film and elevated it to the status of a cult classic and even revered because of its not-so-subtle-after-all gay subtext, Patton’s career became collateral damage. The actor was wrecked by the negative response to the film and comments about his performance. Following an episode of Hotel and a CBS Schoolbreak Special, in which he co-starred—ironically—with A Nightmare on Elm Street final girl Heather Langenkamp, his acting career came to an unceremonious end. His personal life was no better—Murphy would die, tragically, of AIDS in 1988 at the age of 29 and Patton’s own HIV-positive diagnosis would eventually follow, complicated when he came down with tuberculosis. He left Hollywood in due course upon his recovery, retreating down to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, where he entered into decades of self-imposed exile—albeit with some newfound personal happiness in the form of a husband and an art store, where he sells works of his own creation, including a line of painted handbags he designed.

In 2010, Daniel Farrands, director of the exhaustive Elm Street documentary Never Sleep Again, tracked Patton down and entreated him to speak openly about his experiences and his legacy as part of the iconic film franchise. It was during his participation in Never Sleep Again that Patton came to realize just how dramatically the critical and cultural tide had begun to turn in favor of Freddy’s Revenge, with the film now hailed for the very thing that had caused him so much past anguish. Patton found himself applauded across the horror convention circuit, and that led to his desire to get his life story out into the world by developing a film (then) called There Is No Jesse. Unbeknownst to him, he would soon cross paths on social media with two aspiring filmmakers with a shared love for A Nightmare on Elm Street 2—and four years later, the trio gifts fans with Scream, Queen! My Nightmare on Elm Street.

Chimienti and Jensen have crafted a polished and engaging documentary, utilizing interviews, archival footage, and a “day-in-the-life-of” approach as they follow Patton from one convention to another. Although the documentary threatens at times to burst at its seams with all that the filmmakers earnestly include here, it’s Patton—the film’s center—who grounds the proceedings with his candid, sometimes achingly bittersweet recollections of his journey. Watching Scream, Queen! My Nightmare on Elm Street, I found myself raging at times over the homophobic inner-workings of the Hollywood machine during the AIDS plague, cheering for Patton’s self-discovery and journey to reclaim his legacy at others. It’s hard not to find yourself in a puddle of tears watching how Patton is revered by the Elm Street fans and to feel the palpable sense of empowerment as he takes to the stage to rightfully affirm his place as horror’s original “final boy” while embracing the “scream queen” title that was once weaponized against him. 

The central conflict of the documentary is framed between Freddy’s Revenge screenwriter David Chaskin and Patton, with the latter holding firm to the claim that Chaskin disingenuously skirted responsibility for the film’s overtly gay subtext. Chaskin long-maintained that it was Patton’s performance that was responsible for the film’s gay overtones that unsettled audiences upon its release, even going on record with the proud admission that his screenplay was meant to be homophobic versus homoerotic. In this 2007 interview with Bloody Good Horror, Chaskin says:

“Yes, there was certainly some intentional subtext but it was intended to play homophobic rather than homoerotic. I thought about the demographics for these types of films (young, heterosexual males) and tried to imagine what kinds of things would truly frighten them, to the core. And scary dreams that make them, even momentarily, question their own sexuality seemed like a slam dunk to me.

If you really wanted to have fun, one might argue that the entire movie is a metaphor—Jesse is, in the end, finally able to control the monster inside him (his latent homosexuality) with the love of a good woman. Maybe they should show this film at one of those evangelical deprogramming sessions where they try to ‘fix’ gay people into regular Americans.

That said, there were certain choices that were made (e.g., casting) that, I think, pushed the subtext to a higher level and stripped away whatever subtlety there may have been. To this day, Jack Sholder says he read no such subtext into the script. It must have been by osmosis. At any rate, he should have seen it coming—when we opened in New York, we got a rave review in The Advocate.”

It’s here—with the resolution of this central conflict—that my one and only criticism with this otherwise pitch-perfect documentary comes into play: Chimienti and Jensen should have skipped it. It falls flat and lacks the requisite catharsis necessary to resolve the focal tension the film devotes much of its 99-minute running time to exploring. What should play as a pivotal moment in Patton’s liberation from this emotional shackle that he’s carried with him for more than three decades comes across as anticlimactic, with Chaskin’s “apology” being anything but. It’s a jarring moment of insincerity in what’s been nothing but a pervasive sense of sincerity throughout the rest of the film. Even Patton looks nonplussed. It’s an awkward scene that fails to give the audience the payoff it’s expecting—and the moment of unequivocal apology that Patton deserved.   

Yes, Chaskin is an asshole for intentionally injecting homophobia into his script, but I found Freddy’s Revenge director Jack Sholder far more culpable for his part in dodging accountability—and almost insultingly so. The film—as in, the one Sholder directed—includes a sequence in a gay bar (that was shot in an actual gay bar!), frequent male nudity, crotch shots, and glistening male chests, a bare-assed towel-whipping of a naked restrained man in the shower, a scene in which Freddy Krueger caresses Jesse's face before suggestively sticking a clawed finger in his mouth (which actor Robert Englund even admits was meant to be homoerotic), Patton in tighy-whities, Patton in a jockstrap, and Patton's butt-bumping solo dance to “Touch Me (All Night Long)” by Wish featuring Fonda Rae. That Sholder can claim no knowledge, no awareness of the gay subtext in his own movie is maddening to watch—especially in a later scene in which he basically tells Patton that it’s time to “get over it.” I was left shouting “WTF?!” at my television and wanting to throw the remote at Sholder’s clearly dishonest attempt to remove himself from any semblance of answerability by claiming naiveté. 

Chimienti and Jensen wisely employ a diversity of voices to fill their documentary’s requisite talking head roles, from the film’s cast and crew, to fans, to film scholars. UC Colorado Film Studies professor Andrew Scahill provides some of the film’s best academic moments, providing salient points in support of reclaiming A Nightmare on Elm Street 2 as a progressive film about sexual identity. Drag performer Peaches Christ also speaks persuasively about the connection between horror and the queer experience. The reunion scenes between Patton and his NOES2 cast members have a trepidatious energy running throughout—no one (besides maybe character actor Marshall Bell) seems completely at ease. Still, it’s great to see Kim Myers, Clu Gulager, Robert Rusler, JoAnn Willette, Englund, and Bell all together again.

The filmmakers take on a lot—from online bullying and the devastating effects of the AIDS crisis on the gay community to final girl film theory and queer cinema. Despite its ambitions that—in less capable hands—could have derailed the train, Chimienti and Jensen somehow manage to keep this hefty cinematic locomotive on the tracks, ultimately crafting an intensely personal, often painful, and surprisingly moving exploration of the life of a young gay man who reached for his Hollywood star during the Reagan era only to watch it fall from the sky as quickly as it began to rise against the backdrop of AIDS and the homophobia of the period. While Scream, Queen! My Nightmare on Elm Street may have started out as a passion project for two gay horror fanboys and a lost celebrity they connected with online, it establishes itself as an instantly significant contribution to the oeuvre of film and the canon of LGBTQ studies. That Chimienti and Jensen are able to, in effect, teach an important lesson in queer history to a predominantly heterosexual audience by following Patton’s journey from closeted Missourian teenager and aspiring actor to self-described “Greta Garbo of horror” to his creative rebirth is nothing short of remarkable—especially for two first-time documentarians. As Patton says near the end of the film:

“My generation is gone. I have no friends my age. I want people to know their history. I want them to at least hear from somebody that the way the world is now…it wasn’t this way five minutes ago.”

Scream, Queen! My Nightmare on Elm Street is a heartrending requiem to missed potential and man’s ability to rewrite his narrative—tracing a proud scream queen’s journey from promise and unlimited potential through the darkness of crippling pathos and out into the light of hard-won personal peace. It’s about the promise of a second act no matter how long the first one runs over. 

A Brighton Girl Makes Good in Manhattan

Alison Moyet recently brought her OTHER world tour to New York City—a glorious sold-out gig at Irving Plaza, the venerable rock music venue. The show boasted nearly two dozen songs from the acclaimed songstress’s long and varied music career, hitting almost all her albums (poor RAINDANCING!) but emphasizing, of course, her two most recent forays into sophisticated electronica—this year’s OTHER and 2013’s THE MINUTES.

Her tour started a few nights earlier in Washington DC and included an ambitious 24-song setlist that Moyet apologetically promised on social media to whittle down. The New York crowd missed out on “Is This Love?” from her aforementioned second solo record and “The English U”—my favorite from the brilliant new album. Taking her place onstage after her spoken-word “April 10th” played, Moyet—flanked by musical director and keyboardist John Garden (who, interestingly, co-wrote the score for TALES OF THE CITY: THE MUSICAL, based on the books of the same name by Armistead Maupin) and backing vocalist and synth player/programmer Sean McGhee —announced her arrival with OTHER’s opener, “I Germinate.” By the time she got to the chorus and belted “I’m here, I germinate…” the capacity crowd was hers—clay in her capable hands.

The concert was well-paced and her expansive (and expanding) catalog well-represented with newer material from OTHER and THE MINUTES seamlessly interspersed amongst electronic arrangements of older material, like “All Cried Out” and “Love Resurrection” (from ALF); “Wishing You Were Here” and “This House” (from HOODOO); “Getting Into Something” (from ESSEX); “Ski” (from HOMETIME); “The Man in the Wings” (from THE TURN); and no less than five Yazoo tracks—“Only You”, “Nobody’s Diary”, Bring Your Love Down (Didn’t I)“, “Don’t Go”, and “Situation.”

There were moments of delightful banter with the engaged, adoring crowd—most notably when a well-intentioned heckler (with an obvious death wish) shouted out the title to her first—and biggest—US hit, “Invisible.” Anyone who’s followed the singer’s career knows she doesn’t—and won’t—sing the tune, citing no more connection to the song’s lyrics or the “man-done-me-wrong” genre of songs that appealed to her younger self. And while the heckler was rebuked with the polite good humor that’s characteristic of the decidedly more refined British, no one else in the crowd mistook Moyet’s kindness in that moment as a weakness (even in the presence of beauty).

One of the most endearingly admirable qualities of Alison Moyet, the artist, is her sense of professional responsibility to the audience. She conveys genuine love and the utmost respect for her fans—and when something in her vocal or the accompanying sound is off, she’ll unceremoniously stop and start over. This perfectionism was in evidence during the Irving Plaza gig during three false starts, which she good-humoredly dismissed with an apologetic shrug and a do-over. Humor is her weapon and it’s disarmingly effective.

To pinpoint personal highlights would be akin to naming a favorite child; the entire concert was a highlight in and of itself. But, if pressed, I’d likely cite Moyet’s flawless performances of “Changeling” (from THE MINUTES) and “Beautiful Gun” and “Alive” (from OTHER) as such. But the evening’s best—and most unexpectedly poignant moment—came during the introductory remarks to her gorgeous musical nod to the LGBT community, “The Rarest Birds.” There is a moment during an anecdote she shares that left the audience gobsmacked—so much so that you can actually hear an audible gasp from the crowd. Rather than dilute the expressiveness of the moment, hear for yourself in video footage shot by another concertgoer:

Since she’s embarked upon a world tour to promote the new album, it seems only fitting to say a few words about that while you’re here and held captive by my words. Not to put too fine a point on it, OTHER is nothing short of an artistic masterpiece—musically, vocally, and lyrically. Like all good artists do, Moyet has grown in her musical craftsmanship with each successive album, and she proves herself to be brilliant poet and lyricist on this gorgeous ten-track collection. OTHER—her ninth studio album—is both an intimate and intricate musical experience, managing to capture myriad shades and tones germane to the human experience in a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of words and musical textures.

This is her second collaboration with producer Guy Sigsworth, who has produced for Björk, Alanis Morrissette, Madonna, and Britney Spears, among others. They first joined forces on 2013’s THE MINUTES, which became Moyet’s highest-charting album in the UK since 1987’s RAINDANCING, and—arguably—changed the game for her. Her partnership with Sigsworth has given her creative license to ascend higher as both a vocalist and a songwriter and bridges the gap between the electronic music diva of thirty-plus years ago and the self-assured middle-age artiste of today. Both albums have been creative investments between the two—with both paying handsome dividends.

OTHER finds Moyet set against a similarly sweeping, cinematic electronic landscape that made THE MINUTES such a delightful surprise, an actual return to roots cleverly masquerading as a seeming musical departure. The lyrics are awash in rich word tapestries of luxuriant linguistic textures and syntactical patterns. Even the gutsy inclusion of the spoken-word track “April 10th” works and will leave you hankering for an album of spoken-word poetry. The album is lean at just over 41 minutes of music spread over ten tracks, but it’s quality over quantity here with zero filler and each song relevant and integral to Moyet’s larger thematic framework of otherness.

Anyone who knows me also knows that Moyet is the musical equivalent of my Jamie Lee Curtis fandom and that I worship at the feet of her temple with equal fervor. In other words, I’m obsessed. No, not in that Kathy Bates-meets-Jimmy Caan kind of way—more in the realm of a deep desire to sit down with her for a proper chat over tea, maybe watch a few episodes of DOWNTON ABBEY together. At least that’s how it goes in my head. I’ve chronicled my adoration of her music and previous concert experiences elsewhere, so I’ll leave you with the links embedded herein should you get the itch to see what all the fuss is about.

The last time I crossed paths with the great Moyet, we were both decidedly larger girls; I have a lovely photo to prove it. In the ensuing years, as I lost 105 pounds a few years back, then regained some, and then re-lost just over fifty recently, so too did Moyet shed some serious heft. I’ve long dreamt of a photo do-over, and placing our former glorious selves alongside our smaller, more self-assured selves. Once again, my beloved Alf did not disappoint. Following the conclusion of the Irving Plaza show, while Moyet was being surprised with a visit from Modest Management head Richard Griffiths (who must have been pleased as fucking punch at the thunderous reception his client received that night), a few of us more persistent folk waited outside the stage door. After about an hour, a congenial gentleman named Tim came out and said that Alison would be along shortly, advising us that she was in voice-conservation mode and that she’d only sign one item per person (for those who brought memorabilia along).

I waited, ready with my iPhone open to the photo of us, circa 2008. When the moment came and she arrived to enthusiastic adoration from the twenty or so fans gathered, I patiently waited my turn as she was warmly greeted, signed the items placed in front of her, and cheerily posed for photos. Some artists who’ve achieved a similar level of celebrity phone this part in—they’re there, but they’re on autopilot. Not Moyet. She was engaged with each and every person who thrust himself in front of her, clearly recognizing and acknowledging longtime fans whom she’d obviously met on numerous occasions outside countless theater doors.

Then came my turn. I quickly told her that I wasn’t going to ask her to sign anything and that she didn’t have to speak; I’d happily do all the talking. I’m sure that bit came out like a rambled bit of rushed inarticulateness but Alison smiled warmly, not one to disprove my theory about the infinite superiority of British manners. As I continued to prattle on about how our weight loss journeys converged and how hers informed and inspired mine—at least in part—and I blabbered on about a photo, Moyet uttered the words that nearly stopped my heart: “You’re Vince, right?”

I literally fought back the tears. Alison-oh-my-God-Moyet, she of the incomparable voice and venerable talent known the world over, recognized me. She either has an exceptional memory (which she seems to negate on her own lovely tour-travel blog) or she pays attention when blubbering former fatty fans like me tweet twaddle at her. Either way, I was thrilled, touched beyond measure. She happily granted me the coveted photo retake and gave me one of the kindest, most genuine hugs I’ve ever gotten. As we embraced, I told her that I loved her, thanked her for an unforgettable show, and gushed about how brilliant the new album was. Then it was over, and this lovely, funny, self-deprecating woman was on to the next gushing fan, exhibiting the same graciousness and genuine appreciation.

And then it struck me, full-barrel in the chest, and I’m reminded of the liner notes from THE MINUTES:

“They were not years. They did not make us laugh always. We were not perpetually safe in love or thankful. Ours were not wads of hours tied up in a playful huddle. Never a summer eternal neither a winter we could skate upon. They were minutes. We have the minutes.”

Alison was right. Life really is all about the brilliant little minutes—not necessarily very dramatic or specific—suspended in years. 

Horrors of the 'Unspeakable' Variety

It's here. It's queer. And it's unspeakable.

In advance of the October 31st release of Unspeakable Horror 2: Abominations of Desire (Evil Jester Press, 2017), the new spiffy trailer from the fine folks at Circle of Seven Productions.

Desire – the feeling that accompanies an unsatisfied state.

What happens when human desire twists…bends…warps…mutates?

What happens when that desire is fed…or even starved?

In this sequel to the Bram Stoker Award®-winning anthology, Editor Vince Liaguno assembles a literary pantheon from the LGBT and horror communities to explore the dark underbelly of desire.

From unrequited love and repressed lust to consuming grief and the unquenchable thirst of addiction…from unfathomable sexual undergrounds to unspeakable perversions creeping into everyday suburbia, these abominations of desire will leave you gasping for breath and your taste for terror satiated.

Contributors include: Gemma Files, Laird Barron, Stephen Graham Jones, Lee Thomas, Helen Marshall, David Nickle, Lisa Morton, Norman Prentiss, Greg Herren, Tom Cardamone, Erastes, Marshall Moore, Evan J. Peterson, Chad Helder, Brad Hodson, Michael Hacker, R.B. Payne, Martel Sardina, and Martin Rose.

Praise for Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet (Dark Scribe Press, 2008)

“There are plenty of those to be found in Liaguno and Helder’s collection of 23 tales of queer faeries, psychopaths, ghosts of tormented lovers and hapless victims. What impresses me is the sheer literacy of these stories. There are no cheap shocks or Stephen King-like pop culture regurgitations here; only nasty things that bump and shudder the bed as you read.” – Out In Print

“It was inevitable that the narrowing portals of the publishing industry—in this case, the horror side—would yield a bevy of small presses geared at bringing new fear fiction to readers increasingly starved for quality. While books from such outfits can be a bit of a gamble, there is much to praise in Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet, a sharp, new gay-themed anthology. The 24 entries comprise a sophisticated collection of topnotch tales of terror, most of which could appear in any fright anthology without qualification, and suggest the maturing of ‘gay horror’ into a viable and solid genre indeed.”  – Fangoria Magazine

Why Is Understanding Mandatory?

Over the last few days—against my own better judgment—I've engaged others on a few friends' Facebook timelines on the subject of Trump's transgender ban earlier this week. To say that some of the responses I've gotten are disheartening is an understatement. So much fear (which leads to hatred) of that which we don't understand.

When cornered by logic, some of these respondents went radio silent, others lashed out with that underlying transphobia you knew was there the whole time bubbling under the surface. Some finally acquiesced in frustration to just "not getting the whole thing." And here's the thing: Why do we have to understand something to exhibit kindness and human decency?

I'll readily admit that I don't understand every facet of transgenderism. That's largely because I am not transgender and have therefore not experienced what it feels like to have a gender identity or gender expression that differs from my biologically assigned sex. I likely don't always get the preferred idioms correct or readily identify with every nuance of the transgender experience. But I try to learn by interacting with trans men and women, by reading more on the subject, by listening to the experiences of others. And still I don't understand every aspect of someone who is transgender.

But I don't have to. I can still choose—and make no mistake, it is a choice—to be compassionate and kind and to consider the totality of the individual with no judgement or malice. If I feel uncomfortable with some aspect of someone's gender identity or expression, that discomfort is mine and mine alone. It's based on some deep-seeded bias within me and has nothing to do with the other person. I try to push myself through that discomfort or aspect I don't understand and try to expand my mind...to try to figure out the reasons and origins of that discomfort. What I don't do is make a trans man or woman feel less than because of any shortcoming of mine. That's cowardly and morally wrong.

All human beings deserve to be loved and to be able to express love. They deserve to be treated with kindness and respect— what we've come to know as basic human decency. I may never know or fully understand what it feels like to be born into the wrong body, but I can treat people who do with empathy and compassion. It takes nothing away from me to do so. I subscribe to the philosophy of inclusive humanism, which embraces the idea that all human beings matter and deserve equal respect and dignity, regardless of geographical region, age, achievement, ability, appearance, ethnicity, religious beliefs, nonreligious beliefs, sex, sexual orientation, or gender.

This is not rocket science, folks. People are different. Some of those differences will be easy to understand and accept; others may prove more difficult based on our biases and preconceptions. Work through them...or at least try to. There are no pitfalls to doing so and an expanded world and worldview are among the many benefits.