Tony Scott’s vampires in The Hunger are not bound to the typical rules of vampirism established in late 1800s fiction. There is no garlic or a crucifix in sight, they can see their reflection in mirrors, go out during the day, sleep in a king-sized bed rather than coffins, and rather than plunging their fangs into victim’s bare necks, they use ankh-shaped pendants to slash their throats and lick up the blood up at their leisure. That is the one thing that ties these beings, playing by Catherine Deneuve and David Bowie, to their mythic lore: a never-ending thirst for human blood.

The film is set in modern times, 1983 to be exact, beginning in an effortlessly cool nightclub populated by a clientele made up of new-wave punks. Peter Murphy, of the English rock-band Bauhaus, croons “Bela Lugosi’s dead…” as Miriam (Deneuve) and John (Bowie) stalk their young, hip prey. Their carnivorous conquest, as is the case in almost all modern vampire fiction, is linked directly to sex. Suddenly, things begin to change, and fast. John wakes up with gray hair and lines under his eyes that hadn’t been there the night before. 300 years after his transformation at the hands of Miriam, who hails from Ancient Egypt, John learns that his promise of eternal youth was in fact, a mere promise of eternal life. He begins to age years in hours, and the pair desperately seek out a solution. Enter Dr. Sarah Roberts (Susan Sarandon), a gerontologist aiming to decelerate the aging process through the study of primates. After a few days, John has become a wrinkled shell of what he once was, begging Miriam to kill him, which she can’t (or won’t). She lays him to rest in a coffin in the attic of their lavish New York home, among a dozen other of Miriam’s past lovers who live as skeletons trapped inside wooden boxes for all eternity.

When Sarah and Miriam meet, their relationship, with little need for persuasion, becomes sexual. Queerness and vampires are not a novel association, with Sheridan Le Fanu’s Carmilla (which predates Dracula by 26 years), portraying a young woman becoming hopeless entranced by a beautiful female vampire. Presumably, Miriam does not discriminate with the gender of her lovers, while the act takes Sarah by some surprise. The impetus of their encounter is admittedly comical, as Miriam plays Leo Delibes’ “Flower Duet” on the piano and Sarah “accidentally” spills a drop of brandy on her white t-shirt and casually undresses in front of a total stranger. Originally, Sarah was meant to be drunk during this scene to explain away her sudden sexual fluidity, but Sarandon insisted “you wouldn’t have to get drunk to bed Catherine Deneuve, I don’t care what your sexual history to that point had been.” 

During this moment, when the two women are in bed together, Miriam bites Sarah’s arm and begins her transformation, claiming her as her new lover. We soon learn of just how important human blood is for the vampire (a word never actually uttered throughout the film’s runtime), as Sarah begins to suffer immensely due to her hunger. Her symptoms are clearly reminiscent of those of a drug addict. She becomes feverish, disoriented, irritable, and unable to function until her thirst is quenched. Sarandon, later discussing the film, noted that the film asks: “would you want to live forever if you were an addict?”. Aside from the frequent link between vampirism and sexuality (queer or otherwise), vampire films typically link the creatures to some other cause celèbre. While the explicit metaphor for vampirism in The Hunger may be drug addiction, there is another latent, likely unintentional meaning I can’t help but see hidden within the film’s tragedy.

The novel on which The Hunger is based was released in 1981 by Whitley Streiber, the year the CDC first published a written report on what would later be known as AIDS. Over the next two years, significant action was taken among medical researchers and gay rights activists to determine a cause of the illnesses plaguing queer communities. At this time, it was known among those affected, but remained largely unspoken among the general public. Realistically, I don’t believe this would have been on the minds of the makers of The Hunger, including its director Tony Scott. However, one can easily watch this film and notice eerie, devastating parallels between its story and what was happening in those tight-knit communities across the country. 

The AIDS crisis started in confusion. Doctors and nurses were seeing previously healthy young men with symptoms more typical of men three times their age. Purple lesions, pneumonia, and rapid weight loss soon led to death at alarming rates. Photographs of that era show men one would never guess to be in the early decades of their life, as skeletal shells of themselves lying motionless in their hospital beds, surrounded by mourning family, or all too often, utterly alone. This was the image that came to mind as John began to fall apart. “I’m a young man. Do you understand?” he pleads to Dr. Roberts as his hands show rapidly developing liver spots. Adding to the tragedy is that we, that is the real life audience, never saw Bowie get to this point in real life. His death at 69 was a shock, and considered rather young for a man whose legacy seems to define time and space. Miriam, like so many family members and partners of AIDS victims in the 1980s, watches her loved-one age right in front of her eyes, and she can do nothing to help him. Even after John is (for all intents and purposes) dead, he lingers in her mind, and she holds onto what little she has of him and her past lovers. She is constantly surrounded by the memory of death, as became all too familiar amongst the gay community at this time. While the film is considered to exist within the queer cinematic canon due to the relationship between Miriam and Sarah, it could easily gain such distinction as a portrait of a woman devastated over the untimely loss of her lover concurrent with the AIDS epidemic. 

The Hunger is undeniably stylish and sexy. From a chic shadowy night-club, to Miriam’s massive brown-stone somewhere in the Upper East Side, to the effortless Parisian fashion worn by Deneuve, to Sarandon’s cropped haircut, to Bowie just being Bowie. It even shares some stylistic cues with Scott’s brother Ridley’s sci-fi masterpiece Blade Runner, portraying a city in an almost purgatorial state. The plot, unfortunately, loses some of its elegance in its final act as Miriam’s reign comes to an end in a storm of walking skeletons. The ending, which Sarandon has disavowed, is intentionally ambiguous as to leave room for a (nonexistent) sequel, but ultimately leads to weak character and plot resolution. Still, it is a worthy watch for this haunted time of year, especially for lovers of gothic horror, new-wave music, and above all, sexy, queer, piano-playing vampires.

Interpretations of Gaston Leroux’s 1910 novel are certainly plentiful, yet each adaptation adds its own musical morose to the opera underbelly. Though listed chronologically, ironically this countdown also ends up from best to…WTF.

The Phantom of the Opera (1925)

The Show must go on as Lon Chaney (The Hunchback of Notre Dame) abducts lovely understudy Mary Philbin (Merry Go Round) in this haunting, silent ode to music and mayhem. Of course, we never hear anything operatic and some naysayers may balk at the over the top silent film acting style. However, the ballets and behind the curtain scenes invoke a chillingly subdued Old World charm. The restored color plates of red, gold, and purple hues between the title cards add more muted ambiance while humorous notes accentuate the wit onscreen and booming crescendos set off the horror. Period costumes, gothic capes, and the freaky makeup designed by Chaney set the old school spooky mood for his sad, possessive portrayal. We fear The Phantom’s deadly orchestrations and maniacal kidnapping scares yet weep for the affections he cannot have. Dressed as the skeletal, ironic The Masque of the Red Death itself; The Phantom mocks the opera parties above before his famous disfigured revelation – which is still shocking, frightening, horrifying, and tragic. Every attempt should be made to see this wonderfully deadly chain of love, revenge, and unmasking.

Phantom of the Opera (1943)

Dismissed, disfigured, and misunderstood Paris Opera composer Claude Rains (Notorious) terrorizes patrons until the beautiful Susanna Foster (Star Spangled Rhythm) is allowed to sing in this slightly shrill and dated; but nonetheless delightful Universal spectacle. Oscar winning Technicolor designs, costumes, candlelight, and flashy capes embody the sweeping melodrama. The action, tragedy, and suspense from director Arthur Lubin (The Incredible Mr. Limpet) and Oscar nominated screenwriter Samuel Hoffenstein (Laura) are well paced, balancing the dark implications with full stage numbers and layered love triangles. Though the suave rivals enamored with the would-be diva Christine are one dimensional and underdeveloped, obsessed Erique wishes to protect her charming innocence. She pities him, thus we too empathize with his multi-faceted, pathetic goals even to the murderous extremes. Suspenseful crescendos accent the witty subtext and understudy competition as the climatic action escalates toward an entertaining mask reveal and a whopper chandelier drop.

The Phantom of the Opera (1962)

This 1962 Hammer production directed by Terence Fisher (The Curse of Frankenstein) moves the Toccata and Fugue to the creepy bowels of London, and turn of the century décor, top hats, gas lamps, velvet, and lace provide flavor. Michael Gough (Batman Returns) as Lord Ambrose is a surprisingly slick and snotty opera director, too. However, the presentation isn’t as dynamic or colorful as it should be with uninspired Phantom designs and an inferior, dubbed ensemble. Though meant to mirror The Phantom’s viewpoint, herky jerky angles and zooms make for a choppy, unpolished feeling. The macabre, carnival atmosphere is stagnant with slow pacing and few stage numbers despite a short runtime. Quality scares and frightful moments are rare, and what should be the perfect match of studio and spectacle erroneously strays from the usual Hammer flair. One has to wonder what this could have been with the likes of symphonic bass Christopher Lee and the rest of Hammer’s top tier stars. Hammer completists and the Phantom obsessed can find merit here even if this unique, dark interpretation is flawed and never quite gets off the ground.

The Phantom of the Opera (1989)

Robert Englund’s Opera Ghost uses the flesh of his victims to mask his horrendous wounds after a pact with the devil in this macabre 1989 rendition. Contemporary New York opera auditions and bloody Don Juan Triumphant manuscripts begat Victorian London transitions, but the convoluted bookends and muddled point of view create time travel or reincarnation confusion. The murderous opera mishaps move fast with sinister brutality and head rolling gore. Peeping tom stagehands, prostitution, or would-be rapaciousness address the sexual subtext while fiendish make up designs and bloody slice and dice help viewers overlook the laden plot holes. Erik’s interest in Christine is secondary to his Faustian upkeep, and although a lengthy skin peeling cashes in on A Nightmare on Elm Street, Englund isn’t given enough to deliver a multi-dimensional, menacing villain. Ineffective opera owner Billy Nighy (Underworld) is also wasted amid other nondescript secondary players, and capable eighties scream queen Jill Schoelen (There Goes My Baby) is out of place in the back and forth period piece slow motion battles and unnecessary endings. Atmospheric blue lighting, red reflections, and askew one eye close ups accent the moody score and serviceable Victorian style. However, generic costumes and low budget mistakes deflate any grandiose – both proving a horror update of Leroux is possible yet lacking a cohesive identity as an adaptation. Fortunately, Englund fans can have a gruesome good time if you accept the late night lark.

Il Fantasma dell’Opera (1998)

Dario Argento (Tenebrae) directs Julian Sands in this loose 1998 Italian adaptation opening with our infant Phantom raised by rats in the gilded opera house’s dark catacombs. He’s telepathic, not disfigured and disemboweling workers below when not immediately caressing Asia Argento (XXX) as the provocative Christine. Preposterous patrons and pointless stagehands dressed like medieval peasants detract from any underworld build, and the gory rat storyline is jarring amid the back and forth romantic creepy. Sands does the erotic predator better in Boxing Helena, and ambiguous romance turned violent sex scenes are uncomfortable to watch because our director is our ingenue’s father. Leaving the audience to ponder a love/hate consummation would have been better than The Phantom unbuckling his pants and fondling his rats while candy offering pedophiles chase little ballerinas. Humorous rocket riding rat catchers inappropriately contrast the abuse, and diva violence that starts as fine slow burn suspense is also erroneously made funny. The embarrassingly poor chandelier destruction is likewise played for laughs before Christine inexplicably performs on that same undamaged stage. The costumes are plain, the dubbed dialogue hokey, and while I’m all for full front nudity of all genders and sizes, the Turkish bath house scene is totally unnecessary. I would have liked a horror story with Julian Sands biting the tongues of busty babes who dare venture into his domain, but the mockbuster, nonsensical changes here aren’t The Phantom of the Opera. This never decides if it is serious horror or camp parody, and the operatic lip-synching…LOL.

As you’re probably aware, the space community is very excited at the moment as both NASA and Space-X have confirmed plans to get people back to the moon in the next few years. The last time men stepped on the moon was on the Apollo 17 mission in 1972. It’s been a whopping 50(!) years since we’ve been that far out in space. Regardless of the reasoning for this new inspiration, there’s an invigorated spirit in the air around space exploration and how modern technology can augment what the Apollo missions accomplished.

This new era of manned space missions to the moon is exhilarating on its on own, but it also has me reflecting on my favorite film of 2018 – Damien Chazelle’s masterwork First Man. Specifically, I’ve been reminiscing about that first watch and how it left me flabbergasted. Leading up to its release, the marketing for the film (rightly) sold it as a story about Neil Armstrong going to the moon and achieving a feat that seemed impossible. A man walking on the moon. A milestone in humanity that’s easily at the top of the “holy shit, can you believe we did that?” pyramid. Additionally, as we all know by now, the process in getting Neil and Buzz Aldrin to the moon was arduous. The crew was constantly working long hours, putting a strain on relationships and families. Technology needed to be developed, which didn’t always go according to plan. There were even casualties along the way, sadly. However, those deaths and the extreme stress put on the crew was not in vein. In July of 1969, Apollo 11 went to the moon and Neil Armstrong made history by being the first person to ever step foot on the moon. What a movie, right?

Except that’s not at all what First Man is about. The opening shot of the film is Neil playing with his young daughter, Karen, whom we’ve come to find out is dying as a result of cancer. It was an emotional wallop that I never expected. As that opening sequence comes to an end, there’s a blistering shot of Neil putting his daughter’s bracelet in a drawer, which is phenomenal symbolism of Neil doing the same thing with his emotions. He locks them away and becomes a shell of himself. It’s at that point where we come to realize that First Man isn’t about Neil going to the moon at all.

Throughout the film, we see Neil bury himself in his work. He’s wholly committed to the Apollo project. He’s one of NASA’s very best pilots. He’s smart and intuitive. There’s never a second that goes by where we question his devotion to the cause. In fact, he’s almost exclusively steadfast in his mission. As a result, much of what is sold in the marketing comes to fruition. We see the challenges that NASA experienced in getting Apollo to the moon. We see how taxing it is on everyone. This level of math and science has never been attempted before. In one of the film’s most thrilling scenes, we see Neil orbit the earth and nearly lose his life in the process. If not for his ingenuity and elite piloting skills, it may have ended there for him. Regardless of the hurdles though, he remains deeply focused on what’s in front of him. Some might argue that this is to his detriment as his relationships with his wife and sons are becoming strained. And not just because he’s away from home often, but because he’s incessantly stoic.

The truth about First Man, and the brilliance of its sleight of hand, is that at its core it’s about a father attempting to grieve. Losing a child is unfathomable, and there’s no telling how someone will respond, but for Neil it made him distant. He struggled in his day-to-day (as many of us probably would). Again, he had locked his emotions away with the bracelet. He stayed busy to keep his mind off of his grief, which evidently worked because there are a few scenes in the middle of the film in which we see Neil at home and he envisions Karen in their lives still. It’s a great reminder to the audience that he’s still thinking of her, still grieving for her. We quickly realize that his work and grief are intimately linked, and, in that way, First Man gets to have its cake and eat it too. As a framing device, the Apollo 11 mission itself is compelling and there’s lots of drama to be had. However, from Neil’s perspective, his experience inside the mission is coming from a place of anguish and personal suffering.

Getting to the moon wasn’t about beating the Russians. It wasn’t about politics or science. It wasn’t about achieving some sort of historical legacy. For Neil, it was his way of getting closure. For Neil it was about healing and saying goodbye. Neil went all the way to moon…to grieve. Which is exactly why, as Neil and Buzz get to the moon, there’s no tension or drama. Chazelle doesn’t emphasize, in any way, the specifics of the mission and what they are supposed to be doing. No, most of the sequence involves close-ups on Neil looking into the distance. Reflecting. Grieving. Saying his goodbyes. In a very tangible way. We see Neil approach the crater and pull something out of his pocket. It’s his daughter’s bracelet. Once again leaving me gobsmacked. But it makes complete sense. After locking away his emotions all this time, along with the bracelet, this is the first moment where he’s dealing with his pain. A simple gesture flooded me with emotions that’s hard to articulate. An incredible moment heightened by Justin Hurwitz’ incredibly underrated score (his best work to date) and extraordinary in its emotional currency.

There’s something truly profound about the idea that sometimes we have to go to extreme lengths for healing and closure. For mankind, going to the moon is literally as far as one has gone. It’s an achievement that will forever go down in the history books. And Neil was desperate to get there. It meant everything to him. Every choice Neil makes throughout the film compliments its drama and overarching story, but allegorically it’s astoundingly potent and personal.

It’s also what renders the final shot of the film between Neil and Janet equally beautiful. There was a distinctive gap in their relationship as Neil buried himself in his work. He worked long hours, the missions were always dangerous, and even when he was home he was emotionally closed off. Yet, after his moment on the moon and getting the closure he needed, he was able to finally connect with her in some small way. Separated by glass, but another gesture comes into play as he reaches out to her. She reaches back. Perhaps symbolically there may be something in between them still, but for the first time in the film there’s hope.

There is a lot to love about First Man in terms of its direction and cinematography. Its set designs and overall aesthetic is immersive to the time period. Its score and sound design is phenomenal. And Ryan Gosling gives arguably the best performance of his career. The stoicism and quiet emotion he brings to Neil is truly magical. Along with Chazelle and writer Josh Singer, he is one of the major reasons as to why the film’s sleight of hand is so affecting. The craft on display in this film is masterful, and given the talent involved that wasn’t too shocking, but to frame mankind’s largest accomplishment as a smaller, intimate portrayal of humanity? I did not see that coming at all. Perhaps part of it is timing. In October of 2018, my son was three (about to turn four), which is about the same age we see Karen in the film. It was really difficult to separate myself from the movie. So maybe I’m biased, but First Man‘s sleight of hand hit me like a sledgehammer. Going to the moon to grieve. It’s an experience I’ll soon not forget.