This is the hardest thing I have ever had to write.  Some of you will know that we had to put our beloved Poppy to sleep on Monday.  

Poppy was the the heart and soul of our family, everything we did had her at the centre of it.  We rehomed her when she was 2 and half and over the four and half years that we were graced with having her, she became more than just a pet.  

Her love and devotion to all of us, helped all of us get through some very dark times, I know that without her love and companionship I wouldn't be here writing this, I would have succumbed to the deepest, darkest, calls of the black dog. 

Right now I just can't face doing anything without the site, I'm dreading next week, when my partner and kids go back to school and college, the thought of even getting up on my days off from work to an empty house fills me with utter dread.  Poppy was an important part to my life, and without her there just doesn't feel like any point getting up and trying to exist. 

The site will be back, as soon as I can get through the crushing grief, but at this moment in time I really don't know when that will be.   


And I know this sounds predatory but we have been hit with a massive vets bill for her stay at the vet hospital, so if you can find it in your heart to donate, to our Go Fund Me to help pay for her vet bill, or even just share the fund or this article on your social media channels I would be forever grateful. 

https://gofund.me/9d0fc9c3

Whilst representation will always be significant (and, indeed, its own argument, whilst we operate in systems and traditional structures that consist of privileged and marginalised demographics), material that elevates the conversation is arguably even moreso. What does that mean, elevating the conversation? In the mosy refined terms, it refers to any subject that transgresses beyond the common or proscribed parameters of given discourse. All too , when it comes to matters of LGBTQ rights, we cede automatic power and territory to those who fancy themselves our opponents (and, indeed, our betters) by operating within enshrined assumptions and definitions. That dynamic will always, always place the onus upon us to defend our positions, often our very existence, whilst any effort to stray into more abstract or forbidden arenas of discussion must be denied for the sake of brevity and concision (not to mention base survival and the maintenance of human dignity). 


This is as true of our fiction as our cultural and political discourses; our academic debates and philosophical roundtables. All too often, representation becomes the end in and of itself; the mere acknowledgement that LGBTQ people exist promoted as the Holy Grail of our peculiar crusades. Whilst absolutely necessary, this is also highly reductive and has a tendency to rely on fairly pat or cliché assumptions, stereotypes and tropes. Likewise, it has the effect of stunting any effort to use base representation as a stepping stone to wider, deeper and more profound discussion. 


The likes of Clive Barker are exceptions in this regard; Barker is not interested in having discussions that others have already gnawed down to the marrow. Nor is he interested in debates that others might have under the same set of parameters. When he writes about the experience of being a gay man, he does so with the express intention of exploring what that means in abstract, existential and metaphysical terms rather than the brutely political. To him, politics itself is an unworthy arena for such debates; what he refers to as “. . .a playground of dead men.” To trammel matters of our identities, our humanity, our mere existence, within the systems and assumptions of politics is, in Barker's mind, to not only automatically lose the argument (politics being the very swamp in which our self-fancied enemies thrive and multiply), but to do an incredible disservice to our better selves, our potential tomorrows; the conditions we might come to inhabit, if we can only pry ourselves away from the banalities and proscriptions of culture. 


In Barker's purview, acceptance is not enough. Tolerance is not enough. Even proscribed celebrations such as Pride etc are not enough. Hardly anything culture as it manifests in the 20th and 21st centuries is, has or can provide will ever be enough, and that is because Barker regards humanity collectively in a manner that transcends and disregards proscribed narrative. It is clear from his -notably rare- work on the matter that being gay (or trans or any other factor that pushes humanity to the margins) isn't the point or the end goal or the subject of celebration in and of itself. Rather, it is one of many factors and incidents that places humanity in a rarefied state: 


Being denied the traditional narratives that are pre-made and vacuum-packed for our straight siblings (e.g. those of “husband,” of “wife,” of “parent,” of “child”), LGBTQ men and women have, traditionally, been thrust into a situation where we have to weave our sense of self from rarer materials (often the art we consume, the experiences we endure and the strange extended families, fraternities and “tribes of the tribeless” we make amongst one another). This phenomena Barker presents as both a blessing and a curse; not a double edged sword, but a fractal thing of many kaleidoscopic facets: 


We are, as he explores in the seminal Sacrament, self-authored entities at our very best; creatures that do not accept or embrace the stereotypical roles heteronormative culture contrives and imposes upon us, but which find meaning, poetry and mythology in our status as the lost children of humanity; as exiles, outcasts and wanderers from hearth and home. In this, Barker acknowledges the pains and traumas that are part and parcel of the status; the existential despair that has, historically, consumed so many of us before our times. He acknowledges the collective, unhealthy coping mechanisms that have accrued amongst our many cultures as a result; the self-destructive and consumptive tendencies that are part and parcel. 


But, he also celebrates our wantonness and deviance; our status as observers from outside the fishbowl, and our consequent capacity to not only question the status quo, but directly vandalise it. 


In Sacrament, Barker paints the portrait of a young gay man of a particular era and generation; those born in the 1960s or '70s, who were amongst the last to operate in states of criminalisation in the UK and USA (not to mention most of Europe), amongst those who were outcast and midsunderstood by not only their parents, but society at large. The tale of Will Rabjohns would have been a very different one were he to have been, for example, a Millennial or a member of Generation Z (though those generations face their own particular set of challenges). He is amongst the most autobiographical of Barker's protagonists; a vessel for Barker's own experiences with regards to his family, the turmoils and traumas that led him to near-destitution in 1980s London and eventual success in Hollywood, Los Angeles and within arenas as diverse as cinema and literature. Will Rabjohns follows a broadly similar career arc to Barker himself (though Will's particular art is in photography of wildlife and the natural world). Specialising in commentaries on human-authored extinction, direct parallel is drawn between Rabjohns himself and the various species he captures in his work (the book makes explicit mention of gay men and women as -generally, whilst not universally- “genetic cul-de-sacs”). We, unlike our straight siblings, are not going to provide grandchildren for the sake of our parents or some notion of genetic legacy; we are where the story stops. In that, we are, each and every one, a species of humanity on the brink of extinction; in Barker's estimation, rare and strange birds of peculiar brilliance, that flicker briefly and powerfully before burning ourselves out. 


Whilst acknowledging the necessary traumas and potential nihilistic, self-destructive tendencies that go hand in hand with such an assessment, Barker also presents this status as one worthy of celebration: rather than dying in ignorance, our “outsider” status lends us a certain perspective that our straight, cisgender counterparts are often denied, not to mention the aforementioned capacity for self-authorship which Barker extols as sacred within our conditions and experience. 


For a story that deals with sex, death, violence, nihilism and so many other ostensibly bleak and morbid subjects, that thread of sanctity is pervasive and paramount throughout: as a wanderer without any sense of place or sincere home, Rabjohns is placed in the role of shaman, a wanderer beyond the borders of common human experience, whose business is to find and tell the stories that make humanity what it is. Only, in Rabjohn's case, those stories are not authoritarian proscriptions of tradition, cautionary folktales or meta-narratives promising punishment if strayed from. Rather, they are callings to his own people; that tribe of the tribeless that we as LGBTQ brothers and sisters all recognise. 


That there is horror in the state of the outcast is beyond denial, and Barker doesn't shy away from that. If anything, the various traumas, despairs, denigrations, violence and self-destructive tendencies that are so often bred from the condition are presented here in often agonising verisimilitude; Will's existential pain of separation from his family, the hideous friction he experiences with a Father who will never be what he needs or desires, the incredible isolation, loneliness and separation from humanity that is part and parcel of the experience, all come to bear here, as do wider commentaries concerning the -often consumptive- coping mechanisms we have -historically- indulged in order to survive and operate in a world that not only promotes but celebrates our extinction. 


Will is a lost child, as is every other LGBTQ character in the book. All seeking after some semblance of fraternity, of oneness and connection with other human beings, but also aching for the sense of identity that traditional meta-narrative so readily provides our straight siblings. Rather than engaging in any discussion or argument that sets out our rights to those conditions and how we might achieve them, Barker instead imagines a pilgrimage in which we discard them utterly, in favour of our own, self-authored conditions; mythologies that are not proscribed or handed down from a diseased history, that aren't even derived from any collective experience of being LGBTQ, but which we weave for ourselves from our pain, our loss; our love and lust and disgraces and exultations. This, he argues, is the shaman's journey, which we all must take if we wish to survive and flourish as abstract entities: a journey that is as much of the self as it is any physical trek, whose sacred sites are those born from formative associations and traumas, where revelation is an individual experience, never to be repeated or shared in quite the same way ever again. 


Rather than slipping into the trap of accomodationism or contentment with marginalised “acceptance” that so many of our discourses promote as our ultimate aim, Barker dares to condemn those efforts as misguided, and ultimately moribund (what the same systems and traditions that have, historically, been responsible for our denigration and persecution feel inclined to gift, they can just as readily take away). A more difficult, treacherous, but ultimately transcendent road lies in denying the scraps culture and politics feel inclined to spare us and forging our own ways, celebrating the very “deviances” and transgressions that are so often the source of our demonisation. For Barker, the sacred and the profane can be intertwined, even overlapping magisteria; that which heternormative culture and tradition condemns as license can be, in LGBTQ communities, a source of connection, oneness and even transcendence. As in most of Barker's work, sex is essential; the means and medium by which Rabjohns understands his connection to others, even those that, ultimately come to wish him harm. It is a sacred act, always, and always one that precedes moments of metaphysical and spiritual transformation (however dark the resultant conditions might be). For many -certainly amongst the moral-minded- that set themselves against us, the notion that homosexual congress might be a sacred act, a source of spiritual growth as well as physical pleasure, is anathema; they lack the empathy, imagination and understanding to conceive that, the throes of passion with another, sensuality, pleasure and the untempered connection of the experience forcibly hurls us from our comfortable contexts, into conditions we rarely touch in a banal day to day. Sex here is painted as evidence of magic and miracles in the world; in humanity itself. That it occurs beyond the brute, animal necessity for procreation and in defiance of what many misapprehend as “natural law” makes it all the more profound; an act of self-will that dovetails with the theme of authoring our own identities regardless of what tradition or culture demand. 


Counterposed to these moments of revelation, these acts of transcendence and transgression, are forces that inhabit and express the very worst aspects of human masculinity and femininity; entities that are, by their very natures, wounded, mutilated and traumatised, but which have come to learn lies of their natures in the same ways that so many of us do: 


Jacob Steep and Rosa McGee are  mysteries even to themselves; entities that clearly exhibit inhuman capacities, yet inhabit roles so powerfully and critically human, they are the synthesis and epitome of all they express. In this instance, they are Barker's less-than-flattering commentary on traditional and proscribed gender roles: having assimilated their personalities from observing humanity, they have become the most extreme expressions of proscribed masculinity and femininity; elemental avatars that are at once ascended, near-divine, yet also base, cruel and capricious. Whereas Rosa is elemental femininity; a seductive, fecund earth-mother of limitless sensuality and perversity, Steep is the elemental Father figure; a manifestation of masculinity at its most traditionally cruel, neurotic, confused and violent. Whereas Rosa is earthy, jolly and given to flights of fancy, Steep is brooding, melancholy, insular and obsessed with his own sense of purpose. Whereas Rosa indulges in sex, affection and strange plays of maternity, Jacob is indifferent, distant and infanticidal. 


Here, we have Barker's commentary on what would later become known as “toxic masculinity” and proscribed gender roles in general: Jacob Steep and Rosa McGee are the essential manifestations of all that tradition would impose upon us based on incidences of our anatomies, and they are broken, neurotic, confused, often monstrous entities of mutual abuse and violence; creatures so alien to themselves and one another, they can't even see a means of healing. That Steep is also murderous to the point of genocide -making a hobby of inflicting extinctions on the species of the Earth- is perhaps the most damning and trenchant comment the book contains regarding what we call “masculinity” and the various traditional narratives that are part and parcel (Father figures are almost universally antagonistic here). Whilst a part of this is autobiographical -Barker using Steep and Will Rabjohn's own Father to explore the tensions that exist between him and his own-, the exploration broadens extensively beyond the personal, into a surgical and wholly damning analysis of the divisions that exist innately between Fathers and children, exaggerated to abyssal states when said children turn out to be LGBTQ. It is Barker's assault upon the traditions and soul-stunting roles that the forces of conservatism in our species would see imposed upon us all: in Barker's estimation, those impositions serve only to mutilate and divide us; to set not only Fathers against sons, but both against themselves. 


A healthier dynamic, Barker argues, derives from a much more fraught and problematic quest: in acknowledging the dust and dirt of history for what it is, rather than attempting to enshrine or exalt it: to consign the corpses of old narratives to the cemeteries they belong in, and start cultivating more sincere gospels of who we are and dream of being. 


For LGBTQ readers, Sacrament is essential reading; a work that dares to not merely represent us, but celebrate us, to explore a metaphysics innate to our conditions. Barker perceives sanctity where so many see only filth, license and deviance. Barker even dares to proclaim that we might walk better ways, if we're able to haul ourselves out from the swamps and ghettos heteronormative culture would consign us to. 


A rare and beautiful parable, that operates beyond assumption or tradition, elevating the conversation in such powerful and profound ways, it becomes something other entirely. 

​A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET:  PART 2 [THIRTEEN FOR HALLOWEEN 2021]

LOST SOULS  BY BILLY MARTIN (WRITING AS POPPY Z. BRITE) [13 FOR HALLOWEEN]

IN THE HILLS, THE CITIES BY CLIVE BARKER [FEATURE]
​
​THIRTEEN FOR HALLOWEEN 2021: GONE HOME [FEATURE]

​LIFE IS STRANGE [THIRTEEN FOR HALLOWEEN 2021]

THE STRANGE CASE OF DOCTOR JEKYLL AND MISTER HYDE [​THIRTEEN FOR HALLOWEEN 2021]

THE BEAST WITHIN: A GABRIEL KNIGHT MYSTERY [THIRTEEN FOR HALLOWEEN 2021]

HELLRAISER [13 FOR HALLOWEEN]

"It’s been half a century since Carl Kolchak made his first appearance on TV and it seems the fandom for the character is stronger than ever,” said editor James Aquilone. “I wanted to create something very special for the anniversary: a look at the life of my favorite monster hunter, from his childhood to his last case…the ultimate Kolchak story, full of creatures, frights, and the reporter’s iconic wit.”


"Carl Kolchak is one of the great horror genre characters of the 1970s,” said Kim Newman.


“KOLCHAK changed my life,” said Killadelphia writer Rodney Barnes. “The story we're telling brings the character into some wholly unexpected places and it’s a genuine thrill to be a part of this incredible anthology.”


More contributors will be announced in the coming months. For updates, follow James Aquilone on Twitter and Instagram and follow Moonstone Books on Twitter and Facebook. To get a notification when the Kickstarter launches, click on the pre-launch page: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/manbomb/kolchak-the-night-stalker-50th-anniversary?ref=7xf2fh

​If nothing else, the Pandemic has given us time to reflect. To mull over where we started and where we ended up. Being unable to escape back into a normal life while we clung desperately to our routines to keep from going insane made us realize something very important.


We were bored. Focusing almost solely on science fiction and horror for several years meant that we were stuck in reading ruts. For those of us that generally read over 100 books a year, this, combined with general Pandemic Malaise, lead to massive reading slumps and the lack of energy to cheer for the books we love like they deserve. And, honestly, repeated exposure to the tropes specific to these genres made them mind numbingly boring.


The laser focus was no longer working for us. So, we decided to change things up. To take things back to basics and find a way to enjoy ourselves again.


For the past few months, we’ve been working on doing exactly that.


On November 1st, 2021, Sci-Fi & Scary closed its doors.


On January 2nd, 2022, Leviathan Libraries opens to the public. 


We will still cover science fiction and horror but we’re going to fill our stacks with others as well.

That means patrons will find the shelves filled with romance, literary fiction, fantasy, noir, and women’s fiction nestled up beside science fiction and horror.

​What you can expect: 

• More talk about what we love, less about what we don’t. (This does not mean you will never see a negative review. Simply that we will be focusing more on reading what we want to read. Self-care is far more important than shouting into the social media void.)
• Spotlights on creatives from a variety of genres via a new interview process we’re setting up.
• Podcast promotion via streaming on the site.
• Community game nights! (Did we mention we now stream on Twitch?)
• ... best leave us with some secrets for now!

We’re aware this won’t be a change that’s popular with everyone. That’s okay. If you’re a long-time follower of the site that finds yourself put off by the change, we understand and wish you well. However, we do hope that others will stick around and embrace the more diverse range of books, movies, and games that we’ll be covering.


With all that being said, it’s time to show you the new logo! We’re very happy with it and think you will be too. (It’s okay to laugh and squee. Kali the Kraken was one fierce bitch but Squiddle really is just that cute.)

As promised, the man himself, Mr. Clive Barker, returns to Thirteen for Halloween (as he will on multiple occasions after this), this time around with a work that practically everyone will be familiar with, certainly in horror circles: 


The genre-defining (and defying) 1980s classic, Hellraiser. 


What is there to be said at this point that hasn't already been regurgitated ad infinitum, you might well ask? Like many of its core cast, the film (and its myriad, various-quality sequels) has been dissected, picked apart, flayed to the core and procrastinated upon by critics, academics, fans and non-fans alike for decades, at this point. Much has been made of its removal from the popular “slasher” franchises that it shared space with (both cinematically and in terms of genre); the fact that, in the midst of increasingly formulaic, tongue-in-cheek franchises such as Friday the 13th, Halloween, A Nightmare on Elm Street et al, Hellraiser dropped with a dolorous chime of temple bells; a work whose humour is gallows and deeply sublimated, whose nature better resembles an Ibson domestic drama -that happens to also include soul-flaying demons from another dimension- than those it shares shelf-space with. 


A great deal has also been written of its transgressive, counter-culture qualities: in the pre-Hellraiser world, the kind of imagery this film bombards its audience with could only be found in university or independent cinema screenings of art-house and foreign fare, the influence of surrealism, giallo; even German expressionism almost non-existent in the popular horror of the era. 


It's therefore little surprise that the film -and, later, the franchise- found an audience amongst those starved of such material: the strange, lost and outcast children of the 1980s, who found some identification not only in the film's imagery, but also its import: 


Like much of the very best cinematic horror, Hellraiser stands in stark and vicious opposition to proscriptions of tradition: like the works of Hitchcock, Kubrick, Lynch and Cronenberg, it nails its manifesto to the bloodied scalps of screaming victims from the first sequence. This is not a work in which faith or family or friendship will win the day, nor is it one in which innocence is any great defence (as characters Larry and Kirsty Cotton both learn). Here is a film that isn't interested in emphasising the physical threat posed by its monsters (though that element is arguably more profound than the butchery of any ostensibly associated “slasher” franchise). Rather, the film lingers seductively over its most morbid and macabre moments, attempting to make beautiful compositions from wholly grotesque and disturbing subject matter: 


Even in the opening sequence, the images of pain and mutilation are rendered in such a manner as to make them stark, affecting, but also strangely enticing; a factor that finds manifestation in the iconic Cenobites: 


Extra-dimensional entities of almost alien nature, they describe themselves as

                                 “. . .demons to some, angels to others,”

creatures that operate beyond any bounds of tradition, religion, proscriptions of politics or family. In that, they immediately remove themselves from most of the iconic entities and creatures of yore; the werewolves, vampires, zombies etc that had come to define horror up to that point. Even the barely-coded, conservative morality of slasher-movie killers such as Michael Meyers (and his silent, murderous hatred for sexually active teens) has no purchase here; Kirsty is not “Snow White,” she is not granted power or agency by her apparent virginity, nor is she condemned by appetite or curiosity: what is happening around her is beyond her control or comprehension. She is merely hurled into it by circumstance, the more banal horrors facing her family emphasised and distorted beyond all containment by the inclusion of supernatural elements. 


Even here, so early in his career, Barker suffuses his work with a barely-coded contempt for formula, proscription and didacticism: this is not some conservative moral parable or fairy tale, rather an almost call to arms against such things; an attempt to force mainstream horror out of its laziness and rote assumptions by shocking the audience with both its graphic imagery and import. 


The Cenobites themselves, whilst ostensibly framed as the iconic “monsters” of the piece, are fascinatingly removed from other horror icons of the era: whereas all others, from Freddy Kreuger to Jason Vorhees, pose nothing but physical threat to those they interact with, the Cenobites come only when called, and then only to fulfil the unspoken promises and desires of those that seek contract with them. They are closer, mythologically, to djinn or genies than Hollywood horror monsters, and in terms of their interactions, to Frankenstein's monster: like that entity, they embody a certain strange and extreme humanity, speaking eloquently and readily and in highly poetic terms, their stillness and presence almost priestly in nature. The original film -and its only sincere sequely, Hellbound- presents the Cenobites as figures of distressing awe; they are morbid and grotesque miracles, as legitimately angelic as they are infernal. This quality is the -so often unacknowledged- core of their appeal: 


Unlike the myriad films that would come after, the original two entries in the franchise understand that the “horror” of the Cenobites doesn't derive from the elaborate mutilations they inflict on the human body (though that, given their supernatural, otherworldly natures, is an arguably infinite rabbit hole). Rather, their disturbance occurs on the dichotomy between the superficial dread and disgust they elicit and the reluctant appeal, even attraction, they clearly exercise over their audience. The appeal of the films and the enduring legacy of the franchise itself is more than sufficient evidence of this; without that key element, the franchise would've likely died long, long ago, and be relegated to the dusty libraries of forgotten classics at this point. Instead, fans both old and new continue to flock to the Cenobitic, glorying in its peculiar marriage of the priestly and sadomasochistic, the horrific and the beautiful. 


Part of Barker's subtle genius regarding the art-design of the film is in the marriage of the Cenobite's appearance to their natures and philosophy: they are, in Barker's own words: “. . .magnificent super-butchers,” entities whose priestly poise and papal aura is contrasted beautifully by the BDSM elements of their apparel, as well as the elaborate physical mutilations that each one boasts. They effectively advertise their wares and ideology through their appearance: those who seek the iconic Lament Configuration puzzle box do so because they are bored with what waking life has to offer; because they believe themselves to have gone to the limits of what temporal sensuality can contrive. The Cenobites show them the folly of that; providing conditions in which all assumptions of the possible fly apart, along with the anatomies of their subjects. One of the most disturbing -and yet beguiling- elements of The Cenobites is that they offer an escape from banality; something common to practically every entity Barker has ever conceived, which they achieve by transcending all bounds and parameter of known sensation, even bodily definition and integrity: 


Assumptions of pain and pleasure mean nothing to them, nor do parameters of morality or physical possibility. Flesh and bone and organ are clay in their hands; mediums of art to be sculpted by the scalpel and the hooked chain, to be stretched to its limits and beyond, pieced back together in new and undreamt of configurations. 


They are therefore, by their own admission, agents of a strange salvation as much as they are damnation. As the distinction between pain and pleasure dissolves under their auspices, so too does that between Heaven and Hell. To many who call upon them, The Cenobites are the ultimate angels; creatures who offer them salvation from the banality, petulance and grey stagnation of day to day life. For those the world is not made for; the exiles, the abandoned, the lost, they are gateways to darkly miraculous conditions, in which existence might be endless poetry, no matter how dark or loathsome it might seem to the unenlightened eye. 


Whilst later incarnations of the Cenobites would generally abandon this ambiguity, making them little more than the wise-cracking sadists and butchers they were explicitly designed to contrast, here, in the first two films, it is an implicit quality: some taken by the Cenobites -such as Frank Cotton- find the conditions they are subjected to beyond comprehension, and therefore beyond their ability to enjoy or find meaning in. Others come to echo the Cenobites themselves -Julia, Doctor Channard-, finding revelation in the delirious horrors they promise and even a means of redefining all that they assume of themselves (“To think, I hesitiated.” - Doctor Channard). 


This is not only the undefined core of the Cenobite's appeal, but also why they resonate so widely to demographics who self-define as exile and outcast: 


The film is explicitly designed as a love letter to all those who echo Barker's own outcast condition; an openly gay man operating in the field of horror in the mid-1980s, not to mention the wholly conservative and homophobic setting of 1980s UK. Here, as in all his work, Barker deliberately and explicitly appeals to his fellow freaks and dreamers, the outcasts and exiles that are his tribe. The obvious BDSM elements of the Cenobites notwithstanding (“. . .pleasure and pain, indivisible.”), these entities and the characters that surround them represent an assault upon proscribed parameters and enshrined tradition in all their manifestations: 


Whilst the Cenobites themselves actively manifest the transgressions Barker enshrines as sacred and necessary, the family situation around them is one of stark and vicious dissatisfaction: here, Barker dares to proclaim that the “nuclear family,” as proscribed by conservative patriarchy, is not some ideal to be aspired to, but rather its own species of banal horror (especially for women); a cage in which captive birds batter themselves bloody and senseless for want of flight. Here, Barker draws parallel between various ostensibly distinct demographics: the sexual and cultural minorities reflected in the Cenobite's sensualist promises, the metaphysical and ideological outcasts they similarly appeal to,  and women, who have traditionally always been the most stark victims of patriarchal proscription. 


Julia Cotton is not merely a murderous antagonist who gets her commeuppance at the film's climax. Rather, as the second film emphasises, she is a creature of profound and sincere appetite that has been repressed, poisoned and so profoundly trodden down by the culture and systems in which she operates, she's willing to go to grotesque and murderous extremes just to provide some escape or distraction from her tawdry existence of domestic emptiness. Note in particular how the film makes her more and more her own agent; from the frightened, sparrowy creature of the opening chapters to the “Bride of Frankenstein” murderess who becomes more sublime and beautiful the more men she seduces and murders in order to feed the putative Frank. Of course, the film is ambiguous even here; though her actions are -ostensibly- those of a woman in revolt against the systems that oppress her, she ultimately ends up selling herself into a different kind of slavery under Frank (who, of course, betrays and disposes of her as soon as it becomes convenient). 


That is, until the second film, in which it is revealed that she is more wholly herself and attuned to her appetites than Frank could ever be: whereas Frank rejects and escapes the Cenobites, unable to bear the extreme nature of their “gifts,” Julia accepts and wallows in them, finding apotheosis in the dark dreams of Leviathan, god and creator of the Cenobites. Like them, she becomes an agent and an angel of their creed, and one who revels in her condition in ways Frank could never conceive of. Julia is emblematic of the liberation that the Cenobites provide: a condition in which all parameters of sex, orientation, creed, race, culture and gender dissolve, giving way to a purer condition in which even the anatomy that defines what we are is undone. That mingling of the sensual and the spiritual, the base and the metaphysical, is emblematic of the revolutions and renaissances Barker seeks to inspire through his fiction, and which finds ultimate expression in his later novels. 

It's therefore hardly a surprise that the Cenobites and Hellraiser in general appeals to a markedly more deviant and expansive demographic than your common-or-garden 1980s horror franchise: many who enjoy horror in its more familiar forms express disturbance or even revulsion regarding this film (not to mention Barker's works in general). Whilst part of that may lie with he graphic presentation of its subject matter, a more significant (but sublimated) cause for this repulsion derives from the ambiguity of its themes and import: 


Whilst so much horror media markets itself as transgressive and counter-culture, the truth is, a significant proportion of mainstream horror of the era (and arguably even now) is anything but. Beneath the superficial shocks, the blood and violence, there is often a ruthlessly conservative heart to the vast majority of horror cinema (such that, in the 1990s, Scream would set about directly defining and addressing those concerns). 


In Hellraiser, the sexual woman, the adulterer and the murderer are not always punished, but often elevated through their transgressions; their flirtations with patriarchal proscription and traditional structures. Furthermore, the monsters are not unambiguously monstrous. Rather, unlike arguably any other iconic “monster” of the era, the Cenobites come with seductions and promises; invitations to a philosophy that is also a state of being, rendered more attractive and even purer than many the waking world offer, as it is unambiguously lived rather than merely proclaimed. The Cenobites inhabit and manifest their own creed and convictions through their very flesh; a theme that Barker will revisit and obsess over again and again in his later work. In that, their conditions are synonymous with the outre or “deviant” sexual demographics the film derives inspiration from and deliberately addresses: here, BDSM is taken to its utmost extreme and expression via supernatural influence. Sensual pleasure is rendered synonymous with metaphysics rather than contrary to it, and appetite is a sacred artefact rather than something to be denied, denigrated and condemned. 


LGBTQ individuals of the era would have found profound -albeit largely unspoken- frisson with that quality, as our relationships, our appetites, our physical relationships to one another, are rendered sacred by both their rarity and ostensible “deviance;” being the factors that conservative patriarchy would use to condemn us, they become abstracted: sex is ideology in such conditions, a revolutionary act, ascended from its heterosexual equivalent. That the film also incorporates adultery, a female protagonist willing to go to extremes to fulfil her own appetites, only emphasies and compounds those themes: Barker draws no distinction between one rebellion or another; rather, he proclaims the transgressive nature of any and all sacred by virtue of their existence. Rebellion is the point, the creed, the rallying cry. Just as the imagery, subject matter and themes invert or overturn those that are standard in horror cinema of the era, so too does the film directly and viciously assault certain cultural and political assumptions (a factor which undoubtedly inspires so much of the discomfort certain audiences express in response to this work). For a horror film of the era to address cultural and political concerns in such a flagrant manner was a transgression in itself, and one that is hardly surprising, given Barker status as both a gay man and, before his opportunity to make this film, part of the expansive underclass fomenting under the oppressions and abuses of Thatcherism. 


That Hellraiser acted as a gateway for so many self-defined deviants into fiction and media they might have otherwise shied away -or even been deliberately exiled- from is testament to its enduring significance. The potential for new stories to be told within this mythology that more directly address or derive from the original's subtext is profound, and perhaps necessary, given that the UK in particular is currently awash in a fresh wave of old bigotries and political scapegoating. Works like Hellraiser are not merely distractions or escapism in such circumstances; they are essential reflections and meditations upon the lived experiences of those who suffer under them. ​

​If you're looking for positive LGBTQ representation, horror video games of the mid-1990s (1995, to be exact), is not the most obvious arena. In the vast majority of media of the era, LGBTQ characters were still generally either jokes or barely-coded villains, monsters or objects of ridicule. As for video games, even the notion of sexuality itself was still taboo. Very few even directly commented upon sex or sexuality, let alone gender orientation. 


The Beast Within: A Gabriel Knight Mystery is therefore one of the most pleasant and uplifting surprises an LGBTQ gamer can hope to come across. 


Critically lauded and extremely popular for an exceedingly brief period, the Gabriel Knight series consists of point and click adventure games in the vein of Monkey Islands, Broken Sword et al. But, whereas those titles tend to focus on cartoonish adventures and comedy, Gabriel Knight titles are works of gothic horror, with the eponymous protagonist finding himself in the midst of -often Lovecraftian- mysteries and supernatural shenanigans whilst researching his next hit horror novel. 


The second in the series, The Beast Within, marks a notable technical transition, consisting entirely of full motion video and actual actors rather than sprites or computer generated characters. Furthermore, this title shunts the action from the USA to Europe, where Gabriel is on retreat following his adventures in the original game: 


Inheriting an ancestral castle, Gabriel Knight finds himself embroiled not only in local cultures but also the political games of the aristocracy; a situation in which he finds himself the classic “fish out of water,” unfamiliar with the protocols and expectations of his station, the role he has unexpectedly assumed and the duties heaped upon him. Furthermore, the area has recently experienced some extremely gruesome and violent murders, which police officials insist are the work of two wolves recently escaped from the local zoo. 


Butting heads with the police, given his “outsider” status, Knight finds himself floundering and without much in the way of anchor. Meanwhile, local myths and legends regarding werewolf lore continue to crop up, Knight's investigations suggesting that the murders may in fact have a supernatural origin. 


Taken under the wing of Baron Von Glower, one of the presiding local aristocrats and head of the hunting lodge that they all attend, Knight is schooled in the somewhat Darwinian philosophies of the group, which -tellingly enough- seem derived from certain notions of how hunting pack animals operate. 


But, whereas Von Glower presents are more sedate form of that philosophy, his chief rival in the club, Von Zell -who actively resents Knight's presence as an ignorant foreigner and outsider- shows no such compunctions: he believes in a bizarre notion of purity between predator and prey, outing himself early on as one of the chief suspects in the murders. 


Whilst the central lycanthropic plot and games of intrigue are well wrought and fascinating, what has sustained the game's mystique and fascination down the decades is the relationship between Von Glower and Gabriel himself: 


From the first instance, it is clear that Von Glower's interest in Gabriel is more than merely social or professional. Every interaction they share is flirtatious and freighted with subtext, but in a manner that is neither cartoonish nor stereotypical. Amazingly for the time, this FMV, point and click video game takes a bisexual relationship and presents it not as an object of comedy or ridicule, but with sincere and abiding delight: 


Every word, every physical interaction Gabriel and Von Glower share is intimate, flirtatious and simmering. They engage in word-play, subtle glances and implications, and become slowly more intimate and physically close as the game progresses. 


More surprising still, Gabriel Knight, the big, physically masculine, hot-shot occult novellist and investigator, returns the Baron's flirtations and seems to enjoy their relatonship on an equal footing. This is simply astounding in terms of representation for the era: for a male video game protagonist to have a serious, complex and reciprocal relationship with a male NPC was simply unheard of, and wouldn't occur again for almost a decade or more. Even now, video games and media in general struggle with this. Gabriel Knight is never intimidated nor non-plussed by the Baron's interest in him, nor does he use it in a perfunctory sense to further his investigations: he and the Baron become friends, then something more. Whilst their physical relationship is never strictly consummated, it comes close any number of times, and it is clear that the game is conscious of this possiblity, perhaps even wanting it to happen, despite the obvious constraints of the time. 


The game, sadly, cannot resist the obvious trope of making Von Glower -the gay romantic interest- into the villain: he is indeed a werewolf, the infamous “black wolf” of local legend. Meanwhile, the red-herring Von Zell (also a werewolf, thanks to his previous relationship with Von Glower) ends up confronting Gabriel Knight and passing on the disease of his lycanthropy (a circumstance that, metaphorically, echoes a kind of rape and sexual infection). Von Glower therefore becomes Knight's tutor and his emotional anchor; the relationship becoming more and more intimate up to the point of the game's climax. That said, even in this the game attempts to inject the dynamic with some much-needed ambiguity: it is implied that Von Glower himself doesn't necessarily have any control over the Black Wolf; that, when he transforms, he loses himself in the beast, meaning that the trap Gabriel and his assistant are ultimately forced to lead him into becomes all the more tragic. Also, Gabriel doesn't denounce Von Glower as a villain following his death, but mourns for him as a lover might. 


It is no chance or mistake that the liminality of the werewolf becomes here a metaphor for certain aspects of gay or queer culture, in particular Gabriel's own lycanthropy, which is mythologically tied to his blossoming relationship with Von Glower. Furthermore, the metaphor reflects certain dynamics within gay male sub-cultures of the era: Von Zell is clearly also either bisexual or gay, having enjoyed a brief relationship with Von Glower himself at some point, but represents a particular breed of male whose nature is toxic: controlling, self-superior, narcissistic to the point of sociopathy. He is very much the “angry, jealous ex” in this triangle, whilst Gabriel is the reluctant new flame caught in the middle. 


It's clear from even a surface reading of the game that the tensions between Von Glower, Knight and Von Zell are deliberately drawn, that Von Zell's antagonism and air of impending violence is the exact antithesis to Von Glower's warm, welcoming sensuality. For a game of its era, the writing, direction and acting during the scenes between Knight and Von Glower are notable, in that they are well-executed and serve to communicate the -largely unspoken- subtext subtly but clearly. 


In a later age, it is possible that Knight and Von Glower might have been able to consummate their relationship and become actual romantic and sexual partners. However, this was the mid 1990s, and if such does occur, it is very much left up to the player's inference. Perhaps, were the series to be resurrected or remastered at some point, we might see something even more intense develop between Knight and Von Glower. As it stands, this particular aspect of the character would be largely ignored in later titles, as well as the novel adaptation of the game itself, which could have been the perfect place to explore it a little more deeply. 


However, given the era of its release, the mere reference to same sex relationships at all is astounding, let alone one in which the protagonist is a willing and enthusiastic participant. In Gabriel Knight and Von Glower, a great many stereotypes of LGBTQ men are blown apart; Knight himself exhibits no classic or stereotypical traits thereof, which makes his acceptance of Von Glower's open flirtations and escalating intimacy all the more engaging. 


Von Glower himself ultimately becomes more tragic than openly villainous; a victim of circumstance and imposition that werewolf mythology encapsulates (the status of werewolf is rarely invited, almost always passed on through violence in the form of a curse and/or disease). The metaphorical implications in this instance are clear; the werewolf embodies a kind of male sexuality, but one that occurs between other men rather than predating upon women (as is classically the case). 


The Beast Within is therefore far more than a mere monster or analogue for animal atavism; it is dangerous and non-conformist sexuality, the potential for relationships that stray beyond the proscribed bounds of heteronormativity. It would have been easy for the game to stray over the line into homophobia, given that, but it manages to pull back from that brink by the framing of Knight and Von Glower's relationship as celebratory rather than a source of horror or danger.


And for it all to have occurred in an FMV horror video game from 1995? Nothing less than miraculous.