It’s probably no surprise that the last decade or so has seen a “renaissance” in horror cinema. Long underestimated and dismissed by critics and ignored by all the awards bodies as genre films, horror movies were deemed for generations as unworthy of serious consideration; relegated into the realm of “fandom,” where generations of young movie fanatics were left to find deeper significance on their own, they have inspired countless future film artists whose creative vision would be shaped by their influence. Add to that the increasing state of existential anxiety that has us living like frogs in a slow-boiling pot, and it seems as if the evolution of horror into what might be our culture’s most resonant form of pop art expression was more or less inevitable all along.

Queer audiences, of course, have always understood that horror provides an ideal vehicle to express the “coded” themes that spring from existence as a stigmatized outsider, and while the rise of the genre as an art form has been fueled by filmmakers from every community, the transgressive influence of queerness – particularly when armed with “camp,”  its most surefire means of subversion – has played an undeniable role in building a world where movies like “Sinners” and “Weapons” can finally be lauded at the Oscars for their artistic qualities as well as celebrated for their success at providing paying audiences with a healthy jolt of adrenaline.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the boldest and most biting entries are coming from trans filmmakers like Jane Schoenbrun (“I Saw the TV Glow”) – and like Australian director Alice Maio Mackay, whose new film “The Serpent’s Skin” opened in New York last weekend and expands to Los Angeles this week.

Described in a review from RogerEbert.com as “a kind of ‘Scanners’ for the dolls,” it’s a movie that embraces classic horror tropes within a sensibility that blends candid exploration of trans experience with an obvious love for camp. It centers on twenty-something trans girl Anna (Alexandra McVicker), who escapes the toxic environment of both her dysfunctional household and her conservative hometown by running away to the “Big City” and moving in with her big sister (Charlotte Chimes). On her first night in town, she connects with Danny (Jordan Dulieu), a neighbor (the only “hottie” in the building, according to her sister) who plays guitar in a band and ticks off all her “edgy” boxes, and has a one-night stand.

The very next day, she starts a new job at a record store, where she connects – through an intense and unexpected incident – with local tattoo artist Gen (Avalon Faust), a young woman she has seen in psychic visions, and who has been likewise drawn to her. The reason? They are both “witches,” born with abilities that give them a potentially deadly power over ordinary humans, and bound together in an ancient supernatural legacy.

It goes without saying that they fall in love; together, they teach and learn from each other as they try to master the mysterious magical gifts they both possess; but when Danny coincidentally books Gen for a tattoo inspired by his earlier “fling” with Anna, an ancient evil is unleashed, leading to a string of horrific incidents and forcing them to confront the dark influences within their own traumatic histories which may have conjured this malevolent spirit in the first place, before it wreaks its soul-stealing havoc upon the entire community.

Confronting the theme of imposed trans “guilt” head on, “Serpent’s Skin” emanates from a softer, gentler place than most horror films, focusing less on scares than on the sense of responsibility which seems naturally to arise just from being “different.”. Both McVicker and Faust bring a palpable feeling of weight to their roles, as if their characters are carrying not only their own fate upon their shoulders, but that of the world at large; blessed (or cursed) with a layer of awareness that both elevates and isolates them, their characters evoke a haunting sense of responsibility, which permeates their relationship and supersedes their personal desires. At the same time, they bring a mix of respect and eroticism to the sapphic romance at the center of the film, evoking a connection to the transgressive and iconic “lesbian noir” genre but replacing its sense of amoral cynicism with an imperative toward empathy and social responsibility.

All of this helps to make the film’s heroines relatable, and raises the stakes by investing us not just in the defeat of supernatural evil, but the triumph of love. Yet we can’t help but feel that there’s something lost – a certain edge, perhaps – that might have turned up the heat and given the horror a more palpable bite. Though there are moments of genuine fright, most of the “scary” stuff is campy enough to keep us from taking things too seriously – despite the best efforts of the charismatic Dulieu, who literally sinks his teeth into his portrayal of the possessed version of Danny.

More genuinely disturbing are the movie’s scenes of self-harm, which both underscore and indict the trope of trans “victimhood” while reminding us of the very real fear at the center of many trans lives, especially when lived under the oppression of a mindset that deplores their very existence.

Still, though Mackay’s film may touch on themes of queer and trans existence and build its premise on a kind of magical bond that makes us all “sisters under the skin,” it is mostly constructed as a stylish tribute to the classic thrillers of an earlier age, evoking the psychological edge of directors like Hitchcock and DePalma while embracing the lurid “shock value” of the B-movie horror that shaped the vision of a modern generation of filmmakers who grew up watching it – and even if it never quite delivers the kind of scares that linger in our minds as we try to go to sleep at night, it makes up for the shortfall with a smart, sensitive, and savvy script and a rare depiction of trans/lesbian love that wins us over with chemistry, emotional intelligence, and enviable solidarity.

What makes “The Serpent’s Skin” feel particularly remarkable is that it comes from a 21-year-old filmmaker. Mackey, who built the foundation of her career behind the camera with a series of low-budget horror shorts in her teens, has already made an impact with movies ranging from the vampire horror comedy “So Vam” (released when she was 16) to the horror musical “Satanic Panic” and the queer holiday shockfest “Carnage for Christmas”. With her latest effort, she deploys a confidence and a style that encompasses both the deep psychological nuance of the horror genre and its guilty-pleasure thrills, rendered in an aesthetic that is grounded in intimate queer and trans authenticity and yet remains daring enough to take detours into the surreal and psychedelic without apology.

It’s the kind of movie that feels like a breakthrough, especially in an era when it feels especially urgent for trans stories to be told.

A “No Kings” demonstration was held in Anacostia on Saturday to protest the Trump administration. Speakers at the rally included LGBTQ activist, Rayceen Pendarvis. Following the rally, demonstrators marched across the Frederick Douglass Memorial Bridge.

(Washington Blade photos and videos by Michael Key)

‘Jonah’
Through April 19
Studio Theatre
1504 14th St., N.W.
$55-$95 (discounts available)
Studiotheatre.org

Written by Rachel Bonds, “Jonah” is an undeniably compelling but unusual memory play with scenes pulled from the past, some present, and others seemingly imagined. Despite its title, the play is about Ana, a complicated young woman processing past trauma from the fragile safety of her usually quiet bedroom. 

Studio Theatre’s subtly powerful production (through April 19) is finely realized. Director Taylor Reynolds smartly helms an especially strong cast and an inspired design team. 

As Ana, out actor Ismenia Mendes radiates a quiet magnetism. She nails the intelligent woman with a hard exterior that sometimes melts away to reveal a warm curiosity and sense of humor despite a history of loss. 

When we first meet Ana, she’s a scholarship student at a boarding school where she’s very much on the radar of Jonah, a sensitive day student (charmingly played by Rohan Maletira). Initially reluctant to know him, Ana soon breaks the ice by playfully lifting her shirt and flashing him. It’s a budding romance oozing with inexperience. And just like that, there’s a blast of white light and woosh, Jonah’s gone. Literally sucked out of an upstage door.

Clearly romanticized, the scenes between Ana and Jonah are a perfect memory captured in time that surely must be too good to be entirely true. 

“Jonah,” a well-made nonlinear work, is pleasing to follow. Each of Bond’s scenes end with a promise that more will be revealed. And over its almost two hours, Ana’s story deftly unfolds in some satisfying ways, ultimately piecing together like a puzzle. 

Next, Ana is a college writing student. She’s alone in her dorm room when volatile stepbrother Danny (Quinn M. Johnson) visits the campus. Growing up in Detroit, Danny was Ana’s protector taking the brunt of her stepfather’s abuse after the untimely death Ana’s mother. Now, he’s sort of a clinging nuisance; nonetheless, they maintain a trauma rooted relationship.

And finally, 40ish and still guarded, Ana is a published writer. While working in her bedroom at a rural writer’s retreat, she’s joined by a nerdy stranger, Steven (Louis Reyes McWilliams). At first annoyed by this fellow writer’s presence, Ana is ultimately won over by his dogged devotion, sincerity, and kind words. What’s more, he’s not unacquainted with abuse, and he’s willing to delve into discussions of intimacy. Again, is it too good to be true?

Chronology be damned, these three male characters come and go, dismissed and recalled. It’s through them that Ana’s emotional journey is reflected. They pursue, but she allows them into her life in different ways for different reasons.

Bonds, whose plays have been produced at Studio in the past (world premiere of “The Wolfe Twins” and “Curve of Departure”), and Reynolds who scored a huge success directing Studio’s production of “Fat Ham” in 2023, are well matched. Reynolds’s successful intimate staging and obvious respect for the script’s serious themes without losing its lighter moments are testimony to that.

Essential to the play is Ana’s bedroom created by set designer Sibyl Wickersheimer. It’s a traditional kind of bedroom, all wooden furniture with a neat and tidy kind of farmhouse feel to it. There are two large window frames with views of darkness. It could be anywhere. The only personal items are writing devices and maybe the lived-in bedding, but other than that, not a lot indicates home.