A Primer in Grief Horror (A Friday Bites Re-Issue, With Minor Revisions and One Addition)

Hello! As I continue to figure out my writing and publishing rhythms in the Substack universe, I've decided to give my public-facing writing brain a break so I can focus on my private writing projects. I want to keep my promise to publish every two weeks, though, so I've decided to re-issue this post that I originally published on here in February 2020 (with some minor revisions and an addition). While I’m on the horror film track (tis the season!), this letter will share some of my favorite movies in the "grief horror" subgenre. Enjoy! I'll see you again with something new in 2 weeks.

Growing up, I unintentionally traumatized my little brothers with all the horror films I used to watch, so neither of them are big horror fans. So after my brother watched The Babadook, I was over the moon excited when he and I had a conversation about the way the entire movie was a metaphor for grief, and then he got intrigued about the potential of horror movies to serve as metaphors for grief/loss/guilt.

And then I got even more excited because that’s one of my favorite subgenres of horror — horror as a metaphor or analogy for grief/loss/guilt. You can make the argument that a good horror film is always serving as a metaphor for something, which would be true, but I especially love ones that star grief, guilt and loss.

So I decided to write up a crash course in this subgenre for my brother and for all of you. In no particular order, I present to you: a primer in grief/loss/guilt horror:

Pet Sematary (1989)

Stephen King is a true master of horror, and Pet Sematary is no exception. A doctor and his wife move to a new town with their too-adorable-for-their-own-good kids, yadda yadda yadda, an ancient Native American ritual site whose soil has “gone sour” gets involved (I know, it’s a…questionable choice, but here we are) (although, you might be able to argue that the crux of the film resting on an ancient Native American ritual site is also some kind of commentary on colonialism, I don’t want to start reading things into the text that aren’t really there), things get weird with a zombie cat, and then things get REALLY creepy. This movie is iconic for a reason.

The Babadook (2014)

Obviously. The catalyst for this list. There is so much to love about this film — that it’s about a woman whose husband died while she was giving birth to her son is heartbreaking enough. To watch her struggle to be a “good” mother to her son, who is a constant reminder of her husband and his death is so real and gut-wrenching. It upends tropes about what it means to be a “good” mother and what “good” parenthood looks like, and asks questions about what it means to be a mother and parent when you’ve experienced devastating trauma alongside an event that is supposed to be one of the happiest of your life, and what it means to struggle with a grief that threatens to consume you. UGH. Plus, it’ll keep you double-taking the shit you see out of the corner of your eye for at least 24 hours after you watch it.

Dark Was The Night (2015)

A favorite horror trope of mine is “small town law enforcement suddenly has to deal with a whole bunch of supernatural shenanigans and MAN, is it above their pay grade” and Dark Was The Night fits that bill. A creature feature shot mostly in frosty, moody blue tones, this one follows a small town sheriff who is swimming in grief and guilt following the loss of his son. His backstory is revealed bit by bit in tandem with his investigation into what exactly is terrorizing his small town. We grow to really love the sheriff and his deputy, and all you want for them is love, happiness, lively earth tones, and some sunshine, for god’s sake. Creature features (another absolute favorite horror subgenre of mine) can be hit or miss with the creature effects, but Dark was the Night keeps the mystery alive throughout most of the film and saves the big reveal for the very end, which is the best move they could have made. I’ve watched this movie three times now, and still, every time, my heart just wants that sheriff to open himself to love again.

The Final Girls (2015)

I love a good horror comedy, and The Final Girls is such a pleasant surprise. Taissa Farmiga stars as a woman whose late mother was an actress whose claim to fame was the lead role in a campy 80s slasher flick (that is clearly a spoof of Friday the 13th). Through some weird inexplicable twists, Farmiga’s character gets to see her mother again, except they’re all inside the campy 80s slasher film. This film will startle you with slasher scares while making you laugh and breaking your heart and sending up the campy 80s horror genre, all at the same time. Also, you can’t beat this cast: Malin Akerman, Nina Dobrev from The Vampire Diaries, Alia Shawkat from Arrested Development, and Adam Devine from Pitch Perfect and Workaholics. SO GOOD.

The Ritual (2017)

This is a British creature feature that follows 4 friends who go on a backpacking trip through northern Sweden in honor of their murdered friend. One of them busts an ankle, and they opt to take a shortcut to their hotel through some ominous-looking woods. We all know what happens next, but also…we don’t. I’ve watched this one at least three times, and get a mood for it more often than you’d think. This film is a seamless blend of creature feature, Swedish folklore, and a metaphor for an overwhelming grief and guilt that forces you to bow down to it.

The Void (2017)

A small-town cop finds a drugged out guy in the middle of nowhere and brings him to a hospital that is in the process of shutting down. The bare-bones night staff includes his wife, from whom he’s separated, and things get real intense, real quick from there. Many reviews of this movie call it an homage to low-budget ‘80s horror, which it is, but it really is so much more than that. There are nods to Lovecraftian horror and even ‘80s Italian horror director Lucio Fulci, and it’s clear that horror video games like Resident Evil are an influence here too. Aesthetics aside, at its heart, The Void is about different facets of grief, and all the ways it can destroy a person’s humanity.

Phantasm (1979)

Now, this one might be stretch, but I can’t not put it on the list. Phantasm is a Don Coscarelli film, and it’s a bonkers one at that. Jody and Mike are brothers whose parents have recently passed away. When Mike begins to be chased by a creepy entity they call the Tall Man, Jody tries to protect him, and things get pretty bananas from there. This movie is full of bonkers one-liners and WTF moments, and you’re probably never going to fully understand what’s going on. You’ll just have to be okay with that, and go along with wherever the movie takes you. It’s like a glorious, hilarious, campy, gory poem. In the midst of all its disorientation, Phantasm has great moments of tenderness and its characters live out emotions that will feel familiar to anyone who has been stricken with panic about the possible death of a loved one or has felt fiercely protective of a family member for whatever reason. I’ve seen this one countless times, and it hits me just as profoundly (and hilariously) every time.

The Murmuring (2022)

The Murmuring (written and directed by Jennifer Kent, who also wrote and directed The Babadook) is the last entry in Guillermo del Toro's Cabinet of Curiosities horror anthology series. It stars Essie Davis (who was also in The Babadook!) and Andrew Lincoln (ever heard of a little show called The Walking Dead?) as an ornithologist couple who move to a secluded house in order to study the movements of starlings. It quickly becomes clear that they are also living through a thick and heartwrenching grief, both from within themselves and the house they're living in. I love this short film’s quietness and its solitude, even as they become oppressive and suffocating. It's a film with a full heart, exploring and witnessing every character's grief with tenderness and nuance, taking us on a tour of the lonely islands that grief can make of each of us.

These are only the first few that came to mind when I started this list — I’m sure there are many obvious ones that I’ve forgotten to add (The Descent is the first obvious one to come to mind), but this is a good start. There are also movies I initially wanted to put on this list that didn’t make the cut because they featured grief, but not as a metaphor (see: Hereditary and Midsommar) (although, the more I think about it, Midsommar might qualify, but I'd need to watch it again). If you’ve thought of more films that fit in this genre, please comment and let’s get a list going!

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An Ode to Anthony Bourdain (feat. Banana-Rum Icebox Cake)

I’ve started this post over and over. A lot has happened in the past month and a half. I got married. I went on an epic mini-honeymoon road trip. We had a second reception in my hometown, right next door to my high school’s prom. I couldn’t decide on whether I wanted to write about my wedding cake, or make a top 5 list of the things we ate on our honeymoon, or whether I should just steam ahead and write about what I was cooking.

And then Anthony Bourdain died.

***
I always forget how torturous baking can be in the summer in Indiana, whether or not you have air conditioning. No matter what you do, the oven turns the entire apartment into a sweatbox. There’s an icebox cake cookbook that I’ve been checking out of the library for the past couple years, but I’ve never made any of the recipes.

This year, I’m determined. There are so many good options. A Milk Dud cake. A black pepper rum cake. Peanut butter cup cake. Lavender-blueberry.

What I decided on: banana-rum cake.

***
I’ve loved Anthony Bourdain for a very long time. Over the past few years (that, interestingly enough, coincide with the years I spent at my last job), I lost track of him. I think part of me had given up on him. I was tired of seeing and hearing about the world through the lens of a snarky white guy. I was disappointed with his choices to do things like hang out with Ted Nugent. I was tired of the “bad boy” thing, of the Hunter S. Thompson-inspired aesthetic thing. Of all the testosterone and macho stuff.

In the last few months, I began following him and his girlfriend Asia Argento more closely on Instagram. I watched as he vocally and strongly supported Asia, particularly at the Cannes Film Festival when she publicly accused Harvey Weinstein of raping her. I watched as he supported the #MeToo movement, and modeled what it looked like to be a self-reflective man who realizes that he’s been contributing to rape culture. He asked himself why the women in his life didn’t feel comfortable enough to come to him with their stories of assault? He asked himself not only what he did, but what did he let happen? What did he let the men around him get away with?

***
The technically-late-spring weather here has been erratic. One week, it’s unbearably humid, sunny, and in the mid-90s. The next week, it’s overcast, humid-ish, stormy, and in the low to mid-80s (which feels a whole lot better than a humid 95 degrees, trust me).

This week is a stormy one, which means it’s cool enough for me to cook. So I started to caramelize bananas.

The bananas had been ripening on the counter for the past week or so, so they had lots of brown spots. I sliced up six of them, then threw them into a large sauce pan that had a nice chunk of nearly-browned butter in it.

Yes, I have a shitty red, plastic cutting board that has been with me for the past 10 years. I want to get rid of it, but I also love it?

Yes, I have a shitty red, plastic cutting board that has been with me for the past 10 years. I want to get rid of it, but I also love it?

As soon as the bananas hit the butter, the sweetest and best smell filled the air. I love the smell of browning butter and I love the smell of bananas. I didn’t know that, together, they make a knee-buckling aroma that I would gladly swaddle myself in for the rest of time.

After letting the bananas soften up a bit, I put in some brown sugar, a healthy glug of spiced rum, and a pinch of salt. Caramelizing things is the best thing.  

***
It feels important for me to tell you that the day Anthony died, I made boxed macaroni and cheese for dinner. I also made an avocado cream out of yogurt and spices (and avocado), and a lime sour cream made with lime zest and spices. I ate the mac and cheese along side my veggie burrito leftovers, and topped them both with that lime sour cream.

I took my weird, oddly comforting meal to the living room and ate it while I watched the Manila episode of Parts Unknown. I had never seen it before.

At the beginning of the episode in a voiceover, Anthony says, “Filipinos are, for reasons I have yet to figure out, probably the most giving of all people on the planet.”

I began crying into my weird sour cream and mac-and-cheese dinner, and I didn’t stop for the entire episode.

***
Next: the pudding. I threw sugar, cornstarch, salt, whole milk and heavy cream into a saucepan, whisked them all together, and then whisked an egg in. Then I turned the stove to medium-high and whisked the mixture constantly.

Banana Rum_3.jpg

While doing all this, I listened to Anthony Bourdain’s 2011 interview on Marc Maron’s WTF podcast. He must have recently done the Ted Nugent episode, because he talked a little bit about it. About how, in all his travels, you can always find something in common with someone, no matter how different your worldviews are. Those common things are usually food and drink. He talked about how he had argued with Nugent and gotten him to agree that Michelle Obama’s lunch meal program was a good thing.

Three years ago, in a pre-45 world, I would have written this whole thing off. I would have said (and did say) that it wasn’t enough. Ted Nugent is a pretty disgusting human being, and he’s said some unconscionable things.

As it stands, it’s still not enough. But I also wonder, with the world we live in today, would Anthony have done anything differently in the same situation? Would he still have agreed to do the segment? Would he have leaned harder into difficult conversations? Would he have felt an obligation to try to straighten out Nugent, white dude to white dude? Would he have felt there was something at stake?

***
After the pudding thickened and began to bubble, I did a final frantic 45 seconds of vigorous whisking and then took it off the heat. I mixed in another healthy glug of rum, some butter, and vanilla extract.  I set it aside to cool a bit, next to my cooling-to-room-temp caramelized bananas. (My room temp was probably 83 degrees, so *shrugs*. Was that the temperature the cookbook authors had in mind? Probably not, but that’s how shit goes in my house.)

***
The day Anthony died, a friend sent me a New Yorker piece written by Helen Rosner. It’s a beautiful piece, and one of the best ones written in memory of him.

In it, she outlines exactly why I gave up on Anthony all those years ago:

““I asked him, point blank, if he considered himself a feminist. His answer was long and circuitous, what I’d come to think of as classic Bourdain: more of a story than a statement, eminently quotable, never quite landing on the reveal. He talked about his sympathy for the plight of women and gay men, his formative years as a student at Vassar, his forceful resentment of the “bro food” movement with which he remained entwined, and his unwavering support for reproductive rights. “I don’t know if that makes me a feminist,” he said. “It makes me a New Yorker. Doesn’t it?””
— Helen Rosner

Honestly, Tony. What’s so hard about admitting to being a feminist? For all his “bad boy” stuff, he could sure avoid actually answering a question.

***
After chilling my mixing bowl and whisk attachment in the freezer for about 10 minutes, I took them out, loaded them into my stand mixer and poured in a whole bunch of heavy cream. I whisked that creamy stuff at a medium speed until it just started to thicken, at which point I threw in another healthy glug of rum, some powdered sugar, and some vanilla extract. I turned the stand mixer up to a medium-high speed and meant to whip the cream until it formed stiff peaks. I’m pretty sure I overmixed it a hair, but it still tasted amazing.

And then: construction.

Banana Rum_5.jpg

***
The day Anthony died, I read so many Twitter and Instagram tributes, and so many from Black folks and people of color and women. They talked about how he didn’t exoticize or appropriate their culture. How he turned the cameras on even the “ugly” things, like politics, race, culture. About how he never presumed to know more than the people who cooked for him. How he never said ‘no’ to any dish. How, when he visited our home countries, we felt seen and validated.

And so often, more than I was expecting, he was described as “kind.”

***
So I took my brightly colored 8x8 baking dish and poured in a generous layer of boozy pudding, then lay some graham crackers on top.

Then came a layer of caramelized bananas. Then a layer of pudding. Then graham crackers. Then bananas again.

Banana Rum_7.JPG

I should have stopped there because the dish was full to the top. But I went against my instincts. I poured more pudding on top. It began to spill out the sides a bit, but I carried on. I plopped my slightly-overmixed boozy whipped cream on top, and that’s when things started to get real messy. As the laws of displacement began to the place (that’s the official scientific name for it, right?), pudding started to dribble over the walls of the dish and all over my kitchen table.

Before putting saran wrap over the top, I set the baking dish precariously inside a slightly larger one, so that the pudding that oozed out would pool somewhere that wasn’t all over the top shelf of my refrigerator.

Banana Rum_9.jpg

***

On the morning that Tony died, I took out my copy of A Cook’s Tour. It’s an old edition, and it’s dog-eared and well-worn. I flipped to the passage where he wrote about coming to the devastating realization of the impact of the Vietnam War on the country that he was clearly falling in love with. He wrote about the loathing he felt for the U.S. and its mindless destruction, and the loathing he felt at himself for his complicity in the U.S.’s actions and his privilege as an American tourist in Vietnam. I remembered how I felt when I read that passage. How he had put words to all the anger and helplessness and rage I felt when I had traveled to Thailand. When I read A Cook’s Tour, I finally felt like I wasn’t alone. That I wasn’t asking too much by wanting to see everything and acknowledge everything when I traveled or read about travel or watched someone travel somewhere. It wasn’t too much to ask to see the whole damn picture. It was okay to have complicated feelings and still see the world, engage with it.

Tony wasn’t perfect. He has said several things over the years that I still cringe thinking about. But he was human, in the best possible way. Which means that in these past three or so years while I was busy giving up on him, he was evolving as a person. While I wasn’t paying attention, he became a person I could stand behind again, look up to.  

***
After 24 hours, the banana-rum icebox cake was ready. And good lord, is it boozy and incredibly delicious. I eat a piece and feel a warmth in my chest, like I’ve just done a shot of bourbon in a Wild West saloon. Sweet, but not too sweet. So much booze. It’s the perfect treat for these hot days.

Banana Rum_10.jpg

***
I love the end of Helen Rosner’s article. She wrote:

““The last time I saw Bourdain was a few months ago, at a party in New York, for one of the books released by his imprint at the publishing house Ecco—of his many projects, his late-career role as a media rainmaker was one he assumed with an almost boyish delight. At the bar, where I’d just picked up my drink, he came up and clapped me on the shoulder. “Remember when you asked me if I was a feminist, and I was afraid to say yes?” he said, in that growling, companionable voice. “Write this down: I’m a fuckin’ feminist.””
— Helen Rosner

***
The things that I have made in honor of Tony in the past week, whether inadvertently or purposefully, have been incredibly strange. The Annie’s boxed mac and cheese with lime sour cream. This banana-rum icebox cake. He’s not particularly known for being a desert kind of guy. I’d like to think that he’d appreciate all the booze in it. I know I do.

Banana Rum_11.jpg

***
In a way, Anthony ended up modeling my ideal of human behavior. He was imperfect, flawed in so many ways. But he was self-reflective. He looked inward without flinching and with nuance. He held himself accountable. He spoke out about things that matter. He was endlessly curious, asking questions and really listening to the answers.  He traveled just to travel, but he also traveled for the people. To let them tell their stories. To show his viewers that they shouldn’t be afraid of the world, to pay attention to people and their food. To always say ‘yes’ to whatever is put in front of you.

***
I should end there. I'll leave you with this interview that Anthony did with Fast Company. I'm 90% sure that the answers he gives them are not what they're looking for. Their questions want quick, superficial, easy responses that they can turn into sound-bytes. His answers are long, reflective, and incredibly deep. That is, I think, the essence of Anthony. To never give an easy answer, to always take in the bigger picture. To examine not only that we're here, but to look back with nuance at how we got here.

Rest well, Tony. Thank you for everything.

This Week's Recipe:

A Kind of Ode to Surviving

I am tired. 

***

I woke up with Bikini Kill in my head this morning.

I woke up this morning feeling like I'd only gotten three hours of sleep. The feeling that you've completed a REM cycle, but not enough of them. And I realized that since January 20th, I haven't really gotten a good night's sleep. 

***

I woke up this morning wanting comfort, something familiar. Something shrill, gritty, something that could express my anxiety and anger and exhaustion and 'tude because I'm too fucking tired today. 

I've been trying to be kind to myself this week. I'm behind on so many things. I'm behind on #52essays2017, and I'm embarrassingly behind on my 33 Days of Horror project. I get so ambitious. For some, writing an essay or a post a week is completely feasible. They do it and they don't have trouble doing it. They do it on time. 

That is clearly not me. But I'm trying though. And I'm trying to be kind to myself. Keep in perspective all the plates I have spinning, and tell myself that it's okay for me to write in my Passion Planner that my focus for this week is "Rest and Recovery." That my personal to-do list for this week is "Write Essay #4" and "Mail package." That's it. (My professional to-do list is much longer. Maybe that's the trade-off.)

***

I marched in two protests in the space of 8 days. I seriously contemplated stocking up on poster board because there is no end in sight.

I've started a bunch of books but haven’t finished any of them because I can't figure out what I'm in the mood for. 

I'm not in the mood for any particular tv show, but I've found comfort in watching WWE with M because it feels cathartic to watch some people beat the hell out of each other with no investment in the outcome. Because I know it's not real. The stress put on the bodies in the ring is real, but the drama isn't. For some reason, that comforts me. 

Before going to a No Ban, No Wall protest, I made New Jersey Crumb Buns. The recipe is in the latest issue of Cook's Country, and when I decided to give it a try, I didn't realize that I would be making protest signs while I waited for the dough to rise.

Crumb buns and protest signs. #resistancebaker #NoBanNoWall

A photo posted by medusaironbox (@medusaironbox) on

***

I'm no good at cooking up a snappy, hard-hitting protest sign. I think too much about it. I want it to perfectly express my sentiments. I'm too much a poet when it comes to the protest sign, I think. M's is perfect -- his is the pink one. It's simple and unequivocally true.

Mine is the green one. Aside from the fucked up "C" in "country," it is inaccurate. This country was actually built by the violent colonization and genocide of the people who already lived here. It was built by people who were kidnapped, put on a boat, brought here, and forced into slavery.  

I thought of that when I was halfway through outlining my letters with a Sharpie. 

***

My mother immigrated to the U.S. from the Philippines. My father worked long hours, so in those first few years, it was my mom and me, all day, every day. My mom and me and her friends -- all Filipina immigrants. Though I grew up in rural Nevada, I spent more time with immigrants than I did with white folks.

I never learned Tagalog or Ilocano. I would sit with my mom and her friends and just listen. I never needed to know what was being said, but I took everything in -- every gesture, intonation, eye roll, wrist flick, hair flip, laugh. 

I look back on my childhood and see so much that's familiar and comfortable, so much that I'm nostalgic for. And so much that is untranslated. Unknowable. 

***

A friend saw my Instagram post of my protest signs and crumb buns, and she gently and kindly called me in on my inaccuracy. And I’m thankful for it. 

When I made my protest sign, I didn’t intend to erase our history of genocide, colonization, and slavery. When I made my protest sign, I was thinking of my mother and all of her friends and the people I grew up with. 

***

In the grand scheme of things, the sign I made is not the biggest deal. But I hate to think that I was careless with my words. That with one sentence, I could erase the complexity of history. And that that sentence would be something that I held up at a protest, a place that I believe, at its best, should honor and reflect intersectionality and complexity. 

No one will remember my sign, and anyone who did notice it has most likely and hopefully moved on. And I’m still here, trying not to beat myself up, trying not to be embarrassed. 

This is what I mean some days when I say I’m trying to be kind to myself.

***

I started this essay two weeks ago. Since I started it, I’ve been traveling and working and not diving too deep into social media, trying to keep my head above water. I’ve been surviving, trying to keep myself at a baseline of care. Keeping myself fed, doing yoga when I can, seeing friends because I know I need to, keeping my energy reserves at just full enough to get by. 

I don’t know where to end this. I just know that I’m tired (it’s only been three and a half fucking weeks of this administration), and I’m emotionally curling up next to all the things that give me comfort. 

And I’m trying to get back on my feet. I’ll get there.

For now, though, I'm going to let this essay be what it is: messy, raw, trying to find itself, not quite getting there. And I'm going to let it go so I can move on to the next thing.