"Christabel": The Prototypical Lesbian Vampire, Part II

Copyright 2008 by Gary L. Pullman

As we saw in a previous post, the first part of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s narrative poem Christabel ends with the protagonist imperiled by the strange, abducted woman, Geraldine, whom Christabel met while at prayer in the woods near her father’s castle and invited to share her bedroom--and then her bed--for the night, after being seduced by her houseguest’s beauty and spellbound by her magic breasts.

In Part II of the poem, as the castle’s bell rings to announce the dawn, Geraldine awakens and dresses before awakening Christabel. Although she seems a bit confused, it seems to Christabel that she has “sinned” somehow. Her confusion may be the result of her sleep, but it also seems, as does her forgetfulness of how, exactly, she has “sinned,” that she is also perplexed as a result of the spell that Geraldine has cast upon her. Christabel is still under the influence of her houseguest’s enchantment. The women visit Sir Leoline’s bedchamber, wherein the baron has himself just awakened. Geraldine has assumed the form and appearance of the daughter of a neighboring nobleman, a former friend and present foe of Sir Leoline named Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine. When Sir Leoline hears how Geraldine was abducted, he determines to avenge Geraldine’s honor by sponsoring a tournament at which he may “dislodge” the “reptile souls” of her abductors “from the bodies and forms of men” which they have adopted. As her father embraces Geraldine, Christabel has a momentary, highly disturbing vision of Geraldine’s true form and nature:

And fondly in his arms he took
Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace,
Prolonging it with joyous look.
Which when she viewed, a vision fell
Upon the soul of Christabel,
The vision of fear, the touch and pain!
She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again--
(Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee,
Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)
Again she saw that bosom old,
Again she felt that bosom cold. . . .

However, Christabel comes at once back under Geraldine’s spell, and Sir Leoline sends his bard, Bracy, to fetch Lord Roland, to retrieve his daughter (i. e., Geraldine, who impersonates the girl), promising to meet him upon his way. He regrets that he and Roland are no longer friends, repenting “of the day/When” he “spake words of fierce disdain/To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.” Bracy begs Sir Leoline not to do so, however, advising him of a dream he’s had in which Christabel, in the form of a dove, is being squeezed to death by a green snake at the base of a tree in the forest near the baron’s castle. Again, the poem’s narrator calls upon Jesus and Mary to protect and defend Christabel, implying that the young woman is in spiritual danger. However, Sir Leoline, having fallen under Geraldine’s spell, as has his daughter, says that he and Sir Roland will crush any such serpent, at which point the narrator describes Geraldine as a lamia, or serpent-woman:

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy;
And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head,
Each shrunk up to a serpent’s eye,
And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,
At Christabel she looked askance!--
One moment--and the sight was fled!

In case the reader, being, perhaps, a little slow, has missed the previous implications, Coleridge makes it clear that Geraldine is the very serpent (or serpent-woman) of which Bracy dreamed. It is she who threatens the imperiled Christabel.

When Geraldine’s spell begins to lose its force upon Christabel, she, recalling the true appearance and nature of the lamia, bids her father to send Geradline away at once. However, the baron, still under Geraldine’s sway, is ashamed at his daughter’s inhospitable attitude and sends Bracy upon his way, ad Christabel quickly comes again under Geraldine’s enchantment.

Here, the poem (another of Coleridge’s “fragments”) ends, although, as we saw in the previous post concerning this work, the poet is alleged to have intended to finish it according to this storyline, identified by Coleridge’s biographer, James Gilman:

Over the mountains, the Bard, as directed by Sir Leoline, hastes with his disciple; but in consequence of one of those inundations supposed to be common to this country, the spot only where the castle once stood is discovered--the edifice itself being washed away. He determines to return. Geraldine, being acquainted with all that is passing, like the weird sisters in Macbeth, vanishes. Reappearing, however, she awaits the return of the Bard, exciting in the meantime, by her wily arts, all the anger she could rouse in the Baron's breast, as well as that jealousy of which he is described to have been susceptible. The old Bard and the youth at length arrive, and therefore she can no longer personate the character of Geraldine, the daughter of Lord Roland de Vaux, but changes her appearance to that of the accepted, though absent, lover of Christabel. Now ensues a courtship most distressing to Christabel, who feels--she knows not why--great disgust for her once favored knight.

This coldness is very painful to the Baron, who has no more conception than herself of the supernatural transformation. She at last yields to her father's entreaties, and consents to approach the altar with the hated suitor. The real lover, returning, enters at this moment, and produces the ring which she had once given him in sign of her. . . [betrothal]. Thus defeated, the supernatural being Geraldine disappears. As predicted, the castle bell tolls, the mother's voice is heard, and, to the exceeding great joy of the parties, the rightful marriage takes place, after which follows a reconciliation and explanation between father and daughter.

Since Coleridge never ended the poem, it’s not possible to say how he would have developed its overall theme, but, of course, the idea that the Christabel’s true love is a knight whose arrival in the proverbial nick of time brings the lesbian lamia’s plans to wed Christabel to naught is fraught with difficulties, to say the least, and seems to support the patriarchal and heterosexual status quo, as horror typically does, both identifying the matriarchal and homosexual threats that Geraldine represents with the monstrous Other which is to be vanquished so that normal order may prevail and all may, once more, be right with the world. In this regard, as in equating lesbians to female vampires, Coleridge’s poem also sets the tone for many movies that take up this motif.

Sexing It Up, Part II

copyright 2008 by Gary L. Pullman

With few exceptions, horror fiction has a reputation for being puerile and jejune. One might add that this reputation, hard won, is well deserved. However, the same charge may be leveled accurately at any other genre of fiction and, indeed, has been leveled at many classics in mainstream fiction as well by the critics and contemporary authors of the day in which these literary classics made their debuts. It may be interesting to some to review the plots of a few of the more brazenly irrelevant examples of what might be termed erotic films. In doing so, it should be apparent to any that the flimsiest excuse for a model or an actress to doff her clothing was regarded as reason enough for her to do so. What is good for the goose of the sexploitation movie, one may argue further, should be good for the gander of the horror story. Violence and, indeed, gore needs no more persuasive or socially redeeming reason for being than erotica disguised as--well, let’s look at the rationales, suggested or stated directly, for the sexploitation films of the past and see just what reasons they do offer for their existence.

2069: A Sex Odyssey: Venus’ females (who, as it turns out, resemble the most beautiful women that planet Earth has to offer) visit our planet to fornicate with men so as to preserve their own species. Reason for being: Species survival.


The Beautiful, The Bloody, and the Bare: Behind Closed Doors: A nude photographer--no, he’s not nude; his models are--takes fine glamour shots unless the color red appears. The color of blood drives him to lust--for blood--and, therefore, to murder. Reason for being: Art for art’s sake.


Philosophy of a Knife: A documentary (kind of) concerning the Japanese version of Nazi Germany’s Dr. Mengele. (Okay, so this one does have a little real reason for its gratuitous displays of nudity, which make such displays no longer gratuitous, just nude.) Reason for being: Documentary of human villainy.


Bikini Airways: Sexy stewardesses find a way to earn their pay after their airlines seems to be going belly up financially: they rent their aircraft as a flying forum for wild bachelor parties. Reason for being: Financial survival.


Brigitta: Swingers’ fantasies about swinging. Reason for being: Uh, Brigitta?


Curse of the Erotic Tiki: A talisman sold at a bikini shop causes whoever wears it to lose her sexual inhibitions. Reason for being: Magic and enchantment.

Okay, now that we’ve taken a squint at some of the lamer sexploitation flicks and their reasons for being, let’s look at a few horror movie plots to see whether the excuses that they offer for their existence are any less lame.


Species: An alien female mates with Earthmen to avoid her species’ extinction. Reason for being: Species survival.


The Picture of Dorian Gray: Due to his sins, Dorian’s portrait ages while he stays young. Reason for being: Art for art’s sake.


Ed Gein: A transvestite killer wants his mom back--from the grave. Reason for being: Documentary of human villainy.


Hostel: An entrepreneur’s inn of supposed pleasure turns out to be a not-so-public house of pain. Reason for being: Financial survival.


The Abominable Dr. Phibes: The doctor is a rabbi, maybe, who uses the same sort of amulet that Moses apparently used to stir up the plagues in ancient Egypt, because he’s doing the same thing now, in modern America, using a set of his own similar charms. Reason for being: Magic and enchantment.

Wow! It looks like a tie, proving that other film genres--in this case, sexploitation films--offer excuses for their existence that are just as flimsy--in fact, identical at times--as those of the weak excuses that horror films advance for their existence. In fact, at times, it’s hard to tell the two genres apart, since many horror films are made to exploit the adolescent crowd, as are sexploitation films. Sex and violence both sell, and, with the former, as with the latter, there is often the added bonus of bikini-clad girls or actual nudity. What does a little prurience matter, along with the puerility or a little jiggle along with the jejunity? It’s all harmless fun until someone gets an eye poked out.

Frazetta: Work That Is Beautiful Even When Horrific

copyright 2008 by Gary L. Pullman

Artists are imaginative people. Most of us are, but few of us, unless we are artists ourselves, are as imaginative as those who make their livings by exercising--and, in the case of those artists who illustrate horror fiction, perhaps exorcising--their imaginations on a regular, if not routine, basis. In previous posts, we have considered the art of Rene Magritte (a superb surrealist), H. R. Giger (whose biomechanical art was accomplished with airbrushes), and the pen-and-ink illustrations of such Weird Tales artists as Margaret Brundage and Virgil Finlay. In this post, we turn our gaze upon Frank Frazetta, a pioneer in, and master of, contemporary fantasy, science fiction, and (occasionally) horror art. The purpose of cover art, we argue, is to sell the magazines upon which it appears. For the male adolescents who made up most of the readership of Weird Tales and other pulp magazines devoted to horror, scantily clad or nude women, often in perilous situations, accounted for a lot of the images that appeared on the covers. Occasionally--especially when technique outweighed theme--such masters as Frazetta, Boris Vallejo, and Julie Bell departed from imperiled, half-naked maidens to depict other themes. Sometimes, a sexual--or a sexualized--undercurrent remained--but the direct appeal of this type of art was the physical and martial prowess of the hero, depicted as a sinewy, usually lone, adventurer who represented a law unto himself and just happened--most of the time, at least--to fight on the side of right. In other words, he was fantasy and horror’s answer to the knight in not-so-shining armor (who later was transfigured into the Western’s laconic sheriff or gunfighter). If the nude or semi-nude damsel in distress represented the type of woman whom the adolescent male (or those adolescent males who read Weird Tales and its ilk, at any rate) wanted to meet, if not necessarily take home to mom, the barbarian as lone-wolf avenger and righter of wrongs represented this reader’s alter ego, the man whom he would like to be or, perhaps, to become. In Frazetta’s artwork, the two archetypical characters--imperiled damsel and anti-heroic rescuer--often were depicted together. In fact, there were often several nude or half-naked damsels in distress, all at the same time, for the hero (or anti-hero) (frequently, a barbarian) to rescue. When Frazetta’s paintings weren’t suggesting to boys that real men rescue women (who, it seems, had a penchant for imperiling themselves), they created a mood that is consistent with mystery, if not always horror. A case in point is his painting, The Moon’s Rapture, the title of which is obviously a pun upon the use of “moon” as a slang term for the buttocks. In the painting, there are two moons--one lunar, the other anatomical. It goes without saying which of the two is the source of the adolescent male’s “rapture.” 

The painting is interesting for more than its subject matter, however, as it demonstrates several features common to Frazetta’s artwork in general. A full moon, not featureless--shaded patches in green, purple, orange, and gray suggest craters--appears in a blue-gray sky, its upper hemisphere veiled, as it were, by the mossy branches of a great tree. The back of the female figure’s head overlaps the bottom arc of the moon, and her right arm is raised as she clutches one of the tree’s branches to support herself as she stares, presumably enraptured, at the moon. Nude, she stands upon one of the thick, serpentine boughs of the tree, one of her ankles crossed over the other, her left arm at her side. Except for the moss-covered, mostly brown and gray limbs in the painting’s lower foreground, the muted blue-gray sky, and the dappled colors that signify the moon’s craters, the only other color in the painting is that of the female’s figure, which, since she is naked, is more extensive than it would be were she clothed. The effect of the darkness across the top of the painting, down its right edge, at its left edge, and at its bottom is to frame the female figure, drawing the viewer’s attention to her body and, since her buttocks are projected back, toward the viewer, as it were, as a result of her stance, focusing the viewer’s concentration upon her derriere. The title’s play on words, The Moon’s Rapture, is hard to miss. As the female figure is enraptured by the moon upon which she gazes, the viewer--likely to me male, since Frazetta illustrated the covers of magazines purchased largely by adolescent males--is enraptured by her own “moon.” This painting associates women and femininity with nature in general and with the moon in particular, as do many myths, legends, and literary traditions. Archetypes serve the painter’s purpose, giving the images a depth that they might not have otherwise, showing women to be forces as enchanting to men as the beauty and mystery of the natural order is, or can be, to women. The Barbarian is typical of Frazetta’s depiction of the lone wolf who fends for himself, seeking vengeance or, more rarely, justice for others (usually an imperiled woman). Lean and mean, the barbarian stands, muscles bulging, his left hand resting upon the hilt of his unsheathed sword, which has penetrated the hill underfoot. His garb is slight, but exhibits his machismo. Pirate fashion, he wears earrings and sports a necklace that appears to have been fashioned of animal fangs or claws. His chest and abdominal muscles are as individually distinct as if they were sculpted from flesh instead of marble, and the wide, leather wristband and matching belt are both decorated with metal studs. An ornate scabbard hangs, empty, at his waist, from which dangles the lengths of a chain. On his right forearm, he wears a simple bracelet. He also wears boots with large cuffs. At first, because of the fiery yellow background against which he, an imposing, dark-haired, sun-darkened figure, stands, and the darkness of the mound upon which he is, as it were, rooted by his sword, it is not apparent that the hill is built not of soil alone but also of the body parts--an arm and a skull are visible--and a battleaxe--of enemies he has vanquished. The fiery yellow sky behind him has an almost subliminal quality as well. After discerning the body parts in the hill, skulls, a castle upon a mountainside, vague suggestions of tree branches, and a bird--an eagle or maybe even a phoenix--emerge, as it were, from the wavering flames, representing, perhaps, the memories of the barbarian and the souls of the dead or both.

At the barbarian’s feet, her flesh of a hue similar to that of the fiery yellow sky, and looking as if she herself is emerging from the hill, a woman, nude but for the armbands that adorn her left biceps, rests her head against the barbarian’s left calf. Has she been rescued from the hands of the dead who lie beneath the victor’s feet? It seems that she is the only spoil of battle that he has seen fit to spare and, therefore, the only one that he regards as having any value. What is important in the barbarian’s world, Frazetta’s portrait of this pagan warrior suggests, is his physical and martial prowess, his memories of vanquished foes (or, it may be, his possession of their spirits), and women (albeit as little more than sex objects that may be acquired as possessions, or as part of the victors’ spoils of battle). Part of the appeal of Frazetta’s work is that it is often based upon these archetypal, if sexist, images of the masculine and the feminine, suggesting that men are loners who wage war with one another, with beasts, and with the occasional monster, exhibiting their strength, stamina, and fighting skills, and, to the notion that, to the victor, go the spoils, including ubiquitous half-naked damsels in distress. In other words, his depictions of men and women fit the idealized, if adolescent, ideas of the sexes that are typical of the readers of the types of magazines upon the covers of which Frazetta’s work was apt to appear. The rest of the appeal of the artist’s illustrations and paintings lies in the superb talent and the accomplished technique with which Frazetta draws and paints. Even when he depicts horror, the result is, in its own peculiar way, a thing of beauty.

A Catalogue of Vulnerabilities

copyright 2008 by Gary L. Pullman

When one considers the variety of ways in which human beings are vulnerable, it’s a wonder that any of us manages to survive at all, to say nothing of the species itself. In horror fiction, such vulnerability is desirable, for it is the stuff of suspense, pathos, and dread. It behooves the writer of such fiction to keep handy, mentally or actually, a catalogue of vulnerabilities that he or she can call upon in times of dramatic need. This post represents a start of such a list, to which one may add any other vulnerabilities that may occur to him or her in the wee hours of the morning or when, within the deepening shadows of twilight, a mysterious sound is heard that sets the teeth upon edge and the hair upon end.

First, though, let’s consider what, precisely, we mean by the term “vulnerability.” What does it mean to say that someone is “vulnerable”? As is often the case, a simple list of synonyms and a bit of investigation as to the etymology of the resulting collection of terms sheds much light upon the matter. Let’s start with the synonyms:

Vulnerability: susceptibility, weakness (liability, flaw, fault, Achilles heel, failing, limitation, disadvantage, drawback), defenselessness (frailty, nakedness), helplessness, exposure.

This list suggests some examples from horror fiction and ideas for various situations that would put a victim--or even the protagonist--at risk. The shower scene in Psycho, for example, involves nakedness, exposing Marion Crane to not only the ogling eyes of Norman Bates but also to the disapproving inspection of a voyeur--Norman’s alter ego, the misogynistic, murderous mom within. Similar shower scenes have since appeared in such horror movies as Prowler, Friday the 13th (a rare guy-in-the-shower scene), Grudge, and others, as much because of the vulnerability of the victim--for obvious reasons, the victim is almost always a she--as for the gratuitous nudity that such scenes allow to voyeur--that is, the viewer.


The etymologies of these words also suggest profitable ways by which characters may become susceptible to horror villains' horrible villainy. “Vulnerable” is derived from the late Latin term vulnerabilis, which means “wounded.” A wounded character, naturally, is more likely to become monster food than one who is hale, hearty, and whole. “Weak” comes from an Old High German term that means “to bend,” and suggests that a victim could be such because of his or her emotional or moral as well as physical weakness, or ability to be “bent.” An emotionally crippled or morally twisted character makes a good potential villain. (Not all infirmities need to be literal ones; symbolism is always a welcome possibility in horror, as in other types of, fiction.) “Flaw” stems from the Old Norse word flaga, meaning “stone slab” or “flake,” and was probably used, in the sense of a defect, as “fragment.” Characters who are physically, emotionally, mentally, morally, socially, spiritually, or otherwise “fragmented” or “flawed” had better look over their shoulders frequently, for, no doubt, The Doors’ “cold, grinding grizzly bear jaws” will be “hot on. . . [their] heels.” Or maybe its not a grizzly bear, but a bogeyman, who’s pursuing them. “Frail” has an interesting etymology as well, suggesting, again, that vulnerabilities need not be limited to the physical aspects of a character’s constitution; more than bones may be broken, after all:

c.1340, "morally weak," from O.Fr. frele, from L. fragilis, "easily broken" (see fragility). Sense of "liable to break" is first recorded in Eng. 1382. The U.S. slang noun meaning "a woman" is attested from 1908.

Getting back to the list per se--susceptibility suggests that victims may succumb to germs, as they do in sci fi and horror movies that involve extraterrestrial bacteria or viruses or exotic earthly germs that have unexpectedly hideous symptoms. The Andromeda Strain, Cabin Fever, Dreamcatcher, The Invasion, Slither, and Warning Sign are examples of novels or films (or, in some cases, both) in which the culprit that threatens individuals (and, in some cases, the planet’s population as a whole) is a germ of some sort. (The infection can come through infected animals, too, such as mad cows or rabid dogs, and some diseases--elephantiasis or rabies, for instance--are horrible in themselves--which can add to the horror of the story’s situation, specific and general.) However, as we will see, humans are susceptible to more than microbes’ attacks.


Weakness puts a character at risk, which is one reason that female characters and children, who are generally weaker than men, have traditionally been victims more often than male characters, although, lately, monsters are increasingly becoming equal-opportunity killers. Of course, there are other ways to be weak. A character can be mentally or emotionally vulnerable or unstable. Monsters are no respecters of infirmities, and will as readily slice and dice a character who is mentally ill as it will attack a character who is physically sick. Other forms or weakness may be derived from physical conditions that are not, in themselves, types of weakness or sickness but which are debilitating nonetheless, such as mental retardation, physical deformity, or being crippled or paralyzed. A bedfast or wheelchair-bound character is as enticing to a murderous monster as an hors d’oeuvre is to a party crasher.


Frailty applies to some aged characters. The loss of flexibility in one’s joints, the presence of arthritis or rheumatism, the depletion of calcium in the bones, the atrophy of muscles, the attenuation of eyesight and hearing, a tendency toward forgetfulness, and the general depletion of one’s energy and physical strength combine to make some seniors ideal snacks for attacking monsters, so much so that it’s a wonder that more horror stories are not set in nursing homes or managed-care facilities.

Exposure to the elements, to scientific experiments, and to radioactive substances creates both monsters and victims in many sci fi and horror stories, including Frankenstein, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Food of the Gods, The Island of Dr. Moreau, The Attack of the Fifty-foot Woman, The Incredible Shrinking Man, The Omega Man, Damnation Alley, and a host of others.

Other situations and conditions also render a character a potential victim, including sleep (Nightmare on Elm Street) (it’s hard to fight or to take flight while one is asleep unless, perhaps, he or she is a dream warrior), being lost (Wrong Turn), darkness (virtually every horror movie ever filmed, and a good many novels as well), isolation (The Howling), sex (almost every slasher movie) (especially if the couple are underage and in a lonely spot, such as a forest) stupidity (a terminal state, if ever there was one), insanity (madness hampers one’s ability to think rationally or at all), envy (since the days of Cain and Abel, this emotion--and many others, for that matter--have brought characters to a bad, sometimes untimely, end), youth (or, more specifically, inexperience or naiveté), unwarranted trust (especially in the kindness of strangers), the pursuit of forbidden, usually occult knowledge (Frankenstein and most stories involving ill-advised scientific experimentation or research or apprenticing oneself to a sorcerer or shaman of some kind), close-mindedness (skeptics, such as the protagonists of “The Red Room” and 1408 tend to come to harm), and a host of others--as we said, when one considers the variety of ways in which human beings are vulnerable, it’s a wonder that any of us manages to survive at all, to say nothing of the species itself.

What most of these states, conditions, and situations have in common is their interference with or prevention of the exercise either of the senses themselves or the body (the negation of physical abilities) or of the exercise of the mind (the negation of rational abilities). These circumstances, whether they originate in blindness, deafness, infirmity, paralysis, madness, naiveté, isolation, or otherwise, limit or eliminate a character’s ability to act and react, physically, mentally, or both, thereby inhibiting the fight-or-flight instinct and making victims of the vulnerable.

In most cases, something unpleasant--disease, sickness, dismemberment, torture, injury, disfigurement, and/or death--is apt to follow, individually or collectively. An exception occurs in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, in which the stereotypically weak and helpless teenage girl turns out to be imbued with supernatural strength and fighting prowess and, instead of being slain by the monsters that stalk her, is their slayer. In Hollywood, standing a cliché upon its head is enough, sometimes, to pass for creativity and to land one a series that lasts for seven years. (In fairness, the series had a lot more going for it than merely its iconoclasm.)

This catalogue is by no means complete--as we said, when one considers the variety of ways in which human beings are vulnerable, it’s a wonder that any of us manages to survive at all, to say nothing of the species itself--but it is a start. Writers, wannabe writers, and would-be writers alike are encouraged to update this list and to keep it handy. Victims are as much a necessity to horror fiction as the monster itself, and the monster is hungry; it’s always hungry.