For many young readers navigating the thrilling, and sometimes terrifying, world of young adult literature in the 90s, R.L. Stine was a household name. While Goosebumps offered a gateway into spooky tales for younger audiences, for those craving something a little darker, a little more mature, there was Fear Street. Like many, my journey into horror began on the pages of these books, a safe space to explore chilling narratives when real-life horror movies were off-limits. It’s almost ironic – forbidden from watching on-screen slashers, I was free to delve into the gruesome fates of Shadyside’s residents within the pages of Fear Street books, where possessed cheerleaders and vengeful spirits roamed freely. Fear Street became my nightly escape, a literary landscape populated with vampires, witches, serial killers, and all manner of teenage terrors, all experienced from the comfort of my bedroom.
I devoured every Fear Street book I could get my hands on. From the sinister Evil Cheerleader series to the sweeping generational curse narratives of The Fear Street Sagas, I was completely immersed in the fictional world of Shadyside. I followed the graduating classes of Fear Street Seniors, absorbed the intricate history of the cursed Fear family, and became intimately familiar with the dark secrets of Fear Street and Sarah Fier’s tragic legacy. So, when Netflix announced the Fear Street movie trilogy in the summer of 2021, it’s safe to say my teenage self was ecstatic. This was more than just another horror movie adaptation; it was a plunge into pure nostalgia. While I had missed out on many contemporary horror films during my adolescence, the Fear Street book series had been a constant companion. Naturally, I approached the movie adaptation with a critical eye, eager to see how this beloved book series would translate to the screen. My initial viewing highlighted a few changes to Sarah Fier’s backstory that I wasn’t completely sold on. However, subsequent watches have allowed me to appreciate the fresh and relevant direction the filmmakers took, particularly in addressing contemporary social issues – a definite “Hex the Patriarchy!” moment.
Beyond the killer 90s soundtrack that perfectly set the tone, this return to Fear Street offered something truly special: a central focus on the queer relationship between protagonists Deena (Kiana Maderia) and Sam (Olivia Scott Welch). Fear Street Part 1: 1994 immediately introduces us to Deena grappling with a recent breakup, evident in her mixtape creation and heartfelt letter to someone named Sam. This instantly transported me back to Shadyside, a town where teenage romance and supernatural horror were inextricably linked. However, I braced myself for the familiar heteronormative relationship tropes that were prevalent in the Fear Street books. The typical narrative usually involved a girl and boy, a date gone wrong, and a boyfriend revealed as a killer, or perhaps the girlfriend with a ghostly secret. Queer representation was virtually non-existent in the novels, making the movie’s direction a refreshing surprise.
When Sam approaches Deena after the chaotic school rally in Fear Street 1994, it’s revealed that Sam is not just an ex, but Deena’s ex-girlfriend, and their breakup was complicated by distance and Sam’s closeted sexuality. This reveal was genuinely groundbreaking! I remember my excitement at this bold choice, mixed with a touch of apprehension. Horror cinema doesn’t have the best track record with queer characters, often resorting to harmful stereotypes or tragic fates. Would Fear Street fall into these tired tropes?
Fortunately, director Leigh Janiak’s Fear Street Trilogy defied expectations, doing the very opposite of the harmful tropes. We witness the nuanced development of Sam and Deena’s relationship as they confront the ancient curse plaguing Shadyside and fight to protect their friends and town. These Fear Street films are undeniably queer horror movies, offering a genuinely positive and normalized portrayal of homosexuality. The narrative doesn’t punish their queerness; instead, it’s woven into the fabric of their characters and motivations. We learn that Deena comes from a working-class background, navigating a strained relationship with her distant father while caring for her younger brother, all while processing the pain and anger of her breakup. Sam, now a Sunnyvale cheerleader, is outwardly presenting a heteronormative image, even dating a football player. When confronted by Deena, Sam initially attributes her move to Sunnyvale to her parents’ divorce, but Deena challenges this, suggesting Sam chose to leave Shadyside to further suppress her queer identity. These are complex, multi-dimensional characters grappling with relatable issues of identity and societal pressure.
As the trilogy unfolds, Sam’s internal conflict becomes increasingly apparent. While acknowledging her genuine feelings for Deena, she embodies the experience of many young queer individuals in the 90s, hiding her true self from family and societal expectations. The film subtly highlights the need for secrecy and discretion in their relationship, contrasting it with the open displays of affection by heterosexual couples in the school hallways, observed by a longing and resentful Deena. Deena, in contrast, is openly queer within her close circle of friends, while Sam navigates the pressures of conformity, attempting to fit into a heteronormative world to appease her mother. Watching Sam’s journey of self-discovery and acceptance resonated deeply, mirroring my own experiences of coming out and navigating my first queer relationship.
The representation I found in the Fear Street films was something I desperately longed for during my own journey of discovering my queer identity as a young adult in the 90s and 2000s. For many of us, queer narratives were often relegated to subtext, hidden within our favorite books, movies, and TV shows. For me, shows like Xena: Warrior Princess and anime like Sailor Moon, Revolutionary Girl Utena, and Fushigi Yugi offered glimpses of queer themes. As I began exploring my own queer identity and dating my first girlfriend, we actively sought out queer cinema for representation. This was the early 2000s, and access to these films, like Better Than Chocolate, Lost and Delirious, Heavenly Creatures, But I’m a Cheerleader, Bar Girls, and Bound, wasn’t always easy, often requiring dedicated searches and even eBay purchases. However, the effort was worth it. These films provided a crucial entry point into queer cinema, offering representation, albeit imperfect at times, that helped shape my understanding of my own identity and challenge heteronormative perspectives.
Deena’s experiences in Fear Street echoed my own relationship with my first girlfriend, who came out in high school and sparked my own self-discovery. We started dating in grade 11, navigating the complexities of a secret relationship due to my Catholic high school environment, my stepmother’s role as a religion teacher, and a homophobic family. For two and a half years, our relationship remained hidden from my family and their circle, known only to close friends and my brother. Even while living together, I maintained a dual life, concealing my true self. Like Sam, I was living a version of myself that wasn’t fully authentic. I didn’t come out to my family until after our breakup, a significant and sudden life change that finally prompted me to embrace my truth.
The Fear Street Trilogy offered a powerful and validating narrative, reflecting the nuanced realities of queer love, including the challenges of hiding a relationship and navigating societal pressures. I connected deeply with Deena and Sam because their queer story wasn’t a subplot; it was the heart of the narrative. They weren’t relegated to the sidelines in favor of a heteronormative romance or burdened with tragic endings that punished them for their identities. Their journey was interwoven with the fight to save Shadyside, a fight for the chance to live authentically and have a better future. Sam and Deena emerge as the heroes of their own story, achieving a happy ending – a rarity in queer horror narratives.
In recent years, the landscape of queer horror has evolved significantly, with increased awareness of the importance of positive representation. Fear Street stands out as a game-changer for young queer horror fans. It provides positive, validating representation that resonates with the experiences still faced by young queer individuals who feel pressured to hide their true selves or relationships. For a new generation of queer horror enthusiasts, Fear Street offers a chance to see their stories on screen, to feel seen and celebrated rather than alienated or villainized.
While the Fear Street books may have lacked diverse representation in terms of relationships, the Fear Street Trilogy powerfully corrects this. By introducing Deena and Sam into the queer horror pantheon as heroes of their own franchise, a new wave of Fear Street fans will undoubtedly emerge, ready to champion their right to love and be loved.
