The monstrous-feminine on screen: the changing face of cinema’s female monsters

When Barbara Creed published The Monstrous-Feminine in 1993, she opened the door to a completely different way of thinking about female monsters in horror history. Instead of seeing them purely as frightening versions of women, Creed talked about how “all human societies have a conception… of what it is about woman that is shocking, terrifying, horrific, abject”, and how these characters represent deeper cultural fears about women, especially concerning their bodies and sexuality. 

From Lota, the Panther Woman in Island of Lost Souls (1932), to Elisabeth, the body-switcher in Coralie Fargeat’s recent release The Substance (2024), the monstrous-feminine has endured across decades of cinema. Beginning on 2 October, the Gynophobia: Monstrous Femininity in 70s and 80s Horror film season will screen at The Prince Charles Cinema in London and The Tyneside Cinema in Newcastle upon Tyne. The season will showcase films that reflect the multifaceted, wonderfully unsettling and intricate portrayals of monstrous femininity.

Looking back to the 1930s, the monstrous-feminine frequently emerged in supernatural and science fiction narratives, conjuring classic monsters such as Elsa Lanchester’s embodiment of the titular Bride of Frankenstein (1935). These early portrayals often showed women as dangerous and seductive creatures through unnatural physical transformations.

However, as the late 1930s and 1940s war effort saw women stepping into more powerful and active roles, female monsters began to reflect deeper societal anxieties by exploring psychological and internal struggles, mirroring the tension of a society in transition. For example, in Cat People (1942), Simone Simon’s Irena grapples with repressed desires and fears of losing control, while in She-Wolf of London (1946), June Lockhart plays Phyllis in a psychological mystery involving her resistance to her supernatural lineage, an echo of the conflict between traditional femininity and newfound independence. 

By the 1950s, post-war pressures urged women back into domestic roles, bringing into conversation a woman’s ‘place’ after a period of greater independence. Cultural tension arose as women navigated the conflict between socio-political freedom and the so-called tradition they were now expected to embrace. In Attack of the 50-Foot Woman (1958), Allison Hayes played Nancy, a vengeful giantess in a world where empowerment is cast as dangerous and uncontrollable rather than liberating.

Building on this evolution, in the 1960s, as the feminist movement began to gain momentum, the monstrous-feminine took on a bolder form. In Black Sunday (1960), Barbara Steele’s Asa Vajda charmed and wreaked havoc as a reborn witch unbound by societal or mortal constraints. Meanwhile, the Spanish production The House That Screamed (1969) portrayed a different type of female power, where Lilli Palmer plays Senora Fourneau, the strict headmistress of a boarding school for troubled girls. Her abusive behaviour towards the girls coalesces with the control she exerts over her son, and we uncover the supposedly destructive consequences of a teenage boy emasculated by his own mother.

With the lasting effects of the second-wave feminist movement of the 1970s and 1980s, the horror genre saw a surge in both the quantity and complexity of female-centred narratives. During this period, one of the most iconic representations of the monstrous-feminine was Sissy Spacek’s portrayal of Carrie White in Carrie (1976), which embodied a new kind of monster – a meek teenage girl transformed by emotional repression, social ridicule and the pressures of adolescence. Carrie’s infamous prom scene unleashed the fear of unchecked feminine rage.

This era also saw B-movies provide fertile ground for more provocative explorations of female-centric themes. In Twins of Evil (1971), part of Hammer’s lesbian vampire-oriented Karnstein Trilogy, Mary and Madeleine Collinson portrayed twins Maria and Frieda, whose behaviour sought to confront puritanical obsessions with punishing women for alleged witchcraft and to frame vampirism not as a curse but as an act of rebellion against patriarchal oppression.

In David Cronenberg’s Rabid (1977), Marilyn Chambers stars as Rose, a woman who becomes the carrier of a parasitic infection following an experimental surgery that causes a red stinger to emerge from her armpit. In contrast, more grounded characters include Margot Kidder’s performance as Danielle, a woman grappling with identity and mental instability as a result of medical abuse in Brian De Palma’s Sisters (1972), which set the stage for future psychological horror exploring themes of identity and fractured womanhood. 

By the 1980s, the monstrous-feminine took on far more agency. In The Hunger (1983), Miriam, played by Catherine Deneuve, is an ancient and seductive vampire who controls the fates of her mortal lovers, played by Sarah (Susan Sarandon) and John (David Bowie). Together, they form a queer love triangle, pushing the boundaries of the vampire genre and delving into the intersections of love, mortality and sexuality.

The 1990s and 2000s brought a postmodern deconstruction of the genre, with narratives taking on a more self-aware and ironic tone. The Scream franchise exemplified this shift by consciously playing with and referencing established horror conventions. Characters within the film openly discuss the ‘rules’ of surviving a horror movie, blurring the lines between audience and character knowledge. Scream 2 (1997) continued this meta-commentary, subverting gender expectations by revealing Debbie Salt (Laurie Metcalf) as the killer – twisting the familiar trope of women as victim in the early slasher subgenre.

Additionally, characters like Asami Yamazaki (Eihi Shiina) in Takashi Miike’s Audition (1999) reflect the complexity of the female ‘monster’ in horror. Her conflicting desires drive her extreme actions, and Asami’s motivations, rooted in trauma and longing, challenge the assumption that calculated violence is inherently unfeminine, revealing a character who is both vulnerable and capable of shocking brutality.

Teen horror comedies such as Jennifer’s Body (2009) explored female friendships, which become strained when supernatural elements disrupt their lives. The relationship between Jennifer (Megan Fox) and Needy (Amanda Seyfried) is tested when Jennifer becomes possessed, turning into a succubus, a type of demon in folklore that seduces and feeds on the life force of others – notably, this is usually through sexual encounters. 

Meanwhile, Ginger Snaps (2000) tackled the monstrous nature of coming-of-age more head-on, exploring the close-knit relationship between two sisters that begins to unravel when Ginger (Katharine Isabelle) gets her first period and, under the next full moon, transforms into a werewolf. Here, menstruation and puberty are depicted as a visceral, literal metamorphosis.

In recent years, conversations around the fluidity of female sexuality and relationships are reflected in films like Titane (2021), which follows Alexia (Agathe Rousselle), a murderous car model with an erotic fascination with automobiles. Similarly, Spring (2014) blends romance and horror, following the budding relationship between Evan (Lou Taylor Pucci) and Louise (Nadia Hilker), a 2,000-year-old mutant. These stories have allowed for an open exploration of the human experience, ultimately promoting a more inclusive understanding of the ever-shifting boundaries of identity.

Thinking about what form comes next for the monstrous feminine in horror cinema is exciting. Still, we know that women as monsters on screen are far from limited to a traditional archetype; instead, they embody the fears and desires that society places on women. By examining its history, Barbara Creed’s concept of the monstrous-feminine continues to open up the cultural conversation around identity and politics, making it a vital part of horror film history.

Gynophobia: Monstrous Femininity in 70s and 80s Horror screens at The Prince Charles Cinema in London and The Tyneside Cinema in Newcastle upon Tyne.