As of this writing, filmmaker Alice Maio Mackay turned 21 less than a week ago. She has also just premiered her sixth feature length film in the last four years, a remarkably sustained run of productivity, regardless of age. Unbeholden to studios and working with micro-budgets, Mackay does a lot with very little, and is also free to make her films as aggressive and political as she deems fit — not for nothing does she proclaim each of her features “a transgender film by Alice Maio Mackay.” It’s a bold statement of purpose, and a big fuck you to our socially regressive status quo that wishes to sweep anything not cis and straight under the rug. Which is not to say that Mackay’s films are dry political tracts — they are colorful, funny, sexy, brimming over with sensual pleasures. The Serpent’s Skin is Mackay’s most accomplished film yet, lush and robust thanks to the efforts of cinematographer Aaron Schuppan (a long-time collaborator who has shot all of Mackay’s features) and the aces editing of People’s Joker filmmaker Vera Drew (working on her second film in a row with Mackay).
When we first meet Anna (Alexandra McVicker), she’s overhearing her abusive stepfather and mother arguing about her future prospects. Fed up, she leaves her small town and moves to the city to crash with her big sister, Dakota (Charlotte Chimes). Dakota introduces Anna to Danny (Jordan Dulieu), the “only hottie in the building” according to big sis. Anna and Danny have an instant connection, and quickly fall into bed together. It’s during their passionate sex that we meet Gen (Avalon Fast), who seems to have a psychic vision of the two fucking and starts to get off herself. Gen sets out to meet Anna, and finds her working at a record shop not long after Anna has repelled a violent armed robber with some hitherto unknown psychic powers of her own. It’s love at first sight for the two women, who both share the same strange powers (think Cronenberg’s Scanners, which Mackay is playfully referencing). The director seems content to follow the new couple’s burgeoning romance, following them to clubs and on a girls’ night out.
But complications ensue when Gen tattoos a snake ouroboros symbol on Danny’s neck. Gen and Danny are both unaware at the time that they’ve each slept with Anna, and when Anna officially introduces the two of them later at a club, there’s some momentary awkwardness. But everyone here is pretty laid back about sex, and Danny winds up having a good time. After a few drinks, he politely excuses himself, goes outside, picks up a woman, and proceeds to suck out her soul. Somehow, Gen has transferred some of her psychic powers into Danny’s tattoo, which has in turn opened a door for a demon to begin plying its evil designs in our world. His victims are not dead, exactly, but appear to be husks of people — no personalities, no thoughts, just some remedial motor functions. Soon, the possessed Danny is leaving piles of bodies in his depraved wake, and Anna and Gen must stop him before he targets Dakota, this while coming to terms with what their own powers might mean.
Mackay is having a lot of fun in The Serpent’s Skin playing around with various horror iconographies. There are obvious nods to Cronenberg, but the film as a whole feels more specifically like a cross between episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Charmed, TV shows older than the filmmaker but which have lived on thanks to a couple of decades of syndication on basic cable and enduring cult status. Gen and Anna’s powers are rendered via glowing green peepers, and when they turn those powers against robbers and rapists, blood pours from eyes and noses and ears. Visions are rendered via bright flashes of rich pastel colors and layers upon layers of superimpositions, a kaleidoscopic frenzy of imagery. But The Serpent’s Skin is not just playing a “spot the reference” game; instead, Mackay has fully integrated these inspirations into her own concerns on being trans in this often frightening modern world. The forces of evil might be aligned against our intrepid heroines, but the power of love, forgiveness, and solidarity will always save the day. A fantasy, perhaps, but an important one. There’s no one doing it quite like Alice Maio Mackay right now.
Published as part of Fantasia Fest 2025 — Dispatch 6.
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