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In Defence of the First Twilight Movie (And the Soundtrack That Had Me in a Chokehold)
Or before the glitter jokes and TikTok rewatches, there was a soundtrack that went harder than it had any right to
Nathan Triffitt
May 18, 2025
Listen. I know what people say. I know the jokes. The sparkling vampires. The stilted dialogue. The blue-grey filter that made Forks, Washington look like a haunted fish tank. I don’t care. Because the first Twilight movie was a cultural reset. And the soundtrack? The soundtrack had me in a full emotional chokehold I have never fully escaped.
Twilight (2008) wasn’t trying to be high art. It wasn’t trying to be "good" in the way cynical adults demanded. It was trying to capture a very specific, very feral, very gay-adjacent feeling: longing so intense it makes you feel physically ill and/or wanting something — someone — so much it feels like a personal apocalypse. And you know what? It nailed it. Clumsily. Beautifully. Overdramatically. Perfectly.
The soundtrack wasn’t background noise. It was the emotional landscape.
Supermassive Black Hole by Muse playing during the chaotic vampire baseball scene? (Gender and sexuality crises activated.)
Full Moon by The Black Ghosts playing as Bella drives into Forks for the first time? (Instantly transported into a liminal queer coming-of-age road trip.)
Flightless Bird, American Mouth by Iron & Wine playing at the prom? (I wanted to slow-dance with someone I hated loving under a cursed fairy light canopy so bad it hurt.)
Never Think by Robert Pattinson wasn’t just a Twilight soundtrack song — it was a full-body ache disguised as a mumble. (It sounded like falling apart quietly in the backseat of someone’s car at midnight, and it hit harder than half the dialogue ever could.)
"Have I found you? Flightless bird, jealous, weeping..."
Even Decode by Paramore turned emotional repression into a sport. It wasn’t just about Edward and Bella staring moodily at each other across a cafeteria. It was about feeling too much all the time and hoping someone would survive loving you anyway.
Was Twilight messy? Yes. Was it deeply weird? Absolutely. Was it (accidentally) one of the most intense emotional metaphors for being a closeted gay teenager in the mid-2000s? Without question. Except that bit about spider-monkeys.
“I’m the world’s most dangerous predator”
Because what is Bella Swan if not the blueprint for repressed queer longing? Staring at someone you barely know like they hold your whole life in their hands? Check. Risking death for the vibe? Hell yeah. Feeling like your own body is a cursed object you don’t quite fit inside anymore? Amen to that.
The first Twilight movie didn't care if you thought it was cringe. It committed. Fully. Unironically. It embraced the awkwardness, the melodrama, the breathless absurdity of falling in love with something that might destroy you. It wasn’t perfect. It was honest. It wasn’t about being polished. It was about being cracked wide open and bleeding glitter.
“And so the lion fell in love with the lamb”
Catherine Hardwicke understood teenage girl feralness better than any of the grimdark sequels ever dared. The soundtrack didn’t just support the story — it ripped open our ribs and poured in stardust and grief and whatever reckless emotion makes you think kissing a vampire is a good life choice. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t need to be.
It hurt. It mattered. It made us feel everything — awkward, breathless, wild, devastatingly alive. And if you still can’t hear "Decode" without being seventeen, cracked open, and ready to set your whole life on fire for someone who barely looked at you? Good. You’re still breathing the same chaotic, glittering air that built you. And you survived it.