Probably should've mentioned this in the previous post, but the 365 Days of the Dead blog will not be posted here. Instead, I've set up a brand new blog devoted exclusively for the experiment posts:
www.365daysofthedead.blogspot.com
I'll still update here from time to time, but anything regarding the zombie project will not be here.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
365 DAYS OF THE DEAD
Imagine, if you will, George Romero's NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD as a literal zombie movie--that's to say, a film that sank its teeth into the consciousness of the movie-going public, into the hearts of other filmmakers, into the cogs of the low-budget film marketplace. A bite that infects with the lingering, insidious effect that all well-executed art leaves behind.
Now imagine that those inflicted with Romero's bite--Jorge Grau, for example--transfer that impression into their own work, creating a subgenre of their own--that of the flesh-eating ghoul, laying to rest (perhaps permanently) the notion that zombies are voodoo-powered servants of Haitian high priests, or tools of some grand Nazi scheme. Romero himself succumbs to this phenomena, and the resulting DAWN OF THE DEAD catapults the plague beyond any mere quarantine.
The infection spreads so rapidly it can no longer be contained. DAWN begets an overwhelming number of offspring--a brainless collective single-minded in purpose moving from one hapless victim to another, this subgenre so voracious that it starts consuming itself in its need for raw meat. Soon the dead are everywhere, their numbers great enough to overcome you, make you one of their own . . .
All of which is to say, there's an awful lot of zombie films out there. Enough to take over this blog for an entire year for the following experiment: 365 Days of the Dead.
The challenge: starting this Halloween, watch one zombie movie a day, every day, for an entire year. Each day's entry will then be reviewed here.
The goal is to examine the different permutations that zombie films can take, to see how other countries or cultures portray the living dead. To discover the rare gem among the shambling, entrail-dragging imitators. Maybe even find something that challenges what a zombie movie is, or can be.
A few ground rules: The loose definition of zombie I'm using is any person or persons who die and then return as an ambulatory corpse. Said zombie(s) should be integral to the movie, not simply window dressing or pop-ups in a single scene. Although the blog may not neccesarily be updated daily, each day will be represented in subsequent posts.
If there's a particular movie you'd like to see reviewed here, drop me a line and I'll see what I can do to add it. Also, any filmmakers with a zombie movie you'd like to offer for review, feel free to contact me; I can't guarantee that it'll be featured, nor can I promise a positive response. Feedback on the blog--good, bad, or indifferent--is always welcome.
Hope to see you on Halloween.
Now imagine that those inflicted with Romero's bite--Jorge Grau, for example--transfer that impression into their own work, creating a subgenre of their own--that of the flesh-eating ghoul, laying to rest (perhaps permanently) the notion that zombies are voodoo-powered servants of Haitian high priests, or tools of some grand Nazi scheme. Romero himself succumbs to this phenomena, and the resulting DAWN OF THE DEAD catapults the plague beyond any mere quarantine.
The infection spreads so rapidly it can no longer be contained. DAWN begets an overwhelming number of offspring--a brainless collective single-minded in purpose moving from one hapless victim to another, this subgenre so voracious that it starts consuming itself in its need for raw meat. Soon the dead are everywhere, their numbers great enough to overcome you, make you one of their own . . .
All of which is to say, there's an awful lot of zombie films out there. Enough to take over this blog for an entire year for the following experiment: 365 Days of the Dead.
The challenge: starting this Halloween, watch one zombie movie a day, every day, for an entire year. Each day's entry will then be reviewed here.
The goal is to examine the different permutations that zombie films can take, to see how other countries or cultures portray the living dead. To discover the rare gem among the shambling, entrail-dragging imitators. Maybe even find something that challenges what a zombie movie is, or can be.
A few ground rules: The loose definition of zombie I'm using is any person or persons who die and then return as an ambulatory corpse. Said zombie(s) should be integral to the movie, not simply window dressing or pop-ups in a single scene. Although the blog may not neccesarily be updated daily, each day will be represented in subsequent posts.
If there's a particular movie you'd like to see reviewed here, drop me a line and I'll see what I can do to add it. Also, any filmmakers with a zombie movie you'd like to offer for review, feel free to contact me; I can't guarantee that it'll be featured, nor can I promise a positive response. Feedback on the blog--good, bad, or indifferent--is always welcome.
Hope to see you on Halloween.
Monday, October 15, 2007
HARBINGER
Tucked away in the countryside of northwest Pennsylvania lies a cemetery. There the chill autumn breeze caresses rows of headstones, their faces worn smooth by the elements. The names that had been carved there are unimportant; it's the fetid husks resting beneath that matter.
Leaves from a gnarled oak tree fall and scatter across the ground. The soil below this blanket of dead foliage shifts subtly, the movement nearly undetectable. It isn't until the earth begins to part, and the stench of putrid flesh issues forth, that I realize what's happening.
By then, of course, it's too late.
One by one they rise from their earthen prisons, a collective undead consciousness eager to consume me. To make me one of their own.
It would be easy to run. The dead move slowly enough, and there's nothing preventing me from bursting through the wrought-iron gate at the edge of the cemetery. This is precisely what I do, pinballing my way between slanting monuments, avoiding the dessicated hands sprouting toward my ankles. Trying to ignore the guttural moans of base, instinctual hunger emanating behind me. Trying not to retch from the smell.
My shoes skid on the gravel road leading from the cemetery as I race toward some semblance of safety. Running, however, will only delay the inevitable. You can't escape the dead. Once they've decided to claim you, there's nothing you can do except pray that it'll be painless.
So I'll run until I can't go any further. I'll attempt to hide as best I can. And hope to God the dead are capable of some degree of mercy.
They're coming to get me.
And this Halloween, they'll be coming to get you.
Leaves from a gnarled oak tree fall and scatter across the ground. The soil below this blanket of dead foliage shifts subtly, the movement nearly undetectable. It isn't until the earth begins to part, and the stench of putrid flesh issues forth, that I realize what's happening.
By then, of course, it's too late.
One by one they rise from their earthen prisons, a collective undead consciousness eager to consume me. To make me one of their own.
It would be easy to run. The dead move slowly enough, and there's nothing preventing me from bursting through the wrought-iron gate at the edge of the cemetery. This is precisely what I do, pinballing my way between slanting monuments, avoiding the dessicated hands sprouting toward my ankles. Trying to ignore the guttural moans of base, instinctual hunger emanating behind me. Trying not to retch from the smell.
My shoes skid on the gravel road leading from the cemetery as I race toward some semblance of safety. Running, however, will only delay the inevitable. You can't escape the dead. Once they've decided to claim you, there's nothing you can do except pray that it'll be painless.
So I'll run until I can't go any further. I'll attempt to hide as best I can. And hope to God the dead are capable of some degree of mercy.
They're coming to get me.
And this Halloween, they'll be coming to get you.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
THE SQUEALING . . . THE MOVIE?
Most of you won't know (or care) what I'm talking about, but I know at least two people who would titter like happy schoolgirls at the concept (yes, Dustin and Dana, I'm referring to you).
For those of you in the dark, in February 2004 I wrote a short story called "The Squealing," intended for an anthology of humorous horror stories about stereotypically chauvinist men. The tale (which at first seems to be an homage/spoof of the Universal Wolf Man movies) involves Duane, a redneck romeo who romances (sorry about the alliteration, folks) a young Gypsy girl at an autumn carnival. Said romance culminates in an extended (and graphic) anal rape scene; after which, the Gypsy casts a curse on Duane: "When the moon is full, your true nature will be revealed." (Something like that, I don't have a copy handy.)
Which of course sets up the show-stopping transformation scene in which Duane turns into . . . a pig. And then things get really bad.
The story was a blast to write, and the climax contains my favorite line of dialogue ever (a snippet that caused endless delight among Team Grant on slow-queue days). But there were problems.
My biggest mistake was plotting the story in advance and shoehorning the characters into it, rather than letting them develop their own course of events. There was a subtle stilted quality to the prose that always bothered me (which, perversely, does not pertain to the aforementioned rape scene), and it was way too long.
None of these flaws were pointed out to me by my writer's group, as it was rejected by our moderator (a first for him) as being "too raw for general discussion." Yes, I was so delighted that I repeated that phrase ad nauseum for weeks on end--and will gladly use it whenever possible. It was a shame, though, it would've been fun for certain members to say, "On Page 11 when your protagonist forcibly sodomizes the girl, is there a better description than 'He spread her cheeks, revealing the prize within'?" Alas, such is life.
It seemed as though the story was going to be nothing more than a private joke among friends, and although it was fun to reduce Dustin to giggles just by saying "Pork chops," I really wanted the story to succeed, not to mention find a suitable venue.
I got to thinking about how to improve it last week, when I was corralling a snake in the lobby (it seems the welcome mat is a mite bit warmer than the field out back). I figured the story might be salvageable if I did a page-one rewrite and tried to retain as many tasty bits as the new form would allow. There were some structuring problems that kept nagging me, until it hit me that the story could probably work, and work better, as a screenplay. A perverted little short that could serve as festival fodder and promotional material.
Of course, that would mean those tasty bits would have to be recycled into another story (I don't care how this sounds, that forcible sodomy was GOLD). But I think "The Squealing" would make a great short, sort of a demented variation on the beloved TALES FROM THE DARKSIDE episodes from my misspent youth.
Only one way to find out, I suppose.
#
And while we're on the subject of writing, I've got some exciting news on the horizon. Nothing earth-shattering, but still pretty cool. I'll of course keep you posted when the time comes.
Join me next week as I describe the joys of standing in an empty lobby and shouting "I WANT THESE MOTHERFUCKING SNAKES OUT OF THIS MOTHERFUCKING THEATER!"
For those of you in the dark, in February 2004 I wrote a short story called "The Squealing," intended for an anthology of humorous horror stories about stereotypically chauvinist men. The tale (which at first seems to be an homage/spoof of the Universal Wolf Man movies) involves Duane, a redneck romeo who romances (sorry about the alliteration, folks) a young Gypsy girl at an autumn carnival. Said romance culminates in an extended (and graphic) anal rape scene; after which, the Gypsy casts a curse on Duane: "When the moon is full, your true nature will be revealed." (Something like that, I don't have a copy handy.)
Which of course sets up the show-stopping transformation scene in which Duane turns into . . . a pig. And then things get really bad.
The story was a blast to write, and the climax contains my favorite line of dialogue ever (a snippet that caused endless delight among Team Grant on slow-queue days). But there were problems.
My biggest mistake was plotting the story in advance and shoehorning the characters into it, rather than letting them develop their own course of events. There was a subtle stilted quality to the prose that always bothered me (which, perversely, does not pertain to the aforementioned rape scene), and it was way too long.
None of these flaws were pointed out to me by my writer's group, as it was rejected by our moderator (a first for him) as being "too raw for general discussion." Yes, I was so delighted that I repeated that phrase ad nauseum for weeks on end--and will gladly use it whenever possible. It was a shame, though, it would've been fun for certain members to say, "On Page 11 when your protagonist forcibly sodomizes the girl, is there a better description than 'He spread her cheeks, revealing the prize within'?" Alas, such is life.
It seemed as though the story was going to be nothing more than a private joke among friends, and although it was fun to reduce Dustin to giggles just by saying "Pork chops," I really wanted the story to succeed, not to mention find a suitable venue.
I got to thinking about how to improve it last week, when I was corralling a snake in the lobby (it seems the welcome mat is a mite bit warmer than the field out back). I figured the story might be salvageable if I did a page-one rewrite and tried to retain as many tasty bits as the new form would allow. There were some structuring problems that kept nagging me, until it hit me that the story could probably work, and work better, as a screenplay. A perverted little short that could serve as festival fodder and promotional material.
Of course, that would mean those tasty bits would have to be recycled into another story (I don't care how this sounds, that forcible sodomy was GOLD). But I think "The Squealing" would make a great short, sort of a demented variation on the beloved TALES FROM THE DARKSIDE episodes from my misspent youth.
Only one way to find out, I suppose.
#
And while we're on the subject of writing, I've got some exciting news on the horizon. Nothing earth-shattering, but still pretty cool. I'll of course keep you posted when the time comes.
Join me next week as I describe the joys of standing in an empty lobby and shouting "I WANT THESE MOTHERFUCKING SNAKES OUT OF THIS MOTHERFUCKING THEATER!"
Sunday, September 16, 2007
I GOT NOTHIN' FOR YA
So, another week befalls us, another opportunity for a new blog. Which would be great, except I had the pleasure--and really, when you have a job as easy as mine, it isn't exactly unpleasant--of pulling a 56-hour week recently. And while it'd be really simple to recap current events--mainly, looking up '80s porn stars on MySpace in between showings of 3:10 TO YUMA--I figured I'd put some real thought into it and try to give you something worthwhile.
THE BRAVE ONE (aka DEATH SENTENCE with breasts) sold more tickets Saturday than Kevin Bacon's outing during its entire run. No big surprise there, since the former's being pushed as a serious drama whereas the latter was a straightforward genre piece about whuppin' punk ass. I plan on doing a side-by-side review later this week.
HALLOWEEN, here at the theater as well as nation-wide, has done far less business than opening weekend. The reason can most likely be summed up by the Hot Topic-fitted Goth chick coming out of the theater last night, who opined, "That sucked the second time!"
#
On the literary front, I had a chance to pick up John Skipp's THE LONG LAST CALL (out in paperback from Leisure, who included the bonus novella CONSCIENCE). This lean, mean thriller about a mysterious stranger who visits a seedy strip club as the night's festivities are winding down (one side note: John, by any chance have you been to Lady Godiva's outside of Morgantown? Cuz I could've sworn you were writing about that place) is a one-sitting read. The story's compact enough that anything more than a synopsis would ruin the experience, but I will say Skipp should be commended for writing about a strip club and NOT resorting to throwing vampires in. (CONSCIENCE, the story of a hit man's spiritual epiphany, is a tasty little follow-up.)
As for my own artistic efforts, Kat got me a sweet new desk, and we spent the weekend switching our bedroom to my ersatz office. Finally, I won't have to use the ironing board Kat got for Christmas when inspiration strikes.
#
And while we're on the subject of creative inspiration, on my one day away from the theater I hit the bike trail behind our apartment (finally) with Mike and Sasha. It was fun, and not only is it the first time in quite a while that I got to walk several miles that didn't involve a food court, this place seemed tailor-made for a horror writer. The central strip of the trail is lined with hemlock trees, creating a tunnel-like atmosphere, surrounded by acres of story-inducing foliage. And did I mention the bat houses spaced every half mile? Needless to say, walking at dusk made it more interesting.
During the walk I kicked around ideas for my hillbilly-mutant-cannibal novel with Mike, since every few feet I kept getting new wrinkles for the plot. Should I ever manage to pull this book off, Mike'll probably end up on the dedication page, since he's around every time new elements pop up (the house-by-house narration through West Virginia farm country last summer was, for me, the highlight of the Keyser trip). It should also be noted as the first time the inclusion of Bigfoot to the plot was suggested, and I did not greet it with ridicule. (What does Bigfoot have to do with hillbilly-mutant-cannibals? Well, that's why I'm writing the book.)
THE BRAVE ONE (aka DEATH SENTENCE with breasts) sold more tickets Saturday than Kevin Bacon's outing during its entire run. No big surprise there, since the former's being pushed as a serious drama whereas the latter was a straightforward genre piece about whuppin' punk ass. I plan on doing a side-by-side review later this week.
HALLOWEEN, here at the theater as well as nation-wide, has done far less business than opening weekend. The reason can most likely be summed up by the Hot Topic-fitted Goth chick coming out of the theater last night, who opined, "That sucked the second time!"
#
On the literary front, I had a chance to pick up John Skipp's THE LONG LAST CALL (out in paperback from Leisure, who included the bonus novella CONSCIENCE). This lean, mean thriller about a mysterious stranger who visits a seedy strip club as the night's festivities are winding down (one side note: John, by any chance have you been to Lady Godiva's outside of Morgantown? Cuz I could've sworn you were writing about that place) is a one-sitting read. The story's compact enough that anything more than a synopsis would ruin the experience, but I will say Skipp should be commended for writing about a strip club and NOT resorting to throwing vampires in. (CONSCIENCE, the story of a hit man's spiritual epiphany, is a tasty little follow-up.)
As for my own artistic efforts, Kat got me a sweet new desk, and we spent the weekend switching our bedroom to my ersatz office. Finally, I won't have to use the ironing board Kat got for Christmas when inspiration strikes.
#
And while we're on the subject of creative inspiration, on my one day away from the theater I hit the bike trail behind our apartment (finally) with Mike and Sasha. It was fun, and not only is it the first time in quite a while that I got to walk several miles that didn't involve a food court, this place seemed tailor-made for a horror writer. The central strip of the trail is lined with hemlock trees, creating a tunnel-like atmosphere, surrounded by acres of story-inducing foliage. And did I mention the bat houses spaced every half mile? Needless to say, walking at dusk made it more interesting.
During the walk I kicked around ideas for my hillbilly-mutant-cannibal novel with Mike, since every few feet I kept getting new wrinkles for the plot. Should I ever manage to pull this book off, Mike'll probably end up on the dedication page, since he's around every time new elements pop up (the house-by-house narration through West Virginia farm country last summer was, for me, the highlight of the Keyser trip). It should also be noted as the first time the inclusion of Bigfoot to the plot was suggested, and I did not greet it with ridicule. (What does Bigfoot have to do with hillbilly-mutant-cannibals? Well, that's why I'm writing the book.)
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
THE CANDYMAN CAN, BUT ROB ZOMBIE CAN'T
I fully intended to blog this week about Rob Zombie's "re-imagining" (God, do I hate that word, especially since it's so horribly misused) of HALLOWEEN, but I find that I just can't bring myself to write about it. I'm sure most of you have either already seen it or weren't planning on doing so anyway, so there's really no point. However, my soul cannot be at peace unless I get a few things off my chest.
First, I really thought that delving into the origin of Michael Myers's psychosis was a bad idea (actually, the entire enterprise reeked of BAD IDEA, but I digress). Movies like HALLOWEEN usually work because we don't know why so-and-so is a killer; in fact, John Carpenter even stated the reason Michael wore a plain white mask was to give the audience a blank slate onto which they can project their own fears. But since we're going to go into Michael's past, would it be too much to ask for Zombie to exercise just a teensy bit of imagination? Instead, Zombie decides to open the White Trash Stereotype Catalog and order one of everything. Let's see: asshole stepfather? Check. Standard-issue school bullies, complete with boys' room confrontation? Got it. Early "experiments" with household pets? Right here.
All of which builds up to the culimnation of Michael's psychosis--denied trick-or-treating by his hormonally-driven sister, li'l Mikey pouts on his front step while Mom works the pole to Nazareth's "Love Hurts" (yes, Rob, we know she's hot, but do you have to shorehorn it into every movie you do?)--a sequence that is not only appallingly stupid, but tells us that Zombie learned absolutely nothing from the godawful "Free Bird" ending of THE DEVIL'S REJECTS.
It was still far better than BALLS OF FURY.
#
One of the few "horror actors" who DIDN'T have a cameo in HALLOWEEN was CANDYMAN star Tony Todd. I mention this only because yesterday I braved the torrential downpour to meet the hook-handed star at the Mill Creek Mall in Erie. Nothing really to talk about, it was your standard meet-and-greet, though it was fun to hear Todd talk shit on LEPRECHAUN star Warwick Davis. Todd was in town to promote his newest movie SHADOW PUPPETS, which screened in Erie last night (and which I missed due to work commitments, dammit).
During the Q&A, however, Todd announced plans to bring a film production (intended to be his directorial debut) to Erie, a character-driven, David Lynch-inspired story entitled "Eerie, PA." I'll definitely be keeping an ear out for any additional news; hopefully, there'll be a call for PA's or extras from the locals.
First, I really thought that delving into the origin of Michael Myers's psychosis was a bad idea (actually, the entire enterprise reeked of BAD IDEA, but I digress). Movies like HALLOWEEN usually work because we don't know why so-and-so is a killer; in fact, John Carpenter even stated the reason Michael wore a plain white mask was to give the audience a blank slate onto which they can project their own fears. But since we're going to go into Michael's past, would it be too much to ask for Zombie to exercise just a teensy bit of imagination? Instead, Zombie decides to open the White Trash Stereotype Catalog and order one of everything. Let's see: asshole stepfather? Check. Standard-issue school bullies, complete with boys' room confrontation? Got it. Early "experiments" with household pets? Right here.
All of which builds up to the culimnation of Michael's psychosis--denied trick-or-treating by his hormonally-driven sister, li'l Mikey pouts on his front step while Mom works the pole to Nazareth's "Love Hurts" (yes, Rob, we know she's hot, but do you have to shorehorn it into every movie you do?)--a sequence that is not only appallingly stupid, but tells us that Zombie learned absolutely nothing from the godawful "Free Bird" ending of THE DEVIL'S REJECTS.
It was still far better than BALLS OF FURY.
#
One of the few "horror actors" who DIDN'T have a cameo in HALLOWEEN was CANDYMAN star Tony Todd. I mention this only because yesterday I braved the torrential downpour to meet the hook-handed star at the Mill Creek Mall in Erie. Nothing really to talk about, it was your standard meet-and-greet, though it was fun to hear Todd talk shit on LEPRECHAUN star Warwick Davis. Todd was in town to promote his newest movie SHADOW PUPPETS, which screened in Erie last night (and which I missed due to work commitments, dammit).
During the Q&A, however, Todd announced plans to bring a film production (intended to be his directorial debut) to Erie, a character-driven, David Lynch-inspired story entitled "Eerie, PA." I'll definitely be keeping an ear out for any additional news; hopefully, there'll be a call for PA's or extras from the locals.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
BRAIN NUGGETS
So this past week I was rescuing several boxes of books from storage and taking inventory of what had survived the Great Book Purging of 2005 (a story for another blog). The highlight of the task was discovering that the books I thought we lost in the move from Morgantown (a couple of rare first editions of Charles Grant's Oxrun Station novels, Ramsey Campbell's THE NIGHT OF THE CLAW written as "Jay Ramsey," and the original hardcover of Robert McCammon's MYSTERY WALK) had made the trip after all, deciding to stowaway underneath my stash of Jack Ketchum British editions. I also unearthed a copy of Kirby McCauley's anthology DARK FORCES, and a sudden yet pleasant jolt of nostalgia charged through me.
This book, first published in 1980 as an attempt to duplicate the critical and financial success of Harlan Ellison's DANGEROUS VISIONS in the horror genre, was my gateway drug. Essentially everything I learned as a writer, or came to love as a reader, started here.
I was 13 and found the book on the new arrivals shelf of my library (a bit strange, considering this would've been 1988). The column of names down the front and back covers meant little to me, but the phrase "A Short Novel by Stephen King" certainly did. It had been roughly a year since I'd started reading the Maine Man, and was devouring anything of his I could get my hands on. I checked it out, and cracked it open the moment I got home.
And was disappointed to discover that the short novel in question was "The Mist," which I'd just read in SKELETON CREW earlier that summer. (Makes me wonder what would've happened if I'd scanned the table of contents there in the library.)
With two weeks to kill and no new King story to read, I figured I might as well read the rest of the book. It was the first creatively eye-opening experience of my young life.
Suddenly there was more to read in the world than just Stephen King and that new guy--whatsisname, the future of horror--Clive Barker. It was here that I first encountered such luminaries as Richard Matheson (whose story, "Where There's a Will," written with his son Richard Christian Matheson, remains one of my favorites), Robert Bloch ("The Night Before Christmas," which I would come to learn was vintage Bloch), and Theodore Sturgeon ("Vengeance Is," which floored me on first read). (Ray Bradbury also chimes in with "A Touch of Petulance," but I was well aware of him from the third grade, when I read THE HALLOWEEN TREE.)
It was also my introduction to such future titans as Charles Grant ("A Garden of Blackred Roses"), Ramsey Campbell ("The Brood"), and Dennis Etchison ("The Late Shift"). It gave me my first glimpse of Edward Gorey's macabre and engrossing art ("The Stupid Joke"), as well as the regional flavor of Davis Grubb's Glory, West Virginia ("The Crest of Thirty-Six"). It also marked the first time my jaw hit the floor from a perfectly twisted ending, courtesy of Edward Bryant's "Dark Angel" (still my favorite of the lot).
I'll refrain from listing the entire TOC here; suffice to say my literary apprenticeship began in these pages, though it didn't really hit full swing until Douglas Winter's anthology PRIME EVIL came out in paperback the following year. And while I'm far from a master of my craft, I will say that my work has been richer for having read these stories, and that I owe a debt of gratitude to the authors who penned them. And there's plenty of lessons to still learn within.
#
Speaking of learning writing lessons, those of you who remember my story "The Leech Carrier" may be interested to hear that I've been sending it out again to prospective editors, though lately it's met with little success. Most recently, I was fortunate enough to receive some feedback on it, thanks to Nick Mamatas, editor at Clarkesworld Magazine (and author or MOVE UNDERGROUND and UNDER MY ROOF).
You ever get caught doing something you knew was probably wrong, but did anyway? That's how I felt when Mr. Mamatas called me out on my use of cliches and expository dumps. I'd had a niggling feeling way back during the first draft that I shouldn't be using them (sorry to be so vague; if you've read the story you'll probably know what I'm referring to, if not then I don't want to incriminate myself), but I kept them in each time I'd polish the manuscript in between submissions. Well, now that I've been officially called upon the carpet for them, it's time to get rid of them, which means revising a substantial amount of the narrative.
Problem is, it's been so long since I first wrote it I wasn't sure if I could muster up a fresh angle; I mean, the statute of limitations had pretty much run out on the idea.
It seems that this story means as much to my muse as it does to me. This afternoon I could hear the gears cranking upstairs as various plot elements were debated, as new approaches to the narrative were given dry runs through the ol' gray matter. It'll take some time, but I think I'll at least have something to make another draft of. See, I really like this story, and I'd like the chance to give the rest of the world a peek.
#
Last week my MySpace friend Jeremy C. Shipp sent out a call for recommended movies. Since I couldn't possibly post a blog without opining about films, here's what I suggested:
BLACK SABBATH--I wrote about Mario Bava's classic a couple of months ago, so I won't repeat my opinion here. I will, however, reiterate that if you haven't seen this yet, rectify that now.
SLITHER--James Gunn's ode to icky '80's horror films. Chock full of in-jokes, and filled to bursting with all types of gags (both the humorous kind and the disgusting kind), this was one of the most entertaining films I've seen in years; as I told Jeremy, this movie is proof that gross-out horror can be both witty and intelligent. (Also, for those of you reading this on MySpace, somewhere amongst my Friends you'll find Gunn's profile, as well as stars Michael Rooker and Gregg Henry; do yourself a favor and check them out.)
THE ABANDONED--I might be doing a separate blog about this one in the future, so I'll be brief. This is the feature debut of Nacho Cerda, director of the infamous short AFTERMATH. A ghost story set in Russia, it frequently plays so subtly that it verges on boring; bearing that, it also contains some of the creepiest imagery and atmosphere of the past decade. Fans of the aforementioned Mario Bava will enjoy this one.
THE BLACK PIT OF DR. M--If you've never experienced Mexican horror cinema from the '50's and '60's, you're missing out; there's plenty of overlooked gems to be found, this being one of them. What begins as a fairly standard take on the scientist-out-to-cheat-death plot slowly builds to a nightmarish third act as the seemingly disparate story elements come together to doom our hero. And, as typical of the subgenre, the black-and-white cinematography is so lush you'll easily look past the cornball dubbing.
HELL'S HIGHWAY--Relentlessly fascinating documentary from Brett Woods about Highway Safety Films, an unassuming company out of Mansfield Ohio, who strived to make teenagers better drivers by subjecting them to the most godawful footage of highway accidents imaginable (those of you who graduated prior to the Clinton administration will know the films I mean). Despite a mostly talking-head approach to the subject matter as various cameramen and law enforcement officials tell the sordid tale (punctuated by grisly clips of HSF's catalog), this is a truly, er, engrossing film. And if you decide to Netflix this one, be sure to add the bonus disc, which features three of the films in their entirety--including SIGNAL 30 and HIGHWAYS OF AGONY, both of which were on Mr. Ricco's driver's ed curriculum at good ol' CAHS, and were seared into my memory long before I popped this disc into my DVD player.
This book, first published in 1980 as an attempt to duplicate the critical and financial success of Harlan Ellison's DANGEROUS VISIONS in the horror genre, was my gateway drug. Essentially everything I learned as a writer, or came to love as a reader, started here.
I was 13 and found the book on the new arrivals shelf of my library (a bit strange, considering this would've been 1988). The column of names down the front and back covers meant little to me, but the phrase "A Short Novel by Stephen King" certainly did. It had been roughly a year since I'd started reading the Maine Man, and was devouring anything of his I could get my hands on. I checked it out, and cracked it open the moment I got home.
And was disappointed to discover that the short novel in question was "The Mist," which I'd just read in SKELETON CREW earlier that summer. (Makes me wonder what would've happened if I'd scanned the table of contents there in the library.)
With two weeks to kill and no new King story to read, I figured I might as well read the rest of the book. It was the first creatively eye-opening experience of my young life.
Suddenly there was more to read in the world than just Stephen King and that new guy--whatsisname, the future of horror--Clive Barker. It was here that I first encountered such luminaries as Richard Matheson (whose story, "Where There's a Will," written with his son Richard Christian Matheson, remains one of my favorites), Robert Bloch ("The Night Before Christmas," which I would come to learn was vintage Bloch), and Theodore Sturgeon ("Vengeance Is," which floored me on first read). (Ray Bradbury also chimes in with "A Touch of Petulance," but I was well aware of him from the third grade, when I read THE HALLOWEEN TREE.)
It was also my introduction to such future titans as Charles Grant ("A Garden of Blackred Roses"), Ramsey Campbell ("The Brood"), and Dennis Etchison ("The Late Shift"). It gave me my first glimpse of Edward Gorey's macabre and engrossing art ("The Stupid Joke"), as well as the regional flavor of Davis Grubb's Glory, West Virginia ("The Crest of Thirty-Six"). It also marked the first time my jaw hit the floor from a perfectly twisted ending, courtesy of Edward Bryant's "Dark Angel" (still my favorite of the lot).
I'll refrain from listing the entire TOC here; suffice to say my literary apprenticeship began in these pages, though it didn't really hit full swing until Douglas Winter's anthology PRIME EVIL came out in paperback the following year. And while I'm far from a master of my craft, I will say that my work has been richer for having read these stories, and that I owe a debt of gratitude to the authors who penned them. And there's plenty of lessons to still learn within.
#
Speaking of learning writing lessons, those of you who remember my story "The Leech Carrier" may be interested to hear that I've been sending it out again to prospective editors, though lately it's met with little success. Most recently, I was fortunate enough to receive some feedback on it, thanks to Nick Mamatas, editor at Clarkesworld Magazine (and author or MOVE UNDERGROUND and UNDER MY ROOF).
You ever get caught doing something you knew was probably wrong, but did anyway? That's how I felt when Mr. Mamatas called me out on my use of cliches and expository dumps. I'd had a niggling feeling way back during the first draft that I shouldn't be using them (sorry to be so vague; if you've read the story you'll probably know what I'm referring to, if not then I don't want to incriminate myself), but I kept them in each time I'd polish the manuscript in between submissions. Well, now that I've been officially called upon the carpet for them, it's time to get rid of them, which means revising a substantial amount of the narrative.
Problem is, it's been so long since I first wrote it I wasn't sure if I could muster up a fresh angle; I mean, the statute of limitations had pretty much run out on the idea.
It seems that this story means as much to my muse as it does to me. This afternoon I could hear the gears cranking upstairs as various plot elements were debated, as new approaches to the narrative were given dry runs through the ol' gray matter. It'll take some time, but I think I'll at least have something to make another draft of. See, I really like this story, and I'd like the chance to give the rest of the world a peek.
#
Last week my MySpace friend Jeremy C. Shipp sent out a call for recommended movies. Since I couldn't possibly post a blog without opining about films, here's what I suggested:
BLACK SABBATH--I wrote about Mario Bava's classic a couple of months ago, so I won't repeat my opinion here. I will, however, reiterate that if you haven't seen this yet, rectify that now.
SLITHER--James Gunn's ode to icky '80's horror films. Chock full of in-jokes, and filled to bursting with all types of gags (both the humorous kind and the disgusting kind), this was one of the most entertaining films I've seen in years; as I told Jeremy, this movie is proof that gross-out horror can be both witty and intelligent. (Also, for those of you reading this on MySpace, somewhere amongst my Friends you'll find Gunn's profile, as well as stars Michael Rooker and Gregg Henry; do yourself a favor and check them out.)
THE ABANDONED--I might be doing a separate blog about this one in the future, so I'll be brief. This is the feature debut of Nacho Cerda, director of the infamous short AFTERMATH. A ghost story set in Russia, it frequently plays so subtly that it verges on boring; bearing that, it also contains some of the creepiest imagery and atmosphere of the past decade. Fans of the aforementioned Mario Bava will enjoy this one.
THE BLACK PIT OF DR. M--If you've never experienced Mexican horror cinema from the '50's and '60's, you're missing out; there's plenty of overlooked gems to be found, this being one of them. What begins as a fairly standard take on the scientist-out-to-cheat-death plot slowly builds to a nightmarish third act as the seemingly disparate story elements come together to doom our hero. And, as typical of the subgenre, the black-and-white cinematography is so lush you'll easily look past the cornball dubbing.
HELL'S HIGHWAY--Relentlessly fascinating documentary from Brett Woods about Highway Safety Films, an unassuming company out of Mansfield Ohio, who strived to make teenagers better drivers by subjecting them to the most godawful footage of highway accidents imaginable (those of you who graduated prior to the Clinton administration will know the films I mean). Despite a mostly talking-head approach to the subject matter as various cameramen and law enforcement officials tell the sordid tale (punctuated by grisly clips of HSF's catalog), this is a truly, er, engrossing film. And if you decide to Netflix this one, be sure to add the bonus disc, which features three of the films in their entirety--including SIGNAL 30 and HIGHWAYS OF AGONY, both of which were on Mr. Ricco's driver's ed curriculum at good ol' CAHS, and were seared into my memory long before I popped this disc into my DVD player.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
THE APOCALYPSE, COMING THIS FRIDAY
So this morning I show up for work, and as I climb the stairs to the projection booth I grab the Arrival schedule for the coming week. This is the list of what new films are coming in, their running times, what theater is playing what, showtimes, etc. I scan the list, curious as to what movies we're inflicting upon the general public.
My heart grows cold as I read the titles.
THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM (ok, I'm not too concerned about this one, since it might actually be good)
BRATZ (from the novel by Jane Austen)
HOT ROD (this looked promising until I saw the entire trailer)
UNDERDOG (a movie so bereft of humor that they repeat the same jokes in the trailer; are we really getting rid of RATATOUILLE for this?)
DADDY DAY CAMP ("Directed by Fred Savage"--insert your own joke here)
Can you hear that sound? It's the music from "The Omen," isn't it?
I can't help but feel like a low-level employee in the tobacco industry, or maybe a messenger for the Third Reich--not directly responsible for the ills unleashed upon the world, yet still a cog in the big evil machine that's created them. And right now you're probably saying, "Gee, Scott, overreact much, do you?", but then you probably haven't seen the teaser for the upcoming ALVIN AND THE CHIPMUNKS movie.
So if you need me, I'll be under my desk praying for deliverance for us sinners. And if you happen to see a figure in black riding a seven-headed beast, be sure to tell him Tuesday ticket prices are $5 all day, free popcorn included with the price of admission.
My heart grows cold as I read the titles.
THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM (ok, I'm not too concerned about this one, since it might actually be good)
BRATZ (from the novel by Jane Austen)
HOT ROD (this looked promising until I saw the entire trailer)
UNDERDOG (a movie so bereft of humor that they repeat the same jokes in the trailer; are we really getting rid of RATATOUILLE for this?)
DADDY DAY CAMP ("Directed by Fred Savage"--insert your own joke here)
Can you hear that sound? It's the music from "The Omen," isn't it?
I can't help but feel like a low-level employee in the tobacco industry, or maybe a messenger for the Third Reich--not directly responsible for the ills unleashed upon the world, yet still a cog in the big evil machine that's created them. And right now you're probably saying, "Gee, Scott, overreact much, do you?", but then you probably haven't seen the teaser for the upcoming ALVIN AND THE CHIPMUNKS movie.
So if you need me, I'll be under my desk praying for deliverance for us sinners. And if you happen to see a figure in black riding a seven-headed beast, be sure to tell him Tuesday ticket prices are $5 all day, free popcorn included with the price of admission.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
WHAT'S WRONG WITH A HAPPY ENDING?
A couple of weeks ago circumstances too mundane to recount led me to pick up a copy of Dean Koontz's LIFE EXPECTANCY. Although I was an enormous fan of Koontz's in high school, I bailed during his period of supernatural-events-are-really-covert-government-agencies-with-sinister-agendas novels. And while I admire the man for breaking the habit (it would've been far easier to coast on autopilot and keep churning out the same book), I never really bothered with his recent output.
So it was quite a pleasant surprise to find LIFE EXPECTANCY such an engrossing read; it was almost like I was 14 again, cracking open WATCHERS for the first time. All the trademarks of a classic Koontz novel were there: thoroughly likable characters, a rollicking twist-laden plot that hooked me right away, the straightforward smoothness of the narrative . . . and the uplifting life-affirming ending.
Which, once the book was closed, I felt guilty for enjoying.
And that, my friends, is a strange feeling. It wasn't as though Koontz came about his denouement dishonestly (quite the contrary--he was very fair with the reader throughout, earning every turn of the story), so why did it feel as if liking this ending was some kind of betrayal?
I think it all leads back to a conversation I had years ago with my dear friend Barb. We'd been discussing our fairly disparate tastes in fiction, when Barb explained to me why she preferred Koontz over Stephen King. And it pretty much boiled down to the fact that Koontz could be counted on for a feel-good everyone-you-like-lives ending. King, more often than not, killed off his protagonists--even the ones you like!
(I should probably add a disclaimer here: This was an apples-and-oranges comparison, since Koontz is not a horror writer, nor do the majority of his works fall under that category; nor do I think King writes primarily downbeat endings--CUJO and PET SEMATARY being two obvious exceptions.)
At which point, I expressed one of my guiding philosophies of writing horror: if you're writing an effective story--if you're plumbing the darkest depths of the human condition, sending your characters into grim and horrific territory--it's nearly impossible for things to return to normal at the end. I mean, what if Jack Ketchum had slapped a happy ending onto OFF SEASON? Even if the rest of the text remained as is, it would've been a monumental failure.
I still stand by that statement. Take for example Brian Keene's THE RISING--for all of its controversies, how else was that story going to resolve itself? Could a small child have survived alone in such an environment? Did you think Ob and his minions were going to ignore him? Or what about J.F. Gonzalez's MATERNAL INSTINCT (later expanded into his novel SURVIVOR)? The story he was telling dictated the plotline went where it did (namely, the grimmest goddamn ending in recent memory), and Gonzalez would have been dishonest with both himself as a writer, as well as his audience, if he had ended it on a positive note.
But, the voices of dissent are asking, where's the dilemma? If Koontz isn't a horror writer, and if LIFE EXPECTANCY is a mainstream thriller, why the guilt? Are you such a cynical bastard that you believe any novel involving life-or-death situations must end with the grimmest of fates?
Possibly.
I've long had a dislike for happy, upbeat stories. Don't know exactly what combination of life experience and artistic influence caused me to feel that way, but anything overtly positive will probably go unread or unwatched by me. It's mostly because most of them are intolerably schmaltzy, saccharine, or otherwise aesthetically offensive (that isn't the case with everything; BRING IT ON and 10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU are two examples that can be escapist, light-and-fluffy fun without insulting my intelligence or activating my gag reflex); but also my personal belief that often the most effective stories are those that tell us what we don't neccesarily want to hear.
I have, however, been rethinking that opinion.
Earlier this week I finished reading Bentley Little's THE STORE, one of the scariest books I've read in a long time. Seriously, those of you interested in writing horror would do well to study how skillfully Little uses reality to establish a believable backdrop to his proceedings, and then slowly insinuates his own brand of weird terror into the lives of his characters. It was literally one of the most pervasively terrifying books I've encountered and as I burned my way through it I repeatedly told myself there was no way this was going to end well, the situation was far too dire.
But Little proved me wrong.
I won't divulge specifics, but Little did manage to vanquish his titular menace successfully, in a largely positive, dare I say, cheer-worthy fashion. Yes, he does tack on a coda to the epilogue suggesting other horrors to come, and there is some uncertainty as to the fate of one of the protagonist's daughters, but once again, Little wouldn't have been playing fair if he'd allowed everything to turn out rosy.
So, is compromise the name of the game? Let your hero live to fight another day, yet not remain unscathed? That's how it is in real life, isn't it? Sometimes we lose things that are important in order to learn something valuable, to grow as human beings.
Truthfully, I don't know what place "happy endings," if any, has in horror fiction. I suppose the only way to find out is to keep reading, to experiment in my own work, keeping an open mind for possibilities.
And if I find any, you'll be the first to know.
So it was quite a pleasant surprise to find LIFE EXPECTANCY such an engrossing read; it was almost like I was 14 again, cracking open WATCHERS for the first time. All the trademarks of a classic Koontz novel were there: thoroughly likable characters, a rollicking twist-laden plot that hooked me right away, the straightforward smoothness of the narrative . . . and the uplifting life-affirming ending.
Which, once the book was closed, I felt guilty for enjoying.
And that, my friends, is a strange feeling. It wasn't as though Koontz came about his denouement dishonestly (quite the contrary--he was very fair with the reader throughout, earning every turn of the story), so why did it feel as if liking this ending was some kind of betrayal?
I think it all leads back to a conversation I had years ago with my dear friend Barb. We'd been discussing our fairly disparate tastes in fiction, when Barb explained to me why she preferred Koontz over Stephen King. And it pretty much boiled down to the fact that Koontz could be counted on for a feel-good everyone-you-like-lives ending. King, more often than not, killed off his protagonists--even the ones you like!
(I should probably add a disclaimer here: This was an apples-and-oranges comparison, since Koontz is not a horror writer, nor do the majority of his works fall under that category; nor do I think King writes primarily downbeat endings--CUJO and PET SEMATARY being two obvious exceptions.)
At which point, I expressed one of my guiding philosophies of writing horror: if you're writing an effective story--if you're plumbing the darkest depths of the human condition, sending your characters into grim and horrific territory--it's nearly impossible for things to return to normal at the end. I mean, what if Jack Ketchum had slapped a happy ending onto OFF SEASON? Even if the rest of the text remained as is, it would've been a monumental failure.
I still stand by that statement. Take for example Brian Keene's THE RISING--for all of its controversies, how else was that story going to resolve itself? Could a small child have survived alone in such an environment? Did you think Ob and his minions were going to ignore him? Or what about J.F. Gonzalez's MATERNAL INSTINCT (later expanded into his novel SURVIVOR)? The story he was telling dictated the plotline went where it did (namely, the grimmest goddamn ending in recent memory), and Gonzalez would have been dishonest with both himself as a writer, as well as his audience, if he had ended it on a positive note.
But, the voices of dissent are asking, where's the dilemma? If Koontz isn't a horror writer, and if LIFE EXPECTANCY is a mainstream thriller, why the guilt? Are you such a cynical bastard that you believe any novel involving life-or-death situations must end with the grimmest of fates?
Possibly.
I've long had a dislike for happy, upbeat stories. Don't know exactly what combination of life experience and artistic influence caused me to feel that way, but anything overtly positive will probably go unread or unwatched by me. It's mostly because most of them are intolerably schmaltzy, saccharine, or otherwise aesthetically offensive (that isn't the case with everything; BRING IT ON and 10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU are two examples that can be escapist, light-and-fluffy fun without insulting my intelligence or activating my gag reflex); but also my personal belief that often the most effective stories are those that tell us what we don't neccesarily want to hear.
I have, however, been rethinking that opinion.
Earlier this week I finished reading Bentley Little's THE STORE, one of the scariest books I've read in a long time. Seriously, those of you interested in writing horror would do well to study how skillfully Little uses reality to establish a believable backdrop to his proceedings, and then slowly insinuates his own brand of weird terror into the lives of his characters. It was literally one of the most pervasively terrifying books I've encountered and as I burned my way through it I repeatedly told myself there was no way this was going to end well, the situation was far too dire.
But Little proved me wrong.
I won't divulge specifics, but Little did manage to vanquish his titular menace successfully, in a largely positive, dare I say, cheer-worthy fashion. Yes, he does tack on a coda to the epilogue suggesting other horrors to come, and there is some uncertainty as to the fate of one of the protagonist's daughters, but once again, Little wouldn't have been playing fair if he'd allowed everything to turn out rosy.
So, is compromise the name of the game? Let your hero live to fight another day, yet not remain unscathed? That's how it is in real life, isn't it? Sometimes we lose things that are important in order to learn something valuable, to grow as human beings.
Truthfully, I don't know what place "happy endings," if any, has in horror fiction. I suppose the only way to find out is to keep reading, to experiment in my own work, keeping an open mind for possibilities.
And if I find any, you'll be the first to know.
Monday, July 2, 2007
HOW "LIVE FREE OR DIE HARD" LOST ME AFTER ONE REEL
One of the many perks of working at a movie theater is being able to sample movies without investing $7.50 and 2 hours on a complete bombfest. Case in point: LIVE FREE OR DIE HARD.
I was a bit disheartened to learn of a fourth sequel to DIE HARD, my all-time favorite action movie and arguably the best action flick in the last 20 years. I was not at all impressed to learn the studio was leaning toward a PG-13 rating for broader appeal (how much more appeal do you need?). But it wasn't until I discovered the movie was being directed by Len Wiseman (responsible for UNDERWORLD and its sequel) that I truly despaired.
I decided to give it a chance. So last night during the final set of my shift, I pulled a stool next to the projector, fired it up, and hoped for the best.
Disappointment came roughly three minutes after the opening credits.
It all starts when we meet up again with John McClane, rescuing his daughter from the hormonal advances of her not-boyfriend. Father and daughter argue without actually saying anything--she's pissed at him, without really giving any idea as to why--before storming off, reminding John that her last name isn't McClane, it's Gennero. (Gee, that's familiar.)
And while I'm thinking about it, why is it that when the hero of an action film needs to save a relative, usually a child, the rescuee is introduced as such an utter shit? Can't filmmakers present us with someone we'd actually like to see rescued? If you've seen the trailer, you know McClane's daughter is kidnapped by the bad guys, but from what I could see, they were doing the guy a favor.
The plot gets set in motion when McClane is dispatched to New Jersey to pick up a computer hacker for questioning. What he doesn't realize is that the hacker is under surveillance by a team of assassins, the high-tech kind you used to find in Dean Koontz books. This sets up the first action setpiece of the movie, and the beginning of my contempt.
The assassins open fire, and McClane responds in kind as they try to escape the building. Waiting for an elevator as the gunmen are approaching from around the corner, McClane pulls a fire extinguisher from the wall. Now, if I were in a similar predicament, I'd wait for the bad guys to come around the corner, shoot them, and be on my merry way.
This is why I'm not an action star.
Because apparently the proper thing to do is to roll the fire extinguisher down the hallway, and, in a perfect choreography of timing and marksmanship, shoot it just as it reaches the gunmen. The resulting blast will throw them through a window, where they of course land on a conveniently-parked car.
Great, I'm thinking, they just shoehorned John McClane into a shitty video game.
But the stupidity has yet to kick into high gear, because McClane and the hacker are then cornered by one of the high-tech assassins in the hacker's apartment.
Now, I'm not a hired killer, but if I were, I imagine I'd wait until I had my target in sight, draw a bead on him, and take him out with a single shot.
This is why I'm not a paid gunman.
Because apparently the thing to do is thrust the barrel of your gun into approximately the same room as your target, and sweep the place with gunfire and until you eventually kill someone or run out of ammo, whichever comes first. Usually the latter, giving the hero ample time to pop up and put one through your forebrain as you attempt to reload.
By this point in the flick I'm seriously contemplating finding something more constructive, like dusting projector lenses or organizing the pissy e-mails Disney's been sending us (more on that later).
I decide on this course of action when one of the high-tech assassins begins chasing McClane in a manner more suited to Mario in a Donkey Kong game, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, descending toward the ground by dropping from one fire escape to another in complete disregard for the laws of physics and the human anatomy.
Don't get me wrong, movies--especially blow-'em-up action flicks--require a suspension of disbelief. Of course I don't believe this shit's really possible, but cut me some slack, will ya? (This mentality of "We're a huge summer blockbuster so everything has to be big-big-BIG, logic be damned" is also what caused me to bail on OCEANS 13 at the mid-point.)
What made the first DIE HARD so effective was that the action scenes grew organically out of the situation and McClane's surroundings. Yes, there were spectacular set-pieces and some moments are far-fetched (the elevator shaft sequence, for example), but the script and direction worked hard to earn that suspension of disbelief. They delivered the thrills required for a big-budget action movie, yet kept it realistic enough to avoid insulting its audience, and gave us characters were more than cardboard villains and sounding boards for Bruce Willis's quips.
And don't even get me started on EVAN ALMIGHTY.
Yippy-ki-yay, motherfuckers.
I was a bit disheartened to learn of a fourth sequel to DIE HARD, my all-time favorite action movie and arguably the best action flick in the last 20 years. I was not at all impressed to learn the studio was leaning toward a PG-13 rating for broader appeal (how much more appeal do you need?). But it wasn't until I discovered the movie was being directed by Len Wiseman (responsible for UNDERWORLD and its sequel) that I truly despaired.
I decided to give it a chance. So last night during the final set of my shift, I pulled a stool next to the projector, fired it up, and hoped for the best.
Disappointment came roughly three minutes after the opening credits.
It all starts when we meet up again with John McClane, rescuing his daughter from the hormonal advances of her not-boyfriend. Father and daughter argue without actually saying anything--she's pissed at him, without really giving any idea as to why--before storming off, reminding John that her last name isn't McClane, it's Gennero. (Gee, that's familiar.)
And while I'm thinking about it, why is it that when the hero of an action film needs to save a relative, usually a child, the rescuee is introduced as such an utter shit? Can't filmmakers present us with someone we'd actually like to see rescued? If you've seen the trailer, you know McClane's daughter is kidnapped by the bad guys, but from what I could see, they were doing the guy a favor.
The plot gets set in motion when McClane is dispatched to New Jersey to pick up a computer hacker for questioning. What he doesn't realize is that the hacker is under surveillance by a team of assassins, the high-tech kind you used to find in Dean Koontz books. This sets up the first action setpiece of the movie, and the beginning of my contempt.
The assassins open fire, and McClane responds in kind as they try to escape the building. Waiting for an elevator as the gunmen are approaching from around the corner, McClane pulls a fire extinguisher from the wall. Now, if I were in a similar predicament, I'd wait for the bad guys to come around the corner, shoot them, and be on my merry way.
This is why I'm not an action star.
Because apparently the proper thing to do is to roll the fire extinguisher down the hallway, and, in a perfect choreography of timing and marksmanship, shoot it just as it reaches the gunmen. The resulting blast will throw them through a window, where they of course land on a conveniently-parked car.
Great, I'm thinking, they just shoehorned John McClane into a shitty video game.
But the stupidity has yet to kick into high gear, because McClane and the hacker are then cornered by one of the high-tech assassins in the hacker's apartment.
Now, I'm not a hired killer, but if I were, I imagine I'd wait until I had my target in sight, draw a bead on him, and take him out with a single shot.
This is why I'm not a paid gunman.
Because apparently the thing to do is thrust the barrel of your gun into approximately the same room as your target, and sweep the place with gunfire and until you eventually kill someone or run out of ammo, whichever comes first. Usually the latter, giving the hero ample time to pop up and put one through your forebrain as you attempt to reload.
By this point in the flick I'm seriously contemplating finding something more constructive, like dusting projector lenses or organizing the pissy e-mails Disney's been sending us (more on that later).
I decide on this course of action when one of the high-tech assassins begins chasing McClane in a manner more suited to Mario in a Donkey Kong game, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, descending toward the ground by dropping from one fire escape to another in complete disregard for the laws of physics and the human anatomy.
Don't get me wrong, movies--especially blow-'em-up action flicks--require a suspension of disbelief. Of course I don't believe this shit's really possible, but cut me some slack, will ya? (This mentality of "We're a huge summer blockbuster so everything has to be big-big-BIG, logic be damned" is also what caused me to bail on OCEANS 13 at the mid-point.)
What made the first DIE HARD so effective was that the action scenes grew organically out of the situation and McClane's surroundings. Yes, there were spectacular set-pieces and some moments are far-fetched (the elevator shaft sequence, for example), but the script and direction worked hard to earn that suspension of disbelief. They delivered the thrills required for a big-budget action movie, yet kept it realistic enough to avoid insulting its audience, and gave us characters were more than cardboard villains and sounding boards for Bruce Willis's quips.
And don't even get me started on EVAN ALMIGHTY.
Yippy-ki-yay, motherfuckers.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
AND THEN IT HAPPENED
I'm far from squeamish.
Peruse my DVD collection and you'll realize that right away. Among the titles I've decided I just can't live without are I SPIT ON YOUR GRAVE, CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST, BLOOD FEAST, DAWN OF THE DEAD, BEYOND THE DARKNESS, MAKE THEM DIE SLOWLY . . . you get the (bloody) picture. I'm endlessly fascinated by films--any type of art, really, but it's movies we're discussing today--that explore the extremes of the human condition, that aren't afraid to spill a little blood or viscera or whatever in probing the darkest recesses of our psyche. Or to just get unabashedly gory for my entertainment. I love it, I tells ya.
But I wasn't always this way.
Several years--God, decades really--ago little Scotty would flee from the living room in terror at the merest suggestion of anything scary (Scooby-Doo was an obvious exception). And if it was one of those ones that were bloody or "showed all guts," well then get it out of here before Scott goes into hysterics. There are several anecdotes I could share on the subject, but I'd like to be brief, and besides, I do want to maintain some cred as a horror writer.
I would, however, like to tell you about something that happened to me when I was six.
This would have been 1981, and I was in first grade. Mr. Menhart, my phys ed teacher, was setting up the rickety old projector for a special film. This already had me a little nervous; it was going to be one of those movies, I just knew, the ones that warm you not to go trick-or-treating at certain houses, or about bald men in raincoats that offer rides to children. Those things were SCARY.
I didn't know the half of it.
When the lights went down and the projector whirred to life, I was transplanted into the Citizen Kane of bus safety films, AND THEN IT HAPPENED.
If you've over the age of thirty, you probably know the kind of movie I'm talking about: worn, washed out picture, amateur-hour acting, and a monotonous narrator that comes off as a cross between Rod Serling and Hannibal Lector. This movie showcased just how reprehensible children are on school buses, and how their mean-spirited antics get people killed. And it could've been prevented, of course, if they hadn't been so self-centered and raucous.
A tiny lump of fear formed in my belly as the film began, then steadily grew as dogs, transistor radios, and knives were brought aboard the morning school bus. When the inevitable crash occured (I wanted to look away, but the authoritative tone of the narrator--"Watch what happens when . . ."--wouldn't let me), I was sufficiently freaked out by the tumbling bodies and red Karo syrup. I kept my cool--I wasn't in the safety of my house, where I could scamper away at will, but in school, where you had to, like, behave yourself. But the sadistic little flick wasn't done with me yet, not by a long shot.
The final seven minutes of the movie involved a female bus driver carting her nefarious load of miscreants home. We've had enough establishing shots of a mouse in a shoebox to know there's trouble ahead, but there's more. We've got teenagers kissing in the seats, distracting our Southern belle behind the wheel. One kid ingests a whole bottle of pills and starts puking. That lump in my belly is roughly the size of a Voit basketball, and then the narrator intones, with all the subtlety of the Crypt Keeper, that the bus driver is going to die.
And then it happens.
The mouse escapes the shoebox during a race riot between the absurdly-Afroed black students and the homeliest child actor ever caught on film. One of the little bastards on the bus dangles the rodent in front of the driver who, like anyone responsible for a multi-ton mechanism filled with children, passes out. The bus veers uncontrollably, tires screeching madly on the soundtrack. It becomes very clear that I'm about to puke in my lap.
Blood-spattered kids are tossed around like socks in a dryer. The bus has somehow managed to dive nose-first into a lake, submerged except for the emergency exit, which hangs ajar. Divers and policemen assist traumatized children to safety, where they'll spend the rest of their days thinking about what they should have done to prevent this accident.
Lights up. I raise my hand. "I think I'm gonna barf."
I distinctly remember Mr. Menhart propping mm beside an open window so I can catch some fresh air while I waited for my dad to take me home. I honestly don't recall exactly how upset I was; either I was really wigged out and had to go home, or it was near the end of the day and there was NO FUCKING WAY I was getting onto that school bus. I do, however, remember my dad having a chat with Mr. Menhart, who apologized for showing the movie and admitted (whether in 20/20 hindsight, or to prevent my dad for suing the school for my therapy) that maybe that wasn't the most appropriate film to screen for first-graders.
The film left an impression of me, for sure. Images from it are still burned into my memory, though as time went by I thought about it very little. Even in the search for ghoulish and ghastly story ideas, the movie had little significance, save for the first fucked-up thing I'd ever seen.
Until this past Thursday, when I watched it again.
I hadn't realized just how much a single viewing can inbed itself in one's brain; twenty-six years later the movie is exactly as I remembered it (in fact, the version I saw was missing a few scenes, some of which were the first to surface in my memory when I did think of this film). And despite the hundreds of zombie/cannibal/rape-revenge movies I've inflicted upon myself since then, I still watched it with the same growing unease I did as a kid. Maybe I was reliving the initial experience as I watched, or perhaps it's because the film is one sick bastard. Either way, it was kinda fun to still be scared while watching a movie.
Want to see it?
Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVkvvPwvui0
Part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J8BFoPBoq9k
Drive safely, folks.
SOMETIMES THEY'RE WORTH THE WAIT, SOMETIMES THEY'RE NOT
This past week I had a chance to finally watch two movies I've been waiting, literally, two decades to see. And while such a long wait usually yields nothing but disappointment and trampled expectations, I have to say that wasn't the case this time.
First up was the 1973 TV adaptation of DRACULA, directed by Dan Curtis and starring Jack Palance. Mr. One-Armed Push-Up used to scare the crap out of me on "Ripley's Believe It or Not," when I was eight years old. Around this time I had seen a picture of him, in cape and fangs, in one of the many monster-movie books I read at that time, and figured that would be just about the scariest movie I could ever see.
Twenty-four years later, I can safely say, no, it's not the scariest thing, then or now.
With the exception of Palance's performance (not one of the greatest, but well done nonethless) the film is lackluster in just about every sense. (A big surprise, considering the teleplay was by Richard Matheson.) For starters, there's no Renfield--although Jonathan Harker sort of assumes that role in a slightly interesting variation, becoming little more than Dracula's minion after returning from Transylvania. The cast is appallingly bland, including the most boring portrayal of Van Helsing I've ever seen. Needless to say, I watched this one on fast-forward, stopping to watch only when Palance was on-screen. The companion feature on the DVD, a 1968 TV adaptation of DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE--also starring Palance in the famous dual role--was much more entertaining.
The second half of my long-awaited double bill was Mario Bava's BLACK SABBATH. This was one of the first horror films I can ever recalling hearing about, something my dad always mentioned whenever scary movies were discussed. Anchor Bay has released this film--in its original unaltered Italian-language state--as part of its Mario Bava boxed set collection. (Would you be surprised if I told you go and pick it up?)
If you're looking for fast-paced, visceral thrills, stay far far away from this one. Bava's strength was atmosphere and mood, and he delivers here in spades.
I won't go into too many details here; if you're familiar with the movie I don't have to, and if you're not, then why should I spoil it for you? All I'll say here is that it's a three-story omnibus (a vehicle that I'd really like to see make a comeback) with plenty of creepy imagery on display, particularly in "The Wurdalak" and "A Drop of Water" segments. Even jaded ol' me got the shivers quite a few times. My only disappointment was that Anchor Bay didn't include the original English-language version distributed by American-International in the early '60's (though it was interesting to see Boris Karloff dubbed in Italian).
RANDOM OBSERVATIONS FROM THE PROJECTION BOOTH
Gorgeous 75-degree weather is reserved for when I work 12-hour days. Rain is for half-shifts and days off only.
It's surprisingly easy to follow a movie by watching two-minute clips without sound.
When the sign in the lobby says "Ticket Prices $5 All Day," it does NOT mean that your five-dollar 12pm ticket gets you into movies all day. This is a movie theater, not Kennywood.
The one film nobody wants to see suddenly becomes insanely popular the moment something goes awry with the film and/or the projector.
No matter how much soda I consume during the day, I never have to pee until the hectic 7pm set.
The late showing of a movie only sells if either a) I want to get out early, or b) I need to tear it down so I can send it back to the studio.
BECAUSE EVERY BLOG NEEDS A TOP TEN LIST
I'll admit, I'm a sucker for Top 10 lists. And since this is supposed to be a writing-related blog, I thought I'd throw out my ten all-time favorite reads (the implication here is that you should seek out at least one of them and give it a try). Needless to say, all come heartily recommended.
I won't go so far as to say any of these "changed my life," though each one has influenced my writing in some way or another.
Titles are listed alphabetically by author.
LOST SOULS by Poppy Z. Brite. First published at the height of the hipper-than-thou vampire craze of the early nineties, this book grabbed me from its rich, detailed opening paragraph. What really set this book apart from the others is its characterization: Brite really makes her protagonists come alive, making them feel like flesh-and-blood entities. This combined with a lush, captivating prose(though the first-author weaknesses become more apparent on subsequebt readings) easily makes it the best vampire novel of the last 20 years.
DRAWING BLOOD by Poppy Z. Brite. What Brite did for bloodsuckers in LOST SOULS she does for haunted houses in her sophomore outing, though she has the added benefit of stronger prose to help her along. Like her first book, BLOOD's storyline could be called threadbare--not exactly a roller-coaster plot, if you follow me--but Brite's voice and so-real-they're practically-breathing characters make it well worth the trip.
THE RISING by Brian Keene. This book raised the bar for post-apocalyptic zombie fiction. A father crosses a wasteland populated by the living dead (although, in a novel twist, they're really corpses possessed by a race of demons) to rescue his son. More emotionally-wrenching than any gut-munching zombie flick, Keene also throws in some innovative setpieces on the way to possibly the most controversial ending in recent years. Followed by a fast-paced but hollow sequel, CITY OF THE DEAD.
OFF SEASON by Jack Ketchum. The original cover of Ketchum's debut says "The ultimate horror novel," and for once it's not hyperbole. The story of a group of New Yorkers beseiged by cannibals on the coast of Maine reads like a travelogue of Hell. Ketchum's meticulous research pays off in bloody spades as he details the decapitations, disembowlments, and consumption of his leads. I love hardcore horror, but I could only take this sucker five pages at a time. Definitely a must-read, but be forewarned, it makes THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE and NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD (its primary influences) look like a grade school Christmas pageant.
THE GIRL NEXT DOOR by Jack Ketchum. Equally disturbing as OFF SEASON, though this one assaults you in a quieter, more intimate way. Based on actual events, the novel details the systematic abuse of a young girl at the hands of her mentally-deteriorated aunt (and eventually, the neighborhood boys), told by a prepubescent narrator who stays passive until it's too late. Ketchum's deft prose will keep you hooked long after you're ready to bail. The film version should be seeing release sometime this year, and from the trailer it appears to have retained the grim power of its source material.
PET SEMATARY by Stephen King. If you need me to explain this book's inclusion on this list, or a summary of the plot, you really need to read someone else's blog. If I had to pick one favorite novel, this would be it. It's the master at his grimmest.
BAG OF BONES by Stephen King. King writes a lot about authors and the creative process, and here he's at it in top form. Essentially a ghost story involving a widowed author suffering from writers block, King's failsafe characterization is so well-developed that I wept when one of the leads died (a first). Only King can take 100 pages of exposition and make it engrossing.
TWILIGHT EYES by Dean Koontz. Several Koontz titles could've made this list--WATCHERS, WHISPERS, hell, even THE VOICE OF THE NIGHT--but I chose this one for (say it with me) the characters, and a storyline that's a little more involved than most Koontz fare. The carnival backdrop is particularly well-handled, in the tale of a young man with the ability to see goblins through their human guises. And the ending will tug the heartstrings of all you romantics out there.
THE BIGHEAD by Edward Lee. The hardest of the hardcore horror novels, THE BIGHEAD has been described as the grossest book ever written, and I'm inclined to agree. Lee, who built his reputation on abuse of the gag reflex, outdoes himself with this story of a mutant alien hillbilly with a big head (his skull's pretty large, too) who roams the countryside on a path of self-enlightenment. Said quest involves plenty of rape, dismemberment, and the spilling of practically every bodily fluid imaginable (and some unimaginable). I won't ruin all the gooey setpieces for you, but I will divulge why this book is here. In one unforgettable scene the Bighead rapes a pregant woman (to death), sucks the fetus from her corpse, and eats it. And it's fucking hilarious. Any writer who can pull off such a ballsy move deserves mad props in my book.
KOKO by Peter Straub. Any number of Straub titles could be here, particularly his masterpiece GHOST STORY, but I chose this one not only for its labryinthine plot, but also because it marks the first appearance of Timothy Underhill, Straub's best-realized character (the rest of the cast is well-rendered too, but I'm starting to sound like a broken record). What begins as a simple thriller (a group of Vietnam veterans suspect a former member of their unit is a serial killer) becomes much more in Straub's hands. Followed by the loosely-related novels MYSTERY, THE THROAT (another classic), LOST BOY LOST GIRL, and IN THE NIGHT ROOM.
Happy reading.
WELCOME TO THE MADHOUSE
Welcome to the madhouse. Here's where you'll find me spouting off about the craft of writing, the horror genre, or whatever else decides to spew from my brainpan.
For those of you who may not know me, my name is Scott Emerson. I've been writing horror since I was in the second grade and despite repeated attempts to stop, I'm still at it. Since 1995 I've published stories in various small press and electronic venues, such as Horrorfind.com, Camp Horror, Flashshot, (000)000-0000, and Nightlore, among others. I've also written several scripts for the audio horror program The Grist Mill; my script "The Homecoming," about an estranged couple's run-in with the undead, was one of the first episodes the show produced.
Horror is my favorite genre, but I'm also a fan of mystery/suspense, erotica, mainstream/literary fiction--hell, even Westerns. My favorite authors include, but are not limited to, Stephen King, Jack Ketchum, Edward Lee, Brian Keene, Poppy Z. Brite, Tom Piccirilli, Douglas Clegg, Richard Laymon, Harry Crews, David Mamet, Charles Bukowski, and Edgar Allan Poe.
When I'm not writing, I'm usually watching some godawful movie. Anything out of Italy involving zombies, cannibals, or any combination thereof, is my first choice. But I'll watch just about anything. Favorite movies of mine include The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (the original, thank you very much), Re-Animator, The Evil Dead, Se7en, Die Hard, Goodfellas, the Star Wars trilogy (the first one), Romero's Dead movies, and pretty much anything put out by Something Weird Video.
Everything else about me is pretty boring. I'm married to Kathleen, also a writer, and we live in Meadville PA. I work as a projectionist at the local movie theater (which is great, since I can find out just how bad most recent releases are without plunking down $7.50) when I'm not writing. I've also returned to acting, having appeared in Aaron Sorkin's A Few Good Men for the Academy Theatre. I'm hoping to do more acting in the future.
Wow, I didn't realize how long I've gone on about myself. I'll spare you any further details until later.
Welcome to the madhouse. Enjoy your visit.
For those of you who may not know me, my name is Scott Emerson. I've been writing horror since I was in the second grade and despite repeated attempts to stop, I'm still at it. Since 1995 I've published stories in various small press and electronic venues, such as Horrorfind.com, Camp Horror, Flashshot, (000)000-0000, and Nightlore, among others. I've also written several scripts for the audio horror program The Grist Mill; my script "The Homecoming," about an estranged couple's run-in with the undead, was one of the first episodes the show produced.
Horror is my favorite genre, but I'm also a fan of mystery/suspense, erotica, mainstream/literary fiction--hell, even Westerns. My favorite authors include, but are not limited to, Stephen King, Jack Ketchum, Edward Lee, Brian Keene, Poppy Z. Brite, Tom Piccirilli, Douglas Clegg, Richard Laymon, Harry Crews, David Mamet, Charles Bukowski, and Edgar Allan Poe.
When I'm not writing, I'm usually watching some godawful movie. Anything out of Italy involving zombies, cannibals, or any combination thereof, is my first choice. But I'll watch just about anything. Favorite movies of mine include The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (the original, thank you very much), Re-Animator, The Evil Dead, Se7en, Die Hard, Goodfellas, the Star Wars trilogy (the first one), Romero's Dead movies, and pretty much anything put out by Something Weird Video.
Everything else about me is pretty boring. I'm married to Kathleen, also a writer, and we live in Meadville PA. I work as a projectionist at the local movie theater (which is great, since I can find out just how bad most recent releases are without plunking down $7.50) when I'm not writing. I've also returned to acting, having appeared in Aaron Sorkin's A Few Good Men for the Academy Theatre. I'm hoping to do more acting in the future.
Wow, I didn't realize how long I've gone on about myself. I'll spare you any further details until later.
Welcome to the madhouse. Enjoy your visit.
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