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.