Personally, I need a remake of Romero's THE CRAZIES like I need an intestinal parasite (and to be honest, I'd rather have the parasite--you can get rid of those), and this story from the Pittsburgh Horror Examiner gives me no confidence at all. More disconcerting than star Timothy Olyphant's ignorance of the original is that the director, Breck Eisner, appears to be a remake-happy hack. Looks like it's yet another case of classic '70s horror bent over a barrel for the multiplex crowd.
Still, for a project more concerned with dollar signs, they've made a pretty cool poster.
I'll probably stick with the original.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
WHERE TO FIND ME
Like Freddy Krueger or a bad herpes outbreak, you just can't seem to get rid of me. I'm everywhere, it appears, and no one's more surprised than me. I never thought I'd be part of one social networking site, let alone four of them, since I've never been one to hop on trends or do something simply because all my friends are doing it. As a networking tool, though, they've been invaluable and I've made some really great friends as a result. So, instead of just being content with MySpace, I've set up shop in several corners of the web.
Here's where you can find me:
Facebook
Twitter
The Haunt
MySpace
Here's where you can find me:
The Haunt
MySpace
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
QUICK UPDATE, 365 DAYS
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.
www.365daysofthedead.blogspot.com
I'll still update here from time to time, but anything regarding the zombie project will not be here.
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.)
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