Phantom of Pulp

Crimson Celluloid and Aussie Zines

2013-06-08T08:42:00.002-07:00

CRIMSON CELLULOID was a great little Aussie 'zine (from Sydney) that covered porn, Asian cinema, horror, American exploitation, and everything lurid and bloody in between.

Editors were Brett Garten, the great David Nolte (all-round genre and serial killer authority), and Ant Timpson. I knew Brett and David personally, but didn't meet Ant at the time the mag was being published because he wasn't in Sydney when I'd visit the CC boys. He went back to New Zealand, I think. I later met him and his brother at a couple of Melbourne Film Festivals.

Still, what a stellar mag from a rarefied period just before the internet changed a lot of things.

The review below of Nekromantik is by the indefatigable Michael Helms, who went on to create and edit FATAL VISIONS, the legendary Melbourne-based 'zine. I wrote a Hong Kong film column myself for FV called 'Chinatown Beat'.

Below is an early Australian review for A BETTER TOMORROW written way before almost any Westerner was writing about Woo films.

Tony Egan, who became a solid friend of mine, wrote often for CC, and was a die-hard HK film fanatic. Tony is also a film director/writer/sharp editor. He cut my film SENSITIVE NEW AGE KILLER with MASTURBATING GUNMAN actor Robin Brennan.

Also below is a Timpson review of the Sammo Hung vehicle DEAD AND THE DEADLY.

As noted below, other contributors to CC were Joey Inferno (aka Wally Ramborama aka Peter ?), who also went on to create his own 'zine, PSYCHO IN THE DARK. Years later, he'd open a collectible store in Melbourne, and rumor has it, the store is still going strong.

Shane Harrison contributed to FV also; and Richard Kuipers went on to produce SBS's 'The Movie Show' and edit the Australian arm of Variety.

Another interesting 'zine from Melbourne was SEPSIS.

Consistent with its title, it focused on the grislier side of life, dishing up porn reviews, galleries of deformed Brazilian babies, and articles on flesh-eating diseases.

The mag was also one of the first to cover the European 'Shit Lovers' series from Choc, a real company. These VHS's (pirated, of course) were even sold from a South Australian PO Box for a while.

I'd post scans if I could find my collection of SEPSIS, but I don't have the energy right now to move fifty boxes of shit.

Another terrific Sydney-based 'zine was BETTY PAGINATED. A fantastic mag with a strong focus on porn -- although the issue below also featured a great piece on Mark 'Chopper' Reid.

Takeshi Miike's LESSON OF THE EVIL

2013-06-06T07:31:00.000-07:00

Takeshi Miike's LESSON OF THE EVIL, just seen fairly recently, blew me away. In many respects, this is as bonkers and audacious as ICHII THE KILLER, and throws in elements of COLD FISH, BATTLE ROYALE, ELEPHANT, AMERICAN PSYCHO,and VIDEODROME.

Simple set-up sees a teacher saddled with the task of eradicating cheating during exams at a high school. When the task proves an impossible one, he takes drastic measures. To put it lightly.

No synopsis can do justice to LESSON's parade of perversion, blackmail, bullying, bloody violence, and outright insanity.

A couple of reviews have criticized the film's pacing, a charge I don't understand at all. From frame one, Miike creates a creeping, cloying sense of tension as he deftly sketches the lives of both teachers and students, and imbues every scene with a shattering inevitability that is paid off in spades.

In light of recent school shootings and reports of increasing campus violence, the film is so utterly relevant, it will be tough going for many, if not most, viewers

Although there is harsh violence throughout, the climax depicts one of the most merciless rampages I've ever seen, and I've seen plenty. It is not a menu of 'creative killings', a fact one moronic reviewer lamented, but is shocking for its brutal banality, its relentless nihilism, its sickening force.

Audacious and brilliant, LESSON THE EVIL is simply the best film of the year so far, and, as Miike flicks go, right up there with ICHII THE KILLER, VISITOR Q, GOZU, 13 ASSASSINS, GRAVEYARD OF HONOR, THE MAN IN A WHITE SUIT, and THE CITY OF LOST SOULS.

I fuckin loved it!

Paper Beasts On The Rampage

2013-06-03T11:59:00.001-07:00

Not to be confused with Nick Sharman's THE CATS, this is Berton Roueche's first person account of cats gone wild on Long Island. Very brief at 126 pages, it moves at a quick clip and dishes up some vivid grue.

I've always liked the bloody-faced kitty on the cover.

Roueche's effort was the first cat novel out the gate, and though it is copyrighted 1974, the same year Herbert's THE RATS appeared in the UK, I can't find an American copy to confirm whether it was published that year. It was first published in the UK in 1975.

Published in '79 when mad animals, insects, and reptiles were all the rage (thanks to James Herbert and Guy N. Smith), this Hamlyn paperback original focused on the building of a resort on top of a snake colony. No points for predicting some resistance from the creepy crawlies.

A new copy of the American/Signet paperback of this book is rushing out the door for $193 this week at Amazon.

More killer cats in D. Gunther Wilde's CLAWS (Leisure; 1978), a novel that came after Roueche's THE CATS, but before Nick Sharman's attempt to demonize the little fluffs in the early 80's.

Quite a fun read.

If you're looking for the best in killer mantis fiction, you've hit the mother lode, old chap.

I fail to find another novel in existence that I can compare to Nace's EAT THEM ALIVE.

As the cover blurb screams, it really is A NEW PEAK IN HORROR.

One of the best reads ever. Much better than ULYSSES.

Wonderful Guy N. Smith-style horror about a mad fungus infecting, mutating, and ugly-fying all and sundry.

Lots of funny stuff, too.

Harry Adam Knight was Aussie writer/film critic/novelist John Brosnan, who died in 2005.

The first of his non-fiction books I read was THE HORROR PEOPLE ('76), then FUTURE TENSE - THE CINEMA OF SCIENCE FICTION ('78).

THE FUNGUS is also known as DEATH SPORE.

The Joy of Sex (Pulpy Porn Style)

2013-06-02T22:30:00.000-07:00

It's a sexual smorgasbord out there, with the emphasis on 'bored', I'm afraid. It's a deluge. We have graphic images. We have mountains of explicit pornography. We have machine gun-style fucking and sucking. It's all just a few mouse clicks away.

Still, there is nothing quite like the written word. Nothing. And there's nothing like a lurid illustration to accompany it.

Roll up, roll up, brothers, sisters, and feast your eyes on these artifacts of a bygone era, these lost exhibits of the lavishly lurid.

The sex novels of the 60's, 70's, and 80's tackled subjects that are off-limits today -- 'politically incorrect' -- because some tit-sucking momma's boy, some blubbering milquetoast with his wife's panties on his head and balls in her pocket, decided to become a 'victim' of them, decided he'd 'clean up' society by demonizing them... all the while taking bribes for political favors, and using his elevated station in life to rob, rape, and Reverse Robin Hood the people who voted him in.

There was a time, not long ago, my friends, when there was a clear distinction between fantasy and reality, when 'victims' were the physically and mentally abused, when sex was a playground, and make-believe was just that. It was a simpler time. You knew where you stood. The agendas were clearer.

Now, despite the propaganda that it's an 'anything-goes' world, the reality is that anything will offend somebody, and that somebody is gonna cash in.

It's a sadder world today when a Wall Street banker cops a slap on Rolex for his mass destruction of middle class lives while prosecutors are aggressively busting children for trading 'naughty pictures' with each other on their cell phones.

Makes sense in a way. Sex has always been an easy target for those engaged in distracting us from their crimes of affluence. It's become the indefensible, the accusation that turns the old 'innocent 'til proven guilty' mantra upside down. It may appear we have more freedoms, but we really have more rules, more policing of our thoughts, our fantasies, and our dreams.

Hopefully, the world will turn full circle again, and the hysteria and hypocrisy associated with depictions of human sexuality will dissolve, and pulpy porn excellence, almost quaint now, will make a welcome return.

Jack Vance, A Giant Of Fantasy, Has Died

2013-05-29T14:28:00.002-07:00

Jack Vance, a fantasy writer I'm been in awe of since childhood, has died. He was thee years shy of a hundred.

He left a body of work that is truly staggering in its volume, scope, and quality.

I first stumbled on Jack in Melbourne's Space Age Books, a long gone palace of fantastique delights for fantasy and SF fans that was located a few doors north of Swanston and Lonsdale Streets.

The book I picked up was City of the Chasch, the first volume in the stunning PLANET OF ADVENTURE series. It was the word ADVENTURE that hooked me.

More than other other fantasy writer, I found Jack's work magical and truly transporting. He cooked up fully-fleshed-out worlds of mind-bending wonder with just twenty-six carefully heated alphabetical ingredients. His works, set in galaxies a million light years from here, and in times few of us could even imagine, were so utterly complete, so real, so authentic in their customs, social structures, and histories (past and future), I never stopped wondering how the hell he did it, how he managed to get everything so right. And that's why I'm still in awe of his talent up to this very day. A sad day.

Whenever friends or bloggers lament the sorry state of cinematic fantasy, I always think of Jack. My mind automatically turns to a man who set a literary standard that no film could possibly meet. Of course, someone will create a cinematic world based on Jack's imaginings, and someone will pilfer elements of what made Jack so visionary (Cameron did it in AVATAR), but nobody will do Jack as Jack did Jack. Nobody will get it right without surrendering quality and intelligence.

Before Jack, I read Asimov, Heinlein, Bradbury, Ballard, Moorcock, Leiber, Van Vogt, Malzburg (Barry), Ellison, Bester (Alfred), and others too many to list here. I ate their works up. They took me to places beyond my experience, beyond my childhood when childhood wasn't so sweet. When its realities felt harsh.

When I met Jack, I journeyed further, and I encountered a type of science fantasy that, though set in remote places, blended the grand adventure of R.M. Ballantyne (a favorite of my pre-teen years) with the exotica of fully realized alien worlds. His prose soared, his characters sweated 'til we smelt them, and his affinity for invention colored every chapter. One couldn't read about things like 'sky rafts' and not be pulled into Jack's boundless creations.

If you've never met Jack, I envy you your first handshake. You won't let go.

John Holbrook Vance, RIP

Why We Need Charlie Casanova

2013-05-23T09:15:00.001-07:00

One imdb reviewer of CHARLIE CASANOVA described its characters as "barely recognizable as human".

Let me think about that for a moment.

Yes... yes... perhaps... maybe...could be somewhat accurate... IF YOU'D NEVER STEPPED OUTSIDE YOUR FUCKING DOOR!!! Which is clearly the case with anybody who doesn't find immediate commonalities with this accomplished low budget psycho-drama and its stellar cast of flawed earthlings.

Jesus Christ, this is one intelligent, raw, emotionally gory autopsy of human behavior, its central focus being on the man/woman thing, hypocrisy and lies (same thing), and the role fate plays in our lives.

Not a wise thing to give too much away because some of the revelations are like a surprise right hook to the head, but here goes a taste:

Charlie Barnum (Emmett Scanlan), a caustic, entitled, upper middle class bully who rides roughshod over his intimidated mates and their partners, is responsible for the death of a working class girl. In the tradition of Luke Rhinehart's THE DICEMAN, where fate is sealed by the roll of a dice, Charlie, in the immediate wake of her demise, consults cards to determine his course of action. The result of his choice gives him a newfound freedom with its inevitable consequences, and subjects everybody around him to the living hell of their true selves, and the pain of their own inertia.

Irishman Terry McMahon, the film's writer/director, has produced a work birthed by his outrage at what we settle for, what we take for granted, and what we pretend is happiness. It's a loud and beautifully articulated wake-up call to lives lived in a state of apathy. Festering apathy.

Seems the film's copped predictable criticism from women, the Irish film "establishment", and anybody else who's not too happy to see their own soiled toilet paper draped over the local town hall. The film's portrayal of hopelessly broken male/female dynamics is spot on, and McMahon has as much venom in reserve for men as he does for women. Charlie's best friend is a prime example of a male who's had his balls torn off by a woman. Weak, pathetic, and convinced that submission will keep the peace, he is, like many men, unable to re-assert his masculinity in a world where male submission to convention is seen as acceptable and preferable. Of course, conventions such as marriage favor one sex and tend to enslave the other. Ultimately, both are enslaved because the fantasy writes checks that reality can't cash.

CHARLIE CASANOVA asks us to think, to question, to rage against the bullshit we're fed. Until we all do that, we'll be needing fellas like Charlie.

Available now on DVD from Amazon US and the UK. Also on VOD.

US distributor is BRINK.

My radio mate Tom Leykis has been transmitting messages similar to Charlie's for more than a decade now.

He can be found at: www.blowmeuptom.com

The Grim Truth of NATURAL ENEMIES

2013-05-21T09:03:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you don't want grim, you don't want utter, hopeless darkness, but sometimes you do, you're ready -- at last -- to take the plunge. For those times, there's Jeff Kanew's NATURAL ENEMIES starring the wonderful Hal Holbrook.

Made in '79, at the end of an era when films like this got major studio support, this is a (still) very timely piece about a family man (Holbrook) who tells us at the film's outset that he's going to kill his wife, kill his young children, and kill himself. "Every man thinks about killing his family at some time," he says, pretty much setting the tone for what's to come.

The events of the film take place over eight to ten hours.

Holbrook, a magazine publisher in a marriage polluted by mental illness, fills his day lamenting -- in voice-over and with colleagues -- the rotten state of his marriage, his career, and a future he can't perceive as anything but terrible. From these laments and ruminations emerge existential vomit trails that no intelligent viewer could fail to relate to. In fact, the film does a knock-up good job of covering pretty much every dark corner of the human journey, and offers enough food for thought to fill the cranial belly.

Holbrook takes an afternoon detour into group sex and extracts some female perspectives from naked females before returning home to meet with a concerned wife (Louise Fletcher in top form) who's made a discovery that may or may not impact on her longevity. You'll have to watch the film to find out.

The film's tone, nihilistic narrative, and rigid, formalized compositions reminded me of Buddy Giovinazzo's COMBAT SHOCK, Richard Mahler aka Roger Watkin's MIDNIGHT HEAT (with Jamie Gillis), Scorsese's TAXI DRIVER, and Gasper Noe's I STAND ALONE. The way the film presents a society that is becoming more and more aware of its own inevitable destruction is a great deal more honest than today's portraits of a world too busy tapping cell phone keyboards to know or care about greater issues.

This is one powerful movie from the director of EDDIE MACON'S RUN, REVENGE OF THE NERDS(!), TOUGH GUYS, and TOUCHED BY AN ANGEL (TV series).

Based on a novel I must read by Julius Horwitz.

Thanks to Mark at Soiled Sinema for the recommendation.

A Deriva (Adrift)

2013-05-19T08:54:00.000-07:00

A DERIVA (ADRIFT; 2009) is a powerful, perceptive, and sensual Brazilian feature about a crumbling marriage seen through the eyes of a fourteen year old girl. Starring the always compelling Vincent Cassell as the father and Laura Neiva as the girl, the film depicts how the ups and steep downs of a marriage shape the already tentative world view of a younger person.

Set on the craggy shores of an island-like holiday haven, director Heitor Dhalia uses surreal water imagery to convey the mental state of his heroine, and takes a refreshingly mature, non-hysterical approach to the ever-present subject of sex pertaining to both younger and older cast members.

A DERIVA, for me, explored some of the territory French director Catherine Breillet has been mining since her brilliant debut A VERY YOUNG GIRL; she followed those with 36 FILLETTE, then FAT GIRL. All three focused on a younger person's perceptions of adulthood, and how signals can be so easily misinterpreted.

In Dhalia's film, which is based on a novel, a great deal of attention is also paid to the marriage itself, and Cassell is met with equal force by Debora Bloch, the actress playing his transitioning wife. Camilla Belle is also electric in a role pivotal to Neiva's awakening.

The use of The Ronette's BE MY BABY, at crucial junctions in the film, is inspired.

Highly recommended.

Pulpy Porn and Gutter Romance

2013-05-18T12:05:00.000-07:00

Time for another look at the luridly wonderful world of pulpy porn and gutter romance.

Love the Forbidden Women art, and the catchy premise.

Myron Jubilee's Always Young Enough is a title that surely reflects the viewpoint of the terribly handsome fellow pictured on the cover. And perhaps the intended reader? Priceless cover.

Subtle image of a woman who likes her meat rare. The gentleman, a cast member of Mad Men, isn't quite sure where to take it from here, so he bangs his head against an empty glass.

Carnal Close-Out is a perfectly evocative title.

Good old Liverpool Press puts out again. Simple, effective illustration that says everything that needs to be said about this book "for mature readers". I reckon some immature readers got a hold of it, too.

"Her body was sin-bait in this lust game!" Sin-bait? 'A' for effort, Sundown.

Trying something much finer here to sell Mary's "misfortunes".

A cover Tinto Brass would give his stamp of approval to. The gent appears to be sketching a woman not seen in the image here and she's naked also.

Brutal, dark art for Terrorist Tormentors, a series known for its more extreme illustrations.

A hint of Robert Bishop in its shading, too.

"Shame" was a frequently used word back in the day. "Shame-stunts" wasn't so common.

Hannibal

2013-05-17T12:02:00.000-07:00

Almost hard to believe (in a good way) that Bryan Fuller's HANNIBAL is on a commercial network in the US. It's easily the artiest, most experimental, most grotesque show I've seen on network TV. Definitely represents a sincere network effort to go head-to-head with cable greats such as SIX FEET UNDER, BREAKING BAD, and DEXTER.

The latest episode, 'Sorbet', was riveting, almost transgressive cinema, and was crafted by several names with strong pedigrees in the dark arts.

It was directed with icy, inventive precision by James Foley, who made the extraordinary AT CLOSE RANGE, and was photographed by Canada's Karim Hussain, who directed SUBCONSCIOUS CRUELTY, and shot installments of the recent THE THEATER BIZARRE and three other HANNIBAL episodes.

As this episode featured a lot of material involving the removal and cooking of body parts, the direct musical references to Nacho Cerda's AFTERMATH, in addition to soundscapes that, for me, also echoed Cerda's necrophilia-themed short, were music to my ears and riches for my eyes.

As an expansion of the world (characters and themes) created by Thomas Harris in his novel 'Red Dragon' (filmed as MANHUNTER and RED DRAGON respectively), producer Bryan Fuller and his team clearly respect the origins of their show, but understand that they must venture beyond those origins in order to fly, and to enrich the source.

They are doing that skilfully and artfully.

Like the current BATES MOTEL, HANNIBAL is a refreshing, intelligent enrichment of a familiar literary and cinematic world. Both get the tone right, and never come across as imitative or purely profit-driven. Their respective original writers, Robert Bloch and Thomas Harris, might be comforted by a feeling I have that good TV is looking, sounding, and smelling more like a great novel these days where there is more room and time to depict the internal as well as the external.

Good, bloody times!

Dick Laymon Told To Lay off The Rough Stuff

2013-05-16T09:05:00.000-07:00

Richard Laymon, one of my favorite writers (and horror writers) of all time, a writer whose sensibilities and subject matter resonated with me from the moment I opened his first published novel, THE CELLAR, also wrote one of the greatest non-fiction books on writing and publishing of all time: A WRITER'S TALE.

These scanned pages (below) are a mere sample of the 350 pages of raw wisdom, pain, and truth (always truth!) found within this now hard-to-find book tome that is worth its weight in literary gold.

Before his death, Mr. Laymon's experiences with American publishers (one in particular: Warner Books) were pretty terrible, and one badly mismarketed book (THE WOODS ARE DARK) sealed his fate, resulting in the withdrawal of marketing support for years and the trashing of his reputation in US publishing circles. In the book, he documents the gory ups and downs of his entire career in painstaking detail, the likes of which I've never read before.

In the scan below, the writer details a terrible situation in which his US agent, Jay Garon, withheld money owed to him for up to two years (!)

Fortunately, a month later, he received a tremendous break courtesy of Dean Koontz, who emerges smelling like roses from this book.

Fortunately, English publishers were kinder to Dick Laymon, and his reputation was rescued somewhat by publisher Hodder Headline.

A fascinating piece (scanned here) involves Mr. Laymon's young adult suspense novel, MY SECRET ADMIRER, a book that was to be his first and last for Scholastic, despite healthy sales.

Throughout the book, he offers tips on writing, cautions about publishers, lists his favorite horror and non-horror writers, goes into graphic detail about how he was marginalized, and provides shitloads of wisdom about a mostly indifferent publishing world where the good guys are few but still out there. The trick is finding them.

Some Laymon novels such as the excellent QUAKE are still barely published in the US , which is a tragedy, and the recent campaign to reprint earlier novels and others not published at all Stateside went down in flames when Leisure's horror line crashed recently.

This scan from the book (below) is especially interesting to me. Dick Laymon discusses a book he never completed to final draft called Lo Down, a rape/revenge novel.

The author writes, "The book was a little too nasty."

Mr. Laymon thought it too nasty (hard to comprehend!), or was he expressing the concerns of others?

"I'd been advised to back away from the rough stuff," he says. Advised by whom? Publishers? Friends? Family?

So, are we to infer that everything he wrote after he wrote the above was an example of him backing away from the "rough stuff"? I'd like to know what Dick Laymon's definition of "rough stuff" was.

I sense the "rough stuff" was probably sexual violence-oriented, but I can't say for sure. What else could it be?

I've read pretty much everything Mr. Laymon ever published in the UK and the US, and would say my favorites are THE CELLAR, THE WOODS ARE DARK (the unabridged version), QUAKE, ENDLESS NIGHT, FLESH, OUT ARE THE LIGHTS, ALL HALLOW'S EVE, SAVAGE, FUNLAND, ISLAND, BITE, INTO THE FIRE, BEWARE!, and ONE RAINY NIGHT.

Critics of Laymon criticize the raw sexual content in his work, some thinking it goes too far (THE CELLAR often a target) and crosses sacred boundaries. Bullshit! I reject these criticisms and feel that few writers have written as honestly about the euphoria of human lust and its good and bad consequences as Laymon. In all his books, Laymon wrote with great honesty, never caring if he offended those who wear their sensitivity like a badge of honor.

A WRITER'S TALE needs to be reprinted. Mr. Laymon ripped his soul open to write it.

This beast of a book, a tribute to the writer from professionals and non-professionals courtesy of Cemetery Dance, is a treasure trove of short stories inspired by him, unpublished works from him, and passionate remembrances of him.

Contributors include Tom Piccirilli, Gary Brandner, Steve Gerlach, John Pelan, Ann Laymon, Adam Pepper, Dan D'Auria, Richard Chizmar, Bentley Little, Brian Keene, Ryan Harding, Norman Partridge, and daughter Kelly Laymon.

The impression the book leaves you with is Dick Laymon was a magnificent, generous, encouraging, hard working human being who inspired everybody he came into contact with.

RIP.

Pond Scum (The New Trailer)

2013-05-03T08:37:00.000-07:00

POND SCUM (pre-release trailer) from CineNature on Vimeo.

POND SCUM is approaching the finish line.

A dedicated cast and crew (Renae Boult, Ward Boult, Dawna Lee Heising, Vida Gaffari, Paul Fanning, Marc Edward Heuck, Jacqui Fanning) have made this bastard of a project possible.

I appreciate the unreasonable level of commitment from all.

POND SCUM is what I'd loosely call ero-horror, its emphasis being on sociopaths and the consequences of their pursuits. Some of those pursuits are darkly erotic, others are completely insane ventures into places no man or woman should go -- not if they expect to return unscathed.

The film is dedicated to my dear Japanese friend and fellow filmmaker Tomoaki Hosoyama, whose influence and friendship have been priceless and unique.

The ANGST/Schizophrenia Blu-Ray

2013-04-27T15:55:00.004-07:00

The French (Carlotta) Blu-Ray of Gerard Kargl's ANGST (aka 'Schizophrenia') is a revelation, and, for the first time, footage missing from gray market copies is re-instated, further underscoring why the film was such a massive influence on Gasper Noe's I STAND ALONE, his best film (in my opinion).

Now, it can be seen that I.S.A. directly lifted its historical credit montage from ANGST, and imitated the very best. ANGST's re-instated credit sequence features photographs, writings, and family photos of the killer, placing his entire being in historical and cultural context. Noe added more dramatic music, but the homage is, nonetheless, a direct one.

Pre-credit sequence, not shown on gray market copies, depicts the killings that put the killer in the slammer in the first place. The extraordinary Erwin Leder wears Kargl's 'body camera' in this introductory sequence as he knocks on empty doors in a quiet neighborhood looking for lives to end.

A Blu-Ray I thought I'd never own is another reminder that Blu-Ray rules and downloading of inferior elements sucks elephant dicks.

Thank you, Carlotta, Kargl, and Leder for your contributions to the extras, too. Mr. Noe makes an appearance also, respectfully citing the film's influence on him.

Although not English subbed, a rudimentary familiarity with French or Italian makes the French subs more user-friendly. If you've seen the film thirty times (as I have), subs are simply not necessary. Still, an English-subbed version would be a cherry on top of a very rich pie.

This is a day to celebrate, and a film to honor. First seen over fifteen years ago, it gets better and bleaker with age.

Quality of transfer is surprisingly wonderful.

Cinematic orgasms all 'round!

The Loneliest Grave

2013-04-21T10:22:00.001-07:00

Off a nondescript road heading into San Luis Obispo, there lies a graveyard basted in shadows and dappled light. It is the home of the lonely grave of Frank A. Burnham, a man who left this world in 1919.

This cat met me on the edge of the grounds, his displeasure directed not at me, but at a dog wandering the perimeter. The feline happily posed for some pictures after I took this one, and regarded me calmly as I explored his world.

The stone of Frank A. Burnham stands apart from its brethren, a slab straining to maintain its stance for almost a century.

Like in the movie Dellamorte Dellamore, the living buzzed about the headstone, absorbing the soul's

final breath, the breath of a man named Burnham.

The picture below puzzles me now as it appears to depict a distant man, backlit by the dawn sun.

I didn't see a living soul in the cemetery as I roamed it for an hour, so I'm unable to provide an explanation of exactly what or who this figure was. It looks like a man to me, his hair shoulder length, his body facing us, back straight.

Does Frank A. Burnham stand sentinel over his own grave, disappointed to behold a grave so lonely?

Once the sun was up, it was time to leave.

Cemeteries only truly exist in shadows.

The NFOH Problem

2013-04-17T17:48:00.000-07:00

To describe the condition I'm thinking about, I'd rather not use the expression "it's a no-brainer" because I'm surely educated enough to try harder. How about I use "not a fuckin' ounce of hesitation (NFOH)" instead? That describes it.

I'm referring to movies you just keep spending money on. New editions. New cuts. Improved transfers. New extras. Restorations. Hideous bootlegs promising gold and delivering turds. Versions shitted out of some porn star's orifice. Versions revived, re-loved, masturbated over, re-edited, raped by censors, and run through the worst of projectors with nary a cleaned frame in sight.

What are your NFOH's? What are the films that never lose their spark for you? That you shell out hard-earned bucks for over and over and over again until you're staring poverty in the kisser? What films will bury you? End your misguided existence? Break up your marriage? Destroy your future?

The subject came up today when I learned that a French company, Carlotta Film, had just put out a BluRay of Gerard Kargl's extraordinary ANGST aka SCHIZOPHRENIA. Until today, I've been making do with a shitty, fan-subbed DVD-R and a half decent DVD without subs. Those two disks have been servicing my cinematic needs like two old but reliable callgirls for longer than I can remember. Still, the prospect of Erwin Leder on Blu, the Klaus Schulze music on Blu, the lurid, dazzling visuals of ANGST on Blu, was just too much. I couldn't resist. Actually, I never had anything TO resist. I went into robot mode and bought it.

The BluRay is not subtitled in English -- but did I give a fuck? No. Did I hesitate to flick open my wallet, rip out my credit card, and head straight to Amazon.fr for a purchase? Hell, no. It was a done deal the moment I got the mail about it. ANGST is a NFOH of the first order. There wasn't a second's pause to consider the fact that there would be no subtitles on the feature or the extras; there'd be the amazing Leder voice-over, sure, but I wouldn't be understanding it so well because German is not a language I speak. However, I've seen ANGST at least thirty times, so I pretty much remember every poisonous line.

The NFOH condition is a serious one, an addiction, a blot on one's financial sobriety.

What are the other NFOH films that threaten to destroy my sanity, force me to question my sanity?

Not in order, and there aren't too many, but here they are...

What are yours?

What Love Is...

2013-04-16T16:26:00.000-07:00

Just as we bring our deep personal personal experiences and ideals to horror films, we bring the same to films about love. Afterall, is that not what art is about? Perception filtered by experience?

I respond to love stories where lovers abandon the material world for each other.

Not to say it's realistic or reckless.

It's simply what love is for me.

How about you?

Not all these films are exclusively about love, but they explore love's intangible essence in original and powerful ways.

Ask What You Can Bring To the Evil Dead Remake

2013-04-16T14:55:00.000-07:00

Film criticism is not about absolutes. Judging art is expressing an opinion, relating how you responded to something. How your neighbor responds to the same thing is a different kettle of fish, and doesn't make them right or wrong. Our responses are filtered by life experience, where we are at any given moment, and what's troubling us at that time. Because we're all on different simultaneous journeys, it makes sense that opinions are often at loggerheads.

I walked out of the EVIL DEAD remake feeling underwhelmed and surprisingly flat. Yes, the special effects were solid, and the film was clearly made with love and passion, but it was a slog for me. At the forty-five minute mark, I wanted it to finish so I could leave and feel the sun on my face. I didn't engage with it, I didn't bond with the characters, and their issues didn't capture my sympathy or empathy.

For me, the original, which I admire a lot, was more kinetic under Sam Raimi's direction, and the orchestration of character types made for a much more enjoyable time. The special effects were less sophisticated than they are in this remake, but I actually found them more real, more immediate.

The writers in this remake take a few new turns by creating a character struggling with a drug problem, and they half succeed marrying drug rehabilitation with demonic possession for amusement, but it didn't make the film any more interesting to me than if they hadn't done it at all. Still, points for trying.

An 'Ash'/Bruce Campbell-type character is sorely missed here because he was the original's brightest spark, a one-man army who never took the silly premise too seriously. In this revival, there's nobody you could safely call a 'hero', although a 'Final Girl' does turn up (actually, emerge!) when everything's pretty much put to bed. So, does that make her a real 'Final Girl'? And come to think of it, what the hell is a 'Final Girl' even doing in EVIL DEAD?

The producers totally wimp out on recreating the famous Tree Rape scene from the original, content to splash blood and guts all over the place, but becoming coy when a little penetration by flora is underway, so screw them(!) The replaying of spooky incantations from the first film over the end credits simply reminded me how great the original was and how unnecessary this dash-for-cash is.

My opinion only, and I'm sticking to it. You'll stick to yours, I'm sure, and so you should. What's an opinion if you don't honor it with conviction?

And that leads me to this thought, which works for me: When you repaint the Mona Lisa, only the painters profit.

Over the years, my favorite horror films have remained pretty consistent.

Everything we love is flawed, is it not?, which is often why we love it in the first place.

Flaws give us an entry point, an opening that welcomes us with our own flaws.

What we love as much as the film itself is what we personally bring to it.

I couldn't bring much to the EVIL DEAD remake, but I always manage to bring plenty to these beauties:

Mendaga's Morning

2013-04-14T08:57:00.000-07:00

Mendaga's Morning (Sphere; 1979) is not the "super-shock" novel the marketing tells us it is, but it is a suspenseful yarn of possession with an emphasis on the psychology of possession and the possessor.

A little research reveals that Mr. Farren is a former Jesuit who has written extensively about witchcraft and the occult.

Mendaga's Morning, which sports a bloody good cover and is a speedy read at 176 pages, is a story about a little girl possessed, ala The Exorcist and a stack of similarly themed novels, but the source of its villain/demon is one conjured by a specific coven, not God, or the Devil.

With its emphasis more on the psychological impact of a possession, the book eschews the grotesque and hyper-gory for a quieter, more penetrating trip down Witchcraft Lane.

It shares an interesting parallel with Michael McDowell's first book, The Amulet, in that a connecting physical element in the story is an old amulet. The connection is probably coincidental as McDowell's book was published in the US in 1980 and Farren's was published in the UK a year earlier. On his blog, Farren mentions that he wrote the book in a couple of weeks, a case of the characters taking the reins for him, so to speak.

The book is well worth a read, and has not been re-published since its debut.

Daddy's Pride and Joy

2013-04-10T08:05:00.000-07:00

A father seriously lacking intestinal fortitude has a tough time dealing with his daughter's murderous nature.

Although he finds a solution to his 'problem', the solution, like many solutions, creates many more problems.

I'm going into production on this film towards the end of the year. I'm very excited by the prospect.

Righting Wrongs Via Mutilation (Pond Scum)

2013-04-09T09:12:00.000-07:00

The Pond Scum (CineNature; 2013) shoot is coming to end.

This past weekend, force of nature Renae Boult finally addressed a very murky chapter in her character's checkered life.

It was definitely 'Ladies' Day' on the Pond Scum set, and these ladies finally faced a rather shocking truth about their pasts.

More than a year in the making, the film has been blessed with stellar performances from Renae Boult, Paul Fanning, Ward Boult, Vida Gaffari, Jacqui Fanning, and the indefatigable Marc Edward Heuck

The Delicious Hell of Jun Hayami

2013-04-06T12:36:00.000-07:00

Extraordinary imagery from Jun Hayami's BLOODSTAINED ANGELS (2011), available in the US from akatako.net

Perhaps better than any other Japanese artist, Hayami captures intense, cruel, vile, sociopathic sexuality that also has its opposite, an opposite rarely allowed by mainstream media.

The artistry is absolute, consistent, and troubling in the very best way.

Definitely not for all tastes, each work is a voyage into illustrated hell.

Thankfully, the only real hurt is to the trees from which the paper comes.

Roger Ebert, RIP

2013-04-04T17:48:00.004-07:00

Bloody hell, the good guys are going down like tenpins lately: Herbert, Hautala, Franco, and now Ebert?

Even poor old Iain Banks (The Wasp Factory) is dying of cancer. What the fuck kind of filthy demon has crawled into the guts of 2013's maiden quarter?

I'll miss Ebert a helluva lot. I've followed him for thirty years. I have his books, I read his reviews religiously every Friday, and I visit his site Wednesdays in case he's posted something early (which he often did).

I first encountered him in '81 when I touched down in Detroit to begin a new life and 'Sneak Previews' came on the TV. The boys reviewed SCANNERS and gave SAVAGE WEEKEND a Dog of the Week award. After that, I was hooked, and I always hankered for those Dogs. The Dogs were made for my kind. Our kind, if you're reading this.

Having friends who agree with you on everything is not the point of friends. Sharing differences and engaging with those is the point. That's why I considered Ebert a twice removed "friend". Yes, Ebert hated most slashers, though not as much as Siskel (both admired HALLOWEEN, remember!), and he did champion a few films not worth a damn, but he was a bloody decent writer, and he made a convincing case every time.

I'll never forget his FREEWAY (Mathew Bright) review where he pointed out that it's not WHAT the film is about, it's HOW it's about. Sounds a little cryptic at first glance, but makes total sense when you let the words cool. It's the unique angle a filmmaker brings to the work that makes the work great or deserving of steaming turd status. Ebert articulated that in every review.

To the painful end, Ebert soldiered on, sharing the load recently with Roeper and a few others, and reviewing stuff he was passionate about. He was a potent writer, a man who drew you into a literary conversation, not a monologue. I admired his conversational style, his easy-to-digest sentences that sprung from his heart and belly. He hungered for cinema. Like we all do.

He had a kinky side, too, and embraced some good old-fashioned depravity when he teamed up with Russ Meyer and his cinema of the massive mammary.

I don't trust a man who denies his depravities, and Ebert didn't. He was a man of truth. That's why he endured.

I'll really, really miss his intelligence, wit, and passion. He's one of the very few critics who went mainstream but retained his brain. And you never got the sense that he saw you sitting down there while he was up on high tossing you his crumbs.

RIP, Mr. Ebert. You really were one of us.

Pulpy Porn Pulchritude

2013-03-25T15:17:00.000-07:00

Incendiary sexual material like this is frequently ignored by society's hypocritical and ignorant gatekeepers. You know the type of people I'm talking about. They're real big on telling you that THAT is literature and THAT is trash. If it's a Penguin Classic, it's literature -- if it's published by Mills and Boon, Satan's Press, or Eraserhead (Press), it's trash. Never mind the fact that Penguin publishes a lot of so-called "classics" because they're public domain. They don't cost them a cent in advances or royalties. It's a financial decision, and plonking "classic" on the masthead keeps the scam cooking.

At Phantom HQ, no distinction is made between literature and trash, art or pornography. Nope, here it's all about one question and one question only: Does it achieve greatness on its own terms?

The Just For Kicks cover is truly one of my all-time favorites. "Wandering nymphets, stoked with aphrodisiacs, were capable of any unnatural act." Like what? Well, having wild threesomes with men old enough to be their grandfathers. You can bet that this silver fox didn't need to pop a Viagra to "perform.

Not a bad read at all. It's worth keeping in mind that many, many porno novels were written by established names moonlighting for some extra bucks to put their kids through school.

Uncredited but fantastic cover art for Jim Felton's The Rapist (I love the silhouetted foreground), a book purporting to be the true confessions of an imprisoned man with a year to serve. The book, which is written in a spare, conversational style, has no truck with political correctness or conventional redemption. It concludes with these paragraphs:

I've been a model prisoner and that means I should be released in less than a year. Whenever I start musing on what I must do, I look out through the window bars of my upper story cell. I can see the prison road winding off through the fields. It's only fifteen miles from this place to the little farm town where I grew up.

Only fifteen miles to Susie Mills' house.

The publisher writes:

We loved it for its unusual candor and its provocative insights into the workings of a rapist's mind.

Jim Felton doesn't hesitate to editorialize on the "hypocritical games" of women and on quite a few other things, and though his views in no way reflect the publisher's views, we think you'll enjoy hearing a rapist "tell it like it is".

Therefore, we bring you "Confessions of A Rapist".

I love this image of a woman enjoying her alcohol. She's so damn thirsty she can't wait for her gentleman friend to provide a glass. Clearly, some good times are ahead.

Truly a tawdry tale from J.X. Williams, it is enthusiastically written and paints a vivid picture of a deliciously sleazy mindset.

It opens, literally, with a bang, and a great description of its leading lady.

A poster flapping in the gritty wind announced the feature attraction of the Bijou Theatre as a Payne-Hutton production for Colossal. No one on Hamilton Street was interested, though. The picture had been released for distribution six years ago.

Heavy boards were nailed over the Bijou's doors. Tin cashier's booth had long ago been demolished by vandal and the citizens of Hamilton Street had grown accustomed to seeing that last poster worn away bit by bit in summer rain and winter snow. The paper relic of the Bijou's decay was now reduced to a few letters of type, the right eye brow of Chester Morris and Richard Arlen's determined jaw.

Inside the Bijou this damp September evening, however, there was another kind of feature attraction, completely hidden from the weary citizens of Hamilton Street.

In the dark ruin of broken seats and ripped-up carpet, a seventeen-year-old girl named Rita Danilov was getting ready to take on eight boys one at a time.

Getting ready?

Hell, she was ready.

Her head buzzed with the beer she'd consumed after the boys picked her up outside Olivetti's Variety Store. She kicked off her sneaks. She could hardly wait to get free of the binding constriction of her ultra-tight, dark blue toreadors.

More erotic magic from Greenleaf. I like the darker hues and utter lack of sophistication of this image. That's what makes it hot. Just plain white panties and a provocative pose.

I'm not sure why the fella is reading books on the floor, but one could argue that he's in the right place at the right time.

Porn novel logic can't be denied.

Satan's Press serves up its 107th entry, blessing it with an S/M-inspired cover that deMullotto would have enjoyed. Heavy on the S/M, the Satan's Press books are not true hardcore, and came before words like "cunt", "fuck", and "cum" were commonly used in print pornography.

The $.75 price denotes the era.

Sexual Freaks, by Stan Remming, features case histories of women encountering bizarre sexual behavior, behavior that would not have been out of place on a 70's Color Climax/Rodox film and still shoot.

Mr. Remming offers a telling introduction to the content:

As a newspaper reporter I have run across many strange stories of bizarre sex practices. Some of them involve warped, twisted psyches that have reached the point where no normal sexual practices are impossible.

At this point, their strange sexual compulsions drive them to all sorts of off-beat sexual contacts in the hope of achieving satisfaction.

While the daily police files are crowded with stories of rape of one sort or another, there are sometimes cases of such terrible magnitude that the details make the calloused reporter flinch.

To better understand how the mind works in these twisted sexual circumstances, I have drawn upon a few such incidents to outline in detail exactly what happened.

While it is hard to understand how certain individuals derive satisfaction sexually from warped sexual practices, it, nevertheless, is necessary to completely understand how their minds function in order to be of help in preventing recurrences in the future.

Therefore, we will focus our attention on the minutest details of these strange and twisted sexual psyches, and by looking at these acts dispassionately it is hoped understanding will follow.

These strange people can serve as vivid reminders that these aberrations exist all around us, and they can well serve as a warning to keep our guard up at all times.

How often one reads of two young teenage girls who are hitch-hiking and wind up picked up by two lusty young men. If they are lucky, they get to their destination unharmed. But, if they are like some unfortunate young girls who've tried hitch-hiking they are either molested, raped or killed. The sexual instinct is second in power only to survival in the human psyche. This must be remembered when anyone thinks sex is just a plaything.

The following case histories expose the depths the sexual drive gone awry can take a person.

A Greenleaf edition trading on 70's fears that grew out of the Vietnam War.

Cover illustration is not particularly striking.

Although I despise porno novels with actual photos on the cover (it was a sign of a turn for the worst in the business) , I like the description here:

The girls were beautiful and youthful... but not so innocent... and they were willing victims of the dirtiest racket in town!

It's a mighty claim that your racket is the dirtiest racket in town. There are so many others to compete with.

Another classic (?) from Russ Trainer and Satan's Press. Much of the novel takes place inside a prison, and what makes the male/female coupling possible is the hostage drama set-up.

In one exciting scene, a nasty husband gets his just desserts from a pissed-off wife:

Lisa raised her foot and struck him again. Then again and again, so fast that her smashing foot resembled the relentless striking of a trip-hammer. And as she tortured his body, she raised her head high, looked to the ceiling, and parted her lips. Her eyes glazed and she looked as if she were experiencing a sexual thrill, undoubtedly the first of its kind she had ever entertained. And she jammed and pumped her foot to him. Blood oozed and smeared at his groin. He looked bloody and broken, made forever limp and useless, injured beyond repair. He looked cutoff and left not at all like a man.

Finally, Burt Matthews yelped a final time before going unconscious. But Lisa continued her attack for it had become to mean something else to her. She pumped her foot hard and as she did so, she raised one hand to her breasts. She tore the bra from her body. She grabbed one breast and kneaded it madly as she continued to thump her sharp shoe into her husband's groin. And her eyes elongated, grew sensual and wild. Moisture dribbled at the corners of her mouth. And she kneaded and kneaded as she jammed her husband's manhood into total lifelessness.

Phyllis Marlowe's Lustful Karate Teacher was an attempt to mix Bruce Lee with porn. Enter the Dragon was big at the time, so it made sense to blend kung fu with fuck fu, didn't it? No, it didn't, it was a dumb idea, and Lustful Karate Teacher was a bust.

It's weird how they avoided any karate kicking action on the cover.

A killer who stalks the women of Los Angeles at noon (!)

I'm not sure why it's marketed as surprising that the "victims are always women". Afterall, these novels are aimed at hetero men.

On top of that, why the cover photo that clearly appears to be taking place at night?

The writing here is pretty good, and the Los Angeles trappings (read: lots of freaks and "perverts") make for a spicy read.

The conclusion wraps it all up nicely as the killer goes down:

Cautiously, sweating in his bulletproof vest, he entered the bathroom. It was empty. Slowly he opened the door of the shower stall. Sy Brendt lay slumped on the tile floor, his gun beside him. He had shot himself in the chest, but he was still alive. The toupee had fallen to the floor and his naked scalp trickled drops escaping from the showerhead. "I thought it might be you," Bishop said softly.

The actor stared at him. A glaze had come over his eyes. "Please make sure they feed my pets," he said. "Only rats. That's all Hamlet and Lollobrigida eat. They're the only things alive that ever gave a damn about me."

A moment later he was dead.

Bishop turned as he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Trask. He stood up.

"The girl's okay, Mike. She was all right as soon as they took her out into the fresh air."

Lieutenant Bishop shook his head, took off his hat and wiped his brow with his hander-chief. He moved closer to the window. "What a town! Los Angeles. Even the murders out here come out like B-movies. All these phony complications. Disguises, plastic bags, all that crap. Where else could it happen but Hollywood? Next week, Fu Manchu."

He examined the body for a moment and then went in to see how Penny was. When he came back, Trask was putting down the phone.

"Come on over to the house tonight, Al. Helen always celebrates the end of a case with a twenty-dollar meal: chicken paprika, Hungarian chocolate cheese cake, and champagne."

Trask flushed deeply. "I'd like to, Mike, but I just offered to take Sally Rosson to dinner. She's still a little shaken."

Bishop eyed him carefully. "Bring her over, Al. If she's going to be a cop's wife, she might as well learn how to cook."

A final entry from Satan's Press and the reliable Russ Trainer.

A man finds himself in a camp run by women who enjoy fighting more than fornicating.

Cover art clearly inspired by Eric Stanton.

Kim Ki-Duk's Brilliant PIETA

2013-03-23T11:27:00.001-07:00

Kim Ki-duk's PIETA deservedly beat out Mallick's TO THE WONDER, De Palma's PASSION, and Anderson's THE MASTER to win Venice's Golden Lion Award in 2012; THE MASTER came second.

It's encouraging to see that politics, hype, and big money don't always hold the winning cards in these festivals.

I recently caught PIETA and was blown away by it. Easily my favorite Kim Ki-duk film since CROCODILE and THE ISLE, it is a brutal, unsentimental, yet touching tale of a debt collector who will do anything to collect... until a strange woman who may or may not be 'family' enters the picture.

With recent efforts like TIME, BREATH, THE BOW, and DREAM, the director's ideas have failed to coalesce into a satisfactory whole. Although imbued with strong concepts and deft execution on low budgets, they have lacked the audacity of earlier works such as THE ISLE, ADDRESS UNKNOWN, BAD GUY, CROCODILE, and BIRDCAGE INN. Thankfully, PIETA gets the balance exactly right, and is entirely satisfying as both a visceral and a deeply emotional experience.

The film is filled with stunning revelations and bursts of cringe-worthy violence as it critiques the excesses of capitalism and the aftermath it leaves us . Set in a typically confined Kim milieu, the drama plays out intimately, and Kim never takes easy roads to dramatic peaks. Blessed with truly amazing lead performances, it's a textbook example of a brilliant concept realized brilliantly, and without the compromise that buckets of money bring.

For the faint-hearted, this is one to steer well clear of. For the adventurous cinephile, PIETA is acidic cinematic ejaculate blown across the face of convention.

...and made for 1/50 of the cost of its closest contenders.

James Herbert Has Died

2013-03-21T18:06:00.001-07:00

James Herbert, a writer mentioned often on this blog, and sometimes referred to as "Britain's Stephen King" has died at 69. He originated what came to be known as 'the nasty', and, with THE RATS, launched an entire genre of horror fiction that spawned titles such as NIGHT OF THE CRABS, BLOWFLY, EAT THEM ALIVE, SLIME, WORMS, THE CATS, DEVIL'S COACH HORSE, SNAKES, and ALLIGATORS.

THE RATS, his first book, was a phenomenon that combined graphic violence and raw sex in the working class settings of London. James, the son of London street traders and an ex-advertising man, was a true success story. In the wake of THE RATS came THE FOG (no relation to the John Carpenter movie) THE SURVIVOR, THE DARK, FLUKE, DOMAIN, LAIR, THE MAGIC COTTAGE, THE SPEAR, HAUNTED, and many others. He even created a RATS installment as a graphic novel and penned two non-fiction works, the best being BY HORROR HAUNTED.

As a young lad, I wrote to Mr. Herbert to express my admiration for his early novels. Over a decade, we exchanged many handwritten letters and met in Melbourne when he was promoting THE JONAH with his publisher. I enjoyed an underaged beer with them.

A serious-minded writer who stressed the importance of research and wrote beautifully, he once told me that writing sex and violence opens up the mind's receptors, and often started his writing day by scribbling something juicy. He also rewrote two or three pages from the previous day's work to get himself back into the previous day's groove.

Mr. Herbert's work was not, generally, translated well to the silver screen. DEADLY EYES, an attempt to turn THE RATS into a movie, was a depressing misfire. THE SURVIVOR, a film made in Australia by director David Hemmings, took a great idea and made a mess of it.

More recently, Mr. Herbert angled towards more supernatural-focused fiction, and an adaptation of his novel HAUNTED fared better in a TV format. He moved away from the true hardcore horror of earlier works with a series of effective 'ghost' novels, but, right up until his final novel ASH, Mr. Herbert's skill to chill was unique and unequaled.

A man who suffered no fools and applied a no-nonsense approach to everything he did, he will be greatly missed by millions who were shaped by his special brand of horror.

You were a true Apostle of Pulp, and you did for British horror what Enid Blyton did for childrens' literature.

RIP, James.