The Hunger Games

  I'll keep this short and snappy because it deserves as few words as possible:

The Hunger Games is a poorly written, sloppily directed piece of shit, a soulless enterprise with as much warmth as two Daleks fucking. The build-up to the game is endless and unnecessary, doing very little to color its world interesting.  That world, if you must know, is a blend of  The Running Man's worst aspects (and fashions) crossed with 'American Idol'. Add a dash of '1984', too, but remember to do it badly. Also: hint at satire, but fail to follow through on the issues that satire raises.

The picture's biggest flaw is the almost total lack of conflict in the first hour. Everything that comes before the game -- in this hour --  could have been compressed into a five minute montage. Instead, it plods through enough expositional sludge to occupy close to half its running time.

I haven't read the books, so I hope they're a major step-up from this underwhelming feast for the young and easily raped of their earthly possessions.

Yes, the idea of a contemporary, media-driven game is culled from Kenji Fukasaku's Battle Royale, which was thematically aided by Peter Watkins' grossly underseen masterpiece Punishment Park. Both films, not surprisingly, are a hundred times smarter, more entertaining, and more economical than this. Other even earlier influences, conscious or unconscious, are Robert Sheckley's novels The Seventh Victim ('53) and its sequel The Tenth Victim ('66), as well Stephen King's Richard Bachman novel The Long Walk ('79), filmed quite poorly as The Running Man.

In contrast to the beautifully directed and photographed scenes of conflict in Fukasaku's masterpiece of raw cinema, director Gary Ross scores an  "F" for  haphazard and chaotic jigsaws of blurred movement. The action is frequently impossible to follow, impatiently edited, and there are a surprising amount of out of focus shots for a big studio film.

Jennifer Lawrence, looking like an updated version of Juliet Lewis, acquits herself well considering the trash she has to work with, and is forced to contend with a character whose fate is determined by scriptwriters, not her inner being. If she suffers from uncertainty about her commitment to a game that may kill her, we're not privy to it. In one ludicrous example of scriptwriting schizophrenia, she explodes at another key character, only to behave as if she didn't explode at him in the following scene.

The distributor of this film has done a masterful job exploiting what is a truly awful, flat-footed movie. Cheers to them for their seamless trickery!

4/10 for me (and that's generous). Oh, and 1/10 for the silly haircuts and fashions.

Why are there so many bad haircuts and ridiculous fashions in pathetic 'Dystopian' films like this? And why do the rich always behave like wanna-be Bret Easton Ellis characters? It's an insult to Mr. Ellis.

I suggest you go and buy Battle Royale or Punishment Park  on BluRay instead , or shell out some bucks on the just-released The Raid, a sincere celebration of cinematic animalism. Just try to avoid contributing to this stinker's swelling coffers like I did. Hopefully, I'll be forgiven one day.

 

If you're only ten year's old, you'll be all over this poorly executed garbage and its groundbreaking "satire"

 

The excellent Series 7: The Contenders ('01) was sharp satire on reality TV; The Hunger Games, with its kiddie-friendly rating, is about as effectively satirical as 'Punky Brewster'.

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Afterword: On its second weekend of release, the film dropped 72%, a clear indicator that word of mouth amongst initial viewers has not been good enough to keep enthusiasm high.

Where Michael McDowell Lies...

I had a dream last night about Michael McDowell, the author of Cold Moon Over Babylon, a book long out of print and virtually forgotten.

Right now, Mr. McDowell lies in the cold, cold ground. He's been there for more than a decade.

Thirty years ago, he was on a roll. The Amulet. Cold Moon... Katie. Gilded Needles. The Elementals. Toplin. Many more, too. Some horror. Some historical. He wrote screenplays before his death (from AIDS), including Beetlejuice, and contributed to Tales From the Darkside.
 
His publisher, Avon, serialized his Blackwater books. There was one a month for six months. It was a brave idea that didn't succeed, unfortunately.

A few years later, Stephen King's publisher serialized The Green Mile. This time it worked.

King himself said of the writer: "He's the finest writer of paperback originals in America."

My dream was a simple one. I could see McDowell in his grave. He hadn't rotted. He was dressed in handsome Southern garb. He was bearded. He stared without blinking at the coffin lid. I was trying to dig down to him with a long, square shovel, but the ground was too dry to assist me. I don't know what I would have done had I reached him, but I was awfully depressed by the fact that he was dead and his books were dead, too. I guess I'm determined to play some part in  resurrecting his reputation and his books.

I despise seeing true talent go to waste, just as I despise seeing the untalented accorded the adoration of easily persuaded morons.

McDowell was the finest of writers. Cold Moon Over Babylon, the first book I read of his, made me uneasy and anxious. It also excited me. That was one of McDowell's talents. He could scare and excite you at the same time. There was a deep sensuality to his language that had nothing to do with sex, but had everything to do with mood, time, and place.


Consider this from the 87th page of Cold Moon...

The slow spin, gentle sway, and smooth inexorable rise continued until the delicate bare feet skimmed the water. Gradually, then, the revolutions subsided and the figure hovered lightly on the surface of the river. It turned deliberately toward the Larkin farmhouse on the northern bank of the Styx. The eyes opened, but behind the gray lids was a flat infinite blackness, blacker far than the muddy Styx in the shadow of the rotting bridge. Those terrible eyes were without surface; the lids opened directly onto noisome void and nonentity, and the black holes were fixed on the darkened window of Evelyn Larkin's bedroom.

While you read these words,  Michael McDowell lies beneath us. Still. Prostate. Calcium-depleted. Above him, in a stratosphere of  mud and slush, beyond a loamy island of crawling things, his legacy has begun to fade.

That makes me sad.

A Giant Thank You To Everybody

This morning, the 109th Follower of this blog appeared. Less than twelve months ago, the blog didn't exist.

I started Phantom of Pulp because I've always had a strong desire to share my passions. I did it when I was a six year old, and I'm doing it forty years later. I'm the guy who's always driving to someone's house -- with my multi-system DVD player -- to show them an obscure movie or expose them to a bizarre book. With the internet and blogging, I figured it was time to share what electrifies me with many like-minded individuals (relatively like-minded, anyway).

I've always been attracted to the stuff you'll find on this blog. It feeds my hunger for brain food. It excites me. It fulfills me. It strokes my insatiable curiosity for everything. It makes life worth living and encourages exploration.

I didn't intend to create a horror blog or a movie blog or a book blog, and I know this doesn't fall into any of those categories. That's why I called it Phantom of Pulp. Pulp, top me, is the product of fertile, unfettered minds.

I post stuff that gets lots of feedback and no feedback at all. Reviews of current releases get quick responses. Reviews of older flicks attract comments, too.

Porno-themed posts run hot and cold, if comments are anything to go by. Porno paperbacks seem to hit the spot for a select few, while my pieces on extreme pornography assume orphan status; either nobody wants them, or nobody wants to be seen to want them. Who knows?

I'll keep posting because extreme pornography, to me, says so much about human nature and our extraordinary diversity as a species. Posts on illustrators such as Toshio Saeki (a favorite) are generally well received by a consistent few, as are posts on current and not-so-current horror books.

The 109 of you who officially "follow" this blog are, no doubt, as different from each other in some ways as we are similar in other ways. Those differences keep the feedback hopping.

Personally, I'm a creature of extreme contrasts. On a weekend, I can eat breakfast while reading Toshio Saeki, then spend the rest of the morning watching Fly Away Home before screening In A Glass Cage for a friend in the afternoon. Before I fall asleep, I will probably crack open an Enid Blyton picture book that has just arrived from England.

I am fascinated by everything. EVERYTHING! My intellectual curiosity is unlimited. Hopefully, this blog reflects that.

The words weird, disgusting, and shocking rarely enter my internal lexicon. I find some material confronting, but, almost immediately, it becomes fascinating to me and worthy of further investigation. New obsessions are as regular as sunrises for me. The richness of our world is something to celebrate. Those who push again the tide of mediocrity need to be honored, embraced, and encouraged. I honor them here.

I want to thank and honor my 109 official Followers and those who Follow this blog discreetly for allowing me to share my passions with you and for contributing to the enrichment of my psyche.

If you folks were running the planet, I wouldn't need this blog.

As filmmaking duty calls (THE CLOTH DAGGER, my new film, is in production), I wish you all a Merry Xmas and Happy New Year!

See you in 2010.

The Subversive World of Ruby Jean Jensen

Kinko, Kinko, The Kid-Loving Clown
If the kids just love me back I'll never never a frown

-- Sung by Dr. Demento
Music and Lyrics: William Frenzer; 1979

Ruby Jean Jensen's first novel, The House That Samael Built, was published in 1974. Her last, Night Thunder, was published in 1995. She established a unique genre niche with her 30 or so novels.

I confess to not being being there when Ms. Jensen's career began. She was initially published by Warner Books (as was Richard Laymon), moved to Major Books, Manor Books (the home of Pierce Nace's Eat Them Alive), Leisure Books, Tor, then finally Zebra Books, where she resided longest.

If you like the "Living Doll" episode of The Twilight Zone (and who doesn't?), you may like Ms. Jensen's work. Her style is a cross between Rod Serling, Virginia Andrews, and John Saul. Her stories are populated with evil dolls, creepy and psychologically violated children, twisted figures of authority, and ancient curses.

Below all that, a deeply subversive current runs, and that is the key to her unique oeuvre.

The back cover blurbs for her stories read like they were being directed at young adult readers. In fact, she may have been one of the very first genre writers to write Young Adult Fiction (as we know it today) without stating it so boldly.

I always found myself hypnotized by descriptions of the content like this:

"The closer they got to the cabin, the less friendly Mr. Walker's smile became."

I love that.

It shares a tone with Dr. Demento's classic Kinko The Clown, a twisted ode to John Wayne Gacy.

Her mouth even had a tiny round hole so she could eat and breathe.

Something about that is discomforting.

Then:

If she could have seen her little doll's legs kick, she would have been frightened.

Very evocative.

The troubling tone of Ms. Jensen's work has always held great appeal to me, as have the strange, fairy tale-like covers of the publisher.

For mine, Ms. Jensen's work personified Zebra's "house style". Although other authors such as William Johnstone and Stephen Gresham were synonymous with Zebra, none were as distinct.

She is rarely mentioned by industry stalwarts, she doesn't get Stephen King cover raves, and she is sometimes dismissed by "serious" commentators on the genre.

Personally, I find her to be highly underrated and a well kept, "dirty secret" (in a good way).

Unfortunately, the cover artists of these books were never credited, so I'm unable to sling praise at them.

No other horror publisher imitated them. Most were probably off somewhere feeling superior.

The blood-stained pillow in this illustration is a ravishing touch, and an enticing invitation for the unsuspecting reader.

Thankfully, I'm not the only one who has a soft, moist spot for Ms. Jensen (pictured below with a canine accomplice).

A fellow named Aaron K. Thompson has put a small site together to honor her fine work. It's at:

http://www.geocities.com/rubyfan/

A native of southwest Missouri, she began her career writing Gothic romance novels with a supernatural bent.

Another Apostle of Pulp is in our midst.

If you have a free moment, please add this lovely lady to the National Treasure list.

We have to sit on Kinkos lap there's never any chairs
Kinko likes to tickle us and give us funny stares.

--Dr. Demento

Cemetery Dancing

Cemetery Dance has hit its 61st issue. I'm comforted by that.

Anything that survives that long is an indicator of good health. Health of the genre? Sure. Health of a loyal readership? Certainly.

If you have a passing interest in horror, you're probably not into Cemetery Dance. The mag's not always easy to find, and it doesn't tend to jump on bandwagons that are currently popular. It's for serious horror fans. And writers. And editors.

The latest issue makes a justified fuss about Peter Straub, the author of Ghost Story (made into a rotten film), Shadowland (an rich, extraordinary fantasy), Koko, The Throat, and The Hellfire Club (for starters). He's subversive with a firm handshake, a trusted member of an exclusive club. I haven't warmed to all his books, but I consider Ghost Story a masterpiece. I felt cold and anxious reading it for the first time. Few books do that to me.

Shadowland, on the other hand, is not terribly horrific, but it is terribly good and transporting in a way few novels are (TM Wright's Strange Seed and Jonathan Carroll's The Land of Laughs are some of those few). I'm not afraid to stick my neck out and say that Shadowland is Straub's Something Wicked This Way Comes. The breath of Bradbury is on its neck.

Mark Sieber, who runs horrordrive-in.com, contributes a great piece on the state of horror in this issue. He explores whether writers are benefiting from the genre's current profile as much as fans. It's a provocative question. Horror is everywhere right now. Not just in films and books, either. It's on-line, in comics, in blogs. To an outsider, it might look like everybody in the biz is working hard, partying hard, and keeping the cash machines ringing, but that's not really the case. Global fragmentation of entertainment has broadened influence and diminished the revenue being channeled back to the creators.

The regular Stephen King section (by Bev Vincent) begins with a short piece on Under The Dome, a 1120-page novel that stands to make It look like a chapbook. Of interest is King's comment (paraphrased from USA Today) on new modes of story delivery such as the Kindle: "The delivery mechanism to my mind is secondary for me as a writer".

As a reader, it is secondary to story for me, too, but only just. I'm very attached to pulp. The prospect of reading future Wright, Ketchum, Carroll, King, Little, Keene, Smith and Herbert novels on an electronic tablet is very disheartening.

Will the Kindle (and its electronic brethren) ever replace the paperback? I don't know. Do I want it to? Definitely not. Hopefully, the delivery mechanisms will co-exist.

Movies can be watched in a theatre, at home, on an ipod, on a computer, and on a small screen in a phallus-shaped sex aid currently being developed by a German electronics company (just kidding about that one).

I don't foresee the built-in convenience of a paperback entertainment centre being usurped by a thing requiring batteries.

Leisure editor Dan D'Auria makes his debut as a regular columnist in CD's 61st issue. He turns in a great piece on how books are selected for publication. It is a sobering, slightly brutal reality check. We need more brutality like that.

The issue's striking cover art is by Alan M. Clark

If you are just getting started with horror fiction, what would be better than ordering dozens of back issues of Cemetery Dance.

From the age of six, I have been a sucker for back issue listings. When I used to crack open the latest issue of Famous Monsters, the Captain Company's back issue spread would call my name. As I leafed through the mag towards the spread, my anxiety level would increase, and I'd start dreaming up ways to finance future purchases with combinations of hard work, lottery wins, and future birthday trade-offs.

Cemetery Dance, which also publishes original and re-printed horror fiction, is one of the go-to destinations for those caught forever in the genre's web-like hold.

TM Wright's Precious Children

Today I received a very kind message from Roxane A. White-Wright, the wife of TM Wright, one of the greatest living horror authors. I was informed that TM reads this blog occasionally. To be honest, I was shocked.

TM is having a couple of health issues, so I wish him well, and I hope he finds an acceptable way to maintain quality of life.

It seems like Roxane A-W-W is just the medicine he needs.

Take care, TM.

Although he is highly respected by established writers, genre journalists, and those lucky enough to have grown up with his distinguished prose (such as yours truly), his name is not one used casually in households. It should be, of course, for he is an original voice like no other, but the facts are the facts.

In his '81 Danse Macabre, Stephen King compiled a list of the 100 most important genre books. He then added an asterisk to 35 of those, noting that they were "particularly important".

Mr. Wright's Strange Seed, published just three years before King's list, got the asterisk (King's version of the Gold Star).

Perfect example of evocative back cover copy

I'd come across the book by accident. I read the back cover (above) and it was all over Red Rover for me. My life went into a holding pattern as I adventured between the covers of this amazing, original, life-changing piece of genre fiction.

It was "Are they really children?" that got me.

What a fascinating concept!

When you read the book, and its literary offspring, you will marvel at just how fascinating it really is.

Nice of Ian McShane to lend his mug
to the cover of Goodlow's Ghosts

Wright's work is difficult to sell in a sound byte because it's a slowly rolling snowball of gathering dread. It doesn't strike you like a lead pipe to the cranium. It works its way into your pores like chilled steam.

Wright's literary style, which often performs magic tricks with repetition (read The Playground for great examples of that), has an organic, ethereal timbre. Sometimes I think of Ambrose Bierce when buried in these books, or I think about the fact that Peter Straub is a champion of the writer. That makes sense to me. Straub's Julia, Ghost Story, and Shadowland do seem to exist in the same country as Wright's children do. Bradbury's October Country perhaps?

I think of Bradbury, too, and Poe -- not because the writing is alike; no, because the way the books make me feel is similar.

I feel uneasy reading Wright, but it's an unease that surrounds you with its inviting embrace.

If you're an admirer of Ken Greenhall/Jessica Hamilton, which I am, you will understand the inviting aspect of horror of this nature.

A slightly different shade of horror, but sharing Wright's focus, is Joan Samson's The Auctioneer, one of the most anxiety-producing novels I have ever read.

In Agustin Villaronga's supreme In A Glass Cage, the line "horror can become fascinating" deftly sums up the emotional machinations of being somewhat willingly pulled into the cloying, caressing dark.

As I mentioned in a previous blog on Wright, a movie of his book A Manhattan Ghost Story was announced at one time. I feel strange saying this, but I think it's better TV material than movie theater material. Cable TV preferably.

TV permits the slow burn. The feature film is an impatient creature. It condenses and compresses. It's too anxious to please.


A writer/producer like Alan Ball (Six Feet Under) would do good things with Wright's world.

Even with his features (American Beauty and Towelhead in particular), he has always favored character and tone. That's why he'd be a comfortable fit for Wright.

Alas, the movies are a different beast. Fuck the movies for now!

This cover takes me right back to the Nasty NEL's of the 70's and 80's

If you thought this werewolf was from a New English Library (NEL) Guy N. Smith novel, you wouldn't be a fool.

Writing as F.W. Armstrong, TM took a shot at the silver bullet brigade with this unusual corporate slant on the lycanthrope myth, and Tor marketed it like a pulp throwback.

The book's dedication -- "In Memory of Eric who could have licked a thousand time his weight in werewolves" -- has always fascinated me.

It wasn't at all surprising to see King grouping Michael McDowell and Ramsey Campbell with Mr. Wright.

I love Campbell, but I always found McDowell to be equally as original as Wright -- with a different focus, of course. His Cold Moon Over Babylon raised the same hairs for me as TM.

All the writer's books are distinguished by extraordinary covers -- well, at least 90% of them are. For the most part, they capture the tone of the work, and evoke an emotion or two.

I don't know who the artist is behind the Strange Seed/Children of the Island/Nursery Tale covers, but I'm sure you'd agree that they are incredible.

Back when I lived at home with my parents, I took a macro photograph of the lower half of this cover and blew it up to movie poster size.

I hung it on the wall above my bed. It was the last thing I saw before my troubled head hit the pillow for close to three years.

I still find it spellbinding.

Ramsey puts in a kind word here, and makes a good point.

More than a "one-man definition of (horror)", Wright's brand of horror is unique to the author. If he's riding a bandwagon, he's also driving it.

Yet another author takes a stab at the title The Island. Benchley did it, Guy N. Smith did it, and it's been done countless times at the movies.

It is one of the simplest, most evocative titles. Wright's approach to it is unexpectedly sublime.

Nursery Tale ('82), the sequel to Strange Seed, was a Playboy Paperback (!).

I'd like to imagine that TM sat down in the grotto at the Playboy Mansion with Hef and gave him a potted history of the horror genre after signing the book contract. I'm sure he'd like to imagine that, too.

Bill Thompson and Stephen King are acknowledged inside -- Bill, "...who helped bring Strange Seed into the world", and Steve..."...one of the few who understood it."

It is "In Memory of John Lennon".

An excellent book, but one of the few stock covers that felt out of sync with Wright's oeuvre.

Published by Tor in '89.

If you have not read TM Wright, I envy you the frisson of discovery.

I look forward to many more of Wright's precious literary children.

Upcoming is Blue Canoe from PS Publishing.