Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Life's A Happy Accident


Life has plunged me into a strange abyss of late. I'm getting a new film ('Circus of Dread') prepped with some amazing people (Bill Oberst Jnr, Domiziano Acrangeli), finishing post- on a making-of ('John Doe'), nudging two other features to the post-production finish line ('Fertisle' and 'Pond Scum'), and rewriting two long works of fiction. Busy, yes, but wandering in a bizarre landscape of creative confluences, the ever-expanding commitment to originality, sundry life needs, optimism, negativity, inspiration, and pants-on-seat labor.


The great Bill Oberst Jr, who has deservedly been called 'The New Lon Chaney", 
has joined the cast of my new movie Circus of Dread.


The incredibly versatile and brilliant Italian veteran of  over 137 movies and TV shows, Domiziano Arcangeli, also joins the cast of Circus of Dread.

As always, good health is a primary concern. I pop more vitamins and minerals than my late granddad popped antibiotics, but considering the fact that I haven't been sick or seen a doctor for several years now, my morning cocktails must be doing something right. I take a multi-vitamin from youngagain.org and a mineral supplement; I take a combo of Glutamine,  Fructooligosaccharides, and Acidophilus for intestinal health; the CoQ10 (real Japanese Ubiquinone) is for heart health, and the Beta Glucan strengthens immunity; Vitamin D3, though called a vitamin, is, in fact, a vital natural hormone. Blood sugar levels are kept in check by the avoidance of sugar and heavy carbs and assisted by Taurine, an essential amino acid, and Green Tea Extract. Cholesterol levels are normalized by my magical Citrus Pectin tablets, and a product called GermanZyme (enteric coated for proper digestion) smoothes digestion. Not bad for a bloke who doesn't "do drugs".




Mental health is an ongoing adventure for us all, it seems, and we gravitate to the arts so we can better digest the slings and arrows of life itself. I've stuck with Mad Men from the beginning and are often rewarded with brilliant writing, creeping revelations, and top notch performances. This week's episode delivered a hard punch to the gut with the death of a key character. His measured fall from grace made for great TV and even greater food for thought.


AMC, the network behind Mad Men, unleashed The Pitch this year, a reality series portraying the culture of  ad agencies who compete for common business. As I've worked on and off in advertising, having directed close to two hundred commercials (mostly at the budget end), I find the series both fascinating and depressing; since working amongst ad men was both for me, the series accurately depicts the business as the ego-driven, idea-hungry, dog-eat-dog beast it is. What makes the ad world difficult to navigate for creative types is its many layers, layers you're not always privy to. As a director of a commercial, your job is to please both the client and the agency while putting something of your own personal stamp on the brief. The "personal" part is usually defrocked of its pointy bits, and you're usually happy to deliver something that is at least energetic and original (but not too original).  The Pitch does a knock-up job of conveying the complexities of the process, while not ignoring the fact that ad work is mostly hard slog for dubious reward. Recent episodes have focused more heavily on the personal lives of those involved, and the sacrifices necessary to make a dent and build a reputation. Recommended.



Not recommended is Pete Berg's ghastly Battleship, surely the worst film I'll see this year. I can't imagine anything worse. The generic trailers dropped my expectations to toilet level, so I drove in (more on that in a moment) anticipating little more than light on a silver screen. Well, the light sucked the proverbial elephant dick. Moronic and cliched in the extreme, this pro-military exercise in big bangs and dialog Ed Wood would have barfed at suffered a well-deserved death at the box office. Next time, Pete, try shadowing Michael Bay so you can see how a crap expert does crap well (sometimes).





I caught Battleshit at the Santee Drive-in in good old El Cajon, California. One of the state's last ozoners, it caught my eye as I sped past it at three o'clock in the afternoon. I zipped back along the I-8 freeway to check it out close-up. A flea market was coming to an end on its hallowed grounds, admission was free, and I was at liberty to snap a few pictures. Although I'd already seen and slightly enjoyed The Avengers, I thought I'd give Battleshit a shot. See, it didn't really matter what the movie was, I was going in, anyway. How often did I get to attend a drive-in movie these days? The last American drive-in I'd attended was the Bel Air drive-in in Detroit, Michigan, and that was almost thirty years ago. Then there were the needs of my female companion. Hell, she was itching for her first time; her first time at a drive-in, that is (!)








Shame it had to be Battleshit. Still, the experience was a good one, and it lifted my spirits to see a long driveway filled with cars almost an hour prior to the opening of the gates. Yes, sir, the drive-in has not lost its luster in El Cajon, California, and I wish it well, even if it has abandoned the exploitation fare that made it great in the first place. Perhaps that's unfair (slightly). Much of that exploitation fare is still being made, but it's being made by the studios. It now lacks the edge, of course, and you don't see jiggling breasts much these days. I did see a pair in a car parked close by, though. Put a smile on my face knowing some drive-in tropes don't die so hard.



No matter what anybody says, Mel Gibson's career is not dead. His Get The Gringo is a damn good time on the telly (Direct TV Exclusive), and it serves up plenty of action, some salty non-PC dialog, and a colorful menu of stunts and grunts. Mel didn't direct this one, but his stamp of cinematic brutality is all over this film's rugged hide. I'm a big Mel fan, and certainly didn't turn my back on him when that gold-digging wife of his posted a bunch of private phone calls. On the contrary, Mad Max's anger at someone he'd poured love and finance into was totally understandable. No doubt the man has some anger issues, but his heart's a sound one. I know a fella fairly close to Mel's world, and the skinny is he's a good bloke who doesn't suffer fools (fools like Joe E, for example) and is, in the Mitchum and McQueen tradition, the last Hard Man of Hollywood. Anyway, do Get The Gringo when it hits BluRay, or plays at a non-US cinema near you. You won't have any regrets.


On the BluRay front, there's been movement aplenty on my TV. I so enjoyed the BFI's BluRay restoration of Andy Milligan's wonderful Nightbirds and The Body Beneath. Turns out Nicolas Winding Refn was holding the best print of the movie, so he petitioned the BFI to restore it and release it, and gathered a murder of cinema crows such as Tim Lucas, Jimmy McDonough, and Stephen Thrower to write liner notes and deep biographical material. The result is one of the best cult releases of the year. Although I'd seen The Body Beneath before, although not looking this good, Nightbirds was a first for me. It portrays a relationship between two drifters, a man and a woman. The man's a fairly easygoing type, if a little moody, but the woman becomes increasingly aggressive and plain witchy. I couldn't help comparing Nightbirds to some of Koji Wakamatsu's work, in particular Go Go Second Time Virgin and Running In Madness, Dying in Love.  As with the early work of directors like John Waters, the appeal of Milligan's work is its raw intensity. You get the feeling that each film is Milligan's psyche vomited onto the screen. The Body Beneath, which explores vampirism, is an experience requiring patience, but its central premise of a vampire prolonging his influence via blood transfusions is a good one.

Again, duty beckons, and I must apologize for the recent dearth of new posts.

Life's a mostly happy accident.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Fuckin' Fantastic Fiction Follow-Up



There's been a healthy amount of interest in the previous post, so I'm following up with some related items.

These Greenhall/Hamilton novels, though not as well known as Baxter, are also must-reads. Both employ the author's patented 1st person point of view, and are written with the familiar sardonic dryness one expects after the previous two novels. 







As noted in correspondence from regular attendee here, Soiled Sinema, a writer of considerable note himself, Gregory A. Douglas's The Nest is cockroach heaven for those inclined towards the genre. The British Devil's Coach Horse, by Richard Lewis, also mined this terrain.



The seriously underrated Stephen Gregory delivered on the promise of The Cormorant with this '88 novel from St. Martin's Press. The Ramsey Campbell blurb is justified, as are the other reviews that hint at the book's themes of "obsession" and "breakdown". Gregory does obsession extremely well, and it's pitiful that his debut didn't earn the attention of something like Iain Banks' The Wasp Factory.



 Higgs' follow-up to The Happy Man was another grim outing with a solid thread of nihilism.

Recently, I reviewed Nathan Tyree's Mr. Overby Is Falling on this blog, and commented on the book's chilling nihilism. Higgs achieves an equal measure of nihilism here, and delivers a superb climax. 

It's a shame he abandoned the horror genre. I'd love to know why.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Fuckin' Fantastic Fiction



Elizabeth, one of the greatest horror novels ever written, is on nobody's '100 Best Horror Books' list, but I don't care.  I recommend it -- and all the books below -- with no reservations.



Don't expect lists of 'Guilty Pleasures' from me because 'Guilty Pleasures' are for withering dickweeds who spent their youth listening to priests spouting bullshit while copping illegal reach-arounds. 



The authors of all these books are not household names, but they're welcome in my house any time.

These authors can write. By Christ, they can write! 



These masterpieces explore evil and chaos and anarchy, and smell of truth. 



All these books influenced me greatly, and reminded me that the greatest storytelling comes from unique voices, voices that aren't afraid to speak, aren't afraid to tell.
 


I love these books. I treasure them. I'm grateful for their existence.



 They're the work of brave people, of shameless adventurers of the soul.



They push established boundaries, they shun convention. 


Embrace them as I have.

You won't be sorry.

Friday, May 11, 2012

Are Giant Prey Mantises Part of Your World?


I'm not sure how comfortably Pierce Nace's Eat Them Alive fits into your world, but I can assure you it fits very well into mine.


I've written about this brilliant, audacious, and truly magnificent book twice before, and you can bet I'll be writing about it again. Being the stunning work of art that it is, it lies where it wants in my world, isn't required to work, and never incurs my wrath.


How could it? With a mug like this?


When Nace decided to out-Herbert James Herbert's The Rats (and associated vermin), and out-Smith Guy N. Smith's Night of the Crabs (and associated crustaceans), he/she (nobody knows Nace's true identity) didn't mess around. The book is a celebratory gore-fest of unrepentant violence and spirited insect rape, a poem to literary extremity. It is the sorry tale of a Man/Hero/Villain named Dyke whose penis is liberated by a nasty gang. Unable to forgive and forget the dismissal of his manhood, Dyke gathers an army of giant prey mantises to exact revenge on all who've done him wrong -- which is pretty much everybody, as you could imagine. If you're wondering where Dyke found mantises willing to assist him with his revenge campaign, I should mention that he happened to be close to an erupting volcano at the time, and, lucky for him, the eruption vomited up some sleepy giants of the mantis variety. Turns out dear old Dyke wasn't born under an unlucky star afterall. 


I Google "Eat Them Alive by Pierce Nace" quite often, hoping to scavenge another tidbit of its mysterious parentage. This morning over breakfast, I came across a youtube clip in which a young horror fan discusses his eight favorite horror books. One of them, it turns out, is Eat Them Alive. God bless this son of Britain! He also lavishes schoolboy praise on Barker's Weaveworld, King's It and Misery, and HG Wells's Island of Dr. Moreau

Check the fine lad out here: h**p://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SIk7n3EcSTw   (replace *'s, of course)

Eat Them Alive is set on an island called Malpelo, and what happens on Malpelo is something I'm sure old HG would have been quite excited about. Islands are rarely boring. I know that. HG knew it.


There is some speculation that Nace is a woman: Evelyn Pierce Nace, an American crime author. Being extremely familiar with the Nace novel (I've read it at least five times), I'd be surprised if it were written by a woman. The passages of salacious dismemberment feel like the emptying of a male brain. Then again, castration does play a significant role in matters. Few males fantasize about that.


If you haven't read it, why the hell not? You're denying yourself one of the world's greatest literary experiences. You're starving your brain of something extraordinary, the likes of which it has never reckoned with before.

Make Eat Them Alive part of your furniture, part of your world.


Live a little.