Silly Cycles

When I was ten year's young, the trading card you see above was my Holy Grail.

My brother and I were obsessed with collecting illustrated trading cards. The only condition was they had to feature monsters or freaks.

'Silly Cycles', as they were known in Australia, was a set of 58 cards marrying cool modes of transportation and recreation (motorcycycles and hot rods) with equally cool monsters.

In the US, these were first released as 'Odd Rods' by the Donruss Company, and existed to sell sticks of bubble gum. The Donruss Company executives were convinced that there were many artists behind 'Odd Rods'/'Silly Cycles'. In fact, there was only one artist initially, and his name was B.K. Taylor. He'd sent his illustrations to Donruss and the first of a very successful bubble gum series was born.

The original series of cards was so successful, Donruss commissioned several more sets from Taylor's company, The Outer Limits Corporation (named after the legendary sci-fi TV series).

At the time, my brother and I were not privy to the backstory of 'Silly Cycles'; we just loved the cards. We'd get on our bikes and ride from Milk Bar to Milk Bar for miles, convinced that each Milk Bar sold different sets of 'Silly Cycles'. The truth was, each box contained several sets, but unless you purchased the entire box, you were not assured of complete numbers.

In Australia, the 'Milk Bar' is a disappearing institution. Most have now been replaced by the 7-11 convenience store culture, although a few still survive. They were always independently run, and were situated in both quiet suburban streets and busy street corners. They sold newspapers, lollies (candy), milk, some groceries, and bread. The local postie (mailman) would use them to store his mail during large deliveries, too.

Anyway, back to our mission. For months, we rode and rode on our quest for the elusive "Werewolf Under a Full Moon" card. Entire weekends were spent miles from home pushing our bikes up hills, speeding away from regional bullies, and bugging Milk Bar proprietors to dig deep for cards we didn't have.

Once we purchased the packets, we'd hurry outside and rip them open. We should have been saving the packets (which are now worth a fortune), but our impatience overrode all business sense. At this time, trading cards were never considered collectibles; you collected them because you liked the pictures. As each packet was ripped apart, four or five cards would be revealed. Dusty sticks of flat, powdery bubble gum would accompany the cards. In a word, the gum sucked. It was tasteless and brittle from being in a non-airless packet for too long. It tasted like shit and lost its sugary magic about two minutes after the first chew. After a while, we'd toss away the gum (with the wrappers).

There is no greater disappointment in the world of card collecting equal to to finding dozens of cards you already have combined with the knowledge that the card you want is still out there. We experienced this tragedy many times, and it made pushing those pedals homeward that much more exhausting. When we did finally make it home, our jackets stuffed with "swaps" (cards we'd trade for those we didn't have), the only medicine that cured our ills was hot food, dessert,and the latest episode of Dr. Who.

At a Milk Bar close to home, the Werewolf finally showed his face. We didn't know that we were ripping open the final packet to complete our set because each new packet represented a crapshoot. This was way before the internet, too, so we didn't even know what 'Silly Cycle' #1 looked like. We just knew we didn't have it.

When the unfamiliar face of a werewolf revealed itself, a surge of euphoria bolted through me. It was a beautiful card. A perfect card. The answer to our prayers. We'd ridden two hundred miles for this thing. And it was worth every rotation of our bike pedals.

The card above IS a scan of the card we found that day. Ironically, the other 57 cards (and their hundreds of miserable 'swaps') disappeared somewhere between deepest childhood and exiting the nest. Rumor has it my mother threw 'Silly Cycles' and a dozen other sets away in a fit of rage at our hoarding, boyish ways. It's a rumor only, but it seems plausible to me.

I've never allowed this card, 'Silly Cycle' #1, to ride away from me. I keep the Werewolf close.

Childhood's not too far away, either.

The Other Return of The Living Dead

These two are not the same book. They share the same title, and they're written by the same author, but they're worlds apart in terms of content.

The edition directly above is John Russo's novelization (Arrow Books, '85) of Dan O'Bannon's screenplay of the same movie (also directed by Dan). This was one of the first movies to feature quick-footed zombies.

The original novel directly below is John Russo's literary sequel to George Romero's Night of the Living Dead; the original screenplay for that film was written by Russo and Romero.

In '74, Russo novelized Night. The novel's success gave rise to his horror writing career, a career that has run parallel somewhat with his horror directing career.

Smartly, he avoided forking out for the rights to screenplay source material by producing and/or directing films from his own literary oeuvre. These included Midnight, The Majorettes (directed by Bill Hinzman), and Heartstopper (based on his terrific vampire novel The Awakening).

My favorite (if you can call it that) Russo movie is Midnight. Starring the great Lawrence Tierney, and with bit turns by John Amplas (Martin) and Tom Savini, this aesthetically impoverished flick does have a sleazy, grim vibe. Shot in the Pennsylvanian countryside and boasting some grotesque violence, I first saw Midnight on videocassette in '84.

My imdb review went thus:

John Russo, author of the excellent "The Awakening", "The Majorettes", "Return of The Living Dead" (both unfilmed NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD sequel and novelization of the Dan O'Bannon film) and "Midnight" novel, amongst others, is a better novelist than filmmaker. His THE MAJORETTES, a stupid cheerleader slasher flick, is bottom of the barrel garbage. MIDNIGHT, on the other hand, has a creepy, seedy tone, decent special effects, a great sleaze turn by the late Lawrence Tierney, a sexual abuse subplot and some bizarre twists. The opening, in which a "demon" (a young girl), caught in a metal trap, is beaten to death by a woman and her sons, is a real attention-grabber. Musical score by Paul McCollough is poor. Plot follows the adventures of a young, sexually abused teenager (Melanie Verlin) who runs away from home and hitches a ride with a couple of thieves. The horror rears its head when the trio enter Pittsburgh's hill country. Make-up maestro Tom Savini's special effects are very convincing -- a sudden beheading is a keeper.

It mystifies me why the Return of the Living Dead novel (story is credited to Russo, Russell W. Streiner, and Ricci Valentine) has not been filmed. It is not that it is an overlooked literary masterpiece that blew my socks off. On the contrary, it is written like a piece of dry journalism and it cribs major chunks of Night. However, it features a cast of deviant characters who are far more reprehensible than the flesheaters they're fleeing, and the violence is stomach-churning at times. On top of that, there are some great scenes in which spikes are driven through the skulls of zombies, and a nicely written bus crash opens the book.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not expressing regret that John Russo didn't direct a movie of this novel -- there are far better directors out there more capable of energizing the material. Still, I'd like to see the book filmed. With Romero still turning out Dead flicks, it surprises me that he hasn't tapped this material.

I feel that Russo is a much better novelist than filmmaker, and the subjects he has tackled have vibrated with a great deal more originality.

Bloodsisters ('82), published in the US by Pocket Books, involves a coven of deadly women (thirteen of them!) and has a strong, supernatural slant.

Cover art has been "borrowed" for a great deal of movie poster art.

Living Things is an expansion of themes introduced in Russo's Voodoo Dawn novella, and marries the drug-flooded, crime-ridden Miami of DePalma's Scarface to Haitian voodoo lore. The book is as much a crime thriller as a horror novel, and Russo wisely keeps the undead at bay for a large portion of the story.

The Aldous Huxley quote -- Maybe this world is some other planet's hell -- kicks off the first part.

This New English Library (NEL, '83) edition of Midnight came three years after the American release. The reference on the cover to the Russo film must have puzzled many outside the US because the film had virtually no theatrical releases in foreign territories (especially English speaking ones). I guess the publisher figured that mentioning the film gave the book greater weight.

The Midnight book has a much stronger focus on religion, and, compared to the film, is intelligently structured.

Inhuman (Pocket Books, '86), is one of Russo's best novels (alongside The Awakening), and would make a great movie. It begins as an action novel, and turns into something that is tonally akin to The Hidden, Snakes on a Plane, and, of course, Night of the Living Dead and Umberto Lenzi's Nightmare City.

Excellent cover art is by Lisa Falkenstern.

Dario Argento and Jess Franco would have had fun with this tale of a disfigured ballet dancer who destroys her enemies by ripping them apart -- you guessed it! -- limb to limb.

Not terribly involving, the book is dedicated to "Jutec Kasamon and the Kasamon Ballet Company".

Like most artists, the work of John Russo has been uneven, but I can not fault his dedication to the genre, or his desire to shock for a living.

Imbd lists his next venture as Escape From The Living Dead with Kane Hodder.

The Scream Factory

Edited by Bob Morrish, Peter Enfantino, and John Scoleri, The Scream Factory, a magazine dedicated to old and new horror in fiction, radio, film, and TV, was a mainstay of late 80's/early 90's genre publishing. It was produced by Deadline Press (AZ), but submitters of material were encouraged to forward all correspondence to a California address.

Although there is currently a publisher of comics with the same name, I'm not sure if the two are related.

I was always impressed with the depth of material, and admired the publication's efforts to cover horror from many angles. The mag could be seen as a precursor to Canada's Rue Morgue, a mag that also makes every effort to illuminate the darkest vestibules of the field in all media.

Issue #15 was a Werewolf special, so would not have been out of place today with a Wolfman remake imminent (from Universal) and other lycanthrope-themed projects in holding patterns.

Great to see some focus on Chelsea Quinn Yarbro's The Godforsaken, a really terrific werewolf novel with a strong historical backbone. Yarbro has been a prolific writer of original fiction and a number of great novelizations including Nomads (based on John DIE HARD McTiernan's first film with Adam Ant!) and Dead and Buried.

Anthologist, editor, and scholar Peter Haining, who has recently been the subject of immense interest in Justin Marriott's indispensable Paperback Fanatic, a mag you should not be without, was the subject of an exhaustive article in this issue. He has been responsible for close to a hundred horror and mystery anthologies, and has penned so much non-fiction, it's difficult to catalog it all; thankfully, ace writer Mike Ashley gave it his best shot in this fascinating, lengthy piece.

Most horror/fantasy mags focusing chiefly on horror in literature ignore film at their peril; The Scream Factory avoided peril by hiring Lawrence McCallum to write some capsule reviews. Island of Lost Souls earns well-deserved praise, as does The Bride of Frankenstein and the brilliant The Invisible Man.

Encouraging to see Richard Thorpe's Night Must Fall being awarded three stars, too; easily Robert Montgomery's most memorable, chilling performance.

The small press was incredibly important to the genre when The Scream Factory was a going concern in '94, and they acknowledged that importance with a regular column. Now, the small press is absolutely essential, probably even more crucial to the development of writers than ever with mainstream publishers cutting back on their lists and bookshops being ever so picky about what they stock.

Husband/Wife authors Steve Rasnic and Melanie Tem were interviewed in this issue and contributed 'More Than Should Be Asked', an original piece.

I read Steve's Excavation (Avon; '87) many moons ago and enjoyed it thoroughly. His specialty has always been thew short story.

Melanie's Revenant (Dell/Abyss; '94) is a brilliant novel about losing the ones we love, dealing with the loss, and reconciling the possibility of future losses. A re-release would be welcome. Perhaps coincidentally, the French film, The Revenants ('04), also addressed the complexity of the loss and dealing with the return of those we are grieving.

The author's Prodigal (Dell/Abyss; '91) is a killer read, too.
RIP , The Scream Factory, you are missed.

Avatar in the Valley of Vance

I'm not inspired to write much about Avatar; I'd rather write about Narciso Ibenez Serrador's La Residencia, which I saw on the same day and liked three hundred million times more; I'll get to that next.

Hayao Miyazaki's Naussica - In the Valley of The Wind is an absolute favorite of mine, a sci-fi ecology drama stunningly realized. James Cameron's clearly a fan, too, because he's stolen from it wholesale; then he added floating mountains stolen from Laputa - Castle in the Sky. Despite all that thievery, the film's still shockingly predictable.

Naussica - In the Valley of the Wind

Dances With Wolves gets borrowed, too. Wholesale.

But it is the work of fantasy titan Jack Vance that Avatar draws from most blatantly; his Son of the Tree, in particular, suffers the greatest act of pillage. Works such as The Dragon Masters, Big Planet, and Planet of Adventure quadrilogy provide rich source material also.


Despite all these rich influences, the result is fairly bland stew.

Yes, the visual effects are striking, but the whole shebang made me nostalgic for the time when special effects would serve the story. The "game changer" (fuck!, I hate that expression) here is that a flimsy waif of a story is now serving the special effects. Is that really progress?

Is it reasonable to expect an amazing script from a $300 million movie? I think so. Do you?

Laputa - Castle in the Sky

Final nail in the coffin is the casting of the charisma-free Sam Worthington. I didn't like him in the Aussie Macbeth and I didn't like him here one bit. Also, his wavering between an Aussie and American accent distracted me unnecessarily.

I mentally slogged through this because every plot turn is excruciatingly predictable; I just sat and waited for the inevitable to come and go.

What I did I like? Zoe Saldana as the blue-skinned heroine 'Neytiri'; she's terribly sensual.

While examining the features of the film's native population, the Navi, it occurred to me that these folks all have noses like 'The Tenia' (Jo Prestia) from Gasper Noe's Irreversible. They just don't possess his savagery.

Despite Avatar's budget and hype, it still doesn't come close to the cinematic magnificence of Paul Verhoeven's Starship Troopers, the best integration of CG, live action, and storytelling yet.

Hardcore Profits

I suspect those who vehemently oppose pornography (which depicts primal human impulses and desires in graphic detail) oppose reality in their own life. They oppose disclosure, live in a cocoon-like state of denial, and are determined to spread the shame that's been pounded into their skulls.

The above thought occurred to me for the upteenth time as I sat on a plane watching the UK documentary Hardcore Profits, a terribly pious, predictable piece of journalistic piffle hosted by a stuck-up English bloke (Tim Samuels) who spends the entire show "exposing" the fact that communications companies like Vodafone and cable systems around the US indirectly profit from the transmission of pornography over their signals and cables. My reaction was: So what?!

His ludicrous claim is tantamount to a judge claiming that the phone company facilitated child molestation because one of their customers called an underaged girl to set up a "date".

Samuels thinks he's a thoroughly clever clogs by confronting a Christian investment group with the mind-blowing(!) revelation that one of the companies they invest in also pipes pornography through their cable system. Again: So what?!

Tim Samuels is described on Wikipedia as a "British Michael Moore without the political agenda"; I say "poppycock" to that. This "award-winning" muckraker works like heck to get everybody's knickers in a big, thick knot about pornography being streamed through some of the channels various multi-nationals operate. He tries the oldest, most cynical trick in the book when confronting elderly churchgoers with news that some of the money they're putting in the Sunday collction plate could be going into the hands of pornographers(!). The connection he makes is as spurious as accusing a McDonald's worker of profiting from pornography by selling a porno director and his kids a dozen Big Macs.

Samuels' ultimate agenda, of course, is to get pornography removed from all screens (large, small, and mid-sized) by shaming anybody remotely connected to it.

At the core of this agenda is his own shame about sex

Isn't it always?

Like America's Christian Coalition, who have big issues with S.E.X., Samuels has no problem with companies that pipe extreme violence through their systems. It's accepetable, by implication, to show a head being blown off or a belly stabbed repeatedly, but burn ye in hell for common carrying graphic footage of fellow humans engaged in natural acts of sexuality (sex of any type between real humans is natural, by the way).

Companies like Vodaphone are not broadcasters; they don't cast anything out there broadly; they simply provide a democratic conduit through which media is piped.

Personally, I don't care for censorship of any type; I'm not troubled, however, if access to adult material is confined to adults. Samuels disagrees with me.

Clearly, he and his puppet masters don't trust adults, and probably doesn't themselves, either.

His next attempt to bolster his wrong-headed cause is introducing us to a bunch of thickheads in an African village who have had access to internet porn and pirated porn DVD's. Due to this exposure to pornography, Samuels claims -- and the thickheads admit -- they have taken to raping various village women in order to emulate the "evil" stuff they've seen on porn videos such as anal sex(!).

Not once does Samuels castigate these morons for rape or ask them why they think rape is acceptable in the first place. Isn't their thinking the the failure of education and an entire culture? Or is porn entirely to blame for their immorality and criminality? These raping rubes are adults, and it's very convenient for them, isn't it, to blame porn piped to their mudhuts, produced by US companies such as Anabolic Video, for their aberrant behavior?

Memo to Samuels: Porn isn't to blame. THEY are to blame. The lesson is simple: If you want to have sex with a lass, lads, ask first. If she says no, go play with yourself, or organize an all-male circle jerk.

This English twit, relentless in his pursuit of spurious cause and effect, then travels to LA to meet the head of Anabolic (like he's relevant to the discussion!). He asks head honcho Chris Alexander if he knows his videos are being seen by black villagers in Africa? Alexander, who isn't concerned, and isn't conscious of Samuels' agenda, is keen to promote his product, so he informs Samuels that his pornography has wide global distribution.

More than likely, the DVD's the village rapists saw were pirated; it's unlikely Anabolic has legit distribution contracts with a surfeit of African nations. Alexander's presence in the video adds nothing to Samuels' thesis.

Samuels' mission to eradicate porn by fanning global shame is a sad mission, indeed. It is ironic, too, that he confronts the multi-nationals on their (indirectly) profiting from porn while ignoring the amorality of their standard corporate practises -- practises that, as cited in the doco The Corporation, amount to sociopathic behavior.

In attacking hotel chains (most of them) that carry porn on their in-room channels, he's attempting to create a storm in an English teacup. Patrons are not forced or coerced into watching porn, and it is restircted to adults. Porn is a choice, as is a mainstream movie, a foreign flick, or a Jet Lee actioner. The fact that porn (graphic depictions of diverse sexual activity between human beings) is so demonized by idiots of this type is evidence that, in the 21st century, S.E.X. is still a big issue for the immature and seriously fucked up amongst us.

Samuel expects us to reel from the screen horrified that phone companies and cable companies and porno companies are making billions from porn (!). Again, so what?! Porn's a business, a legal business, with hundreds of millions of consumers. Porno makers have families, kids to put through school, wives, husbands, sons, mothers and daughters. They live next door and they're just like you and me.

Personally, I find myself reeling from the way banks and financial institutions rape their customers with outrageous fees and pathetic interest rates. I gape in in horror at the fact that banks lend my money to other people and reap profits from these people that I never share in. The exploitation of customers by big business is what horrifies me. At least porn delivers something tangible. When was the last time a bank delivered you an orgasm?

In a global village where the actual presence, and availablity, of child pornography has no correlation to the height of demonic fear associated with its existence, all sexuality now presents a threat to those who live pathetic lives of denial, insecurity, and fear (incited, for the most part, by religion).

The boogeyman, once nucleur, now swings a penis.

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.

Red Cliff of Boredom

Saw this close to a year ago and wasn't impressed at all -- in fact, it made me sad.

I was one of Woo's biggest champions back in the mid-80's and 90's when I wrote my Chinatown Beat column for Michael Helms' wonderful FATAL VISIONS magazine. I still think Bullet in the Head, A Better Tomorrow, Just Heroes, The Killer, and Hard-Boiled are masterpieces. I have countless DVD's, LD's, and VHS versions of all the director's works. My love for these films will never evaporate.

Watching Red Cliff, I found myself bored. So incredibly bored. For some reason, Woo has gotten it into his head that endless battle sequences are entertaining. Why have one hundred warriors when you can create a million more in a computer? Why shoot fifty flaming arrows when you can shoot fifty thousand?

That's it, I'm done with "epic" battle sequences. They're so repetitive and boring and uninteresting. It started with Troy and the Rings films and it hasn't stopped since. Half the action pics out there are just collections of battle sequences that go on and on and on and signify nothing but noise and chaos.

Red Cliff, apparently, has a story, and, according to John Woo, fascinating characters. Really? I didn't care. I felt twenty times removed from everybody in the movie. The arch, stuffy style applied to the so-called drama left me cold. Impossible, right, with actors like Tony Leung? Apparently not. I wanted everybody to die so the movie would end.

Woo's best films bleed with emotion because the characters are the focus. There is plenty of action, sure, but within the action (especially in Just Heroes, The Killer, and Bullet...) the characters are still the point of the movie, and their journeys are fascinating.

In Red Cliff, Woo tries to dazzle us and assault us and overwhelm us with non-stop "action" (which now equals high end computer game graphics) because he's convinced we want that. This approach is akin to a baby screaming into your ear for the entirety of a flight from LA to Melbourne. Half an hour in the air with that baby is enough. Three hours is a nightmare, and you want to kill the kid and kill yourself. Woo is so impressed with Big and Epic and Long and Loud it makes me wonder what drugs he's taking these days.

Scenes in which the camera/computer follows a perfect arrow on its perfect course towards a perfect target lack any sense of spontaneity or unpredictability. Everything is so carefully staged and executed, it's like watching a cartoon. I hate it with a passion. And I never thought I'd say that about the major elements of a John Woo movie. Doesn't Woo recall what made his Hong Kong movies so great? Doesn't he remember why he fell in love with the work of Jean Pierre Melville? It was the characters, John, the themes, the focus on feelings, the alienation, the war within themselves.

Every time I read an interview with Woo these days, he talks about future epics, thousands of extras, huge budgets, and how getting Red Cliff financed was a cinch. Seems the Chinese investors fell over themselves to throw money at this overstuffed epic.

I officially hate CG-enhanced, epic fight scenes, and I no longer await the next John Woo film with an anxiousness once reserved for Santa.