James Herbert Has Died

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.

Living Skeletons Never Die

Although I reviewed it on imdb in 2005, only recently has it been released in Japan on a beautiful DVD with a crummy, generic cover that suggests another Ringu flick; my initial review of the film was based on a fortunate VHS sighting.

The film is an extraordinary low budget horror film that was originally released by Shockiku in 1968.

To borrow from my review:

Made a decade before Carpenter's "The Fog", this is clearly that film's inspiration, and what glorious pulp horror it is.

A scar-faced pirate and his cronies gun down a dozen men and several stunningly beautiful women.


One woman grips the trouser leg of her killer as she dies, triggering a series of events that will see watery vengeance visited on the miscreants.


This has a mysterious fog surrounding a quiet coastal town...

... a haunted ship of the dead...

...a local priest who carries a terrible secret...

... and a ghostly, beautiful woman whose appearances strike fear into the hearts of evil men.

It is made with incredible affection for its subject matter and total sincerity. Not once does it wink at its audience or betray its genre origins. No, it is proud to be a pulp horror film.

There is some model work of a ship crossing the ocean shot through clouds that is both incredibly artificial and incredibly beautiful.

Some of the special effects are not exactly believable, but these are key to the film's charm.


The "living skeletons" themselves, though not expertly incorporated into the central narrative, are beautiful.

Highly recommended for true lovers of fantastique films.

Shockiku's transfer of the negative elements is superb.

The black and white photography of Masayuki Kato was always wonderful; on DVD it is luminous.

The cinemascope compositions are quite breathtaking.

The DVD is still in print, but I fear that it will not remain so for too much longer.

Unfortunately, it is director Hiroshi Matsuno's only feature film.

***

I don't know why Living Skeleton was not more widely distributed. It most definitely deserved to be.

Shockiku certainly pushed it to global customers.

The company's April-May "sell sheet' (below), which appeared in the long-defunct Movie/TV Marketing magazine, announced international screenings of the film, as well as screenings for Goke - Body Snatcher From Hell (a favorite of mine also), Genocide, Black Rose, The Day the Sun Rose, and Who Is Gomez?

The Survivor

Keller, another one of James Herbert's compelling one-name heroes, is the only survivor of a shocking plane crash. He mission to discover why and how he survived drives the book's narrative.

When the souls of the dead crash victims begin to interfere with the lives of those who live close to the crash sight, Herbert springs into action and delivers a classic tale of horror that is less hardcore but no less compelling than his previous The Fog.

In '81, five years after the book's publication, actor David Hemmings traveled to South Australia to direct a film version of The Survivor for producer Antony I. Ginnane.

Fortunately, it's not awful, but it's not a masterpiece, either.

Herbert's smart concept is not well exploited by screenwriter David Ambrose and David Hemmings' direction is plodding.

Production values, however, are decent. The crash of the plane into a field is decently realized, and the music by the late Brian May is moody and rich.

It is the film's failure to embrace the material in a more enthusiastic way that ultimately derails its potential. It's as if Hemmings was uncomfortable delivering a horror film.

Herbert's novel, first published in '76, is a dark and remarkable classic of uneasy terror, and may have been an influence somewhat on the source novel of Peter Weir's Fearless ('93).

The little-seen film didn't hurt the novel's reputation.

Summer of Tragedy

On January the 25th of this year, I wrote a blog called Summer of Fog:

http://phantomofpulp.blogspot.com/2009/01/summer-of-fog.html

I reminisced about running down the main street of a small Victorian town and finding James Herbert's The Fog at the local newsagency.

That town was called Marysville.

Last week, as shocking fires swept across Victoria and took almost 200 human lives, Marysville was destroyed.

This (above) is the street I described; the photo was taken after the fires swept through.


Ironically, the poetic illustration below (from a later paperback edition of the book), depicts dark clouds that also resemble smoke.

Totally co-incidental, yes, but eerie, nonetheless.

Now, a week later, residents of Marysville have voted to rebuild the town and restore it to its former glory.


I feel a close connection with Marysville. It was one of my favorite destinations for romantic getaways; my family spent many holidays there; and I shot a Super-8 zombie feature in the surrounding hills called Undead ('84) long before the Spierig Bros. made an Undead ('03) of their own with a chunkier budget.

It was, and will be again, a quaint, friendly, safe, spectacular town at the base of a massive mountain range boasting almost primeval scenery.

Marysville is often wrapped in morning fog that lends it a fantastique, ethereal quality. When it clears, the sun showers the town in brilliant, embracing light.

There is no mystery why it is a favored daytripper's destination.

My best wishes go out to my fellow Victorians and the people of Maryville and other towns who have suffered so much in the fiery clutches of this tragedy.

I look forward to visiting Marysville once again when it rises from the ashes.

And I'll be sure to check the newsagency for the new James Herbert book.

Summer of Fog

It was a glorious time for horror fiction, and a glorious time for this teenage horror fan who was discovering names like Guy N. Smith (The Sucking Pit), Stephen King (Carrie) and James Herbert (The Rats), and becoming obsessed with a British publishing company called New English Library (NEL). My world was expanding rapidly. I was embracing my status as a hardcore horror fan without shame and without guilt.

That stuff was for Catholics!

It was 1975. January. In just two weeks I would be starting my high school education at a boys-only, Catholic college. I would witness the brutal treatment of students by teachers in a borstal-like environment. The perpetrators would call themselves "Father", "Brother", and "Sister". My reading material would be humbled by this brutality.

My family was holidaying briefly in Marysville, a small country town at the base of an intimidating mountain range. It was a two hour drive from Melbourne -- that is, if you stepped on the gas, and didn't pull over to let someone vomit. The town is dotted with guest houses and quaint boutique motels. It has a small shopping strip with a Milk Bar, hotel, news agency (an Australian term for a bookshop that also sells newspapers, stationery, and lottery tickets), TAB, a florist, and supermarket.

I had a well-established holiday routine. As soon as we arrived in a new town, I would head off with my brother to check out the local news agency. If there was a cinema, that would be my second stop. This trip was no exception.

As was common in those days, my dad was pissed off and impatient; I didn't want to cop the back hand of his mood (as the eldest of four kids, I usually did), so the sensible thing to do was make myself scarce. My brother and I extracted ourselves from the family as suitcases were unpacked and the girls attached themselves to mum like warts . We headed down the tree-lined, main street and were glad to be free. I was twelve years old; my brother was two years younger. Most of the time, my brother and I were a tight unit.

Up entering the news agency, I scoped it out for paperbacks. My nose for pulp was acute. Ah, there they were! A large, tall shelf down the back sagging with the weight of paper. Running from floor to ceiling and as wide as the length of a bed. It was an open treasure chest.

We had to pass the magazine racks to get there. I slowed to scan the covers of Penthouse, Playboy, H & E (the nudist rag) and Swank (my favorite), but I didn't stop. I'd been clipped over the ear by numerous storekeepers in the past for loitering in the porno section. The best bet for one of such tender years was to skate by discreetly and fill one's eyes with as many fleshy treats as possible. You could always return the following day if anything caught your fancy (which was highly likely).

My brother shadowed me and parked himself beside me as I stopped in front of the paperback rack. What a world of possibilities it presented. A million worlds sandwiched between their pages. The usual names were present -- Jackie Collins, Irving Wallace, Harold Robbins, Alistair McClean, James Michener. I was determined to read a Harold Robbins one of these days. I'd already given McClean a try. I liked his breakneck style. Jackie Collins? Forget it.

'ello, 'ello, this was more like it! Stephen King's Carrie, a novel I'd gobbled up with glee, was glaring at me from the top shelf. Seeing it there was an indicator that the proprietor of the news agency was not some anti-horror nancy boy who'd traded his testicles for a wedding ring. No, this bloke was was alright in my book.

Apart from Carrie, horror was still pretty light-on here in Marysville. There were some Mills and Boone romance novels (gimme a break!), some Barbara Cartland (Jesus !), and some Frank Herbert (Dune, which I'd read, and Dune Messiah, which I hadn't read yet) . George Gilman's Edge books were big in those days. "Slaughter Road", the 22nd in the series, caught my attention immediately. I liked that title. It conjured images of a long, country road strewn with bloody, gouged corpses. And perhaps some detached eyeballs as well? That George Gilman was alright, too.

I noticed James Herbert's The Fog when I was grabbing a bunch of Carrie's and placing them in front of Barbara Cartland's rotten romances. I was always re-arranging book racks back in those days so that horror would be favored. The Fog was sandwiched between a Carrie and Irving Wallace's The Plot; I'd never read a Wallace book, but I was well aware of his popularity.

The Herbert novel was calling my name by the time I placed the last Carrie in front of A. Cecil Hampshire's Liliput Fleet (if that was about a ship of dwarves, I should have snapped it up).

"By the author of 'The Rats' " the cover declared.

I didn't need to be told that.

At the time, if I'd been asked, I would have told you that The Rats was the best novel I'd ever read. It had knocked me for a six (a cricket expression) and buried itself deep in my psyche. It was a revelation -- for its writing, and for its audaciousness.

My first edition of The Rats (see above) was looking like the pulp equivalent of an army base whore on New Year's Day. It had done the rounds of friends and foes and become the yardstick by which all future horror would be measured. The p.68 love scene between the novel's hero, Harris, and his girl Judy, had been combed so thoroughly by teenage eyes, only erotic dandruff remained.

The Fog. Great title. Loved it already. Handling the book with care, I flipped it over and read the back cover as my brother huddled up to me:



My God, this was going to be the best novel ever!

"He's carrying a severed head," I said out loud, hoping I'd be overheard, as my little brother looked up at me for moral guidance. "It's the bleeding head of his wife."

Wow!" My brother shared my enthusiasm. His face had lit up. "Are you getting it?"

"You bet!"

I paid for the book and took off up the street. My brother huffed and puffed behind me. I couldn't wait to get back so I could find myself a comfy seat and get cracking on the book right away. Knowing that there were such horrors as men carrying the severed heads of their wives in this book made me antsy with anticipation. I wasn't going to be denied the pleasure of reading all about it for one minute longer.

I spent the next two days falling in love with The Fog and savoring every bloody toss and turn of the narrative. I read and re-read the incredible scenes of carnage and carnal violence; my brother read the "good bits" over my shoulder when I would wave to indicate the coast was clear. Now and then I'd look up at my parents, certain that they knew what I was reading. I'd study the way they looked at me. I feared that the book would be taken from me as I slept, and ripped to shreds by my mother, so I wrapped it in a sweater and clutched it to my chest through the night. When I came across the chapter where Ronnie and Mavis, the two doomed lesbians, make love, I was propelled into a world that was both alien and exciting to me. This was even more fun than lesbian vampires!

I kept picturing James Herbert as I read. As the fog sent men and women insane, I'd recall the photos I'd seen of Herbert. I was in awe of the guy. He was speaking directly to me. He knew what I craved. He knew my secrets. My secret desires. My passions. He was a "horror writer", surely the best job in the world.


Herbert also knew about priests. And he imagined things that didn't entirely surprise me about them... certainly not once I started Catholic high school.

The book contains a landmark sequence in which a parish priest, Reverend Martin Hurdle, gets caught in the yellowish fog. When he arrives at the church to begin his service, the following occured:

Then the Reverend Martin Hurdle, Vicar of St. Augustine's for eighteen years, lifted his cassock, undid his trousers, took out his penis, and urinated on the congregation.

At twelve years of age, I was more than impressed; I was converted to Herbert's brand of profane horror. My anti-Catholic Catholicism was being fueled by Herbert's literary accelerants.

The atrocities continued unabated throughout the novel, but nothing equaled the horrors portrayed in Chapter 6. A bunch of schoolboys enter a frenzy of masturbation that culminates in a penis being placed between the blades of a pair of garden shears. Things don't go well for the penis's owner:

The boys watched in silence as the two blades snapped together and the scream echoed around the gymnasium.

My Marysville holiday, and the end of the Summer, was defined by The Fog. The book became my entry point to a wondrous world of horror, perversion and bloodshed. It defined a period and re-defined a state of mind.

Today, I appreciate James Herbert's masterpiece of horror even more.

Although it is not often said, Herbert is also a brilliant writer of action. The Dark, Lair, '48, Domain, The Fog and The Survivor contain large scale, inventive action sequences that are virtually unequaled for their sheer ferocity, detail, scale, and pacing.

Although Herbert's books have been released in the US, he is not terribly well known there.

I'm sure covers like this have nothing to do with that!