From Zombos' Closet

Most Regrettable Horror Movies Of 2009

While others pound their chests proclaiming the top ten best horror movies of 2009, I thought I would take a different approach. Frankly, top ten lists are a dime a dozen these days. And why only ten? Who do we blame for limiting the best to only ten a year? I love reading these lists, though, but only when my favorites make the list (which I suspect is a habit we all share).

But what about all those regrettable horror movies you and I wasted time and money seeing in 2009? Now we're talking. Not the worst movies or completely bad movies necessarily, but movies that are most regrettable because they zigged when they should have zagged, leaving me, and possibly you, with a sour taste in our mouths in spite of all the popcorn and soda eaten to make up for the disappointment. In a word, those movies that looked so promising but let us down.

I should say 'let me down,' since this is my most regrettable list for 2009. Maybe it will be yours, too.

 

1. The Collector

It came and went without collecting much of an audience. Torture porn horror hit its zenith in this slick nihilistic, but derivative, terrifying vision. In combining Cube-like lethal traps with a hint of Saw-styled ingenuity and malice, and yet another relentless masked-slasher victimizing a family in unsavory, bloodily grisly ways, Marcus Dunstan and Patrick Melton (Feast) do their darnedest to pulverize the audience with fears of helplessness, torture, and death. They almost succeed, but choose to go the usual horror franchise-building byway at the end with a negative payoff.

2. Friday the 13th 

Jared Padalecki (Supernatural) is the only reason I saw this movie. I like him. I like him in this movie. I hate everything else. Remakes can be a dice game to begin with, but trying to remake and re-imagine an icon of horror means you gamble on what stays and what changes. In this case, the gamble didn't pay off. What changed but shouldn't have is the mystery and uncertainty about Jason. What should have changed but didn't are the pick-a-number victims wearing "kill me, I'm stupid" signs on their butts.

3. The Haunting in Connecticut

A haunting without ghosts? How novel. While director Peter Cornwell and writers did manage to startle me twice, this movie has more in common with Tobe Hooper's energetic spookfest Poltergeist than the lingering, atmospheric scares in Lewis Allen's The Uninvited or Robert Wise's The Haunting--but not enough in common to make it as good. A missed opportunity to create real fright instead of resorting to the usual special-effects and grisly spookshow makeup theatrics; less experienced horrorheads will enjoy it. Those with more experience, like me, will nitpick. Such is life.

Comic Book Review: The Ghoul 1

Zombos Says: Good (But more 'comic book' needed)

I'd worked with the Bureau, hell, since its creation in 1908. They found me hiding in the sewers of old underground New York and instead of hunting me or trying to make a show of me like so many others had before, they took me in and offered me a job. (Steve Niles, My Ghoul)

With only 16 pages in this $3.99 comic book devoted to The Ghoul's illustrated adventure, a 5 page continuing text story, My Ghoul--peppered with three small graphics--and 10 pages devoted to IDW ads and news, it took a lot of effort for me to read this one even if Steve Niles and Bernie Wrightson are the perpetrators, and the gimmick is one very big special agent for the supernatural arm of the FBI.

You know the drill: mysterious big guy with attitude (The Goon, Hellboy, insert your favorite here), who usually works for a 'secret' organization and packs muscle--some wit, but better at relying on the muscle--and enjoys kicking monster and freakazoid butts too big for regular folk to handle. Leaves all the thinking to the small guys, who, in this case, would be rolled into one Lieutenant Detective Klimpt. Klimpt does the cerebral work while the Ghoul does the muscle work. Both wear trenchcoats. The Ghoul's is tailor-made and would probably make a good emergency tent if the situation warranted it.

Okay, so I'm spoiled. I expect a big comic book when I buy one, and I expect big names to deliver big things when charged a big price for the issue. Niles and Wrightson are big names. Only Wrightson fully delivers the goods; he gives the irritating, ill-mannered Ghoul more than just enormous size and a trenchcoat. I won't say heart (or even gruff charm) because Niles hasn't written that in yet, but Wrightson's characters and settings evoke more noir than Niles can muster in his story and dialog. Maybe because Niles is on auto-pilot with this first issue. Maybe he'll get the gas pumping in issue two. 

Okay, I admit this is a pet peeve of mine; comic book format implies an illustrated story between the covers, not ads or text-stories that fill up half the pages. Niles' My Ghoul story is important to read as it provides much background to the Ghoul's character; but it should have been illustrated instead: comic book, right? I would rather see and read this background story in comic book format.

As for the current story, Klimpt calls in the extra muscle for a hunch he has on a case--more of a theory as he calls it. While the Ghoul searches for some munchies and mugs a sour demeanor throughout their first meeting, Klimpt fills him in on his theory. It involves the Atwoods and their three generations of "uncanny actresses." Only the three generations may not have involved so many dames and there may be more than just three generations. That easily tops the 'uncanny' part. Tom Smith provides lots of evocative colors, creating ample shadows and light sources for Wrightson's characters to breath in.

Before Klimpt makes a move to investigate further, the Ghoul needs to take care of business. Seems it's a special night; the type of night devils and beasties roam the earth unfettered from their tour duty in Hell. The Ghoul needs to do some tour duty of his own. The last panel shows him holding a mother, son, and daughter of a gun even Hellboy would drool over.

Maybe I'll stick around for issue two. I'm a pushover for big guns, sultry dames, and demonic monsters mixing it up.

Meet the Horror Bloggers: Scared Silly

Many fans of horror, amateur and professional alike, have devoted themselves to blogging about the thrills, chills, and no-frills side of the genre as seen in cinema and print. In this ongoing series that highlights the writers behind the blogs, we meet the unique personalities and talents that make the online horror scene so engaging. Up close and personal.

In this installment, Paul Castiglia from Scared Silly: Classic Hollywood Horror-Comedies tells us why he finds so much humor in all that horror.

The process of me becoming a “monster kid” turned out to be a lifelong affair. There were several factors that led to my love of horror movies in general and horror-comedies in particular, and by the time those influences merged together I became that “monster kid.”

Well, to be more precise, that “monster man-boy.” I’ve never completely grown up, and I don’t plan to, either. I have no middle name, but if I did, it might as well be Pan. That’s not the only caveat. When I say “factors” I really mean TV. And when I say TV, I mean movies, TV shows and cartoons in particular.

I was a child in the 1970s, when movies and TV shows from past decades were routinely rerun, especially in the New York tri-state area. I grew up watching the classic comedians on TV, particularly Laurel & Hardy and Abbott & Costello; and I grew up watching a lot of cartoons.

Initially, I was deathly afraid of the monsters. The intro’s to Chiller Theater, Fright Night, and other monster movie broadcasts were avoided like the plague, and if I did happen to see part of one, or a commercial for a first-run horror movie, that was enough to inspire nightmares through the night for me.

Comic Book Review: Victorian Undead 2

ZC Rating 4 of 7 (Very Good)

Issue 1 Review

Capital. Simply capital. With issue 2 of Ian Edginton and Davide Fabbri's story pitting Holmes and Watson against a horde of the undead, the mystery deepens as more threads of this weird skein of malevolence, plotted by a criminal mastermind, are woven.

For Sherlockians, there are a few pleasant surprises in store. A certain relative of Holmes leaves the Diogenes Club to put in a timely appearance, and a certain Colonel of ill-repute (bad heredity according to Holmes) has the Great Detective and his Boswell squarely in his gunsight.

Edginton's pacing and dialog, while not as flamboyant or outrageous as Robert Downey's Sherlock Holmes, ratchets up the tense situation methodically, providing a lively encounter with mobile corpses in the London Underground while introducing important new players into this deadly game of hide and go seek; for what reason are the undead being created and stockpiled? (I wonder if Edginton's influence for this came from reading Jonathan Maberry's Patient Zero?)

There is a well-toned classic horror movie sensibility to how Edginton and Fabbri lay out their story. I still find Fabbri's art too clean; his layouts are quite good, but perhaps a touch of  Downey's Holmes' flamboyance would sharpen the edginess. There is a bit of that stiff upper lip overdone here. Edginton and Fabbri's splash-page finale is superbly and quietly melodramatic, showing the Napoleon of Crime at the heart of this undead conspiracy.

Providing much of the atmosphere for this issue is Carrie Strachan's colors, especially when Holmes, Watson, and zombies meet underground. More attention to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's literary details would be appreciated: Sherlockians may gasp in horror when they see Holmes' old mouse-colored dressing gown replaced with a bright red and gold-cuffed one.

But this series, so far, is the one I would have liked to see onscreen. Even with Robert Downey. I daresay even Johnny Depp playing Holmes, directed by Tim Burton, mixing it up with zombies, would be exquisite.

Meet the Horror Bloggers: Dollar Bin Horror

Many fans of horror, amateur and professional alike, have devoted themselves to blogging about the thrills, chills, and no-frills side of the genre as seen in cinema and print. In this ongoing series that highlights the writers behind the blogs, we meet the unique personalities and talents that make the online horror scene so engaging. Up close and personal.

In this installment, Rhonny from Dollar Bin Horror tells us how her dad's cable sports package brought the horror along with it, and the treasure found in the dollar bin.

The first time I watched anything horror was when I was four. My dad got cable for the sports package, but it also came with HBO. I would be up late watching Tales From the Crypt. No one stopped me, so I kept watching. Since then I always liked scary movies, but it didn't become an addiction until I was 14. My dad said he got a new movie and wanted me to watch it with him. At first I thought it was another Denzel Washington movie, but thankfully it wasn’t. It was the first Saw film. After googling some information about it, I was enthralled by the fact that two young film students made it. It changed my whole perspective on horror films and my new life goal was to make them myself.

Movie Review: The Grudge 2 (2006)

Zombos Says: Fair

The vengeful ghost in The Grudge 2 is a yūrei--definitely. Telltale signs are the long black hair that hangs disheveled, and the dangling; you know, the twisting, floating--sort of lopsided walk--most J-Horror apparitions do when staring you down, or just before they ring your neck into a pretzel. And those wide-eyed, gray-skinned ghosts definitely haunt a particular place. No, wait a minute. They do tend to leave the house a lot, even in The Grudge, and in this sequel they've hopped all the way over to Chicago. So they are now haunting two places at once. There's nothing about yūrei haunting two places at once. Damn. And what's with that little gray boy that meows like a cat, and the cat that doesn't meow at all?

The Grudge 2 is a bit confusing at first. Director Takashi Shimizu weaves his continuing tale of blind rage and death between three plotlines: three school girls in Japan dumb enough to go into that house; Aubrey Davis (Amber Tamblyn) traveling to Japan to find out why her sister (Sarah Michelle Gellar) is accused of murder and arson; and a romantic relationship in Chicago that escalates into darkness, witnessed by a frightened young boy.

The opening breakfast scene jars you to attention, but before you can say "We should have gone to IHOP," we cut to Japan and three school girls--one Japanese, two American, and all three heading for a major bad hair day. The tall, not-so-hip Allison tags along as they enter the haunted house where it all started. On a dare, she enters the closet. That infamous closet. Shimizu does a good job of building this claustrophobic scene to it's expected climax with solid scares. Closets can be very scary, whether you are hiding in them or hoping nothing pops out of them. And the way you can never find things in closets--yes, they're evil, pure and simple.

But this early scene is the only true scare in the entire film. While there are shock-cuts galore, Shimizu dotes on showing us the deadly duo again and again, as they appear under sheets, in windows, in hallways, on desk tops, and in sweatshirts (you will understand that when you see it). The tableaus are visually clever, but swing more toward the manga-style of visual cleverness making it all humorous; and lose their scariness and suspense by doing so. Instead of sustained tension from the unseen, Shimizu has created Hollywoodized slasher-yūrei monsters that rack up the body count in ever clever but not very scary ways. Instead of tight glimpses of that stark, wide-eyed pasty face of evil--covered by severe split ends of hair--we see lingering shots of it appearing out of photographs and mirrors.

This is not to say Shimizu has done a bad job: he's just Americanized J-Horror to a stage where The Grudge has become a franchise. What was once iconic J-Horror imagery has now been replaced with your typical American horror movie modus operandi--and would you like fries with that?

A journalist researching the murders since the first occurrence joins Aubrey Davis in searching for answers to the mysterious deaths. Finding a journal written by an eight year old girl in the closet, he brings it to a friend who studies Japanese folklore. The journal explains some things, perhaps including why the original evil or rage came into existence, but before Davis and the journalist can head out to see the person who may be responsible for the evil, the yūrei pay a visit in a well-staged, but to be expected, scene involving photographs, photo developing trays, and really bad over-exposure on a negative.

As Aubrey pursues the answers to this mystery, our three daring school girls are not faring so well. The yūrei are working overtime to make sure no one who visits their humble abode goes without a thank you from hell. And Jake, the young frightened boy in Chicago, is also experiencing new tenant issues--only these tenants don't walk up the stairs, and they make a hell of a lot of noise, too. The neighbors next door, the Flemings, also have a hooded guest who creeps him out. Strange noises and pounding from their apartment eventually force him to find out who the hooded person is, and why dad is going bonkers.

The score is actually quite good, creating more of an ominous mood than most of the movie. The weird gurgling, clicking sound made by the broken-neck yūrei apparition is also used very well here. It provides more chills than most of the closeups. The acting is topnotch, too. But the continual cutting back and forth between the separate plotlines is confusing, and has a dulling effect on what should be mounting tensions leading to a climax.

And what a disappointing climax. As one character notes, "there can be no end to what has started." I would modify this to "there can be no end to a cash-cow franchise in Hollywood, so what you see is what you get until The Grudge 3. And don't expect much there, either if we can strudel* the story along to The Grudge 4."

*strudel: the fine Hollywood art of stretching a concept for all its worth, using as little 'filling' as possible to keep you coming back for more.

Movie Review: Santa Claws (1996) Don't Watch Out For This One

Zombos Says: Are You Kidding Me?

Disclaimer: Zombos' Closet cannot be held libel for the loss of precious holiday time or mirth should any reader decide to ignore the numerous warning signs in this review and purchase, open, and view Santa Claws alone and/or sober. By reading this review, said reader releases Zombos' Closet and its heirs, in perpetuity, from fault, risk, and all future liability or damage that may occur from such viewing.

 

"How long has he been like this?" I asked.

"For the past half-hour," Glenor Glenda said.

"You should have called me sooner?" I felt Zombos' faint pulse.

"He said he wanted to watch something different," said Glenor. "I didn't know."

"How can you not know?" I held up the offending DVD, Santa Claws, while admonishing her.

"But Paul Hollstenwall said Zombos asked for it specifically—"

"Paul! So he's the one to blame for this. The last time he was here he wasted our time with Neon Maniacs. I can't believe he'd stooped this low. The man is incorrigible; a menace to decent horror fans everywhere."

"I told Paul he shouldn't. I told Zombos he should have gone to you first," Glenor said with tears in her eyes. "But Zombos said it didn't matter, that he wanted something new, something totally different to watch. He said he was too old to play it safe anymore. He's been that way ever since his birthday."

"Well, the damage is done. I hope you've learned your lesson," I said, lifting a brandy snifter to Zombos' lips. The color was gone from his cheeks. "At least with Paul Naschy movies I have a chance, but this? I'm not sure how to bring him back to sanity."

Zombos was grayer than usual and his breathing was short and shallow.

"What was that?" I asked. I leaned closer. Zombos' lips had moved, and a faint whisper caught my ear. "Say again?"

"Nudie-cutie," he managed to whisper. "I just...wanted...to see...nudie-cuties. My god, it was beyond horrible." He took the brandy snifter from me and held it in his trembling hands.

"Nudie cu—" Glenor started to say.

"That will be all, Glenor," I said, interrupting her. "I can take it from here. Thanks!"

She left the room. Zombos slowly recovered in-between sips of brandy.

 

Nudie-cuties, scream queens, bodacious tatas—none of this can save Santa Claws. It’s a movie not to see alone or sober. It stands as the perfect equivalent to bituminous coal: sufficient punishment for any horror fan on your Naughty Horror Fan holiday list. Sleazy synthesized background music, ear-numbing dialog delivered through cereal box acting, and sloppy camerawork all bump and grind together, along with the T and A, in this one shoestring-budgeted movie.

The cinema-train wrecks in the first five minutes when dubious horror overwhelms the night before Christmas cheer, and another young soul is damned and primed for future killing. Director John A. Russo (yes, that guy of Night of the Living Dead fame) mires blue-tinted, mismatched close-ups with a wobbly pan to find little Wayne (Christopher Boyle) sleeping on the couch in the living room. In the bedroom, his mom is frolicking with a naughty man. The man wants to open his present early, but she's afraid Wayne will wake up. He tells her he spiked Wayne's hot chocolate with two sleeping pills to knock him out. She smiles and quickly displays her ample stocking-stuffers. Wayne, who apparently dislikes hot chocolate, wakes up and interrupts their sleigh ride. The boy is so upset—though you can’t tell by his acting—easily pulls a loaded gun from a dresser drawer. They plead with him using dialog so bad I also wanted Wayne to shoot them.

He does, they scream, and the years and holidays fly by.

Now free from prison, grown-up Wayne (Grant Cramer) is working publicly as a teacher's aide and acting privately as a weirdo. When he receives his very own Raven Quinn (Debbie Rochon) life-size—but armless—mannequin from Scream Queen Magazine (a dubious promotional tie-in to be sure), he starts getting all dreamy-eyed as he admires its certificate of authenticity. Now there's a true collector: I would have been happy with the 12-inch doll.

The mannequin looks nothing like Debbie Rochon, the real-life scream queen who plays the fictional Raven Quinn scream queen. Rochon has arms, killer legs, and a beautiful smile. Apparently the props department did not have enough money for doing a life mold of her, so they used a commercial mannequin's torso instead, cutting off its arms and adding a black wig. One clever and creepy touch—actually the only clever and creepy touch—has Wayne dropping packing peanuts over the mannequin's head as they dance. This is as artistic as it gets.

While Wayne admires and listens to his mannequin, the real Raven Quinn picks up her two children from her in-laws—her gallivanting husband's mother and sister—who chide Quinn on her chosen profession. We learn Wayne lives next door to Quinn and acts like an uncle to her kids. As the kids run off to play, she and Wayne spend the next three hours sitting on the sofa—wait, I’m wrong, it only seems like three hours—proving why movie-making is a visual medium by boring us to death with their inactivity and mindless chit-chat.

For a psycho-teacher's-aide-horror-memorabilia-collector (no insult intended to any teacher aides who are horror memorabilia collectors), who has the ‘real’ object of his obsession this close, not much heat or psychosis is shown. When Quinn comes on to him, he still doesn't do anything. No, wait, he does: he goes back to express his love to the armless mannequin.

Then he decides to start killing people.

Just like that.

He goes to Scream Studios and kills a nudie-cutie, but not before she gyrates and completes her important shower scene acting moment; then he goes after the producer, who shoots Wayne at point-blank range. This being a no-budget movie, the blanks do no harm.

Scratch one producer.

Now let me reveal the spoiler. Are you ready?

To kill his victims, Wayne uses a prop from one of Quinn's horror movies on gardening. I think it the documentary called Fertilizer of the Damned, or Weed Be Gone to Hell, maybe. Anyway, the gardening tool is a puny three-pronged weed-puller. We never actually see Wayne use it. He waves it around, and then there are a few drops of blood followed by a body slumped on the ground.

Let’s move on.

Wayne complains to his stoic mannequin how everyone needs to pay. It’s not clear for what, but he’s certain everyone needs to pay. Meanwhile Quinn tries to get back with her husband, but he’s bedding down with another nudie-cutie, providing ample opportunity for more T and A. With no one noticing the producer is missing, more nudie close-ups fill screen time while "Uncle" Wayne drugs Quinn's two little girls' hot chocolates and goes shopping for a Santa Claus suit. Right! That’s the tie in to the movie title. It’s the only tie-in.

More nudie-cutie shower scenes ensue with another potential victim; she takes her shower, she answers the phone, she chats for a moment or two, then she goes back to take a bath.

But didn't she just take a shower? Who is she anyway?

We don’t find out.It’s just another randy, randomly inserted shower/bath scene with a well-endowed randomly inserted naked woman.

Wayne, dressed as Santa, shows up and kills her. I don’t know why and you wouldn’t, either. He just shows up and kills her. This is the only time he wears the red Santa Claus suit. He spray paints the suit black. Another inexplicable action left unexplained, but I thank god little kids everywhere are spared having a red-suited Santa slaying around without his sleigh.

In a flurry of scenes, it’s Quinn's turn to start flashing her T and A—but we cut back to Wayne doing?—Nothing, really, so we quickly cut to Quinn's errant husband returning home to find the kids knocked out on the sofa——And now we're back with Quinn being nicely naughty with a cuddly stuffed toy—No! Back to the house and a frantic call to the in-laws—Yes! Back to Quinn strutting her assets for the camera; she takes her top off and then—No! We’re back to her husband running over to crazy Wayne's house—Yes! Back to Quinn playing with her two big,unwrapped, Christmas presents.

So much for building tension (the dramatic kind I mean) as it’s killed during this inane scene and theme shifting. But like they say in those annoyingly loud infomercials, “Wait, there’s more!”

Black-suited Santa Wayne attacks Quinn's husband, then goes after her. In one last breathtaking struggle—I was excited the movie was almost over—Wayne and Quinn's husband go hand to hand (more like hand in hand the way the action was staged).Quinn grabs the weeder and plunges it into Wayne.

Finally, The End.

Bring Christmas cheer by leaving this one on the shelf.

Give a tie instead.

Meet the Horror Bloggers: Planet of Terror

Many fans of horror, amateur and professional alike, have devoted themselves to blogging about the thrills, chills, and no-frills side of the genre as seen in cinema and print. In this ongoing series that highlights the writers behind the blogs, we meet the unique personalities and talents that make the online horror scene so engaging. Up close and personal.

In this installment, Cortez the Killer and Complaint Dept. from Planet of Terror tag team all the horror and the personal stats for us.

Cortez the Killer Speaks

I was born in 1978 in San Diego, CA. Aside from a horror geek, I’m a corporate desk jockey, a rabid fan of heavy metal music, love to cook, and I’m not afraid to admit that my first concert ever was Billy Ray Cyrus. In my defense, I had no say in the matter.

Complaint Dept. and I met while working at the same company and became friends after learning of our mutual love of horror films, heavy metal, and over-the-top soft rock songsters (he, Michael McDonald, and I, Phil ‘The Man’ Collins).

My initial exposure to the world of horror started at a young age when my parents would stay up late until after I had gone to bed and turned on the VCR and popped in a flick. My dad has always loved horror and my mom would go along sparingly with his film selections. The memory of them watching Aliens 2 is still ingrained in my mind. After I was put to bed one night, I went out into the hallway and peered out from the corner, catching a side glimpse of the TV in the living room. The opening scene where Ripley wakes up after dreaming about an alien popping out of her belly immediately elicited a scream from me. My parents lead me back to my room and scolded me as this was something clearly not meant for the eyes of children. This feeling of something ‘for my parents eyes only,’ coupled with that initial scare and burst of fright, is what kept me coming back for more. I liked the element of danger and I kind of liked pissing off my parents.

Comic Book Review: A Very... Zombie Christmas 1

Zombos Says: Very Good (especially with hot chocolate)

While I prefer my Christmas toasty warm and eggnoggy smooth, there is something a tad enjoyable to having a little bit of zombie fear in all that holiday cheer. So put on your Snuggie, take a sip of your hot chocolate, and settle down by the fire with Antarctic Press' A Very...Zombie Christmas one shot.

I would have probably missed this issue if Glen, the owner of my local watering hole for comics, Fourth World, hadn't dropped it on my pull pile. He knows I like horror a bit and is always on the lookout for comics and magazines I might miss.

The three stories drawn in black and white are written with an eye toward leaving the reader with a little lump of coal among the candy in his or her stocking: short and sweet with a tart ending. My favorite is The Littlest Zombie Meets Santa by Fred Perry. In a world overrun by zombies, with survivors barely surviving, it's Christmas Eve and there is more than mice stirring around one particular sanctuary. The stylish illustration and story is like a big gingerbread cookie; cute to admire, but ready to bite. 

In Unholy Night, Joseph Wight makes sure to hang the stockings with care and leaves the children wide awake with dread in their beds after Grandpa Foster tells them his wartime experience with the undead on a snowy night. A two-page battle scene and decrepit zombies trampling the snow provide the visual treat as Wight takes full advantage of the black and white medium to convey the carnage.

The last story, David Hutchison's You Better Watch Out..., shows a heist gone bad using an EC-spiced ending to bring the boys together for the holidays. The inking over his pencils is very light, and his panels open up here and there to give his characters room. Some of his character positions reminded me of Steve Ditko's style, especially on the first page. The last panel is a cheery picture of togetherness that brings home the spirit of the holidays; for horror fans, anyway.

A Very...Zombie Christmas left me wishing it t'were twice the number of pages. These stories are well written and drawn. Now just imagine what you could do with a concept like a festival of zombies: eight days of terror...maybe next year, perhaps. Or how about George Bailey finding himself in zombie-town in It's a Terrible Life. Zombies. The possibilities are endless.

Graphic Book Review: Young Howard Lovecraft and the Frozen Kingdom

Zombos Says: Good (but is it Lovecraft?)

Blasphemy? Heresy? Bruce Brown and Renzo Podesta are treading very thin ice by making the anglophilic cosmic horror of Howard Phillips Lovecraft palatable for kids in the graphic novel Howard Lovecraft and the Frozen Kingdom. Or perhaps, by their adolescent-themed story based on Lovecraft's Mythos they may instill a fresh appreciation of those eldritch horrors that have become the first base and potent home run in much of horror fiction? Perhaps. But missing in the atmosphere created by their words and illustrations are the Gothic Noir and Rococo stylings--the stiffly starched shirt, rumpled cuffs verbiage Lovecraft is either praised or damned, but always noted for.

Drawing on Lovecraft's own tragic childhood, young Howard, in the company of his mom, pays a visit to Butler Sanitarium to see his raving mad dad. His father comes out of delirium long enough to implore Howard not to read that book, you know, the quintessential one that keeps getting every acolyte, neophyte, and unfortunate slub stepping into Lovecraft-land into terrible trouble. Here, it is his father's hand-written journal, containing the fruits of his occult explorations. Howard's mom, ironically, dumps that book into his little hands that same night for some bedtime reading enjoyment.

Interview: On Writing Horror With Lee Thomas

Author Lee Thomas writes horror, queer horror, slightly bent horror, and more than horror. If you've read his I'm Your Violence short story in Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet, I don't really need to tell you how he writes it. In that story he brought guilt, retribution, pasty gore, and gruesome death from under the pillow, leaving a nasty stain of reflection to think about. 

In an interview you said writing has always been a part of your life. Why is that?

I'm not sure of the "why" of it. It probably had something to do with childhood insecurity. I wasn't (and am still not) very comfortable around people, and I didn't express myself well verbally; but if I had the opportunity to write an idea down and tinker with it, I was able to convey my thoughts with some form of clarity. In the third grade I wrote short stories and puppet show scripts. I wrote my first novel when I was sixteen. It was a really bad werewolf novel and the character names kept changing, but a lot of it ended up informing my first published novel, Stained.

Though I've been writing most of my life, I didn't really try to sell my work until about eight years ago, and since then I've seen dozens of my short stories published, along with 10 novels (for adults and young adults) and a handful of non-fiction pieces.

You like to write horror fiction: tell us about your monsterkid influences as you grew up, and how they affected your writing.

I think my first exposure to horror was catching Frankenstein on television. There was that moment when the "monster" turned to the camera from a doorway and it scared the hell out of me. I liked it. So, I spent a lot of time looking to repeat that thrill. I watched anything with a creature in it, from Hammer films to Toho giant monster flicks. When I started reading "real" books, around 10 or 11 years old, I jumped in head first, reading Stoker's Dracula, Blatty's The Exorcist, and anything else I could get my hands on. Then I was exposed to James Herbert and early Stephen King, and a whole slew of really awful mass-market novels, some of which were brilliantly bad.

The older I grew, the more discriminating I became in what I read, and the sheer pulpy fun of the bulk of those mass-market titles took a backseat to more accomplished writing with greater depth of character and intricacy of plot (a la Peter Straub). Then Barker came along and brought a different sensibility to the genre that blew me away. Joe R. Lansdale was another great influence. In my own writing I keep trying to find the balance between intellectual and emotional engagement and the extremely fun gut-punch of the pulps I loved as a kid. One of these days, I'll get it right.

What is your daily routine for writing?

Oh that I had one. I've been writing full time for about 5 years now, but no pattern has emerged, except that I wake every day intending to write and I usually get something done everyday. Sometimes my entire day's production will take place before noon. Other times, I need some TV, reading or video game action to wake the brain up, so it might not be until afternoon or evening before I get to work. Some projects, like The Dust of Wonderland, come in a flood and I'm obsessed from the time I wake up until I crash, and I spend every available minute on them. Others move at a more leisurely pace. If I'm researching, which I've found I enjoy, a whole day can pass as I follow one thread of
information to another.

Really important question: having grown up in Seattle, are you a tea or coffee drinker?

Coffee. Morning, noon, and night. There aren't enough hours in the day for all of the coffee I want to drink.

Which authors does Lee Thomas read and why should we read them too?

I covered the early influences above (and I'm still reading most of them). I discovered Thomas Tessier, Graham Joyce, and Jack Ketchum more recently (in the last 10 years or so), and I've gone back and devoured their work. Newer authors I enjoy include Joe Hill, Tim Lebbon, Sarah Langan, Brian Keene, Tom Piccirilli, Laird Barron, Gary Braunbeck, Jim Moore, David Wellington, and a handful of emerging folks like Nate Southard, Joe McKinney, Paul Tremblay, John Langan, Nick Kaufmann, Joel Lane, and others I'm sure I'm forgetting.

Outside of genre I'm reading James Lee Burke, Russell Banks, Michael Cunningham, Armistead Maupin, John Irving, Ken Bruen, and going back, as I always do, to Hemingway, Steinbeck, Capote, and Baldwin.

What about horror movies?

Wow, just about everything, from ultra-bad slashers to brilliant mind-screws. Universal classics, particularly The Wolf Man; Hammer Studios; Italian horror from Bava, Fulci, and Argento; The Evil Dead trilogy; The Exorcist; The first few Romero zombie films; Carpenter's The Thing, Halloween, and The Fog; Stuart Gordon's work (with a soft spot for his film Dolls); about one-third of Wes Craven's films; a good amount of Asian Horror with big love for Ringu, Ju-On, and Cure. Of the recent spate of remakes I've enjoyed My Bloody Valentine 3-D, Friday the 13th, and Dawn of the Dead.

What does it take to become a successfully published author in today's market?

I imagine it takes what it always has: hard work, which includes pushing yourself to improve your craft; persistence in sending your work out; and a bit of luck in getting the right story in front of the right eyes (which can be managed through persistence). Beyond that it can take a good amount of patience. This is the thing that's tough for a lot of new writers to get their minds around.

Authors sign bad--sometimes pure-crap--deals on their work just to have it out there fast (I know I did early on). This does them, their careers, and their readers a great disservice. Granted some authors have found short cuts with online publishing, podcasting, self-publishing, and other new media, and for some it has translated into success, like Monster Island author David Wellington who first published his books as blog posts. Eventually the publishing dynamic is going to shift dramatically as a result of new media, but right now, the traditional route to publication is still firmly in place, and that means an author may have to wait a very long time to see his/her work reputably published.

What can we expect from you in the future?

My short story collection, In the Closet, Under the Bed, which collects 15 of my queer-themed short stories, will be out December 15th from Dark Scribe Press. I'm thrilled about this one; it's a unique horror collection to be sure. Plus, I have some new short stories coming out, including "Nothing Forgiven," which will appear in Darkness on the Edge from PS Publishing, and "Inside Where It's Warm," a zombie story I wrote for a forthcoming anthology edited by Joe McKinney.

There are a couple of others I can't talk about right now. My novella The Black Sun Set will be released next year by Burning Effigy Press out of Canada, and a novella collaboration I did with Nate Southard called Focus will also be hitting in 2010. Other things are in the works but I can't comment until contracts are signed.

Meet the Horror Bloggers: Zombies Are Magic

Many fans of horror, amateur and professional alike, have devoted themselves to blogging about the thrills, chills, and no-frills side of the genre as seen in cinema and print. In this ongoing series that highlights the writers behind the blogs, we meet the unique personalities and talents that make the online horror scene so engaging. Up close and personal.

In this installment, Jennifer from Zombies Are Magic tells us how how a zombie helped her escape hearing Tevye sing in Fiddler On the Roof, leading to a life-long passion for sleeping with the lights on.

My first “horror” memory is rather embarrassing, but pretty accurately sums up my love/hate relationship with the genre. I was 4, and my Mother had dragged me to the movies to see the re-release of Fiddler on the Roof. While standing in the lobby waiting for her to get popcorn I became captivated by the poster for Dawn of the Dead. It was the classic poster, with the head emerging from the earth and the tagline “When there’s no more room in HELL the dead will walk the EARTH.” The image thrilled and terrified me. As my mother dragged me into the theater tears started streaming down my face; not because I had to watch Fiddler, but because I knew the bad monster from poster was going to come and get me. I remember staring at the floor of the theater, just waiting for that head to pop out. The fit I threw was so epic we were asked to leave before Tevye got to singing “If I were a rich man.” As my poor Mother apologized to the Manager I remember thinking: I want to go back. I want to go see that monster. This was the start of a life-long fascination with Zombies and a good ten years of sleeping with the lights on.