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A beautifully composed Mexican lobby card: masked rider El Latigo (the Whip) rushing to the rescue, mummies menacing in the background, damsel in distress, a guy in distress, and superb illustration colors and font choices. Cowboys and Mummies! Now that's what I'd like to see instead of cowboys and aliens.
Maybe it's me, but I'm not sure he's got the whole axe as weapon thing down pat.
Zombos Says: Excellent
The revelation of the serial killer in The Girl With the Dragon Tatoo brings with it the most chilling line delivered onscreen since Silence of the Lambs' Chianti and Fava beans culinary mashup: a starker revelation that being a victim is one part maniacal killer, two parts victim's mistake. When it's added up, demoralizing insult is heaped on potential injury for journalist Mikeal Blomkvist (Daniel Craig) in this strong R-rated mystery.
Because it is a mystery you will need to pay attention. This is the second time I was asked for an explanation of a film's story in the theater's men's room after the film. "You saw Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, right?" "Yes." "What the hell happened?"
The labrynthine investigation of Henrik Vanger's (Christopher Plummer) family tree and the living and dead closet skeletons inhabiting the island, where relatives avoid each each, can be vexing enough, but the story is not only about them: it's about Blomkvist being successfully sued by a financial predator he was investigating; it's about that girl who likes tattoos and hacking into people's personal lives, Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara, who looks a lot like her name sounds). She's preyed upon by a social worker who can't keep his pants zippered; then there's a 40 year-old disappearance, complicated by more Nazi-skeletons rattling in that closet and a serial killer who may still be active.
I could go into detail, but it's better to watch it unfold. Just stay alert. It becomes dicey when Lisbeth teams up with Blomkvist. She did a very thorough background check on him. He knows about it. She was so good at it he figures she'd be a perfect assistant. She can't seem to keep her pants zippered when he's around, so he reluctantly lets her investigate that, too. The movie's a hot roll in moist bedsheets. It's a study in predator types. It's a downbeat, whitewashed landscape of cold days and nights, and dangerous revelations. It's also a puzzle involving not only the pieces but how they're fitted into place, one by one, and the unsavory picture those pieces create. Craig doesn't muscle-up his Blomkvist and Mara doesn't muscle-down her Lisbeth. The roles stay brittle: they get beat up, they get even. Lisbeth is a lot better at getting even.
She's one victim who knows how to exact revenge that's also economically rewarding. My guess is this is the part that capped the confusion the guy in the theater's men's room had. It's a little drama after the stage's main event has played out, so it's natural to drop your attention a notch at this point. Don't. It's even more fun to watch Lisbeth play with her mice. I'd wager if Lisbeth made it into a Bond movie she'd better play Bond's sister. Otherwise he's going to get his ass kicked but good.
Zombos Says: Very Good
Noir and Lovecraft seem to go together like Victorian and Gothic; all dark tones and hardboiled moods that lead to bruised knuckles and bloodied bodies dumped in greasy alleys or sprawled across attic stairs or gasping out last breadths while some hellspawn squishes close by.
Ed Brubaker's direct, terse words and indirect, terse characters capture crime noir's rythm of lightly brushed cymbals and pensive bass strumming, and Sean Phillips panels his landscape morosely, filling it with dark places and brooding recesses, hiding mystery in every corner. Colors provide faint contrast, but Dave Stewart knows to leave well enough alone and highlights the shadows by ignoring the light. This is crime noir. There's little light in crime noir, even during the day. Which works just dandy because there's little light in horror, too.
No creeping tentacles here. Yet. But the sense that something nasty and lugubrious and mucousy wet, sliding and sloshing around the next corner, is always on high. First issues are so hard to nail down tight; either they're too bland with lengthy exposition leading nowhere and no revelations, or too ham-fisted with constant rote motion and not enough exposition to build suspense. Good crime and horror needs that suspense, but they also need enough action, uncertainty, and characters having lousy luck at the worst possible moments to make you turn the page or read the next issue. Brubaker, Phillips, and Stewart hit the jackpot here. Words are as important as imagery for the noir aesthetic and on both counts this first issue provides the right mix of textual and visual narrative in its pages, which run from 5 to 8 panels deep each page in a traditional layout.
The story starts with a funeral and loose ends needing to be tied up before they strangle somebody. There's the obligatory old dark mansion, papers to go through, the handsome and rugged in-over-his-head guy who's made all warm and masculine inside by the mysterious woman who holds the answers to the questions he's about to have his face rubbed in by sinister big henchmen with dark glasses and impatient demeanors. The backstory goes back a world war or two, and there's a few splattered cultists who probably shouldn't have done what they did. But now it's too late.
At 24 pages, this is a fine read. You know fine reads, don't you? They're the type we used to get before comic books went on a diet and cover prices fattened up. So kick back that two fingers of scotch, puff on that Camel until the smoke makes you teary-eyed and your throat hoarse, and pucker up for that big, wet one. Only don't be surprised if it's slimy and cool on the lips and smells like yesterday's catch.
This is noir horror, baby.
Here's the double bill pressbook for The Haunted Strangler and Fiend Without A Face. The lip-biting Boris Karloff photo is priceless. I left out some of the pages as they contained assorted poster sizes for ordering. This oversized pressbook is approximately 12" x 17". (To make reading easier, some of these pages will open in the same window, where you can click on them to enlarge. Use your browser's back button to return to the main post.)
This is the herald giveaway for the double bill of The Haunted Strangler and Fiend Without a Face. For $5.25 per 1000, the theater could hand these out as free promotional items for this double bill to patrons. Of particular note is how women in distress (and undress) figure prominently in the advertising. I suppose these two big shockers weren't enough to bring in the rubes, so a little cheesecake was served. The movies, I mean.
Zombos' doesn't quite agree, but me and Dr. Who do: Fezzes are cool! I spotted this one at an antique show, but so did my Uncle Bob. He has a keen eye. He also has longer arms, so he grabbed it first. I pined away for months, knowing that the only true home for it was atop Bela's head.
For my 56th birthday my uncle surprised me by presenting the fez to me. Now I and Bela are truly happy. I recommend fezzes for everone's 56th birthday. Whether you have an urge to be a Son of the Desert, a desire to belong to a secret society that everyone knows about, or just need that finishing touch for your crimson velvet smoking jacket, remember, fezzes are cool!
The recent news that Barnes & Noble is tinkering with their Nook business and may spin it off from its core bookstore business is like deja vue all over again. They aren't Netflix, of course, but boy it does sound a lot like the potential to deflate what little bookstore business their doing now is growing tangible.
I say little because each time I walk into my local B&N its core bookstore business appears smaller than before. Sure, you've got Starbucks (love the Starbucks), and you've got the usual top of the heap of what's selling in print; but missing are the carousels of books because they've been replaced with carousels of googaws, cutesies, games, and touchy-feely items that didn't bring me into the store in the first place. Okay, yes, the Starbucks did--guilty--but I still like to walk around with my coffee to peruse the shelves, especially the horror and movie sections. That is, until the bookshelves started disappearing, taking all those potentially perusable books with them.
I'll be frank. I buy a lot of books on Amazon. Do I go into a bookstore to look at a book then buy it cheaper on Amazon? No. Yes. Well, maybe. If the book's a lot cheaper and I'm not in a rush, sure. If the book's only a little cheaper, I'll buy it from the bookstore. And there have been times when I just couldn't wait after perusing the book and had to have it then and there. My point is I find browsing books at a bookstore a heck of a lot more fun than trying to browse for books online, and I'll pay more for the convenience and the empowerment it gives. Many times I've gone over to the movie section and found books I'd never have thought of searching for. Sold! Other times B&N forced me to get a book on Amazon because they didn't carry it in that store's stock, but they could order it for me. Shoot, I can order it online, myself. Amazon Prime, baby! These days I've been spending much more time at a bookstore in Huntington called Book Revue. Loads of used-books, great prices, and a boffo movie section. And they've got a cafe, too. Sweet.
I wonder when B&N will be run by booklovers again?
Right now the heart of my B&N store is taken up by the Nook, its accessories, its antecedents, and its ne'er do well digital cousins. I like the Nook. I like Kindle. I like ebooks, mostly. But electronics sales belong in Best Buy, Target, and a heck of a lot of other places more suitable. Sure, a sales counter for Nooks is fine; devoting a huge portion of the bookstore to push digital readers isn't. Where are the damn books? And I don't mean the best-sellers, the pampering twaddle of self-help, feel-good, look-good pablum piled high on the discount tables. There are enough of those. I mean the treasures to be found in horror, science fiction, and fantasy books, the non-fiction books, the books that don't fit easily into the ludicrous categories that have sprung up to legitamize and commercialize nonsense.
Oh, wait, those shelves aren't there anymore. Tic-Tac-Toe in wood, anyone?
What I'd rather see-- I'm sure many print book readers would agree with me--is more books TO SEE. Borders started acting like my local Stop and Shop, cramming every non-book fluff item to boost sales, and it led them slowly out the door. I'm afraid B&N's strategy is leading them out that same door. Once they dissociate from the Nook, what's left? More shelves full of games and toys and puzzles? Or more books?
I'm holding my breadth to find out.
Zombos Says: Good
Watching The Darkest Hour reminded me of the 1954 movie, Target Earth. The similarities would be sparsely marauding alien invaders, standardized and blandly irrational and frenzied survivors looking for a way out of a desolate city, and dialog written and delivered with the emotional intensity of one hand clapping.
Unlike Target Earth's robots from Venus (actually only one was ever shown menacing the survivors), The Darkest Hour has a few more CGI aliens conveniently rolling around in their protective invisible balls of armor, incinerating anyone in their path. I don't recall why the robots invaded earth in 1954, but these ball-o-fire aliens of 2011 are plundering our planet for its natural resources in a drill, baby, drill paroxysm of destruction. You could do better for a holiday movie, but you could also do worse.
The alien-vision POV as people are hunted down conveys other-worldliness well enough on a budget, and the actors are only poorly written into their characters, although the stoic militia leader (Gosha Kutsenko) grinds out his "Moscow's got our back" patriotism badly enough to make you groan. Given more to work with, I'd expect more acting, too.
Two young entrepenuers, Sean and Ben (Emile Hirsch, Max Minghella) wind up in Moscow after being fleeced by Skyler, a corporate wolf (Joel Kinnaman) who steals their idea for a mobile app that guides travelers to local hotspots of iniquity. So, of course, when survivors are surviving, Sean and Ben find themselves holed up with Skyler. Cue the we-hate-your-guts-but-let's-get-through-this-first turmoil. Now add two girls, Natalie and Anne (Olivia Thirlby, Rachael Taylor) the boys run into in one of those hotspots, a resourceful old codger of a scientist who figures out the aliens can be toasted with a homemade microwave gun, some flimflam about a Faraday Cage to support the need for making their way to a nuclear sub waiting for survivors in the harbor--survivors with radios, anyway, who heard the broadcast--and a ragtag militia for comic relief (very little relief) fighting with their wits and whatever else they find will work against the aliens, and you've got almost a complete story, give or take some beats; enough to be watchable and guiltily enjoyable (like those Roger Corman Syfy movies).
That's pretty much it. Chris Gorak directs the action with gusto, but he dozes during downtimes, and lighter moments aren't deftly handled. Everything else, like the by-the-script bickering, the standard, doing stupid crazy tricks to get yourself killed moments, the not so surprising finding-by-accident ways to avoid the aliens, and a token patriotic ferver that makes Independence Day look like a masterpiece of rousing nationalism in comparison, will keep you waiting for more, which, in the long run, keeps you watching. Go figure.
Zombos Says: Good
James M. Fetters' Creatures of the Night That We Loved So Well: TV Horror Hosts of Southern California is an important and entertaining book, which makes it all the more disappointing to wade through its poor text-formatting and lazy page layout.
When I received my "Perfect Paperback" $24.95 copy from Amazon, my heart sunk when I saw the misprinted cover cutting off the title; it was a foreshadowing of the poor publishing standards overhwelming this book's otherwise welcomed contents. I recommend you don't buy the paperback version as it appears to be a print-on-demand book with no proofing to accomodate fixed page lengths or any common print sense for that matter. The sloppiness includes quotes appearing ad nauseum in italics, double-spaced paragraph blocks, and Fetters' overused exclamation marks! Photographs, full script pages and show production sheets, and newspaper clip advertisements are either improperly sized, or reproduced so faintly they're hard to read, a shame because they provide a wealth of information for the diehard horror host fan. Captions are out of alignment with photographs, and interviews are not properly referenced and vaguely introduced with a they can explain it better than me so here you go attitude, so I'm not sure how they were conducted or when.
Ignore all this amateurish presentation and you'll find worthwhile reading that, when paired with Elena M. Watson's Television Horror Movie Hosts: 68 Vampires, Mad Scientists and Other Denizens of the Late-Night Airwaves Examined and Interviewed, satisfyingly fills in the background for horror hosts Watson only briefly mentions. Fetter's meticulously provides show and channel information for each host, a superb timeline chart comparing national hosts to Southern California hosts, and he even lists what movies were shown, show by show; although the listing is unecessarily repeated in back of the book. More unnecessary page-filling is accomplished by providing capsule summaries for every Shock! and Son of Shock! movie, information easily found elsewhere.
What's really good here are the interviews, included scripts, and coverage for hosts like Ghoulita (Lietta Harvey) , Moona Lisa (Lisa Clark), Sinister Seymour (Larry Vincent), Grimsley (Robert Foster), and The Old Lady (Ottola Nesmith), who was sued by Mae Clark (Frankenstein) for wrongful impersonation. Grimsley takes you on a wild acid trip as he answers questions--I think those were answers, my head is still reeling--about his show, Moona Lisa's own scripting ("Lisa wrote all of her scripts usually around 5 a.m.") is enlightening, and Sinister Seymour is vividly recollected by Douglas McEwan, who provides his complete, but unproduced, Octaman script for Sinister Seymour's Fright Night. While much of the reminiscenses are nostalgic, the ego-intrigue between Moona Lisa's appearance with Sinister Seymour (he was very ill with cancer at the time) at the Knott's Berry Farm Halloween Haunt provides a rare glimpse into the politics of hosting.
The Famous Morris (Don Sherman) chapter provided a pleasant surprise for me. Back in the 1970s I was holed up in a motel room, flipping channels until I came across a horror movie. I was shocked (more like wow, this is neat, really, I was young) to see breasts bared. Now I know who's show it happened on, even if I don't remember the actual movie shown. This is one real "Urban Legend" I still remember. Famous Morris also explains how he became Andy the Bartender in the Rocky movies.
Clarification in the lineage for Jeepers' Creepers Theatre (Jeepers, Ghoulita, Jeepers' Keeper, and The Creeper) cleared up the cobwebs for me regarding the hosting for this long running show. What's clear after reading Fetters' book is how much fun and work went into producing a horror host show, and how clearly American the phenomenon was and still is. We do love our schlocky horror hosts with our horror: they made the bad movies palatable and the good ones even better.
Is it Halloween yet?
