From Zombos' Closet

LOTT D Roundtable: Evil Kids in Horror Movies

Sugar and spice and everything nasty and not very nice; that's the usual scenario when evil kids go out to play in the horror genre. But there's something not quite right here. Children in real life rarely have power over adults (unless they are royalty or Disney-channel stars), while in the horror genre they wield enough power to make any and all adults quake in fear or drop dead. How can this be? What elements combine to turn all that sugar sour and comforting cinnamon spice into hot pepper? Why do they scare us so much, or traumatize us, or make us wish they would go away and play with their nastiness somewhere else? From zombie kids to Satan's pride of joy, from juvenile serial killers to mutant offspring, the little evil ones bedevil us.

The following members of The League of Tana Tea Drinkers lend their thoughts on the subject for your edification pleasure.

Movie Review: The Strangers (2008) Home On The Strange

Zombos Says: Excellent

The message director Bryan Bertino seems to be implying in The Strangers is not to misuse technology; doing so can get you killed. Two misused cell phones, one misused house phone, and a misused car and ham radio later, he clearly illustrates why in this latest iteration of the home-invading stalker movie. With similarities to 2006's European Them, Bertino's masked assailants lay siege to the desolate home and psyches of an already distraught couple, entering the premises at will and often standing quietly in the background watching their freaked-out victims, Kristen (Liv Tyler) and James (Scott Speedman).

After his marriage proposal doesn't go the way he anticipated it would, James and Kristen head to his family's vacation house at four in the morning. With red rose petals strewn across the bathtub and bed, and a bottle of champaign less chilled than the soured marriage proposal, both try to reconcile the awkwardness by getting frisky instead. Of course, as you and I know, any hint of sex in a horror film spells trouble with a capital T. Right on que, a nerve-rattling pounding on the front door ends their reconciliation. Outside, a Squeaky Fromme-voiced girl, her face hidden in the darkness created by an unscrewed porch light, is looking for someone. Maybe it's me, but how can James not get a clue even when he screws the porch light back in after the girl goes away? Clueless victims in horror films make matters much worse, as you and I also know.

An empty pack of cigarettes sends him driving to the corner store for a refill, but the corner store is miles away, leaving Kristen all alone. Let's recap, shall we? A really creepy girl shows up at the front door asking--in a very creepy voice-- if some guy they don't know is home. Oddly enough, the porch light is unscrewed so her features are hidden in darkness. Oh, and let's not forget the incessant and really, really loud pounding that preceded her appearance: a pounding such a diminutive girl could not have possibly done on her own. Do you see where I'm going with this? apparently James doesn't. Maybe Kristen is right in not marrying such a dope.

While he's away, little squeaky comes back, more annoying and creepy than before, with more threatening pounding on the front door. Bertino adds a subtle shifting of the camera, right to left, left to right, as it focuses on the unsettled Kristen, reflecting her growing distress. Then the misuse of technology begins.

Instead of calling the police, Kristen calls James--you know, the dope who left her alone in the first place for an expensive pack of cigarettes. Oops, should have charged that cell phone. She plugs it in and goes for the house phone instead. Not much luck with that either. Gee, I wonder why? Technology can be such a bother when making a horror movie. Isolation is essential when creating the right mood and increasing helplessness. You can't have good horror if potential victims can make quick phone calls for help, or jump in cars and drive away from trouble. Better to make sure they're remiss in using all that life-saving, help-bringing, techno-crap; best to eliminate it right away, leaving them powerless. Dead batteries and poor cellular service are two ways to squelch this cell phone empowerment dilemma. Bertino uses them and more in nice, too-easy, techno-swipes enabled through poor decisions, as the strangers silently hover, surprisingly close, in the background, taking full advantage of James and Kristen's shattered composure and wilting thought processes.

James returns, but leaves his cell phone in the car. Even after Kristen explains the weird things happening, the crazy noises, and stuff in the house moving from where it was left, he's slow to realize they should be driving off like the devil was shooting white-hot flames after them. When he does decide it's time to leave, his car is tidily put out of commission, sending them running back into the house where their attackers can enter at will.

In desperation, James remembers the gun. In the best argument for the NRA put on screen, he fumbles trying to use it, load it, and aim it. The axe chopping through the front door adds a sense of urgency, so he figures it all out pretty quick and shoots. Unfortunately, he misses. But he does have a shotgun and lots of shells, right, so they're safe now. Let the intruders come. He's ready. Sort of. Then again, no, not really.

The home invasion continues, and James and Kristen continue to work against each other and misuse any technology they come into contact with that could possibly help them. Bertino's grim, helter-skelter-styled, 1970's-toned, stalking-slashers-treating-you-bad "because you were home" directorial and writing debut relies on the usual dodges--unwise separation, getting yourself hurt when you can least afford to, and mistaken identity--but through his "uneasy" camera, use of music and loud, incessant, irritating noises, and the movement of his three masked intruders inside and outside the home, builds the terror and suspense. Roger Ebert would have given Bertino one star but upped it to one and a half when he found out this was his directorial debut. I'll go one better and say he's earned two stars for mixing tried and true formulas into an effective thriller. The Strangers will make you double-check your door at night and sleep just a bit more uneasily, even with the lights on--and keep your cell phone charged and close by at all times.

What Lives On Zoc's Desk!

As I sit at my cluttered desk in the attic, pining away with the summer doldrums, pondering my next review, my next missive, my next revelation, and even my next fluffy piece of reading-candy, it suddenly struck me: why not highlight the many and varied things that live and breathe--metaphorically--on my desk?

There is always something interesting here, patiently waiting for my attention, or glaring back at me in accusatory silence due to the lack of it. Whether hiding under piles of DVDs, or books, or magazines, whether there for inspiration or tethering to my memories and responsibilities, my desk--anyone's desk for that matter--is a life-equation summed to its rectangular, oblong, or boxy measurements. So let's see what's interesting today, shall we?

They're Tearing Down My Coney Island

I don't know why I'm crying, but I am. I don't know why there's a lump in my throat, but there is. Astroland is closing. They're shutting down Deno's Wonder Wheel Park. They're tearing down my Coney Island, the one seen in fading Polaroid and Kodachrome snapshots blurring into history, and watched on YouTube snapcasts pidgeonholed into two-minute slices for quick viewing. My tawdry, unattractive Coney Island will be replaced by the upscale, condo-dwelling, MP3-swilling crowd, which quantifies, properly socializes, and neatly categorizes everything into discrete gigabytes of wholesome 0s and 1s on their thumbdrives.

Press start. Hit play.

In our digitized and homogenized world is analog entertainment inconvenient? Entertainment which hasn't been iPodded, or frontal corporatomized, or discretely measured into binary drips repeatedly delivered through popular media and fat business: who still wants it? Entertainment with tattoos flaring, piercings gleaming, and inner voices speaking first, inner ears listening last: why not open a mall instead? The not so pretty entertainment best enjoyed in ill-fitting clothes and loose bodies summed into fractions instead of rounded numbers: what, no Starbucks? Coney Island's skewed amusements have sidestepped the ubiquitous, commercialized, lockstep entertainment formulas medicating us through every day until now. But its time has run out.

Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe I'm out of touch and all's right with the world. Or maybe, just maybe, the closing of this historic amusement park, this last bastion of hucksterism and questionable rides, of piss-smelling walkways, seedy denizens, and plastic trinkets--maybe this is the death knell for the gritty, indiscreet, and impertinent analog amusements unfit for our digital consumption. You know, the fun stuff not approved, not sanitized, not reamed out to hell by our wannabe clean-cut, moral-spewing but not doing culture?

When the real Coney Island closes forever, where will Deno's Wonder Wheel Park and it's over fifty Spook-A-Rama, "the world's longest spook ride" go? Okay, well, sort of; it was the longest ride if you counted in the interminable twisting and turning of the Pretzel rotating car as you traversed a narrow outside courtyard, between the darkness of the two buildings once used to contain the myriad terrors popping up at you.

In an almost forgotten summer, in a long ago year, the kid I was got the joke. Before I could inhale my first gasp of disgust at the yucky "spiderwebs" touching my head in the brief, utter blackness of building one (how long had those strings hung in the dank, musty air?), I was flung into the bright sunlit courtyard to make my lengthy--and very uneventful--journey toward building two where the real horrors waited. Most of the ten-minute ride was spent in that courtyard, whirring around the track, looking at fake plants with signs that read "poisonous." In-between the hissing sounds of compressed air escaping, unoiled machinery screeching, and quivering soundtracks, I swear I could hear William Castle chuckling in the dark of the second building when I finally got to it.

But I took this mindshot long ago, well before building one was torn down and the courtyard track dug up, replaced by more--better--money-making concessions; well before the lurid outside facade of fading, peeling-paint monstrosities was replaced with more innocuous figures of Laurel and Hardy, and Disneyized pirates, banishing the leering, bug-eyed gargoyles, spookshow skulls, and pitchfork-wielding devils to limbo. The salty air hastened decay and ever-increasing safety codes did the rest; little remains of the original grotesqueries quickly flashing by in the darkness; but still they scream for life beyond YouTube and Twitter.

Although many of the original displays have been replaced, either through deterioration or the need to upgrade to current safety codes, Spook-A-Rama has accumulated one of the most eclectic collections of stunts to be found in any dark ride. Some were built on the premises when the ride was new; some are from long-gone manufacturers such as Bill Tracy and Animated Display Creators; others are from newer current studios like Distortions Unlimited, Halloween Productions and Screamers; and many are of unknown origin. Still others were acquired from neighboring Coney Island rides that had closed, such as Tunnel Of Laffs and Dragon's Cave, as well as the aforementioned 'Hell 'N Back' Tracy-furnished ride at Rockaway.--Bill Luca, www.laffinthedark.com

Pause.

Astroland, the "space-age" theme park's lease on life has expired, too. I was there in 1962 when it opened. I won't be there when it closes after this one last season. Many dark rides have come and gone, but Dante's Inferno is still there. Sure, it's changed, but haven't we all? Its original theme, Dante's Divine Comedy, no longer applies, instead replaced by a hodgepodge of stunts (lingo for the creepy, often cheesy, tableaus) walled behind glass, safely distancing you from the scares, keeping the improper terrors properly out of reach. Nothing here lunges at you or threatens you. Like most digital entertainment: you just watch. Aside from a circular saw dismemberment, most of the terror comes from twirling around in the dark, strobe lights, and waiting for the next stunt. Unlike the denatured facade of Spook-A-Rama, Dante's Inferno still has skeletons and a pitchfork-wielding devil clutching a victim. Being portable, maybe the ride will find a new home elsewhere.

Slow-reverse. Play.

Take a deep breadth of air from the Coney Island boardwalk. Do you smell it? Deep-fried and crispy-brown it comes, heavy with salty, peppery heat, topped with sugary-sweet dripping ice cream cones, mingling with the odors of sun-bleached wood dried out by wind-blown sand and etched by the thousands of footsteps mashing thousands of potato knishes, squishing millions of hot dogs, kindling endless romantic dreams and littering Coney Island whitefish across many long-gone summers stretched end-to-end.

What will happen to the boardwalk when the condos come, and the shopping malls, and the theaters? Where will Sideshows by the Seashore be, the last place where you can experience unusual, analog performers with their imperfect bodies, undulating Ray Bradbury tattoo illustrations, gasoline-thirsty throats, bizarre feats no one else dares to do, and physical triumphs no one else has been cursed and gifted with, showing all off in a genuine, traditional ten-in-one circus sideshow? Where will Satina the snake charmer slither to, or Otis Jordan, the frog boy, roll and light a cigarette with his lips, or Zenobia, the bearded lady, give it a good tug, or Helen Melon, who is "so big and so fat that it takes four men to hug her and a boxcar to lug her!" be hugged? What place for them in our digital age of bodily perfection and propriety? YouTube? No. You can't take the hammer to pound that way-too-long nail into the Human Blockhead like I did on a stifling summer day. You can't touch Satina's way-too-big snake, either, or smell the alcohol swabs as the Human Pincushion sticks needles into his bare flesh.

Fast-forward. Stop.

One last breadth, one last ride. Coney Island's ghosts, Astroland, and Deno's Wonder Wheel Park will depart at the end of the 2008 season. Dreams, imagined futures, and forgotten pasts to follow. But, hey, just catch them all on YouTube. 

LOTT D Roundtable: Torture Porn in Horror Today

Cinema tends to reflect either the banality, the sanctity, or the immorality of our times, and patrons of movies promote the ones they like most by buying more theater tickets, more DVDs, and more Netflix rentals for them. The popularity of a movie will invariably foster more movies with similar storylines, similar characters and action themes, and as many sequels as an audience's attention span will allow. In a word, profit drives the creative ups and downs of cinema. From the independent to the mainstream, whether grindhouse or arthouse, the bottom line accounts for most of what we see and hear in the darkened theaters of Cannes, Sheboygan, and points in-between.

With movies affected by the vagaries of social and commercial forces, how do you explain the cross-genre use of torture porn in films like The Passion of the Christ, Saw, Hostel, Wolf Creek, Irreversible? Or even it's lesser use in television shows like Battlestar Galactica or 24? How do you justify the extended, agonizing, and too-graphic torture of a human being (or human-like being), who is humiliated and vivisected emotionally, spiritually, and physically? Is it a necessary component for high drama, or just a bottom-line feeder? And what does it say about us, the audience, promoting such movies like Saw every Halloween, forcing each sequel to become a more creative evisceration bloodbath?

The horror-blogging members of the League of Tana Tea Drinkers give their take on torture porn. One word of advice: this is not a fluff piece of transient newsy gossip, or Twitter-sized comments of self-importance. Brew a nice cup of tana tea and butter your brain on both sides before you begin. Now get nice and comfortable. Ready? Let's begin.

Movie Review: Night of the Demon (1957) It's Coming for You!

Zombos Says: Excellent

So...this guy, Hal Chester, messed up the screenplay quite a bit. It was so good, the screenplay, that it couldn't be completely destroyed, only half destroyed. It's still considered a good movie. I think the job Jacques Tourneur did with what Hal Chester gave him was awfully good. Hal Chester, as far as I'm concerned, if he walked up my driveway right now, I'd shoot him dead. (Charles Bennett, quoted in Backstory 1: Interviews with Screenwriter's of Hollywood's Golden Age)

 

It's funny how the same mainstream script-to-screen development journey is undertaken again and again: script gets written, then gets rewritten by Hollywood-type (sometimes plural) who sticks his or her two cents in while pinching every other penny out of production, usually creating a penny-wise but pound foolish cinematic disappointment.

In the case of one film, Night of the Demon (or the shortened version, Curse of the Demon, for the United States), the script actually survives "improvements" by said Hollywood-type—Hal E. Chester—and the vexing Bureau of British Film Censors, to become an effective supernatural chiller in spite of the Woolworth's bargain basement special effects involving a beautiful-in concept, godawful in execution, puppet demon, and bad-boy drinking habits of one American actor determined to climb inside an empty bottle of booze head first. Of all the remakes, reworks, and re-imagines circulating Hollywood these days, this little cult gem of supernatural horror really deserves renewed attention.

But did Hal E. Chester or the censors really hurt the film?

Or did they inadvertently help polish it into a tidy, tension-mounting story showing how psychologist and paranormal debunker John Holden steps into it, only to realize what's sticking to his shoe is real and hairy and cannot be rationally explained away by science?

That the traditionally structured Night of the Demon was produced at all is surprising. Hammer Films, at the same time, was moving away from the don't show, just hint intentional ambiguity of Jacques Tourneur's noir terrors in favor of the brighter, bloodier, mush your face in it gasps of Curse of Frankenstein, which was not ambiguous at all. When Night was released in America it was even double-billed with Terrence Fischer's Revenge of Frankenstein, providing audiences with quite the Mutt and Jeff of horror opposites in visual and intellectual involvement, but keeping one similarity: neither movie was ambiguous.

Contrary to Jacques Tourneur's preference for implicative events and obfuscating shadows to force uncertainty of what's really happening and a did-I-see-what-I-just-saw? feeling, there is no doubt whatsoever a fire demon is coming to horribly mangle one, very skeptical, Dr. John Holden (Dana Andrews) for daring to expose devil-cult leader—and part-time children's magician—Karswell (Niall MacGinnis).

Within the opening minutes we race along with Harrington, the doomed predecessor to Holden, as he frantically tries to undo the curse brought about by the passing of a slip of paper to him, written with Runic symbols, marking him for gruesome death. We are introduced to the power Karswell wields and, in no uncertain terms, the reality of the fire demon summoned by his command. To Harrington's horror it first appears as twinkling lights, then emerges from an eerie unfolding cloud of smoke among the trees to be seen—by us—as a poorly executed puppet that looks like it's pedaling on a bicycle toward him (but is actually being pulled on a dolly toward the camera).

Composer Clifton Parker's otherwise effective scoring is compromised here by a rapidly repeating screech, sounding much like squeaking bicycle wheels going round and round (similar to the sound the giant ants make in Them!), unintentionally reinforcing the demon-on-a-bike impression. But it's the building tension in Tourneur's deft direction that surmounts this less than stellar physical effect, while the jarring rough cut close-up of the demon's ghastly face (added when Tourneur wasn't looking, I'm sure since he would have none of that), creates the defining monster image that lingers in the mind long afterwards.

Based on M.R. James's short story, Casting the Runes, screenwriters Charles Bennett, Cy Endfield, and Hal E. Chester (co-producer of The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms), expand the story using the "magic 3 + R" of scriptwriting: nasty powerful villain, naive male and smart female, and add dash of unlikely romance between them. It was Chester who insisted on showing the monster much more than Tourneur intended, in hopes of attracting an American audience (I know, shame on us for being so demanding, even then).

While Tourneur wanted to create a psychological thriller similar to his Cat People, Chester wanted no doubt in the audience's mind of the terror coming by night. Between the two, the story becomes a supernatural version of 1949's noir D.O.A; although here it's dead-man-walking Holden's growing realization he's been marked for death propelling the story forward. By eliminating any doubt the threat is real, we know Holden is in danger: but will he realize it? Will his growing suspicion that sometimes a monster is just a monster, and not a figment of a superstitious imagination or autosuggestion, galvanize him to action? In this respect, Chester's Night is truer to James' story than Tourneur would have made it.

Karswell is not all that nasty, either.

In James' story, Karswell is evil through and through, but in Night, Karswell has his softer side (he gives a children's magic show each Halloween). He is also secretly fearful. In a revealing speech, unwisely cut from the American version, he chastises his kindly mother for not realizing the predicament he's in:

 

Karswell-
You get nothing for nothing. Listen, mother. You believe in the supernatural. I've shown you some of its power and some of its danger.

Mrs. Karswell-

Yes, Julian.

Karswell-

Well, believe this also. You get nothing for nothing. This house, the land, the way we live. Nothing for nothing. My followers who pay for this do it out of fear. And I do what I do out of fear also. It's part of the price.

Mrs. Karswell-

But if it makes you unhappy. Stop it. Give it back.

Karswell-

How can you give back life? I can't stop it. I can't give it back. I can't let anyone destroy this thing. I must protect myself. Because if it's not someone else's life, it'll be mine. Do you understand, mother? It'll be mine.

 

This mum and son chat reveals how much he's stepped in it, too, but willingly, unlike Holden. Under that calm and commanding veneer lies a man trapped into doing what he must to keep from being stepped on by something far nastier and even more powerful.

And that something is coming closer and closer toward Holden every day. After Karswell surreptitiously passes along the Runic spell, Holden starts feeling cold all the time, keeps hearing an odd and mournful tune playing in his head, and smokes and drinks like a fish while Harrington's niece, Joanna (Peggy Cummins), berates him for being such a non-believing, smug, chowder-head. She knows how and why her uncle died from reading his journal, and now she's trying to save Holden from the same fate before it's too late. Even Mrs. Karswell, against her son's will, wants to help.

In what some critics consider a weakening sidestep from the mounting tension, she has Joanna bring Holden to a seance she's arranged. The incredulous psychologist reluctantly joins the proceedings as the medium, Mr. Meek (Reginald Beckwith), humorously channels his spirit guides until he is taken over by Joanna's uncle. Harrington's voice, frantically warning of the coming danger, ending in a shriek of fear as he relives the night of the demon attack "It's in the trees! It's coming!" Holden, not impressed by the proceedings, ignores the warning; but uneasiness is beginning to chink his scientific armor more and more.

Tourneur turns down the light and lengthens the shadows for the revelation of the little slip of paper in Holden's possession, exactly as Harrington describes it in his journal. Is it the wind from an open window that whips the paper from Holden's hands and sends it flying toward the fire on the hearth, only to be stopped from bursting into flame by the ember screen? Or does it have a life of its own and desperately tries to reach the fire, even after he closes the window?

Joanna insists it's alive and is trying to seal his fate by burning, but Holden tells her it's the draft going up the chimney keeping it tight against the screen; but as he says that it suddenly drops motionless to the floor, draft or not. "What made it stop?" asks Joanna. "I don't know," says Holden, deep in thought, for once without a rational explanation.

He carefully tucks the paper into his wallet for safekeeping.

More strange events unsettle Holden, forcing him to question his senses enough to burgle Karswell's house to find answers. A terrifying encounter with Grimalkin, the Karswell’s familiar and watch-cat, reinforces Holden's growing concern that he's dealing with things outside the scope of his understanding. Ignoring Karswell's suggestion to avoid the woods, Holden becomes more unraveled when the fire demon puts in a brief appearance. Through the use of diffused light, shadows, and increasingly unexplainable events, Holden is pushed more and more toward a realization he's still not fully willing to accept.

The turning point comes when Holden interviews a former cult member who, having survived Karswell's witchcraft by passing the runic-covered paper to his brother, is left in catatonic shock. While the scientific plausibility of the hypnotic session to awaken him is questionable, Tourneur's direction sums Holden's disquieting supernatural encounters into one riveting moment of desperate action. He learns enough to know he must return the paper to Karswell, but can he do it in time?

The final confrontation between Holden and Karswell, two men frightened and desperate—one anxious to return the paper, the other anxious to keep it from being returned—moves the film to its smoke-filled, demon demon, who's going to get the demon? denouement at a brisk pace.

Night of the Demon, while it has its faults (mostly due to budget), rises above them through its story of a rational, scientific man pitted against the inexplicable, and Tourneur's noir direction that transitions Holden's uncertainty to certainty in incremental encounters with an unknown that's gunning for him while we pray he wakes to the coming danger before it is too late.

Movie Review: Iron Man (2008) A Superhero with Heart

Zombos Says: Excellent

Robert Downey Jr. and Gwyneth Paltrow make Iron Man more than the sum of the boilerplate screenplay by Mark Fergus, and the cover-the-basics villains and action directed by Jon Favreau. As Tony Stark, playboy billionaire (and former Long Island native), and Pepper Potts, his personal assistant handling his professional and personal affairs with equal efficiency--including his hubris-sized ego--both bring a twinkle-in-the-eye charm to this first tent-pole movie of the summertime box office season. And this tent-pole is made solid iron strong because of it.

From the opening salvo of Stark's bloody capture by terrorists, to his revelation his weapons of mass destruction actually kill more than the enemy, Downey keeps the balance of humor and drama in proper comic book movie perspective. While motivations and characters are measured in black and white to keep the action neatly moving, it 's Downey's cheeky delivery and attitude riffing against Paltrow's dry, no-nonsense, manner in between the slam-bam fisticuffs, and Stark's humorous outcomes when developing his suit of armor that delights more than the expected rousing rock music score and flashy explosions; but those are not too shabby either.

Between the exploding tanks and humvees, and bullets ricocheting, his development of Iron Man's armor from early prototype to uber-gadgetized, mechanized, Jarvisized (a very personal and proper speaking computer net), and hot-rod red splashed alloy chick-magnet, the special effects kick in bigtime but still take a backseat to Downey's over-eager robotic helpers, his insistence on testing features not quite ready for prime time, and a chest implant keeping him alive, but glows like a Burger King sign and requires more upkeep than he can carry out alone. Ms. Potts rises to the occasion here, but sends him into cardiac arrest when she accidentally pulls the plug on this mini-power plant, which keeps the shrapnel scattered around his heart from moving any closer. It also powers the suit of armor, and provides the impetus for a mine-is-bigger confrontation between Iron Man and a very hostile corporate take over.

The movie stays true to the original comic book storyline, but updates it from Vietnam to Afghanistan. There's also S.H.I.E.L.D. For comic geeks (like myself) who grew up on a steady diet of the Avengers and Nick Fury's gadget-topian secret service, I'll only say you need to stay seated past the credits. A teaser shows the possibilities for the sequel, and they are Marvel-ous indeed. This beginning franchise is running on all thrusters, and if Downey and Paltrow stay the course, it will remain so.

Interview: Little Girls and Big Monsters

One of the greatest pleasures derived from writing a horror blog is meeting so many interesting people involved creatively with the horror genre and how they express themselves through the moving image, the written and spoken word, a chilling melody or ominous sound, nightmarish illustration, or a fiendish photograph that freezes horror for one lasting moment in time, somewhere between our feet dangling into the deepest pit of our fears and the tips of our fingers holding fast to the shorn edge of our reason.

I'm not quite sure whether photographer Joshua Hoffine has lost his grip yet, but let's chat with him while we still can about his morbid curiosity getting the better of him, and his nightmarish visions clouding his better judgment; in other words, his freaking-me-out photographs of horror.

HOW DID YOU GET STARTED IN PHOTOGRAPHY AND MUTATE FROM WHOLESOME SUBJECTS TO FANTASTIC HORROR?

I started making photographs shortly after graduating from college with a degree in English Literature. My original portfolio of photographs was very dark and disturbing. At that time, I was interested in Frederick Sommer and Joel Peter Witkin, and was creating proto-horror assemblages that sometimes included animal parts. I landed an internship with Nick Vedros, who is the biggest photographer in my hometown of Kansas City, and Nick encouraged me to make my work more palatable to survive as a commercial photographer. From Nick I moved onto Hallmark Cards, which is also based in my hometown.

At Hallmark I mastered the art of making things pretty. I left after only 18 months, and started shooting weddings. With the free time and resources that wedding photography afforded me, I began my first project as a mature photographer, a series of horror photographs called After Dark, My Sweet. Without a gallery or an agent or an audience of any sort, I drove my family into poverty time and time again as I self-financed this costly work. My images are not photoshop collages, but meticulously lit performances caught on camera. I build sets, and use costumes, elaborate props, special effects make-up, and fog machines to bring my ideas to life. I am only restrained by budget.

WHAT IS YOUR CREATIVE PROCESS? HOW DO YOU COME UP WITH THE SITUATIONS YOU DEPICT?

From my own memories and fears, as well as the fears of my children. There are sometimes allusions to specific horror films or fairy tales. I am especially attracted to any fears that might be considered universal - like the fear of a monster or boogeyman lurking under your bed.

I FOUND 'CELLAR' PARTICULARLY DISTURBING, AND EVOCATIVE OF J-HORROR NIGHTMARE. HOW DID YOU COME UP WITH THIS ONE?

That image is directly inspired by Henrietta bursting out of the earthen floor of the fruit cellar in Evil Dead 2.

MANY OF YOUR PHOTOS HAVE A LITTLE BLOND-HAIRED GIRL IN THEM. WHO IS SHE? WHY NOT USE A LITTLE BOY INSTEAD?

The Little Girl is played, alternately by my daughters Shiva or Chloe. I chose to use a Little Girl because it carries more archetypal power, and references other Little Girl characters like Goldilocks, Little Red Riding Hood, Alice in Wonderland and Dorothy in Oz. In my work, like everywhere else, the Little Girl symbolizes innocence and wonder. Simultaneously, the work possesses a subtext about child predation - which is more easily conveyed, I feel, by using a little girl rather than a little boy. I am interested in the operation of subtext and metaphor in Horror.

I'LL ASSUME YOUR A HORROR FAN IN GENERAL. WHICH ARE YOUR FAVORITE MONSTERS AND WHY?

My favorite monsters include Rob Bottin's work on The Thing, the original Nosferatu, Chris Cunningham's Rubber Johnny, and the child-devouring ogre in Pan's Labrynth. Because they are perfect.

DO YOU DO COMMISSIONED WORK; FOR INSTANCE, TAKE SOMEONE'S NIGHTMARE IDEA AND PHOTOGRAPH IT FOR THEM?

I do commissioned work all the time, mostly for bands and musicians with independent record labels. There is no art director with small labels, so I'm able to write an original piece tailored just for the musician. My most recent work was done for a Detroit rapper named Prozak. Some of his work has a political streak through it, so I wrote 'Uncle Sam' for him to use as artwork on his CD. Other times, he just had a prop he was interested in, like a gas mask or a chainsaw - and I'd hammer out a scenario to go shoot. We're gearing up to do another one in fact, based on The Slumber Party Massacre.

WHAT'S THE ONE QUESTION I SHOULD BE ASKING BUT DIDN'T? AND WHAT'S YOUR ANSWER?

Question: Do you still shoot weddings?

Answer: About 20 a year. But under a fake name.

Movie Review: The Forbidden Kingdom (2008)

Zombos Says: Very Good

Jet Li and Jackie Chan on screen together for the first time generate entertaining chopsocky mayhem in this light-hearted actioner fantasy from director Rob Minkoff and writer John Fusco. Get a big bucket of popcorn, add liberal amounts of salt and butter flavor, and just enjoy this fairytale story that's short on logic but long on fun and mind-blowing kick-ass artistry between Li and Chan.

From the opening over-the-top credit roll parading martial arts movie posters in all their pulp-saturated color glory,  highlighted by upbeat heart-thumping music, to the whimsical, so bad it's charming wirework of Sun Wukong, the Monkey King's aerial combat on a mountain top against the Jade soldiers sent by the evil Jade Warlord (played by Collin Chou with suitable evilness), this movie doesn't take itself too seriously, but relishes the frenetic Kung Fu energy generated by Li and Chan as part homage to the countless kick-block-punch-jump-fly movies that have brightened up many a Saturday matinée.

Young Jason Tripitikas (Michael Angarano), martial arts dreamer and fanatical fan, visits his favorite hookup for bootleg, undubbed Kung Fu films, a pawn shop run by an incredibly old Chinese gentleman with a penchant for drinking a lot and keeping the golden Jingu Bang, the Monkey King's magical fighting staff, in his back room. Telling young Jason the staff needs to be returned to its owner, the story is set and put into action when Jason is bullied by the neighborhood bad boys to rob the pawn shop. The staff and Jason connect big time, sending him through the gate that has no gate to an ancient and mystical China, complete with understandable natives after he meets up with Jackie Chan, who promptly slaps some language speaking skills into Jason's head when Chan tells him to pay attention and listen.

The hunt is on when the Jade Warlord gets wind the Monkey King's staff is back in action. Said fighting staff would bring the Monkey King back to life, thereby ending the Jade Emperor's continued gloating over his despotic ways.

Before Jason can take on the arduous and dangerous task of returning the staff, he must learn the ways of the force, which, in this case, means dealing with two bickering martial arts masters and their differing styles. Chan's Drunken Master-styled moves come up against Li's precision strikes early on in a lively exchange between the two as each attempts to claim ownership of the staff. One humorous bit has Chan and Li disagreeing on the best technique for Jason to use, leading to humor for us and frustration for him.

Villainy is well represented with Jade Warlord's witchy main squeeze, the iridescent Bingbing Li, swinging her long white tresses to bedevil Chan and clan as they battle her nefarious antics, the Jade Warlord's soldiers who keep showing up in annoyingly larger numbers, and Jason's lack of chi-confidence in being able to best the overwhelming odds. The mood and pacing throughout fits the PG-13 rating well, and satisfies with its simple but pleasing tale of positive thinking surmounting any obstacle. Liberal use of eye-pleasing cinematography, adequate CGI (with a matte painting tossed in here and there), and colorful costumery add to the overall above average production values for this slugfest that first pits Li against Chan, then both against the Jade Warlord. Sideline love interest between Jason and comely Golden Sparrow (Yifei Liu) provides requisite pathos and secondary story of vengeance fulfillment.

For fans of period piece martial arts action and straightforward characters, The Forbidden Kingdom is a welcome entry in the summertime sweepstakes for their movie-going dollars. For fans of Jet Li and Jackie Chan, it's a must-see first time collaboration between two genre greats whose consummate skill with a numbing number of  Kung Fu styles is sharply choreographed and recorded for posterity in this minor gem of good versus evil and nebbish boy makes good while saving the kingdom.

Remembering the Beloved Gill Man

By Scott Essman

Yes, there was Ricou Browning for the underwater scenes and suit performers on land who followed, notably Tom Hennesy and Don Magowan, but for millions of “creature feature” fans, Benjamin F. Chapman, Jr. was the “reel” Gill Man from the original 1954 classic, CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON.  On February 21, he sadly passed away in Hawaii at the age of 79.

Certainly, the Bay Area native had the advantage of being a player on the Universal lot in the early 1950s and his 6’5” size and relative youth – in his late 20s – made him ideal for the part of the creature who stalks North American invaders of his native Amazonian lagoon in the beloved film, originally filmed in 3D.  But Chapman brought a grace and several nuances to the performance of the first Gill Man, which made him one of the great icons in the Universal Studios canon of classic monsters.

In preparations for the creation of the titular character, Universal’s makeup department, headed by Bud Westmore, cast Chapman’s and Browning’s various body parts to fabricate the Gill Man costume, which was realized in foam rubber. Different sections such as torso, arms and legs, were taken off of impressions of Chapman’s body, then the team, including stalwarts such as Tom Case and Jack Kevan, created individual sections. The memorable Gill Man face was designed by artist Milicent Patrick and sculpted by Chris Mueller. Chapman was suited up on a daily basis by Bob Dawn for his exterior scenes, filmed on Universal’s backlot. Footage of Browning in a duplicate suit was achieved on location in Florida.

Though Chapman never played the Gill Man in the sequels, he did reprise the creature for the Colgate Comedy Hour’s TV episode with Abbott and Costello, a program in which they comedy duo first encounters Glenn Strange as the Frankenstein Monster, then reveals the Gill Man to the public for the first time anywhere. Though only three films all in, the CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON series rates with any of Universal’s monsters from the 1930s and 1940s for sheer fan adulation.

Chapman had long been retired from acting but made regular personal appearances at conventions and autograph signings over the years. He maintained a website, The-Reelgillman.com, and was the focus of fans’ love since magazines such as Famous Monsters of Filmland made the character popular again for new generations of fans in the 1960s and 1970s. Always good natured and happy to talk about his 1953-1954 Gill Man performances, Chapman will be fondly remembered by fans of the original film and all who had met him since.

Special thanks to Dan Roebuck plus Sam Borowski & Matthew Crick, creators of the documentary CREATURE FEATURE: 50 YEARS OF THE GILL MAN

Movie Review: Prom Night (2008)

Zombos Says: Fair

Prom Night's life-size theater-promotion cardboard standee of a door, strategically placed to pique interest for this teen thriller, is a good indication of how much effort went into this movie. When I opened the door it only produced a halfhearted, single scream. The teenagers walking by when I did this looked surprised and laughed. Even they were expecting something a bit more slasher-scream-full.

When I watched the movie, I found boredom made my mind wander a bit when Donna (Brittany Snow) and her boyfriend, Bobby (Scott Porter) exchange corsages as Donna's aunt and uncle look on, beaming with happiness. I imagined a prom night filled with monster corsages devouring boyfriends, Carrie-like J-horror prom nights stalked by ghosts seeking vengeance, or maybe even tuxedoed zombies crashing the prom night party; anything else but this unnecessary reworking of Jamie Lee Curtis' more violent and relevant 80s slasher. I didn't attend my senior prom. Perhaps I have unresolved issues with that. Or perhaps this movie has unresolved issues with terror, tension, and thrills. I think that’s more likely.

Director Nelson McCormick has done a large amount of episodic television work so maybe that’s why his movie is paced around imaginary commercial breaks. Each time tension builds he moves away from the action to show people dancing or crowning the prom king and queen. Like an episode of CSI, nothing appears out of control or erupts into hysterical terror. He also seems to have a fetish for closets. I lost count how often someone opened, reached into, looked in, or hid in, a closet. Donna hides under a bed twice, but I didn't find that as annoying. Not much tension builds from opening closets, I can tell you that. I’d sum up this movie this way: give sinister look, slash a victim, show dancing in slow motion, show someone opening a closet; give sinister look, slash a victim, show more dancing, show someone else opening a closet; slash a victim, stop the dancing long enough to show prom king and queen being crowned, show someone opening a damn closet again, slash another victim; and so on…

Donna is stalked by her college teacher (probably her chemistry teacher; they're all nutzy from handling toxic substances). It's not clear why he needs to kill people in order to get close to her, but this is a slasher movie so reasons are not always necessary, only lots of slashing. He's so good at it he leaves a bloodless trail suitable for this PG-13'er. After her family is massacred, three years pass before Donna's back to normal enough to attend her senior prom. Not surprisingly, her stalking teacher escapes in time to rent a tux and join the festivities.

The teacher (Johnathon Schaech) gives overly sinister looks and acts like a Charles Manson wannabe. He wears a black golf cap, tweedy sport coat, and needs a shave. He looks intensely at you when spoken to without saying a word. Only in movies do psychos dress and act this way. In real life, the only guys who dress and act this way are directors and bloggers of horror movies. I admit I did wear a black golf cap before seeing this movie. Now I realize it does make you look like an oddball if you're not golfing, so that's it for me. I'm happy to say I haven't worn a tweedy sport coat in years. I do still need to shave.

When Donna realizes she's being stalked again, the action is chopped, but not in that good, horror-chopped-up sort of way. We keep shifting, never staying long enough in one place to be scared or cause popcorn tipping seat-jump. The opening few minutes promise much but deliver little, and I won't pin all the blame on the PG-13 rating requirements. All the action is homogenized around those imaginary commercial breaks, and starts and stops with little tension or visceral involvement. It's all glossy, television-slick—not cable, mind you--with no blemishes to fret over.

The prom is held in a lavish hotel with beautiful young people who don't worry about recessions or social inequities or our out of control national debt. The police are adequately inept to help increase the body count, but Detective Winn (Idris Elba) goes through the motions anyway, and Elba does a good job in spite of the character he's written into. When Donna is left almost friendless, I imagined how different this might have been.

What if Polly Pureheart Donna was a black-haired goth with punky attitude? Perky goth Donna flirts with her chem teacher (or maybe lit teacher is better: they like tweedy jackets, too), and going too far, regrets it. He goes nutz when she calls it off and can't hold a test tube without breaking it just thinking of her. So now there's her guilt and his feelings of rejection adding to the terror. Guilty terror with feelings of rejection is always great for building tension. To stay alive, she's forced to make nice with the vixens from hell--the envied, fashion-conscious, hip girls at school who despise her Ubergoth ways. Her Doom Cookie boyfriend finds out all about the side fling and joins the chem teacher and both go after her and her newfound friends. Much collateral damage ensues, add lots of blood. The end is a multi-ambulance tear-jerker.

But, sadly, Donna is not goth, and her friends are the socially coolest in school. Everyone but the stalking psycho is dead set on having fun at the prom. Even the girly rivalry between Donna and Paris Hilton--sorry, my bad--between Donna and the spoiled rich girl who despises her is lukewarm and goes nowhere. Her boyfriend doesn't even get the chance to protect or save her. What's a boyfriend good for if he can't at least do that? When the end comes, it's exactly like the ending you'd see in a non-continued television episode just before the commercial break.

And roll credits.

Wait! There's a glimmer of tension when her best friend Lisa (Dana Davis) realizes who the creepy guy in the black golf cap and tweedy jacket reminds her of, but no, that fizzles out without much frazzle. Instead there's lots of predictable running away from potential help and through translucent plastic curtains hung in dark rooms as Lisa hides from the killer in a deserted part of the hotel under renovation. I was hoping she would stop and improvise a defense from the paint cans and tools lying on the workmen's tables, but her character wasn't written to be that clever.

At least she didn't open another closet.

The Ruins (2008) When the Vegetation Eats YOU

Zombos Says: Very Good

A better tagline for this movie would have been "What's Eating You?" That "Terror has Evolved" line is so predictable, so yesterday.

I’m not saying that The Ruins, directed by Carter Smith, is predictable or yesterday's terror, but it does contain some old, some new, and some very intense gore-toned frights; especially for the man sitting next to me in the theater who was so excited during one bloody, bone-crushing scene he had to stand up and shake it off. I could empathize. As for me, I just got cold sweats and tried to keep the squishing, tearing sounds from making me even more nauseous. I'll be the first to admit it: I'm a wimp when it comes to meaty scenes embellished with nasty sound effects.

Novelist Scott Smith adapts his story for the screen leaving it essentially the same, though he shuffles his characters a bit, placing more emphasis on the girls, Stacy and Amy, and less on the sentient, flesh-eating vines that mimic human voices and drip corrosive sap that burns like hell. And instead of Eric becoming infected with the hungry plants, as he does in the novel, onscreen it's Stacy (Laura Ramsey) who's driven to madness and self-mutilation. She looks better in underwear than Eric would have anyway (just saying).

Four Americans are talked into visiting Mayan ruins deep in the Yucatan jungle by a German stranger, Mathias (Joe Anderson), who they meet poolside. He asks them to join him on a visit to a dig site his brother and an archaeologist friend are working on.

Sure, why not? It only takes five minutes of chat to convince them to go deep into a jungle with a total stranger. Haven't these people seen Hostel?

Young Americans abroad in horror movies are always portrayed as irresponsible, fun-loving, and itching to get into mischief. Director Carter Smith dotes on their buff bodies and rosy cheeks as they splash away in the sun, providing quite an eyeful of Stacy and Amy. At first I thought he was doing the usual eye-candy for the teen crowd, but when Jeff, Eric, Amy, and Stacy become trapped at the top of the Mayan temple, he dotes on their increasingly dirty, disheveled appearance even more, exemplifying how unprepared they are, rushing into the jungle without a thought or a backpack. After the taxi drops them off and drives away, they worry how they'll get back to the hotel. Amy (Jena Malone) complains she can't walk through the jungle in her flip-flops.

Political commentary on American arrogance? A social metaphor for American youth's shallowness? No. Just dumb American tourists getting themselves into trouble as usual to prime the terror to come.

And the terror for this foolhardy group sinks in quickly when they realize they're badly screwed and help is not a cell phone call away. Bickering about the food they didn't bring with them, and with no 7 Eleven in walking distance, it's the lively vegetation that's happy to have their company for dinner. The local villagers come and try to warn them, but not understanding each other's language, or the danger, the villagers must force them to the top of the ruins after two of the no comprende touristas inadvertently stomp through the deadly plants during a tense standoff.

At the top they find the deserted dig site. A windlass and rope lead down into the ruins. Mathias insists on climbing down the rope, only managing to break both legs when it snaps. Jeff and Eric send the girls down to help him. The girls move the back-crackling and screaming Mathias into position to be hoisted out.

You'll be reaching for the Tylenol yourself as they move him.

It gets worse when Stacy gashes her leg while helping Mathias. The next morning her leg turns into a flower pot and sprouts a beautiful new vine.

The gore-o-meter hits the yellow zone starting here and goes into the red when Mathias' legs become a bloody trellis for more vines. Jeff, the first-year medical student, decides they have to remove his infected legs. Not much is left after the vines start growing in and around them, but the ensuing graphic double amputation is not for the squeamish. Not to be outdone, Stacy becomes crazed by the growing vegetation squirming around inside her. Grabbing a knife she decides to do surgery on herself.

She's not a medical student.

You may want to buy an extra-large popcorn bucket for this movie just in case. No popcorn; just the bucket. It may come in handy.

The continual ringing of a cell phone sends both girls down into the temple again to look for it. Perhaps it's a sat phone, or maybe Verizon's service really is that good. Or maybe there's something else going on and waiting in the dark rooms of the ruins for them. While the novel delves deeper into the sentience of the plants, the lesser disconcerting glimpses shown in the film provide an adequate sense of mystery and dread.

The Ruins is a straightforward and humorless study in terror, greatly aided by the foley artists. One can only imagine the glee they had in coming up with all those stomach churning sounds. Sure, you can heap on thematic, political, and all the social-allegorical and subtextual discussions you like, but this movie is body horror, visceral terror, and scary as hell, plain and simple. While there have been other movies and novels dealing with people-eating plants, the gore and pretty, but rash, young people come together here in a way that's quite unnerving. While the histrionic acting is par for the horror course, it's still done well to raise the tension. Applying realistic gore where it can do the most damage to your piece of mind, when depicting the novel's more harrowing scenes, doesn't hurt either: except for Jeff, Eric, Stacy, and Amy.

Bring a date to see this movie. I guarantee he or she will be clinging to you just as much as those hungry vines do to their victims. But in a nicer way.