Samhain Project #3 "Fade to Black"

 

     The early 80's were a weird time.  It was an era of technological in-between, we were coming off the second golden age of cinema, and beginning a rather blase' one, minus the horror genre, and Reagan was about to try to convince us that trickle-down economics works.  Not good.

     Fade to Black fits right in there.  Eric Binford is the best thing about this movie.  A snivelling film-obsessed whelp who just can't catch a break while born into terrible circumstances, you know he's gonna snap. Which he does. Resulting in murders.  Despite the fact that everyone in his life uses him as a toilet, it's a complete innocent accident by an empathic love interest that results in him going straight over the edge.  Dennis Christopher is wonderful in this nerdy little role.  You don't know whether you want to give him a hug, or slap the stupid out of him, and that takes a hell of a performance.

    Besides Christopher, Fade to Black is a bit of a mess.  Tremendously well-written in segments, and awfully underwitten in others, it's an exercise in frustration.  There are plot holes big enough to fly a 747 through, and in multiple spots in the film.  It has you tugging your moustache.  Or your ponytail.  Or your cat. Whatever. 

    Also, for the people who like to play spotter, there's a young and horribly-dressed Mickey Rourke, whose character here makes the guy he plays in 9 1/2 Weeks look like a charmer.  There's a horribly-feathered Peter Horton who many will remember from Children of the Corn, Thirtysomething, and the long underrated and forgotten series Brimstone.  And also, for B-movie buffs like me, a horribly underused Tim Thomerson. 

     This does work as a Halloween movie curio of curiosity, but prepare for a roller-coaster of weirdness, and characters that are either creepy, stupid, or just blank voids.

    Also, producers Irwin Yablans and Joe Wolf, don't think I don't spot your movie posters in the background of the film cannister warehouse Eric works at.  I see you.

     

The Samhain Project #2 : Let's Scare Jessica to Death

      

      1971.  The year I was born.  Also the year of one of the most quiet horror films ever made.   The titular Jessica, her husband, and husband's best friend move to an isolated manse in a town full of all male weirdos with a staring disorder and random bandages.  It seems our Jessica is fleeing some sort of psychological trauma, and that's not told to you as much as you surmise it.  

Great friggin' place to go to do that.  In the book about the making of Caddyshack, Harold Ramis, (rest his genius soul) says after being told that comic wunderkind Doug Kenney has gone to Hawaii with Chevy Chase to kick his drug habit: "You do not go anywhere with Chevy to clean up."  The same concept applies here.

     "Jessica" has a small cult following, and a little research show many people who watched this in the "tv era" were marked by it, and still get the heebie-jeebies from thinking about it.  I can understand that.  Beautifully shot, terrific sound design, and a score that bounces back and forth from string-based music you could use at the spa to disturbing synth beats, all add up to a very effective film. 

      It's very quiet for the first hour, before things get weird, and that's not helped by the fact that no one in this movie is an "actor" with the exception of the lady playing Jessica.  She is playing a character on the edge, and she sells it on a layered level.  She's fighting for normalcy, while everything in her senses are telling her it's otherwise. 

  Or is it?

  You're wondering if you can finish this movie.  With it's 70's tone, and slow build, and the next thing you know, you don't want to do anything else but finish it.  "Let's Scare Jessica Death" is creepy as hell, and an example of a film that can be horror, with no nudity, no graphic violence; heck, not a "shit" or "fuck" to be found.  Just locale, tone, cast reaction, and background elements.  

The Samhain Project: The Hand

 

   

     Right now I'm currently reading Oliver Stone's bio, "Chasing the Light" (it's mind-bending in its honesty) and decided number one on the Halloween 2021 viewing list is his classic 1980 film "The Hand". The term psychological horror gets used a lot, but I guess it applies here, as Michael Caine (on screen almost constantly here) wields an uncertain power carried in his eyes, (as maybe only George Clooney can do better) as he goes from stuck-up artist to possible murderous nutjob.  

      He's an artist, and his hand is severed in a car accident resultant from an argument with his wife, that his marriage to is in its death throes, but his ego hasn't allowed him to be aware of it. Needless to say, the severed hand becomes the center of the film, as a small amount of characters (including Stone in a cameo as a bum) encounter it, as it walks, stalks, and chokes. 

      Is Michael Caine a psychopathic killer, or just losing his mind along with his ability to create and support himself?  Or is there an appendage out there that is possibly linked to Caine's character's mind, doing naughty stuff in the name of revenge? I'll leave that for you to decide. This film also qualifies as one of THE SPECTRUM FILES, and the last frame of the movie stayed in my mind from the age of 9 to my current status of just turned 50. 

      This movie is recommended, and has a lot going for it, such as slick editing that plays with the viewer, a strangely creepy soundtrack by James Horner of all people, and of course, an incredible performance by Michael Caine, who I'm sure was accused of slumming here, which is straight bullshit. This is fairly early in Oliver Stone's career, and in a film lacking his usual political and conspiratorial tones, he shines anyway.

'Twas Christmas (1976) Killed the Beast

The first movie I ever went to see was King Kong.  Thank you, Dad. The shit you sat through for me... The film we saw wasn't a revival of the 1933 Merian C. Cooper classic, (which Dad introduced me to thanks to the wonders of afternoon movies) but the 1976 Dino DeLaurentis version that a lot of people consider shlock.

Those people can kiss my buttocks.

Nostalgia trumps all in this discussion, as my memories of the film are vivid and powerful and important.  It was pre-Star Wars in terms of the cross marketing potential.  There were King Kong drinking glasses, and lunchboxes, and puzzles, and pajamas, and bubble gum cards, and I was doing my damndest at the age of 5 to be hip deep in all of that shit.

   

But the movie itself was a spectacle to behold.  Rick Baker and Carlo Rambaldi's work, the creation of this ape of all apes, for a new "special effects age" may not have been mind-blowing, but it surpassed acceptable. (Word is Baker gives cinematographer  Richard Kline all the credit for the King's visual success.)  The score was (and is) unsettling and befitting the eighth wonder of the world and his rampage, as well as becoming quite moving during the poignant final moments of the epic.   In my opinion voice-magic wunderkind Peter Cullen's vocal roar, is the greatest of all the Kongs.  Fight Me. 

 I was star-struck and spellbound as a 5 year old, taken to the brink of suspense on numerous occasions.  (Even if some dingus kid yelled out "bad breath!" when Kong blow-dries a soaking wet Jessica Lange, eliciting laughter from the crowd and disgust from me.  Heathens. This may be where my hatred of the general public began.  I love movies, concerts, and political speeches, but do these motherfuckers really have to be here too?)  Kong's introduction at the gates, his fight with prehistoric snakes, the New York onslaught, and sadly, the reminder of the World Trade Center, all parts of a terribly entertaining, if not perfect film.  There's a lot to love here to this day.  And hey! welcome to Hollywood, Jessica Lange, and a young Jeff Bridges walks the walk that he will maintain for decades.  Jeff is still the man.  For an undertaking of this kind, held together in this pre-CGI era, you have to give director John Guillermin his due.  Brava, maestro.  

Released December 17, 1976, it is a fond Christmas memory for me, and always will be.  My Dad, rest his soul, always engaged me in my love of film, even at a young age.  This wasn't a Disney movie, or some Muppets Run Amok vehicle,  Benji's revenge,  or "(enter name of celebrity) meets a Chimp", the family films of choice in this era.  

This was King Fucking Kong.   And I was never the same.  Sorry critics, but this movie slaps.  

Thanks Dad for having the coglioni to bring your 5 year old to this event. Thanks to Mom, that Christmas, there was a metal King Kong lunchbox and box puzzle under the Christmas tree for me that year, and I got all 4 of the individual Coca-Cola drinking glasses that I believe were a Burger Chef promotion.  All of which are now long gone to the gritty sands of time.

Ah, Holidays in the 70's. 

 

Max Brooks Has a Gift

 I've told many people that World War Z is the scariest book I've ever read.  Sadly, most people associate it with the Brad Pitt zombie movie that came out a few years back.  Don't get me wrong, it's a pretty damn good walking dead flick (though I don't care for the hive-mind fast zombies) but it's not a good representation of Max Brooks' book.  It's not even close.

See, World War Z is an oral history. One of those books that is told from the point of view of a wide array of people that lived through the experience.  Drawing inspiration from the works of Studs Turkel, Max creates the Zombie war from beginning to end, and employs characters and incidences that feel flat out real, because the events are generated not from a third person narrative, but from the mouths of those who survived the horrors of the book's events.  He makes you believe that something as ridiculous as the reanimated dead eating people could happen, not just in the horrific detail of the attacks, but by illustrating the reactions of the common folk as they stumble about trying to survive, and the response of those in authority, not just here, but around the globe as they flail to solve the problem and limit the damage, while not going to war with one another. 

As a layer of realism, that most authors cannot top, Brooks published the quirky book "The Zombie Survival Guide" a couple of years before Z, that I picked up off the shelf of a bookstore's humor section.  I remember reading it, and not laughing.  It felt like a guidebook for survival for the general public, should a zombie outbreak somehow actually occur. 

Well, guess what? That's literally what it is, because in World War Z, the tome is referred to as something that was distributed to the masses, much like America did in previous wars, to help them acclimate to a situation that was hard to imagine, but needed dealing with directly and efficiently. 

Brooks knows how to inhabit a character, richly, fully, and by finding subtleties and humor that most writers cannot. He did it again in his new book Devolution, which also follows a concept many would find ridiculous to a comical level and creates a riveting narrative through the journal pages of the main protagonist, Kate.  The pages describe in growing suspense how she and her neighbors, living in an eco-paradise, are forced to become survivalists in the wake of a Mt. Rainier eruption as migrating Sasquatches decide to attack their community.

The Journal, combined with actual scientific information about Sasquatch history and commentary from a character's brother and a fictional forestry expert, are pages that will not be put down.  It feels real and that's what gives Devolution its terror as you genuinely fall in love with Kate and her overmatched technology-dependent nature dwellers as they face something they never would think imaginable. 

In both Brooks' books, you feel the way things break down in regards to their handling by the authorities, and the folks involved, is exactly how it would shake loose in real life.  It's a layer of unease that makes the storytelling all the more compelling.  You think to yourself:  This shit could happen, man. And this is what they would do.  If you don't believe me, check out the words of the first head of homeland security, Tom Ridge, as he says: "I wish we could elevate the national dialogue on public safety to a level of tone and focus that Max Brooks has demonstrated for all of us."

That's pretty incredible, in terms of the praise and who it came from.  Because it's not hard to find the warnings Brooks provides in both books.  We need to get our shit together, and the shit is even less together now in the era of an administration that has foxes in charge of hen houses, and a hefty chunk of the public whose main goal for their leaders is to "own the libs", spout racist rhetoric and not a lot else.

The ability to create Brooks' both logistically knowledgeable and painfully human narrative style is what makes him one of the more gifted writers of his generation.  I cannot wait for what he does next, I just hope it won't be as long a wait as it was between Z and Devolution.

Vinyl Destination: Rock and Roll Iconography: Gerard Huerta

A few weekends back, I was cleaning some of my vinyl albums.  

Yes. I do that. Shut up.

Anyways, looking at the sleeves, I became aware of the logos of the bands, many of which are from the 70s and 80s.  My tastes vary widely. (My favorite genre of music is power pop, which just nudges out punk for the lead.  Vive Le Knack!)  And I noticed the iconic logos bands had back then, and thought about how that's not really subscribed to these days.  I'm talking about the symbols of AC/DC, Foreigner, Boston, Led Zeppelin, April Wine, Ted Nugent's font, et al.  I'm sure the uniformity and consistency of usage helped with the sale of t-shirts, bumper stickers, baseball caps, and dare I say, thanks to the graphic prominence, even albums themselves.  Lord knows, the grocery bag textbook covers that I had in junior high and middle school became canvases for my attempts at replicating my favorite bands name logos.  More unsuccessful than not, I may add.  This shit ain't easy.

Many of the most recognizable and long-standing logos of a lot of these bands were designed by a man named Gerard Huerta.  His eye-catching and amazingly symmetrical work was incredible, all the more admirable due to the fact that these were done before the era of computer aided design and graphics tools.  A bit of internet search will show that his work has been seen by everyone whether they know it or not. He's designed product and company logos and other striking work that is commonplace.  He just doesn't get nearly enough credit.  I guess that's what I'm doing here.

His skill is incredible. In the 7th grade, my art teacher gave us an assignment to recreate an album cover with pencil, and then duplicate it up in size and paint it.  I picked Boston's debut album.  I won't say I'm ashamed of it, but it wasn't what I had hoped it would be upon completion. It gave me a case of the "Mehs".  The band logo alone was incredibly difficult to mimic to its specifications, let alone the rest of the art on that cover.  I gained serious respect for Mr. Huerta at that point, even if I didn't know his name yet.

As a chap that thinks band logos are just sweet in general, my favorite is the Blue Oyster Cult logo initially used for the cover of "On Your Feet or On Your Knees", which ironically is also a Gerard Huerta creation (and given tribute by the comedic fictional band, Spinal Tap).  It's a logo that is memorable and somehow looks fearsome at the same time, and I'd wear the shit out of a t-shirt with that alone on it if I could find one.

Anyways, Cheers, Mr. Huerta.  Your mark is definitely left all over the world, and if you don't receive the credit you deserve, I hope to be giving you a bit of that here. Thank you for your art, for your craft.  It's indelibly burned into the zeitgeists of decades of Americana.

For further looks at Mr. Huerta's work, check this out:  https://www.gerardhuerta.com/

 

Ode to Jim

        A few weeks ago, I had the honor of spending the last few hours my brother in law Jim had on this plane with him.  It was painful of course, but also carried with it a certain grace, that has helped me process it easier and with a shade of warmth that shows itself as unexpected and welcome.

    I will miss him dearly, as in the time I spent getting to know him, he brought true oddball laughter into my life, and made family love and acceptance easy.

     You didn't shake hands with Jim, you hugged.  House Rules, man.

    He had the ability, perhaps one could call it a gift, to make you feel like you were the only person in the room when he spoke to you. I haven't encountered that from anyone else on the planet where it didn't feel like there was a motive behind it. Like it was bullshit.  With Jim it was genuine, because he remembered what you were saying, and would ask about it later.  He did that with children, with teenagers, with complete strangers.  Incredible.

     He like to mark moments, too.  He picked things, and made them grand when you least expected it.  A shared love of bologna sandwiches brought us to Meteor Burger in Richardson.  You'd think he was eating the greatest thing ever created by any deity anywhere. So after a couple hours of Brother Talk and chasing bologna with RC Cola, he found the owner of the place and made sure we all had our picture taken together and posted it on social media.

    I  guess this kind of thing was regular with Jim. It amazed me.

     A lot of people love music. I adore music.  I'm one of those emphatic nerds that has vinyl records, and watches documentaries about bands.  Jim carried music with him.  Not necessarily physically, like with an iPod, though.  He was always singing, always humming, lyrics became emphatic exclamation points in conversation.  A killer sense of rhythm, a fine voice, and a tonal curiosity made Jim what music was really all about.  He was figuring out guitar in recent months, and played electronic drums on iPhone apps, made surrounding objects into bongos.

     Jim was who music was for.

     He found it funny that I programmed his personal ring-tone on my cellphone to be the BeeGees "You Should Be Dancin'"  I won't say there wasn't comedic value involved, but somehow it just seemed right.  His tastes varied from Pearl Jam to Bruno Mars, and all locations in between.  Whether it was some classic rock 70's group like Journey to something just released by a modern pop monstrosity he recently heard on the radio,  Jim would enjoy almost all of it, and deeply.  He was a master critic of cover bands.  He enjoyed all forms of live music with great relish and had a set list in his head of the ultimate concert.

     He was a football nut too.  College and Pro, died-in-the-wool cowboy fan.  Being a Packer fan myself, this led to some interesting sparks and discussions and text message tomfoolery.  Nothing more funny than team loyalists dogging on each other when those two teams clash.  Where I'm living now, Packer games aren't carried live, so I have to go to the local official Packer sports bar, Hub Streat, to watch them.  Jim went with me, to provide company I'd otherwise not have and even rooted for my beloved Pack with me over sliders and Cokes.   He texted me Go Cowboys, Go Pack! on Sundays. 

     I'm going to miss the shit out of that.


     I'm going to miss the effect on discussions the family had.  The chats. How he would chirp "Thank YOU" when you agreed with him on a salient point, or "ex-ACT-ly" when he finally got you to understand, and how in some roundabout way he had just made you feel better about something you were confiding in him.

     Jim carried presence.  It will be hard not having it around anymore, but perhaps remembering and celebrating it, maybe even emulating it, will make moving forward easier.

     I feel like I have to, because I know if I didn't, he would kick my ass.  Or at least he would have given me some serious shit about it.