Yes, it’s another report on yet another LA-area Fangoria Weekend of Horrors. This year the event, which occurred on April 25-27, was moved from its usual cramped Pasadena/Burbank locations to the far spacier LA Convention Center–the West Hall to be exact, by itself about three times the size of the Burbank Hilton ballroom the WoH has been held in the past four or so years. As always, I was there for all three days and tried to catch as many speaking panels as I could. If self-indulgent reminisces bore you, you can probably skip what follows. If not, then by all means Read on! Read more

Note: I initially set out to do a straightforward review of last year’s THE MIST, but quickly realized that adequately covering the film and the many issues it raises would take a far broader canvas.  Hence the following.      Frank Darabont’s THE MIST was the most widely debated horror movie of 2007.  A Stephen King adaptation with a difference (it’s actually good), this monster-packed scare fest inspired an astonishing amount of ire from fans, most of it centered on the far bleaker-than-average ending.  Was the controversy justified?  Let’s see.
Background
Frank Darabont has over the years proven himself the most talented and dependable screen adaptor of Stephen King’s work.  Darabont’s early short “The Woman in the Room” was based on a King piece, as was Darabont’s first major directorial effort THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION.  So too his second, THE GREEN MILE.  (I’ll politely overlook Darabont’s other major film, the downright-pukeable, non-Stephen King related THE MAJESTIC).

For THE MIST Darabont reportedly secured the screen rights early on.  King held off other potential offers for over twenty years, until Darabont was able to secure financing through Dimension Films’ Bob Weinstein.
The budget was a limited one, leading to a down-and-dirty shooting style directly opposed to the more classical approach of Darabont’s other features.  Darabont claims he prepared by directing an episode of the TV cop drama THE SHIELD, and borrowed the show’s cinematographer and camera operators for the film.  They joined an eclectic cast that included Darabont regulars like Laurie Holden and William Sadler, the Stephen King movie veterans Andre Braugher and Frances Sternhagen, and well-respected actors like Toby Jones (last seen playing Truman Capote in INFAMOUS) and Oscar winner Marcia Gay Harden.  Under Darabont’s smooth, confident direction, all the above did superlative work.

The Source
THE MIST began as a novella originally published in the landmark 1980 collection DARK FORCES.  The story’s a good one, reading like an old time B-movie in ink, though with Stephen King’s unerring eye for gritty naturalism and solid characterization.

It tells of a strange mist that appears on the horizon of a small Maine town.  A violent storm ripped apart everything the previous night, including a scientific research lab responsible for unleashing the mist.  In a local supermarket several folks find themselves trapped when the mist blankets the town and all manner of freaky critters emerge from it: dog-sized spiders, mutant mosquitoes, unseen tentacled thingees, pterodactyl-like flying monstrosities, and dimly glimpsed four-legged giants.

Mrs. Carmody, a religious nut, babbles endlessly about sacrifice and the apocalypse, and manages to corral a large portion of the store’s clientele to her way of thinking.  The result is a bloody confrontation, after which a small contingent of intrepid individuals decide to test their luck by venturing into the mist.

Like his other King-inspired projects, Darabont’s adaptation was scrupulously faithful to it source…though with one major change.  King ended on an unresolved note, with his protagonists driving through the mist pondering their ultimate fate.  Darabont continues from there, leading to one of the absolute bleakest, most cold-blooded horror movie endings ever.

The Ending
THE MIST was one of the most notable genre films of 2007, but wasn’t a huge or even minor success at the box office.  Aside from Dimension’s ill-advised Thanksgiving release date, the film’s major point of contention with audiences was the ending, which has inspired all manner of commentary, most of it negative (King, for the record, says he likes Darabont’s capper, and would have used it himself had it occurred to him).
Here I’ll insert a SPOILER ALERT, as I find myself with no choice but to describe the conclusion in detail.  Got that?  Good.
It goes like this: our heroes are in a car, surrounded by mist on all sides.  After traversing what looks like quite a distance the vehicle conks out.  The protagonist, an upright, square-jawed type played by Thomas Jane, decides the only way out is for everyone to die.  The problem is the gun in his possession only has four bullets–and there are five people in the car.  Jane solves the dilemma by fatally shooting each of his companions (including his own son) and then exits the car to face down the creatures in the mist.  But at that point the mist clears and Jane is faced with a procession of radiation suit-wearing soldiers armed with flamethrowers, burning up everything in their path and leading several shell-shocked people to apparent safety.  The End.

Obviously you can take those events in any number of ways.  You may find Jane’s actions futile in light of the fact that the humans appear to have gotten the upper hand on the mist-monsters.  One might also argue that he did the right thing shooting his companions, as the post-mist world looks considerably more oppressive than it did before (which can in turn be taken as a comment on our post-9/11 reality).  But then maybe it’s Ms. Carmody who had the right idea, with her earlier blather about sacrifice being required to make things better.
END SPOILERS.  Not too many horror flicks contain such a complex, thought-provoking finale.  It may admittedly be a bit heavy for a movie featuring giant bugs, but I’ll have to give Darabont credit for making a film that isn’t afraid to really go for the throat.  Far too many horror movie makers and viewers appear to have forgotten that these films exist not to reassure but to scare and provoke, and in those areas THE MIST definitely succeeds.

Still More Controversy
There are other negatives from an audience standpoint, including the fact that nearly everyone in the film is over 35 (youngsters like the twentyish Alexa Davalos and AMERICAN PIE’S Chris Owen are killed off early on), which seems certain to–and apparently did–turn off the teenybopper crowd that flocks to most horror flicks.

And then the film didn’t show enough of its monsters.  Or it showed too much.  The protagonists don’t behave intelligently.  The monsters are cheesy.  Or they’re too slick.  There’s too much gore.  Not enough gore.  Too much Ms. Carmody.  Not enough Andre Braugher.

Virtually any complaint one can think of this movie has had thrown at it.  You can say that about nearly any movie ever made, certainly, but not too many of them, in recent years at least, seem to rile people up like THE MIST.

Why?  My theory is that, quite simply, audiences have become so conditioned to PG-rated snoozers like the recent PROM NIGHT remake (a big hit, sadly) or pandering torture fests of the SAW/HOSTEL variety that they can no longer handle a real horror movie–and THE MIST is indeed that rare animal (as are other hotly contested genre films from ‘07 like BUG and THE GIRL NEXT DOOR, but those were smaller, less commercial projects).

Old-fashioned in the best sense, THE MIST favorably recalls classics like FREAKS and NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD.  As those films were in their time, it’s unabashedly shocking and audacious.  What it’s not is a parody, remake, rip-off, post-modern critique or what have you.  That puts THE MIST at odds with nearly every other scare picture currently in release, which if you ask me is strictly for the better!
The Black-and-White Version
I should take this opportunity to mention another feature of MIST that has been attracting attention, albeit of a more positive sort: the black-and-white version available on the DVD.  Darabont claims he always intended to shoot in black-and-white, and this version showcases the film in an entirely different form–not necessarily better, but worth viewing for those wanting a new and interesting take on the film.
In black-and-white THE MIST feels like a recovered B-movie from the fifties, with a heightened and deeply atmospheric sense of unreality.  In this way the B&W serves to enhance the CGI effects, making them harmonize eerily well with the flesh and blood actors.  It makes me wonder why more special effects movies aren’t shot in B&W.
But I’m not in agreement with those critics who’ve been (over)praising this version of the film.  What Darabont so painstakingly evoked in the full color release print, with its documentary-like handheld camerawork, is a sense of realism totally expunged in black-and-white.  So while I think the latter version represents a worthy take on the film, it should not be considered the definitive one.
Conclusion
It’s rare to find a modern genre picture as fine as THE MIST, or as controversial.  I’m certain its reputation will grow in the coming years, as the shock factor lessens and audiences are able to view the film for what it is: a horror movie that’s actually horrific.  If you’ve been put off seeing it because of all the furor then now’s the time to rectify that mistake.  View the film in black-and-white if you prefer, but by all means view it!

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A quintessential American independent film from the eighties, and still a one-of-a-kind masterpiece. Grim, gory and darkly comic, BLOOD SIMPLE was the first feature by the Coen Brothers, introducing a brilliant and distinctly American voice into a moviemaking landscape that definitely needed it–and if you ask me still does.

The Package

Fact: I’m a HUGE fan of the work of Ethan and Joel Coen. The Coens have lost much of their indie cred after becoming Academy Award darlings (with 2007’s NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN), but I still agree with Empire Magazine’s claim that “In a perfect world all movies would be made by the Coen Brothers”.
BLOOD SIMPLE, which appeared in 1984, was the Coens’ very first film, jump starting not just an important filmmaking career but also the indie film movement as a whole, introducing talents like cinematographer (and current directorial big shot) Barry Sonnenfeld and actors John Getz, Dan Hedeya and Frances McDormand. Budgeted at $1.5 million, it was lensed on location in Texas and released by the legendary midnight movie impresario Ben Barenholz, who also shepherded the early films of Alejandro Jodorowsky, George Romero, David Lynch and Guy Maddin–obviously the guy knows talent when he sees it.
The film was a massive hit, with a formula–an unapologetically movie-mad noir framework juiced up with lurid twists (Joel Coen began his career as an editor on THE EVIL DEAD, and the experience carried over)–that has proven quite influential. Indie icons like Quentin Tarantino, Bryan Singer and John Dahl owe more than a little to BLOOD SIMPLE.

The version of this film available on DVD, however, is not the one released back in 1984. It’s a reedited “Director’s Cut” with the “boring parts” removed, making it run a few minutes shorter. The film still plays quite well, perhaps even better than it did initially, but purists are advised to track down the old Universal VHS, currently the only source for BLOOD SIMPLE’S original cut.

The Story

The young and attractive Abby is having an affair with Ray, a barkeeper at a Texas salon owned by her husband Marty. The latter has grown suspicious of his none-too-loving wife and hired Visser, an overweight detective, to shadow her. Visser comes back with revealing photographs of Abby and Ray.
Marty heads to Ray’s house the next morning to confront the adulterous couple, and ends up suffering a whopping kick in the nuts by his own wife. Pissed, Marty re-contacts Visser, requesting that he kill Abby and Ray. Visser follows through, or at least says he does, again with photos to prove it. But the pictures are doctored, and Ray and Abby are still alive. Visser it seems has his own dastardly plans, which begin with him fatally shooting Marty in his own office.

That night Ray turns up at the bar and discovers Marty’s cadaver. Fearing he’ll be fingered for the killing, Ray decides to dispose of the corpse in the middle of a nearby field–but Marty, it turns out, isn’t quite dead, so Ray ends up burying him alive.

Afterward Ray just isn’t the same. He’s gone “Blood Simple,” the apparently psychotic state one enters into after committing a murder. Abby comes to fear him, but in truth it’s Visser who’s the scary one, as he proves by shooting Ray and then stalking Abby through her apartment…during which, unexpectedly, he’s the one who bears the brunt of the abuse!

The Direction

Those who know the Coen Brothers through later films like FARGO and THE BIG LEBOWSKI may not recognize their hand in BLOOD SIMPLE, although it remains one of their most distinctive and bravura works. For that matter it’s among the most stylish and assured films of any sort to appear in the last few decades. Barry Sonnenfeld’s cinematography remains unsurpassed in its dynamic use of color and shadow, and the ever-mobile camerawork is unfailingly inventive. Of course this makes for a self-conscious and even show-offy film, but it’s kept afloat by the Coens’ playful, mocking touch, as demonstrated in the film’s most famous shot: a slow pan down a bar that pauses to jump over the head of a passed-out drunk.
Narrative-wise the film is also impressive. Ethan and Joel Coen are among the small–very small–handful of modern moviemakers whose writing ability matches their filmmaking prowess. The dialogue here is extensive, with a flow and rhythm worthy of David Mamet (though without the quotable zingers of the Coens’ later films).

The film overall is richly deserving of all the mainstream attention it’s received over the years, but don’t let that put you off. The Coens’ love of the macabre and grotesque, inherited from THE EVIL DEAD’S Sam Raimi, is in ample evidence. Particularly representative is a gruesomely funny bit where John Getz tries to clean up a pool of blood but only succeeds in spreading it all over, and the succeeding sequence in which he slooooowly buries Dan Hedeya alive. And then there’s the final confrontation between Francis McDormand and the psychotic M. Emmett Walsh, which is Hitchcock-worthy in its agonizing suspense, but with a diabolical angle that places it in a category of its own. Not unlike the film overall.

Vital Statistics

BLOOD SIMPLE
River Road Productions/Circle Films
Director: Joel Coen
Producer: Ethan Coen
Screenplay: Joel Coen, Ethan Coen
Cinematography: Barry Sonnenfeld
Editing: “Roderick Jaynes” (Ethan & Joel Coen), Don Wiegmann
Cast: M. Emmett Walsh, Frances McDormand, John Getz, Dan Hedeya, Samm-Art Williams, Deborah Neumann, Raquel Gavia, Van Brooks, Senor Marco, William Creamer, Loren Bivens, Bob McAdams, Shannon Sedwick, Nancy Finger, Holly Hunter

A fifties-era descent-into-madness tale of a man who comes to believe he can control who lives or dies based on the color pins he sticks in a cemetery map. An odd and disquieting little film with impressive visuals, though not without some glaring flaws.

The Package

I BURY THE LIVING (1958) is precisely the type of little-known no-budget effort people are always “discovering” years after the fact. In this case, however, the film has long since been discovered (Stephen King chose it as one of the 20 scariest movies of all time in his 1980 nonfiction tome DANSE MACABRE) even though it remains pretty obscure. It was shot in nine days on location in an LA cemetery by the prolific B-movie auteur Albert Band (father of Charles) and released on the drive-in circuit with a lurid and extremely misleading title–in the course of the film nobody, after all, is buried, living or otherwise.

The Story

Robert Kraft, a mild-mannered department store chairman, is pressed by his superiors into taking over the management of a cemetery as a half-assed act of civic responsibility. He’s taught the ropes by Andy, an Irish accented codger who shows Robert a large wall map denoting the cemetery’s grave plots. Pins with white heads are stuck in some of the plots, meaning the plot has been sold but the body isn’t yet interred. The remainder of the plots are occupied by pins with black heads, meaning they’re occupied by corpses.

One day a mistake is made: Robert sticks black pins where white ones are supposed to be, and the individuals listed, a healthy young couple, meet their deaths that same day. Intrigued, Robert deliberately transposes the pins in the plot of a wealthy toymaker, who promptly dies of a heart attack. It seems Robert can make people die simply by sticking a black pin into their place on his wall map.

Robert’s superiors naturally pooh-pooh his claims, and turn down his repeated requests to quit his post. In fact, they unanimously agree to have Robert stick black pins in each of their plots. This he does, reluctantly–and two of the proscribed victims die later that night. The third, Robert’s uncle Charlie, shows up at the cemetery to retrieve Robert…who, in a supremely agitated state, refuses to leave. He later finds Uncle Charlie dead in his car.

Increasingly losing his grip on reality, Robert has an inspiration: he’ll remove all the black pins from the map and substitute white ones–if he has the power of death, it makes sense that he must also have the power of life. He fails, however, to grasp the full significance of this “gift”, at least until the next morning, when Robert, wandering through the cemetery, finds the bodies missing from the grave sites he marked the night before…

The Direction

I BURY THE LIVING may have been a no-budget production with a truncated shooting schedule, but it was made with a fair amount of care. The stark, contrasty black and white cinematography is excellent, particularly considering the scant budget, and production designer Edward Vorkapich contributes some memorably expressionistic sights (such as distorted numbers on a clock and a hallucinatory pan through a maze of giant black pins). The result is a powerfully ominous, disquieting evocation of psychological horror.
The narrative suffers somewhat from its relentlessly one-note premise. Even at a scant 77 minutes, it feels unnecessarily drawn-out and repetitive. Watching the protagonist stick pins in his map and then agonize over whether somebody’s going to die doesn’t exactly make for riveting viewing, especially when it happens again and again. There is a climactic twist, although it wasn’t exactly unexpected (at least to these jaded eyes). Even more annoying is a final surprise suggesting, ludicrously, that the proceedings have not been supernatural at all (complete with an obligatory police inquest to clarify things for slow viewers).
I still recommend I BURY THE LIVING, as a sterling example of old school horror at its most unique. But an overlooked classic it’s not.

Vital Statistics

I BURY THE LIVING
Maxim Productions/United Artists
Director: Albert Band
Producer: Albert Band, Louis Garfinkle
Screenplay: Albert Band, Louis Garfinkle
Cinematography: Frederick Gately
Editing: Frank Sullivan
Cast: Richard Boone, Theodore Bikel, Peggy Maurer, Herbert Anderson, Howard Smith, Robert Osterloh, Russ Bender, Glen Vernon, Lynette Bernay, Ken Drake, Cyril Delevanti

THE LOST was the first film adapted from the work of novelist Jack Ketchum, and transposed his hellish universe to the screen quite well. In other words, it’s a skilled and intelligent but strictly not-for-the-squeamish viewing experience.

The Package

Jack Ketchum’s 2001 novel THE LOST was, like most of Ketchum’s books, published as a paperback original, and received far less attention than it deserved. Loosely based on the true-life killing spree of Charles Schmidt, the “Pied Piper of Tucson” (who also inspired the seventies shocker THE TODD KILLINGS), THE LOST contained all the sharp, compact prose and unflinching violence that characterize Jack Ketchum’s writing. It’s one of Ketchum’s finest works, and among the most powerful genre books of recent years.

This film version was completed in 2005 but not commercially distributed until March 2008 (on DVD following a brief theatrical release), and so ended up appearing after THE GIRL NEXT DOOR, a Ketchum adaptation made two years later.

THE LOST was commissioned by MAY’S Lucky McKee for his buddy Chris Sivertson to adapt and direct. It’s a good thing the film appeared when it did, or Sivertson’s reputation might have been permanently marred by his 2007 Lindsay Lohan bomb I KNOW WHO KILLED ME, which appeared on more worst-of-the-year lists than any other movie and swept the Razzie Awards (although in truth it’s not all that bad). Those doubting his talent need only take a look at THE LOST, an impressive piece of filmmaking by any standard.

The Story

Ray Pye: a slick, Elvis-worshipping young man with a cool car and exaggerated rockabilly style. He’s also a violent sociopath with an overpowering compulsion to kill–and Ray spots a prime opportunity to do so when he encounters a lesbian couple in a forest. He senselessly shoots both women while his loser friends Tim and Jen stand by and watch. Terrified by Ray’s propensity for violence, Tim and Jen keep quiet about what they’ve seen.

Four years later Ray is still afoot in the sleepy New Jersey town where he killed the girls. Charlie Schilling, a cop, knows Ray is guilty and has been trying to take him down, but can’t seem to make any of the charges stick.

Ray is carrying on relationships with several teenage girls, including Jen, who’s interested in Tim but banging Ray. So is the sexy, flirtatious Katherine, who’s irresistibly drawn to Ray’s dangerous aura. Ray in turn becomes increasingly smitten with her, as she’s strong-willed and clearly harbors some dark secrets. One night, after a bout of truncated outdoor sex, Ray reveals to her the worst thing he’s ever done (which we already know). Katherine reveals her own dark secret, involving a schizophrenic mother who burned her fingertips off.

This does nothing to help Ray’s deteriorating mental state, which has already been irretrievably weakened by an over-influx of drugs. Katherine’s confession helps push Ray over the edge, as does his discovery that Jen and Tim are an item. Furthermore, Charlie Schilling’s too-young girlfriend Sally, who Ray has had his eye on for some time, will have nothing to do with him.

Inevitably he snaps completely and embarks on a bloody rampage, shooting several of the town’s residents and kidnapping Jen, Sally and Katherine. The four end up in a tiny house occupied by a pregnant woman and her husband, who are about to undergo a most excruciating torture.

The Direction

With THE LOST Chris Sivertson has turned in a lively and stylish piece of work. It’s galvanized by a terrific performance by Marc Senter as the sociopathic Ray Pye, a true legend in his own mind with a style all his own. Other impressive performances are delivered by the seductive Robin Sydney as the flirtatious Katherine and the veteran Ed Lauter as the cop looking to take Ray down.

Sivertson was wise to pay Jack Ketchum’s novel close attention, which is a prime reason the film is so appealingly unique in its construction. Note the way it begins as an intense crime drama and then, in a smooth but unexpected turn, segues into a dark-hued character study. But the final twenty minutes are as brutal and disturbing as nearly anything you’ll see, with a climax of stunning gut-level brutality involving spilled brains and the mutilation of an unborn fetus. Somehow it all works, in a film that will satisfy the most blood-thirsty gorehounds but also those viewers demanding solid narrative construction and character development.

I do have a complaint, though. It’s with the period detail, or lack thereof: the story is supposed to be set in the late-1960’s, but it’s impossible to tell from what we see, much less hear. Sorry, but I find it difficult to accept a sixties-set movie with wall-to-wall death metal tunes on the soundtrack!

Vital Statistics

THE LOST
Whistler Productions/Anchor Bay Entertainment
Director: Chris Sivertson
Producers: Lucky McKee, Chris Sivertson, Mike McKee, Shelli Merrill
Screenplay: Chris Sivertson (Based on a novel by Jack Ketchum)
Cinematography: Zoran Popovic
Cast: Marc Senter, Shay Aster, Alex Frost, Megan Henning, Robin Sydney, Dee Wallace-Stone, Michael Bowden, Ed Lauter, Katie Cassidy, Erin Brown, Michael Bowen, Ruby Larocca, Tom Ayers, Jack Ketchum

Most US moviegoers ignored this slickly mounted, hard-R rated big studio product. Their loss, methinks, as THE RUINS is the creepiest, ickiest, most intense horror movie I’ve encountered in some time.

The Package

Scott Smith’s bestselling 2006 novel THE RUINS seems unlikely material for a movie. The book is an effective but excessively drawn-out account of American teenagers trapped in the ruins of a Mayan village who get menaced by killer vines–yes, that pretty much sums up the entire book. Yet Smith, who scripted the screen translation for DreamWorks, did an excellent job adapting his story. I believe the film, co-produced by Ben Stiller (yes, that Ben Stiller) and directed by first-timer Carter Smith, is superior to the novel in many respects.

THE RUINS hit US screens in April of 2008, and despite receiving generally solid reviews did disappointingly little business. Here then is a cult waiting to be born.

The Story

Four college pukes–two girls and their boyfriends–are vacationing in Mexico with their Greek buddy Pablo. A day before they’re scheduled to travel back to the US they meet Mathias, a fellow traveler. Mathias, in search of his missing brother, leads the kids to the ruins of a Mayan village. It seems a harmless enough jaunt, but Mathias is shot at the base of the ruins by gun-wielding locals who for some reason surround the area and won’t allow anyone to leave. Thus the kids are effectively trapped in the ruins with limited food and water.

Disaster strikes almost immediately, when the ringing of a cell phone is heard emitting from a well atop the ruins. Pablo elects to ascend the rope to the bottom of the well, but the rope snaps as he’s making his way down. One of the girls, the airheaded Stacy, rides what’s left of the rope downward to retrieve the severely injured Pablo, and ends up gashing her leg.

The cut proves deadly as later that night vines burrow their way into the wound. Stacy and her BF manage to pull the plants out, but she’s convinced the things are growing inside her body. Pablo, having been hauled out of the well on a makeshift stretcher, is also menaced by the living vines, which appear to be attracted to dying and/or wounded people.

The next morning Jeff, a med school attendee, decides he’ll have to amputate Pablo’s gangrenous legs. The others reluctantly go along with this, leading to a nasty leg breaking and subsequent slicing. We also learn the mysterious vines have flowers that can imitate sounds, including human speech. And Stacy is getting more and more freaked out about the plants she believes are growing under her skin–when she begins slicing at herself with a sharp knife, watch out!

The Direction

There are some rough scenes in this film that push the R rating to its limits, including a nasty amputation sequence that rivals the infamous leg cutting in THE BEGUILED and an extremely gory bout of self mutilation. But the film works because of its skilled, confident filmmaking and top-notch special effects.

Like many horror movies past and present, the story is a gradually building one. This is to say that the first half is slow and uneventful, but hang on! Scott Smith has admirably condensed his (too)lengthy novel for the screen, leaving in all the good parts while transposing select characters and events–most notably the self mutilation, which is performed by a different character than that in the book, with (in my view) more effective results.

All the actors are exceptional, particularly former teen movie queen Jena Malone (BASTARD OUT OF CAROLINA, DONNIE DARKO, etc.) as the ersatz heroine, and Jonathan Tucker as the med student whose training comes in all too handily. But the film’s most effective performance is delivered by Laura Ramsey as the bubble-brained Stacy, whose torment at the hands of the monster vines is the most harrowing of all.

There is one misstep, and that’s the somewhat-optimistic wrap-up. It’s different from the book’s bleak ending, and feels like a perfunctory nod to the dictates of cynical studio execs. Otherwise, though, this is superlative horror, an intelligent and thought-provoking but still down-and-dirty exercise in unrelenting grit and grue.

Vital Statistics

THE RUINS
DreamWorks SKG
Director: Carter Smith
Producers: Chris Bender, Stuart Cornfeld, Jeremy Kramer, Ben Stiller
Screenplay: Scott B. Smith (Based on a novel by Scott B. Smith)
Cinematography: Darius Khondji
Editing: Jeff Betancourt
Cast: Jonathan Tucker, Jena Malone, Laura Ramsey, Shawn Ashmore, Joe Anderson, Sergio Calderon, Jesse Ramirez, Balder Moreno, Dimitri Baveas, Patricio Almeida Ramirez, Mario Jurado, Luis Ramos

By JOYCE CAROL OATES (Dutton; 1995)

Joyce Carol Oates is one of America’s most distinguished and prolific writers, the recipient of quite a few high-profile awards and untold critical adulation. Yet Oates has an evident attraction to dark and scary material–horror, in other words, though her work would never, ever be classified as such.

Over Oates’ four-decade career she’s turned out quite a few books that flirt with the genre, including the novels THE MYSTERIES OF WINTERTHURN, BEASTS, RAPE: A LOVE STORY and BLACK WATER, and the collections NIGHT-SIDE and HAUNTED (which, in typical highbrow fashion, was subtitled “Stories of the Grotesque”). Then there are the many commercial thrillers she put out under her Rosamond Smith pseudonym. And then there’s ZOMBIE.

ZOMBIE can be seen as Oates’ answer to AMERICAN PSYCHO, a relentless first person look into the mind of a serial killer. You won’t find any mention of the dread word horror anywhere in the book’s packaging, but it’s about as dark as this author gets, with several graphically described episodes of sex and violence. No, the book does not outdo the aforementioned AMERICAN PSYCHO (or even most splatterpunk novels) in sheer grossness, but does succeed in invoking a profoundly dark, depraved universe.

The inspiration for ZOMBIE’S protagonist Quentin, or “Q__P__”, was clearly the late Jeffrey Dahmer, surely the most infamous mass murderer of our time. Q__P__’s day-to-day existence–mooching off his parents while attending college classes and picking up gay men, most of them black–closely parallels Dahmer’s. So does his killing methodology. Dahmer was reportedly obsessed with creating a zombie he could lord over, and tried many different methods of doing so (drilling holes in his victims’ heads, etc.). Zombification is also Q__P__’s main concern, and he too tries it out on several victims before singling out a teenage boy he dubs “SQUIRREL” as his ideal zombie.

Much of the book’s second half is taken up with Q__P__’s methodical stalking and eventual kidnapping of SQUIRREL, who Q__P__ believes is secretly teasing him. Some of the book’s most distasteful passages occur in this portion, which at times moves into the queasy territory of Dennis Cooper (whose novella FRISK contains depictions of gay-themed perversion that border on pornographic).

But Oates holds our attention with solid writing and a real understanding of the inner workings of psychosis. ZOMBIE isn’t like her other books, which are usually highbrow in the extreme. Its language and syntax are unique to itself, convincingly depicting the thoughts and feelings of a sparsely educated homicidal nut (had Jeffrey Dahmer ever kept a diary, this is very likely how it might read).

As a narrator Q__P__ is prone to run-on sentences, selective capitalization, racist and misogynistic rants, crude drawings, and the “&” symbol, with which he likes to begins sentences. Often he’ll devote an excessive amount of description to a seemingly trivial event, such as a visit to the dentist that affects Q__P__ in a way he doesn’t appear to entirely understand.

Oates, however, clearly understands this character all too well. Her willingness to take us into the head of this sick fuck without judgment or apology puts her in the league of many similarly-minded horror scribes–regardless of whether she or her publishers like it or not!

By EDWARD LEE, WRATH JAMES WHITE (Medium Rare Books; 2003)

Here’s a true match made in Hell: Edward Lee and Wrath James White, the current sultans of literary mayhem. Lee’s output includes over-the-toppers like THE BIGHEAD, GOON and CITY INFERNAL, while White is responsible for the fictional atrocities POISONING EROS and SUCCULENT PREY. Put these two sick fucks together and the results are bound to be twisted, to say the least. Twisted this book is, and also vile, perverse and thoroughly repellant. I’d expect nothing less.

What I was expecting more of is sheer wordage. The page count is a paltry 112, when I’d think these writers capable of at least another two hundred pages. But what’s here is enough to satisfy any reader with a taste for the extreme.

As to which author contributed more, I’d venture to say Wrath James White, as the story is very much in keeping with the inverted spirituality of so many of his tales (it was practically the basis of his collection BOOK OF A THOUSAND SINS). It’s about John Farrington, a young multi-millionaire and all-around lunatic looking to lure God onto our plane and capture him. To this end Farrington packs a secluded mansion with an assortment of human oddities and influential leaders, and injects them all with an illegal drug that jacks up peoples’ sex drives.

Farrington’s charges spend their days performing every conceivable sex act in every imaginable permutation, with Farrington himself often joining in the fun. In this way he hopes to get God so enraged He’ll have to show up on Earth and personally put a stop to it all.

A challenge to Farrington’s reign comes in the form of a femme reporter and tough-guy photographer looking to do a story on the reclusive millionaire. They’re invited to stay in the mansion and become privy to Farrginton’s depraved operation. But then a foul-mouthed angel appears to the photographer, warning that “heavy shit’s going down in this house.” He’s not kidding. He also proclaims that “God’s already pissed off. He has been for five thousand years, and He’s sick to the nucleus of His soul. He’s not going to show himself–you’re not worth His time…”

Yet in the end there is a divine manifestation…but I’ll leave you to find out what it entails on your own.

I’m not sure this book is any sort of masterpiece, but it is nastily effective. The kinetic, expletive-packed prose may not be Nabokov-worthy, but does its job. The events of the narrative weren’t always convincing (call me closed-minded, but I’ll never be able to accept an angel who says “Yeah, God works in fucked-up ways…”), although the minutely detailed acts of perversion, the authors’ stock-in-trade, most definitely were.

By TOM MARSHALL (McClelland & Stewart Inc.; 1991)

The Author’s Note preceding this novel says it all: “This story may seem implausible from beginning to end.”

Implausible? Let’s see. Set in early 1960s Canada, CHANGELINGS is about a twin brother and sister who were sexually abused as children and as a result have developed multiple personalities. The brother, Laird, grows up to become a suburbanite, at least until one of his personalities, an aggressive misogynist named Al, gets him tossed in jail on rape charges. There he meets Herb, a prison psychiatrist who’s astounded upon discovering six or so other selves inhabiting the timid Laird.

Laird’s twin Eleanor has channeled her own multiple personalities into a successful career as a medium. Her clients include the Prime Minister of Canada(!) and a troubled woman named Alice, who believes Eleanor is in contact with her deceased ex…and who just happens to be married to her brother’s shrink.

If you have trouble swallowing such a wild coincidence you’ll likely have a hell of a time getting through this book. Other outlandish developments include one of Laird’s personalities falling in love with his own sister–or at least one of her personalities. Another of Laird’s selves knows and recognizes his sis, and is scheming to do away with her. As for the increasingly flummoxed Herb, it seems he may be cracking up himself from the strain of treating Laird.

I may sound flippant in describing this loopy book, but that’s not because I dislike it. It’s actually one of the most interesting novels I’ve read in some time, with an unusually gripping and inventive narrative drive.

Author Tom Marshall, a noted Canadian poet, relates his story in fragmented, time-tripping fashion, delving out plot points on a strict need-to-know basis. Many chapters are presented as collections of competing voices denoted by names over blocks of text, and others in more straightforward novelistic fashion. The mix works quite well overall, with elements that initially seem confusing and/or pretentious balanced and eventually explained by the less showy portions.

CHANGELINGS is also quite sound from a psychological standpoint. Laird and Eleanor’s day-to-day realities, marked by periodic “blackouts,” are convincing and disturbingly rendered, while the actions of their multiple selves are likewise entirely convincing, as confirmed by nonfiction accounts like SYBIL, THE MINDS OF BILLY MILLIGAN and WHEN RABBIT HOWLS.

But Marshall hasn’t exactly made things easy on himself. Laird, Eleanor and their various personalities comprise a dozen or so central characters (in addition to Herb the shrink and his wife Alice) and just as many subplots. The fact that Marshall is able to hold this unruly tale together, and craft such a spellbinding piece of work in the bargain, is by itself a mighty impressive accomplishment.

By GARY BRANDER (Fawcett Gold Medal; 1977)
You likely know this late-seventies paperback best as the source for the famous 1980 movie of the same name. That Joe Dante directed film remains popular with horror mavens the world over, yet I’ve never been all that impressed. Despite a few great moments, I find the flick overblown, self-conscious and far too clever for its own good.

This novel, it turns out, differs from the film in many respects (like quite a few others, I didn’t get around to reading it until long after seeing the movie). Unlike Dante, Gary Brander keeps things simple with his tight, focused account of Karyn, a young woman recovering from a vicious rape (in the movie the gal’s a newscaster who lures a serial killer into a porno theater–and then is actually shocked when the guy attacks her). In an effort to put the assault behind her, Karyn travels with her husband to a secluded California village (a new age retreat in the flick) which turns out to be infested with werewolves.

That essentially sums up this novel, an eminently readable chunk of commercial fiction. Gary Brander made his horror debut with this book; he’s written better ones since, including WALKERS, HELLBORN and a HOWLING II and III (which incidentally have nothing to do with the HOWLING movie sequels), yet seems destined to be forever known as Author of THE HOWLING. It’s not “terrible” (as Dante has opined), but nor do I feel it’s “the best book I’ve ever read” (as an Amazon reviewer claims).

Yet the novel has much to recommend. In contrast to the film, it lavishes more energy on storytelling than on being clever. It also moves fast and doesn’t futz around with unnecessary detours or subplots. The page count is a brief 223, which seems an entirely appropriate length. Obviously writers back in 1977 operated under different rules than today’s scribes, who seem contractually bound to deliver a minimum 350 pages (whether their books actually need all those pages or not).

Other points of recommendation include two surprisingly intense sex scenes, as Karyn’s hubbie becomes unwittingly involved with a werewolf woman (at least one of these bits was lifted intact for the movie). We also learn, in a lengthy climactic episode, just how difficult it is to get silver bullets made these days.

Is this novel great? Nope. Should you go out of your way to track it down? Probably not. But those wanting a diverting read that can easily be completed over the course of a weekend are advised to take note.