Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Coralina first won the hearts of horror fans as another birthday girl: the ill-fated, talon-sprouting, pus-erupting Sally of Lamberto Bava's DEMONS 2: THE NIGHTMARE BEGINS -- a legitimately great monster performance. She can currently be seen in what is surely the most outrageous of her many death scenes in Dario Argento's MOTHER OF TEARS (featured in the new issue of VIDEO WATCHDOG), and is presently engaged in many different projects we eagerly await, including an ambitious authorized biography written with Filippo Brunamonti, new paintings and music, and some original screenplay projects written in collaboration with the talented writer-director Mariano Baino (DARK WATERS).
You can see the delightfully experimental and allusive 6m trailer for Coralina's and Filippo Brunamonti's forthcoming book on her MySpace page here (which includes a Hitchcock-like cameo by... er, another book), and also sample tracks from her CD, LIMBO BALLOON -- which capture the real Coralina I know and love.
"Happy Birthday!" the dark incubus spake.
"Now tie the birthday girl down
And... cut the cake!"
Monday, February 23, 2009
For those of you who favor Eurohorror, this current issue features an engrossing and illuminating (if I do say so myself) round table discussion of Dario Argento's MOTHER OF TEARS, with input from Maitland McDonagh, Kim Newman, Richard Harland Smith, Brad Stevens and yours truly. And, obsessives that we are, we let the thing roll on for 21 pages illustrated in full color! Where else are you going to get that? This is also one of those proud issues that has something to offer readers of every taste, from Jean-Pierre Melville noirs to horror classics from the '30s through present day, and both Kim Newman and Audio Watchdog Douglas E. Winter have their respective says about Peter Watkins' seminal rock-oriented cautionary tale PRIVILEGE. You can get the whole rundown on the issue here, complete with four free sample pages to whet your appetite.
Those of you who have been secretly wishing to write for VW over the years, but have been deterred by our "on an invitational basis only" restriction, may find an announcement in my current editorial of especial interest.
A great issue, this one, but being a monthly gives us no time to rest on our laurels. Last week, we put the finishing touches on our next issue, VW 148, which is now at the printer. Our readers have been urging us to follow our head by covering more obscure product, which we're happy to do, but if we want to keep the folks at Diamond Comics Distribution (and, by extension, ourselves) happy, we're going to have to do everything we can to keep our covers more recognizably commercial. I think Charlie and Donna's cover for 148 is a stellar example of doing this in the prettiest and most tempting way possible.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
There has been some debate on the subject of which came first: the little girl devil in Bava's KILL, BABY... KILL! or the one in Federico Fellini's TOBY DAMMIT. The answer to that brain-teaser, it turns out, is the one in Buñuel's SIMON OF THE DESERT, played with minxish aplomb by VIRIDIANA's Silvia Pinal. The Devil materializes to tempt the early Christian ascetic Simon (DR. TARR'S TORTURE DUNGEON's Claudio Brook) in various guises, the second of which is as a little girl rolling a hoop. When her innocence has no effect, she turns more womanly and coquettish, displaying a shapely pair of dark-nyloned legs and finally baring her breasts (a startling image which Criterion has boldly posited as the disc's inset), yet Simon remains inviolate.
SIMON OF THE DESERT runs only 45 minutes and is perfect enough at this length. Buñuel always claimed that the money (supplied by Pinal's furniture magnate husband, who produced) ran out, preventing him from completing the picture. In a supplement on the SIMON disc, a 2008 interview with Pinal includes her surprise confession that she was responsible for pulling the plug, when Buñuel excused himself from another project she was planning, a vanity three-episode anthology inspired by the Mastroianni/Loren hit, YESTERDAY, TODAY AND TOMORROW. The actress now regrets her fit of hubris and recognizes that only her work with Buñuel has entitled her to a place in the history of cinema.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Monday, February 09, 2009
My Myriem Roussel fever continues to run high. Thanks to eBay, I've been able to obtain ancient VHS PAL and SECAM pre-records of Joy Fleury's Tristesse et Beauté ("Sadness and Beauty," 1985) and Robert Van Ackeren's Die Venusfalle ("The Venus Trap," 1988), both featuring Roussel, neither of which was ever exported to America.
The former, which co-stars Charlotte Rampling and Andrzej Zulawski, casts Roussel as a sculptress. the younger woman in a lesbian relationship, who is sent by her partner to seduce and destroy a successful writer who broke her heart years before. The film was given a DVD release in Italy, which would certainly have yielded a much superior picture to the French SECAM crap I watched, but it would also have stuck me with Italian dubbed audio; at least on the tape, the original dialogue recording was intact. I found the movie compelling even without understanding all the dialogue; its images are gripping, its depictions of artistic process valid, and Roussel is absolutely lovely, acting with equal conviction in her love scenes with Rampling and Zulawski. It's an erotic film whose standout scenes spotlight personal hygiene, firstly as Roussel powders her body prior to an assignation with Zulawski, and secondly as Rampling uses a straight razor to shave her lover's underarms.
Die Venusfalle, from the director of A Woman in Flames, curiously downplays Roussel in its packaging, which toplines and pictures "Der Neue Erotik-Star" Sonja Kirchberger, though Roussel is given top-billing on the film itself. The movie is typical, pretentious, coked-up, '80s Eurotrash in many ways, with a soundtrack featuring various uncredited Bowie, Roxy Music and Iggy Pop tracks. Nevertheless, Roussel comes across as a real rock star here.
Her introduction, withheld until we're more than 20 minutes into the picture, must be one of the most outrageous ever dared. The unlikeable, arrogant, fashion-plate male protagonist, Max (Horst-Gunther Marx), struts into a pool hall, where he finds Marie (Roussel) playing billiards with a man. It's obvious they notice one another, but they're too cool to acknowledge the attraction, not even exchanging glances as she and her partner finish and leave. Cut to later that night, as both toss and turn in their respective beds with their respective lovers asleep beside them. They both awaken, silently dress, climb into their cars and roar off into the night. Moments later, their two cars independently arrive on opposite ends of the same street and accelerate toward one another in a game of Chicken, finally deflecting off one another in a scrape that sends both vehicles spinning out of control.
The two staggered drivers sit in their cars for a moment or two, eyeing each other like diagrammatically fated pawns. They recover their senses, exit their cars, start walking then running toward one another, collide in an embrace and proceed to make love right then and there, in the middle of the empty strasse.
Yes, the scene is ludicrous, even kitschy, yet it's more vividly staged and carries a stronger erotic charge than anything in Cronenberg's CRASH. And I ask you, does the cinema have a better reason to exist than to bring visions such as this within everyone's reach? (Well, everyone able to play PAL or SECAM tapes, anyway.)
There's another enjoyably preposterous scene where Max disrupts Marie's ballet recital; it's preposterous because Roussel, despite having a perfect swan-like neck and balletic grace, is much too tall to be part of a ballet chorus and looks awkward when raised. This doesn't alter the fact that she's an extraordinary creature and makes the film endurable, even irresistable, with her uncanny presence alone.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
I was first exposed to the deadly, 'tang-drenched, rockabilly vibes of The Cramps through the movies: as one of the more memorable acts in the IRS concert compendium URGH! A MUSIC WAR and as part of the soundtrack for Tobe Hooper's THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE PART 2, where DJ heroine Stretch (Caroline Williams) gives a spin to their classic tune "Goo Goo Muck." Erick, who was 62, reportedly died due to a pre-existing heart condition -- twenty-plus years after an intensely circulated death rumor in the late 1980s. Donna and I send our condolences to Erick's wife "Poison" Ivy Roschach and to his friends, family and fans.
As long as speedometers go higher than the legal speed limit, as long as monster movies occupy the tiniest niche in the popular consciousness, as long as hard-ons hide in tight bluejeans, Lux's raging music will live on.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
The above scan from a 1965 Italian trade paper reminds us that even the greats of cinema who have now passed on into history, such as Mario Bava, had to spend much of their careers in pursuit of funding. This ad attempted to stir up interest for a 1965 project called 12 bambole bionde ("12 Blonde Dolls"), described as a venture between Bava, actor-turned-producer Ulderico Sciarretta, and Sciarretta’s production company, Eco Film.
The advertisement asks: “Who killed Gino? Who killed Linda? Who killed Paolo? Who killed Romolo? Who killed Raymondo? Who killed Emerson? When these questions are asked, Inspector Klem will answer them!” (Apparently most of the “12 Blonde Dolls” were to be men!)
What is interesting about the ad—which goes on to promise “not just a Super Giallo, but a Colossal Giallo”—is that it says absolutely nothing about the movie's obvious and quite ambitious intention of doubling the body count of Bava’s vicious Sei donne per l’assassino (BLOOD AND BLACK LACE, 1964), a film that had the good fortune to be released all around the world. Instead, the ad hubristically proclaims that 12 bambole bionde “follows the grand success of Crimine a due.” This ultra-obscure title, directed by Romano Ferrara and starring John Drew Barrymore and Lisa Gastoni, was apparently Sciarretta’s first and only film as a producer, issued earlier in 1965 and never released outside of Italy.
Understandably, few (if any) investors were attracted by the ad's questions or its hollow boast of Crimine a due's "grand success." The upswing of this faulty strategy: 12 bambole bionde was never made and Bava and Sciarretta never worked together.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
These have been very interesting times for me: I've been unexpectedly reunited with a long-lost friend from high school, now a successful and well-travelled artist. This has led to a vigorous, fulfilling correspondence and a lot of restimulated memories from thirty-odd years ago, some good and some not-so-good. My friend evidently lost a lot of her old personal photos along the way, and she asked if I might send her some high school pics, which led me and my digital camera back to my long-packed-away yearbooks from Norwood High School. While rifling through the pages of the 1971 and '72 Silhouettes in search of her, I also took a digital snap of this personal shot, which shows me as part of the staff of the school paper, The Mirror. This is where I was first published as a film critic.
Introducing the Mirror staff from left to right: Sharon Nolte, Gary Larrison, yours truly, Jeff Wilkerson, assistant editor Joan Peters, editor Randall Parsons, Rod Best and faculty advisor Miss Danea White. (Not pictured: Bill Howard and Nadine Hoover. Nadine was a sweetie, and I hope she's happy and thriving, whatever her current circumstances may be.)
Randy Parsons was the president of the 1971 senior class, the fellow who spoke to us clueless frosh on Orientation Day, telling us about the school and the innate superiority of upperclassmen while also encouraging us to pursue extracurricular activities. I responded by following him out of the auditorium, calling "Mr. Parsons!" down the hall, and offering my services to The Mirror as film critic then and there. I'd already had some reviews accepted by CINEFANTASTIQUE, not yet published, which gave me this then-unusual measure of courage.
My chores on The Mirror, where I worked through my freshman and sophomore years, consisted of reviewing films and records and also writing/drawing a serial comic strip, Captain Norwood. Unfortunately, only two samples of the strip survive in my archive: the first and the very last, published toward the end of my freshman year. The final strip became a huge cause celebre at NHS when Captain Norwood was finally unmasked and revealed to be the school janitor, Fred Burnett, who became an overnight star. There's a picture in the 1971 Yearbook of Fred surrounded by a gaggle of prom girls, the poor man looking like a deer caught in the headlights of teenage sex. That picture is the success of Captain Norwood in a nutshell. I don't know why I didn't continue the strip in my sophomore year, when Mrs. Janet Fealy took over as faculty advisor. Possibly she wanted the paper to become a little less irreverent, or maybe I decided not to continue with it. I liked Mrs. Fealy; she was remarkably forgiving of my various crimes, like blasting The Mothers of Invention's "Billy the Mountain" on the paper office's turntable when I had no idea that she was sitting in the outer room, grading papers. The look she shot me as I emerged from the room with the record under my arm -- followed by a slow, head-shaking, half-complicit smile -- is one of my sweetest memories of high school.
Some other interesting folks here. I'm the only freshman in the picture. Gary Larrison, the senior standing to the left of me, was the first novelist I ever met. I remember him working on an original novel called THE FLIGHT OF THE PHOENIX, undertaken for Independent Study, in the paper office. I was astonished by the ambition of his project and I asked him about it with great interest; it turned out to be my first glimpse of my own future life. Sharon Nolte, who looks remarkably like Donna looked when we first met two years later, was a nice girl, one of two (the other being Nadine) who cared enough to check on me at home during an extended absence after the 1972 suicide of my best friend, Mike Hennel.
Danea White was the most important teacher I ever had, though I never had the pleasure of taking one of her classes. In addition to being the paper's advisor, she became a personal friend and mentor, and there were a few times when she, her boyfriend (and later husband) John and I used my theater passes to go to the movies together. It was a great time for movies and we saw things like A CLOCKWORK ORANGE and EL TOPO, which I then reviewed for the school paper, though I doubt even my senior editor Randy was old enough at the time to be admitted to them. One day, Miss White and John surprised me by inviting me to lunch in that off-limits haven, the teacher's cafeteria, where my presence drew the codfish-eye from a few other teachers who regarded me as something of a ne'er-do-well. I credit Danea's interest in my talent and well-being with keeping me alive during a difficult period and with encouraging me to finally forsake my art interests to become a writer. My only regret is that we're standing so far apart in this picture, the only one ever taken of us together.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
It has now been more than twenty years since I first published anything bearing the title THROAT SPROCKETS. It first appeared as a 12-page story in the premiere issue of Steve Bissette's horror anthology TABOO, published in the Fall of 1988. The initial tale was conceived as the first chapter of a graphic novel; it was illustrated in remarkable photo-realistic style by Mike Hoffman and garnered a lot of favorable attention. TABOO's debut issue also featured the work of comics royalty like Alan Moore, Steve himself, Eddie Campbell and Charles Burns, but many reviewers singled out "Throat Sprockets" -- my very first published work in comics -- as the collection's best story. I've never forgotten how, while attending an Ohio comics convention with Steve around that time, someone I knew locally (who had never really given me much of the time of day before) came up to the table where we were signing, clasped my hand in both of his, shook it vigorously, and congratulated me with all the earnestness of a priest. His sincere appreciation of the story was my first glimmer of the impact THROAT SPROCKETS would have on certain people.
I'd like to say "people" in general, rather than "certain people," because that would mean the initial positive reaction went on to become more widespread. Alas, while TABOO went on to introduce other developing graphic novels (like Alan Moore & Eddie Campbell's FROM HELL and Moore & Melinda Gebbie's LOST GIRLS), the graphic version of THROAT SPROCKETS was stillborn, never completed. This was partly due to the fact that Mike's photo-realistic style required so much time to execute, and also because my comics scripts -- possibly as a result from the Alan Moore SWAMP THING scripts that Steve used to school me in the technique -- were becoming not only more detailed and more complex, but untenably long. The second chapter, "Transylvania mon amour" in TABOO #3 (1989) ran a full 30 pages. In retrospect, it seems obvious that the graphic-novel-in-progress was crying out to become the traditional novel I eventually wrote. It was Steve who encouraged me to do this, and it took some doing because I had already written, and failed to sell, numerous other literary novels. But I knew I couldn't continue with the way things were going: my working relationship with Mike Hoffman worsened after we met, and my only contact with his successor David Lloyd (V FOR VENDETTA) -- who ultimately did a splendid job of illustrating the third story, "The Disaster Area" for TABOO #8 (June 1995) -- was a belligerent note he fired off to me on an Edward G. Robinson postcard, when I suggested adding a single panel to a page I had scripted. The three issues of TABOO in which the THROAT SPROCKETS arc appear -- numbers 1, 3 and 8, respectively -- are long out-of-print, but Steve makes a dwindling number of personal stash copies available at SR Bissette's Online Emporium. If you're at all interested, order now because the supply is just about gone.
I would never have proceeded with the novel without the support of a literary agent. My first agent, an enthusiastic young woman named Cathy Mahar, took on the project -- then, in a preview of things to come, decided to quit agenting just as things started happening. Cathy did give me the lead that got me accepted as a client by agent Lori Perkins, and Cathy and I kept in sporadic touch until I received the tragic news of her death, from a brain aneurysm, just weeks after she had sent me a congratulatory letter on the book's acceptance by editor Jeanne Cavelos at Dell. THROAT SPROCKETS was originally acquired by Jeanne to be part of her Abyss horror series, but because the manuscript was considered to be literary noir than traditional horror, it was held back from release a full year and finally issued in September 1994 as the first original novel under the new Cutting Edge imprint. It was preceded by the first softcover edition of Patrick McCabe's THE BUTCHER BOY (which featured an ad for THROAT SPROCKETS on its closing page), which had already appeared in hardcover from another company.
Despite a front cover endorsement by Bret Easton Ellis, a sexed-up subtitle I had nothing to do with ("A novel of erotic obsession"), and unanimous rave reviews, Dell's lack of promotional support (made worse by Jeanne's departure from the company and her replacement by a chilly editorial contact who, I was told, found my book offensive) killed it in its crib. Though Ellen Datlow called it the year's best first novel, THROAT SPROCKETS went unnominated in any of the fiction categories for literary horror awards. It was subsequently published in Great Britain by 4th Estate, who gave it lovely hardcover and softcover editions, and it fared somewhat better overseas than here. It was later translated into French by Simon Lhopiteau as SALLES OBSCURES ("Darkened Theatres") for Pocket Books' Terreur line in Paris. The cover of the French edition (pictured above, a painting by Pierre Olivier-Templier) is my personal favorite, one of the most extraordinary covers I've seen on any book. I so wish I owned the original.
THROAT SPROCKETS, the novel, has been named as one of the best horror novels by at least two reference books compiling such lists, and RUE MORGUE recently included it in a list of essential progressive horror fiction. Despite this continuing interest and support, the book has now been out of print for thirteen years, and there is no sign of it being reprinted and given a chance for broader recognition. With internet booksellers offering used copies at a lower price than it costs to mail it, I can easily understand, especially in this economy, why publishing companies might not see the wisdom of throwing new money in its direction. Though I make no profit from these used copies, they are like seedlings, continuing to bring me new readers brave enough to read fiction by someone principally known for writing non-fiction.
In the very first sentence of the first review of my book I ever read, a wonderful write-up in FANGORIA, Linda Marotta called THROAT SPROCKETS "the kind of novel around which cults are formed." The enthusiasm of her review braced me for imminent fame and fortune, which didn't come, but she was prophetic in that she foresaw a cult for the book.
If you type the words "throat sprockets" into the search engine at Amazon.com, you will be taken to a page that not only shows the various editions of my novel, but lists other works of fiction that, uncannily, pay it tribute. A story by VW's Kim Newman -- called "Castle in the Desert" in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF BEST NEW HORROR 12 and "The Other Side of Midnight" in VAMPIRE SEXTETTE -- namechecks the imaginary film in my novel as a real one, and a vivid character I mentioned only in passing, porn director Debbie W. Griffith, is discussed as though a real person. For all I know, today she may well be... it would sit well beside the fact that a 1996 horror novel, ESCARDY GAP by Peter Crowder and James Lovegrove, features a Nurse Sprocket (possibly a nod to my novel's "Once Upon a Time in the West" chapter, set in a hospital) and refers on page 252 to the "throat sprockets" of an old projector in a movie theater. Last year, Rayo Casablanca's novel 6 SICK HIPSTERS placed a copy of THROAT SPROCKETS in a character's apartment as a sign of their good taste. To my even greater surprise, two different books about music make reference to THROAT SPROCKETS, citing its depiction of cinemania as reflective of the masculine record collecting impulse.
Which brings us to this curious turn of events. As of last week, when you type "throat sprockets" into the Amazon.com search engine, my book is no longer the first thing you see. The newest THROAT SPROCKETS on the block is the debut CD (pictured) of an inventive and energetic band from Glendale, California, who call themselves, with my blessing, Throat Sprockets. The 14-track album on Cat Sandwich Records is available from both Amazon and CDBaby.com. CDBaby.com also makes it available as an mp3 download.
The lead singer of the group, who goes by the name Miss Lonelyhearts, sent me a copy of the disc for my thoughts. It's one of the most intimidating review duties I've ever had to face, because I feel a paternal connection to these fans of my book who wanted to carry its banner, so to speak. (Miss Lonelyhearts told me "It's the best band name since Led Zeppelin!") But what if I didn't care for what they produced under the auspices of my title? Would I want to withdraw my permission? Could I?
Fortunately, I need no longer fret over such questions because, having listened to THROAT SPROCKETS a few times, I do like it. It's noisy, quirky, clever and unpredictable. Like most debut independent releases, it finds the band still in the process of discovering their group identity, their group sound, but the search itself takes them through a series of interesting mutations. It's a map of their musical interests and ranges rather than a focused statement, and its presentation is so cryptic -- no personnel listing, no explanation for the front or back cover illustrations, and the album's opening and closing guitar notes are in Morse code -- that it conveys the feel of a message launched in a bottle, sent out in search of the right ears eager to listen.
"The Bruiser" is probably the most commercial and fully realized track of the bunch, but I find myself most attracted to the more lyrical "Small Potatoes" (really lovely) and "Violent Kisses," which I think feature the best singing on the album. Several songs have a strong melodic sense and, at the same time, a quirky experimental edge; the sound of Throat Sprockets is a slippery, busy, noodly sound, at different times whimsically juvenile, brashly teenage and emotionally armored young adult, veering somewhere between instrumental virtuosity and André Gide's admonition "Do not understand me too quickly." Sometimes the music and lyric are willfully contradictory. For example, "Each and Every Day" might have been the standout, but the bluesy gravitas of the lyric seems to belong to a different song, the accompaniment so contrary as to deny the emotions the words express. Miss Lonelyhearts, whose voice I file mentally between Joan Jett and Belinda Carlisle, alternates vocals with an unnamed male bandmember, but his tracks don't particularly grab me. I suspect the more melodic inclinations of the band will guide them to a unique group sound before their thrash numbers will, but it's the band's call, of course -- and everything depends on what they add to these building blocks. I'm told they have already moved on creatively from here, and will start recording their second album shortly.
Bottom line: Though I found the THROAT SPROCKETS album too scattershot to pin down as a whole, it held my interest throughout with its constant edge of invention, and it kept my foot tapping. It is engaging, and I'm proud to be reached by this latest ripple from the book I cast on the waters all those years ago.