New adventures - Empire’s Top 500 - I guess that wraps it up for God...

This is another one of those blogs that will be more catch-up than anything else. Apologies to the two of you who follow my exploits religiously.

If you read this blog, you undoubtedly read Amy's, so you know we've been flitting thither and yon over the past month. We took a trip to the wilds of Baltimore a few weeks ago to see April and JimmyO Burril in "Evita", something I wouldn't necessarily have done had they not been in it. I'm not a fan of Andrew Lloyd "Two-Chord" Webber. The majority of his shows seem to highlight two memorable numbers and present incidental music that sounds like mice running up and down piano keys. But JimmyO gave power and charisma to the lead character of "Che", and April strutted her stuff in the dance numbers, transporting me out of Webberland and into actual enjoyable live theater. For which, I was grateful.

Immediately following, we ran down to D.C. to check out the new touring Jim Henson's Muppets exhibit at the Smithsonian. The Muppets on display at this exhibit were the very ones we saw being prepared last year when we had the good fortune to visit the behind-the-scenes staging section of the Institution. And while the exhibit really is phenomenal—featuring not only the puppets but archived footage and nearly endless amounts of Henson's original artwork, storyboards, sketches and notes—I have to admit that not being able to actually touch these original Muppets (as I was able to in the staging room) was a tad disappointing. Still, I left the exhibit smiling and happy and not a little choked up by the whole experience.

When we fought our way back to our car through torrential rain, we discovered that we'd spent the afternoon wading through Hurricane Hannah. Taking the Metro into D.C., water came down around us in sheets and cascaded down the staircases to the underground. We had to ford veritable rivers to cross the parking lots and swam across the mall to the exhibition area, but at least we wore hats! We actually achieved maximum saturation on the way back, fortunately, so we weren't wandering around in the chilly exhibit area soaked and miserable. That it didn't occur to us that this was because of the hurricane is more a testament to our determination than our capacity for information. At least, I like to think so.

Back at the hotel, we met up with Steve (one of our three cinematographers from Demon Divas) and Tabatha (who plays "Becki" in same) for dinner and wound up watching part of a movie called Pirates, which happens to be a very slick, glamorous and expensive porno. Now, I'm not a fan of straight porn. Not out of any sensitivity or prudishness, but because I started my career not only writing book reviews for a magazine that was distributed exclusively to strip clubs but also worked as a publicist for a company that also subdistributed a lot of hard core porn over the internet. So my bias towards porn is born less out of sensibility and more out of overload. That combined with the unavoidable fact that, as a filmmaker, I'm highly critical of the lousy camerawork and lighting found in most porn. (Seriously, there is nothing funnier and less erotic than watching a hardcore porno in a room full of filmmakers—"There are double shadows on the wall!" – "Where is the camera mounted for that shot??" – "Dude! Mic placement!")

But Pirates is actually a lot of fun. There's an actual story and the two male leads seem ecstatic to have the opportunity to play pirates and swashbucklers. The hero actually struck me as playing a variation of Futurama's Zap Brannigan in his delivery and character. The women seem just as bored as ever, regardless of the slick setting and the pretty candlelight photography, but they weren't hired for their performances, obviously. It has the same structure as most porn movies, of course—dialogue, sex, change of scenery, change of partners, more sex, etc.—but they also intersperse the old standards with a little bit of swordplay and some CGI skeletons paying homage to Jason and the Argonauts! And the movie ends with a sea battle with the two CGI ships battling it out with cannon fire.

Oddly enough, the attempts at humor are actually funny and don't rely on—surprisingly—sex jokes. So I was impressed all around, at least with the story, the structure and the characters. The sex scenes, however, went on far too long—the whole movie is over two hours, for pete's sake!—and seemed to be not only vanilla but incredibly angry. Again, I'm not a connoisseur of modern pornography, so maybe angry toss-you-around hardcore is the norm these days, I'm not sure, but I found myself less aroused by these scenes and more concerned for the actresses' safety. The lesbian scenes especially were particularly brutal. Still, there's an R-rated version of the movie put out by MTI which moves a lot faster, so I'd actually recommend that version to the curious. The hardcore has been edited out, so the pacing seems a bit more choppy, but the wonderful performances remain intact.

A few weeks later, we made the trip to Buffalo to return to Rotten Jack's Creepshow. Last year's premiere event was one of our show highlights, just being a good time and an all-around good show, complete with guests, vendors and live bands. This year, the show was held in a larger venue, a nightclub in the heart of downtown Buffalo. Once inside, the show was another success—getting there was fun, however.

Amy and I got there early, dropped off our stock and went to our hotel to clean up and get ready, fighting construction the whole way. We picked up Debbie Rochon and stopped off for a bite to eat, thinking we'd take a different route to avoid the construction. An hour later, we were hopelessly lost—thanks to a G.P.S. that thought "Main Street" was the same place, no matter how many of them there were. When we finally arrived, found a place to park amid downtown construction and traffic, we were greeted at the front door of the venue by a surly bouncer on a control trip, checking I.D.s of two college-age girls. We smiled at him, told him we were guests and started for the door. He stopped us with, "Still need to check your I.D.s—stay right there!"

I don't like being ordered around. Particularly when I was asked to attend an event. But I waited—I also don't like to cause trouble for the people who invited me and were putting on the event. Tom and his wife, Cheryl, were very nice people and they had enough on their plates without worrying about their guests getting into fights with the venue workers. So I stopped and waited. He checked our I.D.s then demanded to check our bags. We had Amy's tote, Debbie's stock and a camera bag and he "needed" to see inside each one. Now, I have no trouble with policy. I do have trouble with assholes. He could have been nice about the whole thing, particularly when informed we were, again, guests of the show that was paying him to be there.

He told Amy she couldn't bring in her vodka and I couldn't bring in my flask. Fine. It was a bar. We didn't think about that when we'd brought it and we weren't parked too far away. I didn't mind taking the booze back to the car. However, Debbie was refused entrance with her coffee. And the bar didn't serve coffee. "We don't know what's in there!" he barked. Which made no sense to me. It's fucking coffee. Coffee is a requirement when you do shows like this. And, again, he wasn't nice about it and wasn't even particularly nice to Tom when he came out to see what the problem was.
So we waited outside. I'd returned our contraband to the car and Debbie finished her coffee. We turned back to the guy, opened our bags, "Can we get back to our lives now?" I asked. He didn't answer.

When we got inside, our table already had a line of people who remembered us from last year. A line formed in front of Debbie's table seconds after she stepped behind it. Other guests—Melantha Blackthorne, Rod Gudino from Rue Morgue, Greg Lambertson (Slime City) came over to greet us. Tom brought us drinks to get us going. Hell, I was even signing autographs before we'd even sat down. I was actually on the poster advertising the event. In fact, I'm so used to not being on the advertising that when someone gave me the poster to sign, I automatically began writing in the margin, not even noticing my handsome mug right there on the one-sheet!

Within an hour, we'd sold a goodly deal of our merchandise, chatted with people new and old (as in acquaintance, not age… specifically). Gunnar Hansen and Tony Moran were the main headliners, and their lines were seemingly endless. A good time was had all around. I really do like this show.

Hell, I even got my pound of flesh a few hours later when the surly bouncer came inside and skulked around a little sheepishly by the guest tables. Again, I usually make a point of talking with the employees of the venue and the volunteers of the show. It's just good manners. They take a lot of shit from customers and vendors that they don't deserve, so Amy and I like to make sure they know they're appreciated. But I couldn't bring myself to take the high road with this douschebag. He ambled by Melantha's table, sifting through some of her pictures. Melantha was with some fans, so she didn't pay him any attention. Amy and Debbie were away from the tables and I was just drunk enough that my Irish was up. The bouncer came over, saw me, and gave me a tough guy look. "How's it going for you?" he said. It wasn't a challenge and it wasn't a greeting. His body language was still trying to establish his boundaries. I grinned and looked him in the eye. "Great," I said. "Fuck off."

I expected something in return. An insult, a flex of muscle, something. All I got was surprise and a retreat. I felt like Ben in Night of the Living Dead dealing with Harry Cooper—'you go be boss outside, pal; I'll be boss right here.' He was gone in a second and I didn't see him again. I went over to the bar, bought another drink and left the bartender a $2 tip for a $4 drink. That's my definition of Darwinism in this business.
The next morning, we made like Hobbits and had two lovely breakfasts. The first was with Debbie before we saw her off to her flight. The next was with the lovely Gunnar Hansen as we caught up, not having seen him since the first Genghis Con. That was much fun.

The rest of the previous week has been spent trying to get the third anniversary issue of Sirens of Cinema to press and gearing up for Cinema Wasteland. This particular issue was a bear due to a lot of unforeseen circumstances and not a little bit on the difficulty of finding art to go with our tribute to the late Dave Stevens—but thankfully, his family and friends did come through for us and allowed us to put together a gorgeous centerpiece to memorialize him.

For now, though, I'm just counting down the days until Wasteland, the happiest place on Earth…

* * *

Found this on Edgar Wright's blog – Empire Magazine's top 500 Movies of all time.

I firmly believe that all top lists like this, particularly the AFM's annual "Top 100 Movies to Eat Dinner By" and somesuch are just designed to start fistfights, but this one was expansive enough that I was curious to check it out.

Not that I agree with everything on the list. (Seriously, Kingdom of the Crystal Skull? It isn't even my top 500 movies of the year! Back to the Future II?) But, what the hell? I checked it out. I'm embarrassed to say that out of that 500, I've not seen 105 of them, mostly foreign films. It's shameful, truly. I've missed out on 20% of that list! Now, 35 of them are already on my Netflix list, another 10 are currently in my collection, but I just haven't gotten to them yet.

Still… I hate when I throw the gauntlet at myself…

** *

So I came across a letter to the editor in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette referring to the September 12 experiment that steered the first proton beam around a 17-mile underground loop that on the border of France and Switzerland in an attempt to recreate the Big Bang and, in an effect, the "Origins of the Universe". In the letter, the writer states:

"I would have been glad to give them the answer for free. 'In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.' What else do they need to know?"

You are absolutely right, sir. Scientists should at no point attempt to answer questions for themselves. All research in any field should be henceforth abandoned because you solved all mysteries of the universe for us: God Did It.

So if you or a member of your family should—God Forbid—contract cancer, nothing should be done to treat it. Because God did it. He wants you or a loved one to have cancer. And to treat it or—God Forbid—cure it is, obviously, an affront to God.

Any attempts we make to find alternative energy, make peace with other nations, improve horticulture—or any culture—or make any technological advances in any way, shape or form are, of course, affronts to God. God needs no scientific validation. God needs no justification. God, for you, is the ultimate answer and, therefore, by extension, is everyone's ultimate answer. So stop asking. You know the answer. God did it. God willed it. God insists that it is so. So shut the fuck up, you Godless heathen scientists and your search for knowledge. And take your fucking evolution with you!

God forbid we ever attempt to take God out of the equation for just a moment and make the slightest attempt to use the brains that God gave us, Goddammit!

Returning from Rotten Jack's

A couple of weeks ago, Amy and I made the trek out to Rotten Jack’s Creep Show in Buffalo, NY. Despite the fact that it took forever for us to get on the road—I worked in the morning, we stopped for food and gas, traffic was ridiculous at lunchtime and wouldn’t let us out of the city, etc.—we arrived safely and wound up having a great time. For a first-time show, it ran exceptionally smoothly and we both feel grateful to Tom for inviting us to participate. Ironically, the woman responsible for turning Tom onto us, Melantha Blackthorne, had to cancel at the last minute due to getting cast in the remake of Death Race 2000 (congrats, M!). We wound up getting to hang out with two of our very good friends, however—April and JimmyO Burril—so the rest was gravy.

A combo horror and rock ‘n roll show, Rotten Jack’s Creep Show was held at a little out of the way place called Club Infinity. Vendors were set up at enormous 8’ tables (we’re all used to the comparatively-cramped 6-footers that are the norm at other shows) that led to and around the stage and pit area where the bands played. Our table was between Jimmy and April and Greg Lambertson, whose new movie, Johnny Gruesome, is getting a considerable amount of attention (and congrats to him as well!). To our left were the awesome Midnight Syndicate folks; to our right, the also awesome Fright Rags (next to filmmakers who just wrapped a cool-looking thing called Banshee). And directly across from us, the show’s primary draw: Steve Gonsalves from Sci-Fi’s Ghost Hunters.

The only guy who ever had a line, Steve seemed friendly and personable. His line consisted primarily of younger kids and older women, for some reason, all of whom were genuinely excited to meet him. Of course, having been in situations like this before, we knew not to get too worked up by the line stretching in front of our table. We got more than a few cursory glances at our merchandise, but few first-time buyers. They were there for Steve and nobody else. In fact, we encountered quite a few poseurs. More than one teenager slathered in fake blood would glance at our Spicy Sisters or Severe Injuries DVDs and immediately proclaim them to be porn. “Actually,” I told one girl, there pimping a local haunted attraction, “Spicy Sisters is a documentary about women in the horror industry.”

“Yeah, sure—the porn industry, probably.”

“You’re right, I was just being silly. Please get the fuck away from my table.”

Hey, I said ‘please’.

Little nimrods like this abounded, but she was the most outspoken. We did manage to turn a few folks into believers and it’s always fun to meet people who have never heard of us, but are interested to find out more. As Amy pointed out to me, after my less-than-pleasant encounter with the little anti-porn girl, most of the kids there were Halloween people, not horror people. They love the holiday, not the genre. They’re the kids who, crowded into theaters every Friday night, are keeping the remake machine running. They don’t know—or really care—about the horror industry. Halloween is awesome, but, dude, it’s only once a year.

A couple of shots of rum later, I was able to digest this truth a little better.

I have to admit, though, that this show made me feel older than ever before. The bands were too loud for me (although the Midnight Syndicate music did make the ever-playing baseball game on the overhead TV seem much more dramatic and scary!), the line for Gonsalves was oppressive and made me feel claustrophobic. And, dammit, the kids were too damned young! Seeing guys like Chris Seaver—who I’ve known for almost a decade—and my old friend Jim Steinhoff—who I’ve known for over a decade—didn’t help either. Happy to see them; dismayed that I’m old enough to know anyone outside immediate family for “decades”.

I made matters worse, later, by partaking in pizza and barbecued wings at 2AM in Jimmy and April’s room later. We ordered just after midnight, but the joint didn’t see fit to deliver when promised. So I’m chowing down and feeling like a Mogwai—I shouldn’t be fed after midnight either. We’re watching the roast of Flavor Flav—all the time I’m trying to figure out “why” (why were we watching this? Why is anyone paying attention to Flavor Flav? Why isn’t this actually funny?). A couple of hours later, I wake up in intestinal distress as my body fights with the sheer quantity of grease and cholesterol as well as the remnants of the alcohol.

And I realize how old I’ve become. I joke with friends all the time: how did we go from being kids to being old without becoming adults along the way? No answer. But just three short years ago, I could have abused my body with that food that late at night and still slept the sleep of those at peace.

We woke early to grab breakfast and see Jimmy and April before their plane left. My body felt hammered and my right eye was on fire. Oh yay! I’d developed a sty that was changing the upper lid from pink to red and swelling at an alarming rate. By Tuesday, the lid had swollen completely shut—no amount of warm compresses would combat the condition. This seriously crimped my plans to get any work done for the rest of the week—everything I do is visual!

So I can’t eat after midnight. I require at least six hours of sleep or I can’t function for the entirety of the day. An ailment that would have, in the past, cleared up overnight took almost a week to heal. My hair is going Reed Richards at the temples. My metabolism hates me. I wake up with new and exciting and perplexing aches every day. Faboo! I’m falling apart.

Okay, the oncoming discrepancy aside, it was still a really fun time and I’m looking forward to the next Rotten Jack show. And while I’m not so obsessed with all of the above to start searching for the fountain of youth, I wouldn’t mind regaining the ability of having a midnight snack without worrying about agony, obesity or high cholesterol. That’d just be, you know, swell.

Checking in while I'm running out

The new job has me bound to my desk. I rush home and get about two hours of other work in before my tired old body gives out on me. The last few days have been devoted to completing the picture lock on Splatter Movie: The Director's Cut, so I've had time for little else.

Splatter Movie is almost there. Amy and I sat down and hammered out the structure while getting some good input from Jeff (Waltrowski, co-star and director of photography), Rachelle (Williams, co-star and trusted co-conspirator) and Fred (Obermiller, executive producer and trustworthy eyes and ears). Because it's set up as a pseudo-documentary (and not a "mockumentary" as some have called it... I like to think of it as a "splat-umentary"... "shock-umentary"? What's more appropriate?), it doesn't have a definite structure at all. It starts, it ends, then there's all this stuff in the middle. And it didn't fit together the way the script decreed it, surprisingly. But I think we have all the footage beaten into submission, so it's just a matter of chiseling away at it. Hopefully, all goes well, I'll have a working cut by the end of the month. Just in time, too, as we're starting to field a lot of requests for screeners. Despite the constant declarations of death (thanks to the failure of Hostel 2, apparently), the horror industry appears to be alive and only moderately ill.

Still, time continues to be a factor. So I'm only now getting around to letting everyone know that Amy and I will be guests at the Rotten Jack's Creep Show, and you can get the lowdown HERE or HERE. Our good friends JimmyO and April Burril will be there as well, so swing on down if you're in Buffalo.

And then it's the countdown to Cinema Wasteland, which is our big show of the year. If you don't attend Wasteland, truly, your life has no meaning.

We're also gearing up for a big DVD release party for A Feast of Flesh, which is officially released on November 6. There will be news as soon as humanly possible - we have a meeting tonight, as a matter of fact, to set things up. In the meantime, swing by Bloody Earth Films' site and check out the swanky artwork (photo courtesy of David Cooper and jazzed up by the B.E. magicians).

Oh, and Amy, Jeff and I spent a good part of last Saturday working with Eric Molinaris of MFX Studios on his new zombie movie. Check out photos and video HERE. Most of what you see was shot by either Jeff or I. (All the cool stuff is mine.) All the crowd scenes were organized and directed by Amy. Eric directed, conceived, wrote and did the effects and suffered sleep deprivation in the process. Lorena Cintron took care of administration and glamour make-up. A whole bunch of people, including Splatter Movie's Luke, Scott, Brandon, Steve and Jimmy, handled make-up. A whole bunch of people whose names I never learned star as the zombies and soldiers. The Donora Police provided the bridge and blocked off the traffic (until they got bored and wandered away, claiming "traffic accident" right at the end of the shoot - and suddenly we're dealing with old folks driving over the bridge one the way home from church or Bingo or whatever it is grumpy old people do on Saturday afternoons ...)

... Gads, there's so much more, but it's all "in the works". We have two movies planned for the next few months, one we're raising money for, the other I haven't even written yet! And we're hoping to return to shooting Professor Jack and the Electric Club after Christmas, but that may have to wait until Mr. Waltrowski wraps his super-secret feature in April. And despite my frustrations with the print industry, I may even release a book at the end of the year. Consider yourself threatened.

And good lord - I haven't even mentioned the official 10th Anniversary of The Resurrection Game or the commemorative DVD that's in the works! Ten years since we began working on that hateful, spiteful movie. That zombie movie sans zombies! The start of this whole painful, endless trip called "our careers"...

So stay tuned. Eventually I'll get to talk about all that stuff. In the meantime, keep watching the skies!