Book Review: It Lives Again! Horror Movies in the New Millenium (yeah, I read!)

We’re an incestuous bunch, we of the horror community. If we don’t know our heroes personally, we’ve hobnobbed with those that do and through them “met” Freddy, Jason and Michael Myers vicariously. Our love of the genre pushes us forward and nearly all of us are driven to create in some way, be it in the form of podcast, short film, feature, website—whatever. It’s been observed before that few other fanboy genres encourage originality. Where many hardcore science fiction, fantasy or anime fans (for example, not limited to or devoid of exceptions) are content to re-create their favorite characters, right down to the thread count on their Legolas costume, in the horror community, you’re practically dared to make your own monster. Yes, the icons abound in every costume contest, but so do the personal nightmares dredged up from individual imagination. This can be attributed to a more easy-going or nurturing nature amongst the fright set, but it may have more to do with the fact that, unlike physics-bound science fiction, or monomythical structures of fantasy, horror has very few rules. It can be gory or bloodless, supernatural or hyper-real. Horror comes from fear and fear is personal. When the mainstream deigns to pat horror on the head, generally around Halloween, the question is inevitably asked: “What scares you?” Not “what scares everybody?” but you. And everyone has a different answer.

While the horror industry continues to celebrate two decades of renewal that can be traced back, perhaps inaccurately perhaps not, to Kevin Williamson’s and Wes Craven’s tongue-in-cheek self-referential Scream that broke box office boundaries and managed to elevate the genre from the “second-to-porn” attitude basement, the genre never died or rested, no matter how often the critics pronounced the time of death. The trends in horror continually evolve, reflecting the attitudes of its audience, and Hollywood constantly scrambled to cash in on the new types of fear. But what is scary today might not be scary tomorrow, but might be scary again in a year or so. Like humor and the weather, horror is unpredictable.

What these two aspects of the genre have to do with each other is this: horror makes its fans strive towards contribution, we all start as fans before (hopefully) evolving into professionals, and when one of “us” makes it good, underneath the teeth-grinding jealousy is the satisfaction that he or she did it for all of us. Their legitimacy adds a little more legitimacy to the community as a whole. That maybe horror fans aren’t just black-t-shirt-wearing freaks plotting to gun down their classmates, but might understand something that the non-horror folks don’t. Because we look under the beds and closets hoping to find something awful in there, if only to have a new story to tell.

Which brings me to the astonishingly terrific coffee table book, It Lives Again! Horror Movies in the New Millenium written by Axelle Carolyn. The handsome hardbound from Telos Publishing is filled to overflowing with gorgeous stills and promotional from hundreds of scary movies, It Lives Again! is one of those must-have books for students of any type of film, horror or otherwise. Between the pictures are perfectly-chosen words that, taken as a whole, provides a year-by-year breakdown of the horror movies produced and released (or not, in some cases) in the first ten years of the ‘aughts, beginning in 2000 and coming to rest in mid-2009, seemingly just minutes before the book’s publication. (Nit-pickers keep your nits to yourselves regarding the start and finish of a decade, okay? We’re not listening on New Year’s Eve, we’re not listening now.)

What Carolyn does with the book is what makes it special. This isn’t one of those “greatest hits” fistfight books or even a simple chronological listing. The author examines the movies released during a given year and contextualizes them, analyzing the geo-sociopolitical climate of the given year in an effort to discover the source of our trends in fear, given what’s exploding around us.

To say the ‘aughts were a tumultuous time is to exercise historical nearsightedness—we’re not out of the woods yet and the decade isn’t over—and to say that cultural anxiety has nothing to do with entertainment isn’t just a specious argument, it’s downright ludicrous and false. Carolyn connects the dots between early ‘00s political unrest and the tamer horror of the time through the 2001 hysteria and post-9/11 paranoia, psychological agony and despair. She traces the rise and fall of the so-called “torture porn” subgenre (even uncovering the very genesis of the lazy shorthand appellation) through the ethical dilemmas our government was forcing upon all of us with their justification of “enhanced interrogation” tactics and the Western world’s juggernaut xenophobia. She takes a hard look at the newfound love for zombies and how that creature became the all-purpose fear-mongering metaphor, the undead standing in for rampant capitalism, unstoppable hordes of political opposition, and even a generation’s self-loathing. While viewing the surface silliness of kayro blood and latex limbs, Carolyn attempts to give our floating anxiety and love for the genre a solid piece of ground to stand on. In a sense, It Lives Again! attempts to psychoanalyze international populations via their entertainment, to explain why anti-social gore gave way to J-Horror, which  was the “in thing” for a while before falling out of favor with the public and then, maybe inevitably, drained of all blood and substance for the Twilight crowd.

But It Lives Again! never becomes a stodgy master’s thesis, thanks to Carolyn’s straightforward, non-judgmental style. Part of this style is due to her being an exceptional writer and some of it is due to her being “one of us”. Carolyn herself was once a fan of both “horreur” and the “fantastique”, growing up in Belgium before joining the ranks of “pro” journalist through Fangoria and other publications. Her fervor for the genre led her to small roles in movies like Brian Yuzna’s Beneath Still Waters and larger roles in Neil Marshall’s Doomsday (which in turn led to a marriage with the latter director) and Centurion. So she’s well-versed not only with the movies, but the artists who created them, peppering the description and criticism with personal interviews conducted with the principals.

With this unique inside look, we get to understand how Eli Roth feels about the “torture porn” label and how Mick Garris feels about the self-cannibalizing Hollywood system. This intimacy gives a unique pigment to her critiques of the movies as well. As close as she might be with a particular artist, she won’t soft-peddle if a certain movie fails to live up to its promise and her disappointment is palpable just as it’s, often, shared. And just because both Marshall and Garris contribute introductions, don’t think for a second she lets either of them off the hook if she feels they’ve turned in less than their best efforts. Which is not to say that this is a gonzo narrative either, Carolyn keeps herself out of the storytelling, keeping her critiques for the mechanics, both technical and physical. It Lives Again! is both scholarly and accessible, but it’s also a terrific representation of the not-dead-but-definitely-wounded idea of “journalistic integrity”.

If criticism can be hurled it’s that the independents are woefully misrepresented. Only a few titles are given a passing mention and the divisive Murder-Set-Pieces is the only one discussed with any sort of depth. On the other hand, the book is focusing on the mainstream productions—and the “sidestream” of direct-to-DVD—and the effects on / reactions to the filmgoing world. To take every offering from Camp Motion Pictures, Media Blasters, MTI, Heretic, Subversive, SRS and so on would not only be impractical for a project like this, but would result in a gorgeous, hardbound book affordable to only the six richest kings in the world and transportable only by dirigible.  

But, if you consider yourself part of the “horror community”, you may already know Carolyn through Myspace or Facebook or have met her in person at this festival or that. That should be more than enough reason to scrounge through the couch cushions for the scratch to buy a copy. If you only know of her, rest assured, she remains one of us. Maybe she’s walking down more red carpets now than most of us ever will, but she’s still sitting in the theater with the same gleeful anticipation we all feel as the lights go down. 

And if you're the sort of horror community guy that I am, it should suffice in the promise that you'll delight in the awful frustration with self and society when coming across a title that you've never heard of, is not available in this country short of the gray market, and only adds to your overwhelming to-watch list. 

The ALL ABOUT EVIL Precision Screenings - Part 1

Originally, this was meant to be the second part of the “I Love New York in June (July and August) – How ‘bout you?” article, but this past weekend changed my mindset. Last Friday, Amy and I both left work early to get on the road to Maryland in order to catch our second showing of Joshua Grannell’s All About Evil! The Peaches Christ Experience in 4-D. Having caught the premiere in NY at the beginning of the month, we were excited to catch it again with a new variety of friends and venues. The movie is that good and, plus, it has come to symbolize what we’ve started to think of as our summer of “Hell no! We’re not old!”

For those out of the know, Joshua Grannell is better known as the supremely fabulous Peaches Christ, host of the San Francisco horror show, Midnight Mass. Peaches isn’t another Elvira horror host follow-up, though, don’t make that mistake. Peaches Christ is part showgirl, part lounge singer, and all spectacular. Think a glamorous Dame Edna taking over Bette Midler’s Vegas show to show B-movies. A rabid horror fanatic, particularly of the H.G. Lewis and Ted V. Mikels oeuvre, Grannell wrote and directed All About Evil as an homage not only to those gleefully gory movies, but to the phenomenon of cult filmmaking itself. (You can read my review of All About Evil HERE for a plot synopsis.) And the “4-D Experience” is not only an offshoot of Midnight Mass, but a tribute to the lost art of showmanship, ala William Castle or the Ray Dennis Steckler spook shows. All of this is coated with ample coats of glittery fabulousity.

I had first heard of the film around the time of its completion, via an anecdote by Alan Rowe Kelly. Alan’s film, The Blood Shed, was in post-production and while we were discussing its virtues, he mentioned casually that he’d recently spoken to an LA filmmaker who had completed a completely different project under the same title. Alan had dropped Mr. Grannell a line and the two discussed whose film should undergo title surgery for the sake of audience, distributors and over-all artistic piece-of-mind. Ultimately, Josh stepped back and found the much more appropriate Betty Davis-esque play on words and the two artists remained friends to this very writing.

All About Evil proved to be a far more fitting title as the movies created by its main character, Deborah Tennis (Deb-or-ah Te-nees) have fantastic punned titles as well—The Diary of Anne Frankenstein, Gore and Peace, The Maiming of the Shrew, The Slasher in the Rye—serving the camp of the entire film. (Alan’s The Blood Shed isn’t campy so much as it is deliriously deranged and if you haven’t seen that one yet either, your priorities are obviously in need of reordering.) As Josh’s movie began to gain steam, I remained peripherally aware of it until it was thrust right beneath my nose when one of our best friends, Ultra-Violent Magazine journalist Michael Varrati, signed on as All About Evil’s “Tour de Fierce” co-ordinator (or similar such title; as in all things indie, it’s hard to tell from the multiplying hats who is doing what job). All About Evil was set to have a year-long nationwide tour followed by a similar jaunt to the U.K. Through sheer chutzpah and the contributions from a few very loyal followers, this little independent slasher comedy riding the modest recognition wave of its creator’s drag diva alter-ego was going global.

When a low-budget movie gets a legitimate DVD release, that alone is cause for confetti and parades. Something like this was just one small step down from a full-on geekgasm. I don’t want to give the impression that something like this is unprecedented, but the likes sure as hell haven’t been witnessed in my neck of the woods in recent memory!

Following very successful screenings in Los Angeles, Seattle and Austin, Texas, the first sorta-close premiere came our way via the Landmark’s Sunshine Theater in Tribeca, NY, at the end of July.

Now, long trips are not on our list of phobias, but having already driven from Waynesburg to NY twice this summer, we sought alternative modes of transportation. Flying was out for obvious reasons. Amtrak wasn’t particularly attractive since the trip would take five or so hour longer than driving. Finally, we came upon the Megabus—round trip tickets from Pittsburgh to NY for less than we would spend in gas and hotel. Deal! And to make things more challenging on ourselves, we would make the trip there and back in just 24 hours. Okay, that part wasn’t as well thought-out, but we just didn’t care to spend extra on a hotel and we weren’t about to infringe again on the couches or floors of our many hospitable friends. We could sleep on the bus, read, work (Megabus offers Wi-Fi!), whatever, and not have to worry about crazed morning drivers trying to kill us across three states.

Oddly enough, the plan worked just as well in practice as it did in theory. For a big fat change. The only drawbacks were the other people. Amy couldn’t get comfortable in the narrow seats to sleep for any great length and add to that the aforementioned hell of the human race, the trip was a bit more trying than we’d anticipated. The first group of hellions were comprised of a small number of giggly high-schoolers on their way to Penn State for a campus visit and/or orientation. Very loud they were at six in the morning. They were replaced by a pair of what can only be described as “Mexican Yentas”. Two tias who spoke Spanish in an unmistakable Jewish whine—I swear it was like listening to a Telamundo coffee klatch.

The second thing we hadn’t anticipated—or, rather, under-anticipated—was the length of time we’d have to kill once we arrived. All About Evil was a midnight premiere. The Megabus dropped us off at Penn Station a little after 2:30 in the afternoon. Most of go-to New York friends were otherwise occupied so we had a good eight hours or so to travel approximately ten blocks. Even at the peak of rush hour, it doesn’t take eight hours to travel ten city blocks on foot.

After meeting Mr. Varrati and Ryan Neill for lunch in Brooklyn (in the much nicer coffee-house-and-deli section than our previous trip to the auto-parts district), we still faced a good stint of time before us. Oh, if only there was something to do in New York City! (Lament! Woe!)

No matter what part of that magnificent city of millions we happen to find ourselves in, invariably, miracles occur. Call it synchronicity, call it luck, call it fate, lucky shit happens to us in New York. After a lengthy side-trip to Kim’s Video—our first, despite many years of NY visits!—to giggle like nerds at the sight of A Feast of Flesh in the “Sexploitation” section (and to buy a used copy of Samurai Zombie), Amy and I made our way back towards Tribecca for the screening. Lugging around an overnight bag packed with Amy’s own stash of fab, we sought a place to chill and for her to change.

So, of course, we settled on a midtown McDonalds. Not wanting to Morgan Spurlock so late in the evening, we split a single Coke like the big spenders we are, and I chilled and watched Amy transform herself into a goth diva. Not ten minutes into our repose, we were startled by a loud knock on the “restaurant’s” window. There before us were two muscular, shaved-headed gentlemen gesturing at us in excitement. Seeing this, I steeled myself for a righteous mugging by a pair of goth-phobic skinheads right there beneath the Golden Arches.

But the forthcoming ass-kicking never arrived. Instead of vicious nogoodniks, we realized our non-hirsute suitors were none other but Bart Mastronardi and David Marancik (both of the exceptional Vindication—another title to add to your list). We had been set to meet the pair with Alan Rowe Kelly at the theater, but the gods were gracious that evening. Bart and David generously allowed us to invite ourselves to dinner with them. Dinner was held at the extremely posh and lovely Three of Cups, where the owner Santo Fazio, a friend to Bart and David and a co-star of The Sadist (aka Jeremiah Kipp’s Swine) (as well as Abel Ferrara’s The Funeral), treated us like stars. Once Alan arrived, I was briefly overwhelmed by a sense of… what’s the word? Opposite of depression and rage? Happiness! That’s it. And not chemically-induced for a change. Sitting at the table with people I consider not only friends but artists that I respect and admire and, at times, am in complete awe of, I felt like I was part of the independent film community for the first time in years. 

Over the years, the “indie film” world has changed drastically. Some of the filmmakers we started with are no longer working in film, for a variety of reasons. Others are no longer friends. Still others are out-and-out enemies of (who we consider) our people. The disease of ego infected a great deal of us in the mid-2000s. For the better part of five years, many of us teetered on the delusion that we were all on the cusp of breaking through, of leaving “indie” behind to be embraced by the mainstream for our magnificent and unique visions. Little did we know that we weren’t on Hollywood’s radar at all. And lacking this knowledge, we allowed the beast to devour us from inside out. For many, many of us, it wasn’t enough for one to win—the rest had to lose. And the “community” crumbled upon itself. That reality haunted me during my tenure at Sirens of Cinema, particularly during the final issues where fewer of the “staples” of indie cinema appeared. Moving on is fine; forced death march away from the core is devastating.

So toasting to All About Evil with some of the most talented men and women I’ve had the fortune to meet, in a city home to some extraordinary talents (Scooter McCrae, Jim Mickle, Justin Wingenfeld, Lloyd Kaufman), that unfamiliar happiness was nearly impossible to process.

Then came the show. “The Peaches Christ 4-D Experience” starts the minute you receive your tickets. A quartet of velvet-uniformed ushers (including a pair of androgynous twins) hand you Dixie cups emblazoned with the Peaches Christ logo and tell you to hold on to it for a “special toast” later. Mr. Varrati, also encased in the red crushed-velvet suit, manned the merchandise table. Peaches was near the back of the lobby, surrounded by real paparazzi, the camera flashes almost strobing. 

The excited and generously-numbered crowd filled the auditorium and electricity filled the air. Before long, out came Alan in his resplendence to introduce Peaches, referring to her as “The Queen of the Barbary Coast” and “The Most Important Person in the World”. If you think those are large shoes to fill, you should see Peaches’ actual shoes! Suddenly, the lights dimmed, music poured from the speakers and there was Peaches in all her glory. Accompanied by the usherette twins, an alien girl with a green Mohawk, a Yeti-esque werewolf and a bizarre little woman in a Troll mask, Peaches sang “I’m a Gore-Gore Girl” with her monsters mashing beside her in choreographed madness.

After introducing her back-up slashers, Peaches then intro’d the one and only Deborah Tennis (played in the film by Natasha Lyonne, but on stage before us by Trixxie Carr), who performed the film’s closing song, “Star Quality”, and invited us to join her in the toast. The usherette twins hauled out a Gatorade cooler, only to be interrupted by Peaches who felt the toast would be in “bad taste”. Deborah rushed behind stage as Peaches introduced Martiny, her Midnight Mass co-host, but Miss Teeny did not emerge. Suddenly the screen lit up with security footage: there was Miss Teeny, tied to a chair, about to be slaughtered by Deborah! Deb raised a butcher knife, Peaches screamed, the lights went out!

And that served as the transition into the third part of the show, wherein Peaches “brought things down” and did a Dick Cavettesque intro with special guest Natasha Lyonne (an interview complete with an edited highlight reel of the actress’ career). It’s as if each section of the show was merely a warm-up for what was to come and it built beautifully. Extravagant dance number leading to outrageous meta-fiction followed by a brief Q&A with a cult star familiar to even the most “out of it” attendee. The audience was so hyped that each and every title card (each a tribute to an infamous B (or Z) movie of the past) of All About Evil received applause.

The simplistically-brilliant structure of the “4-D” event struck me as the movie unfolded. All movies, of any budget, are hit or miss according to taste. You can’t say that an independent movie is more of a gamble than a blockbuster any more because crap is crap and gold is gold. You can’t cover one with the other and make it less than what it is. Transformers will always be empty spectacle. Night of the Living Dead will always be effective, low-key chiller. All you can do prior to any screening is hope and pray that the movie will be enjoyable.

What the “4-D Experience” does is amp up the audience. Like any warm-up gig, the songs and dances and clever video all worked to get the audience excited. And an excited audience is always more receptive to the main event. Even if the movie fails to live up to the amping, the amping itself staves off disappointment for that much longer. But Joshua Grannell loves the movies he’s celebrating in All About Evil and loves the spectacle that Peaches Christ brings to screenings of these movies. None of this showmanship is phony. There’s none of that disinterested attitude you receive at radio station press screenings. Peaches Christ opened with a pow and gave you zazz. All those nonsensical vaudeville words took on meaning again. There’s nothing insincere or misdirected about the 4-D experience or All About Evil itself. Josh and the theater already had our money. They could have simply shut off the lights, abused us with ads for Coca-Cola and previews for forthcoming dumb and then big farewell to us with a swift kick in the ass following the end credits. But that’s not what we got. We got a movie and we got a show.

We hung out for a bit afterwards, mercilessly annoying the theater employees who just wanted to go home. Both Peaches and Mike were gracious enough to introduce us to Lyonne, who was as gracious as possible while being extremely exhausted. Finally, it was time for everyone to go their separate ways. Alan intro’d us to a pair of documentarians—Paul and Julie Hunt—who allowed us to join them at a Greek Diner for… what’s the meal between “Midnight Snack” and “Breakfast”? “Mid-Snackfast”? Whatever. I got a milkshake, Amy got something entirely too healthy made predominantly of fruit. Anyway…

Eventually, we made our way back to Penn Station as the sun rose. I do not, under any circumstances, recommend this experience for anyone over the age of “going out into the world, searching for adventure”. Penn Station is a bit of a cesspool at the best of times, but at 4:30 in the morning, it’s a stew of bacteria and human refuse swarming over, around and from displaced travelers and those descended from The Crazies in Escape from New York (no, the appropriatety is not lost on me). Desperate for a slash, as they once said in New Zealand (according to old movies I’ve seen), I used my elbows to nudge open the inexplicably sticky men’s room door. Immediately inside, I was greeted with a sight I’ll never forget. Ever. It trumped even the sparkliest of drag showgirl showmanship.

In the stall immediately facing the door, with the stall door wide open, a man sat on the commode, pants around his ankles and belt around his bicep, shooting the contents of a milky syringe into his black-marked brown arm. In my nearly-forty years of life, this was the closest I’ve ever come to having a Herbert Selby, Jr., moment. The image was but a millisecond on my retinas (as I immediately one-eightied back into the waiting area), but it was a scene that will haunt me forever. This man, dear friends, by simultaneously ingesting and excreting, was the Ultimate Multitasker. And I bow to the wisdom behind his yellow-glazed eyes.

Getting back on the Megabus was less efficient than boarding from PA largely due to the fact that the NY side of Megabus seems to employ a higher degree of crackheads who simply shout: “Everyone to the left!” when what they mean is “Please form an orderly line for the bus to Pittsburgh.” All the “Everyone to the left!” succeeded in doing was encouraging synchronized shuffling, as eighty or so exhausted and miserable people bound for the Land of Sports and Zombies shifted their weight in a unified clump from one ten-foot of sidewalk space to the other.

With another seven-or-so hour trip ahead of us, we settled down in more-or-less comfort and willed ourselves to drift off to sleep. We’d survived our 24-hour military-grade entertainment excursion with Myrmidon proficiency. Take that, rapidly-aging body!

Next up: ALL ABOUT EVIL, PART II: SILVER SPRINGS, MD! (Or, “I love New York in June (July and August) Even Though I’m Not in New York and It’s Almost September… part III

The Return From Wasteland

Last week, I sent out three copies of Splatter Movie: The Director’s Cut, started teaching at the Savini School of Digital Photography, wrote more of my new book, copied almost a hundred DVDs - none of that compared to the excitement of a new pending Cinema Wasteland.

Yes, this is another of those blogs that begins, "As you all know, Wasteland is our favorite show..." The Cleveland convention has always been a highlight of our year and this past April show was no exception. In fact, it was one of the best times we’d ever had, particularly as no one emailed me on Saturday to tell me that a company I was working for was no longer in business. Not losing a job first thing in the morning is a terrific way to ward off depression.

Wasteland is our "family" show. While we generally have an awesome time at every show, Wasteland is the show where we feel completely comfortable and welcome. The antithesis of the high school gym feeling you often receive at biz gatherings. If you’re a regular reader of this online screed, then you know how we feel about this show, Ken and Pam Kish the promoters, the staff, the hotel, the atmosphere, the humidity, etc. At the risk of alienating the new reader(s), I think I’ll forgo the Romper Room roster ("I saw Damien and Ed and Jill and Greg and Carrie and Mike and...) and just hit the highlights:

I somehow managed to con William Wright, one of my head writers at Sirens of Cinema, to drag his wife and young child (the amazingly friendly (clingy? Needy?) Harlan Hunter) 600 miles from Tennessee to join us in the insanity. Which was awesome. Hell, half the staff of Sirens was in attendance at this show, which was also, you know, awesome. Within seconds, Harlan had lept from mom Olivia’s arms into Amy’s, and then into Mink Stole’s. Mink’s response: "I love that fans are always giving me things at conventions."

I also loved that Mink loved the issue of Sirens containing her interview. (11, incidentally, with the Joe Jusko cover, still available through the site.) I hadn’t heard from her after what I considered to be the best interview I’d done all last year, so I was terrified I’d insulted her, etc. Turns out there was a family tragedy that kept her from responding. (What a relief!) So my terror was immediately replaced by, okay, guilt. Still, she liked the issue and that made me do the little "Happy Mink Stole Liked the Issue Dance". Not to be confused with the "Happy Wasteland Dance" and the "Happy Doughnut Dance". We do a lot of dances at Happy Cloud Pictures.

Five minutes before the dealer’s room opened on Friday, Ilsa herself, Dyanne Thorne, appeared in the doorway to introduce herself to the room and to wish everyone a terrific show. She looked amazing and that was a classy thing to do. One dealer grumbled, "Sure, that’s because she’s going to make all the money." He was summarily killed and eaten. We did the "Happy Devoured Grumpy Dealer Dance".

Sid Haig walked through the door and shook my hand instead of stabbing me in the throat with a letter opener. Not that he’s ever done this, but it always feels good when he doesn’t.

Henrique Couto arrived with a friend of his from New Jersey. Her name was Regina. She was dressed as a school girl. Eventually, she overcame her shyness and joined in on the fun. Henrique had dropped 30 pounds or so from the last time we’d seen him. He also never wore pants the entire time he was there.

Low Budget Pictures was represented this trip by Chris Seaver (genius director of Mulva 2), Travis (genius actor of Carnage for the Destroyer) and Josh (genius star of Film Crew and now legally allowed to travel within the state of Ohio once again). They yelled a lot and refused to give me a copy of Ski Wolf. No matter how much blow I hooked them up with.

We presented Tom Sullivan with the very Grendel mask he wore in Splatter Movie. He was pleased. Then he went back to constructing a seven-foot-tall manniquin of The Dread, from the film of the same name. Later, we learned he’d exchanged the Grendel mask for a taco and some duct tape. His partner, Pat Reese, stole the mask back and ate the taco.

Our executive producer, Fred Obermiller, gave us a copy of "Cinema Skin" that contained a rave review of A Feast of Flesh and two screen grabs of the ever-topless Rachelle Williams. I conned William Wright into going up to her in the bar to have her sign it. (Jeez, I can get him to do anything.) It was funny. She only slapped him twice before autographing it. He only slapped her once in return. Now they are legally married in Dubai.

Mike and Carolyn Haushalter joined us for dinner at Applebee’s on Friday, which rocked. The company and the food. As we were leaving, there were two hosts at the door talking as we left. As we passed the first one, he said, "Have a great night." The second one, thinking he was speaking to her, said "What?"

I said, "He said ’have a good night’."

She said, "Oh, no - I thought -"

"Oh, so I’m not allowed to have a good night?" I said. "Jeez, the service at this place."

She turned beet red. I did the "Happy Embarressed and Confused Applebee’s Hostess Dance".

David and Tara joined us on Saturday. They were supposed to join us Friday as well, but, fortunately, they were not killed on the way. Just delayed. We did the "Happy Still Alive David and Tara Dance" (that joke never gets old). Tara had created a Tara-sized shirt out of the Happy Cloud shirt we’d given her for Christmas. She’d snipped away almost three yards of material. Now it’s useless as a bed sheet. Jeez. Amy dragged them all over the dealer’s room to introduce them to all of our con friends. Tara met Unky Lloyd Kaufman and got all verklempt. (Tara gets star-struck during card tricks, though. She once met that guy who dresses in question marks and tries to sell you a phone book-sized tome on Free Money. It took her two hours to blink or breathe again, she was so impressed. She bought six books.) Unky Lloyd followed her around for several minutes trying to convince her to be in Troma’s new "Pornogeist". He wrote his number on the back of David’s head for her. Next week, we all drive up to New York to write our names on the side of the Troma building and then run. They’ll be awestruck by our penmanship!

Saturday night, Splatter Movie: The Director’s Cut (what I thought was the final version, but I found four bad sound cues) screened to a packed room. We were astounded at the amount of people in there. Some of them weren’t even in the movie! There were three guys in the back row talking back to the movie the whole time and were actually 93% as funny as the movie itself. Amy and I introduced the movie by saying "Not in the face," and then drinking every time we had a panic attack. It’s like "Quarters" for neurotics.

Al Tuskes, from Precinct 13, joined us for the screening and claimed to have enjoyed it immensely. He obviously wasn’t lying because he joined us for drinks afterwards. A lot of drinks. Apple Juice, ice water and bible passages.

"Bible Passages" is made with vodka.

At one point, I was talking to Regina and this dumb blonde dressed like Milia in Resident Evil came over to my table, looked at me, then took Regina’s arm and said "I HAVE to interview you for my show." Then proceded to yak at her in front of my table while I shouted "No, that’s okay. Ignore the guest and interview the attendee. Very classy, Queen of the Peroxide!" Actually, I didn’t shout the latter. But I thought it loudly. Later, said woman was found in the lobby covered in sperm and shame. I may have made that last part up too, depending on whether or not it can be construed as libel.

By Sunday, we’re usually ready to come home, but not this time. We were exhausted, from the drinking, the revelry and the corridor beer pong competition (combining man’s love of both beer and pong), but we weren’t ready to leave. But finally, we tore ourselves away. It took us over an hour to say our goodbyes - To Lixx Online, to Ken and Pam, to Charlie and Tim and Kate, to Carrie and Mike, to the Toe Tag folks, Art and Allana, Rob Lucas, Xploited, the Professor, Mary-Anne... A wonderful time was had by all. Or, at least, by us. And isn’t that what’s really important?

Back from Chicago

Okay, I'm dying from some new, exciting cold, thanks to the multiple temperatures my body was subjected to this weekend, not to mention ongoing insomnia, so I'll make this fast.

We spent the weekend in the wonderful world of Chicago for the Fangoria Weekend of Horrors, one of our favorite shows of the year (after Cinema Wasteland, of course). As usual, we got to see the airport and the hotel, but this year, we also saw a very icy parking lot and a very clean Target (we needed supplies - sandwiches, chocolate, booze, etc.).

The folks at Creation - Adam, Stephanie, Leticia - treated us like stars. Fangoria's editor, Tony Timpone (the man, the legend), brought the layout for my Rage article for me to check out, which was awesome. And we were set up across from Kane Hodder on one side and Ari Lehman and Sid Haig on the other. And we were back-to-back with composer Harry Manfriedi! So, we had great neighbors. And because Kane actually noticed this time when I hit him back (he usually punches me hello), he swore he'd never hit me again. Now instead of taps to the chest that collapse my lungs, he gives me bear hugs that compress the rest of my organs. Not sure which I prefer, actually.

I had planned a number of projects for the slow periods of the show -- interviewing people for the upcoming Resurrection Game DVD, proof-reading the new issue of Sirens of Cinema, etc -- but oddly enough, we didn't have any slow periods. Thanks to many pounds of cookies provided by our producer and sponsor, Tim Buchholz, much of my time was spent harassing people into taking freebies (you'd think they were poisoned or something? Of course, as one fan said, "This isn't a show that engenders trust!"). The rest of the time was taken up by the stampede of people who wanted to buy copies of A Feast of Flesh, take pictures with Amy and Sofiya, and snatch up our 30 copies of Splatter Movie.

Yes, for the first time in our convention career, we sold out of a title. Completely SOLD OUT of Splatter Movie by 1pm on Sunday. Most of those copies had sold even before our screening on Saturday. And the screening itself went over pretty well. We had a pretty packed house, even though you needed two sherpas and a sled dog team to find the screening room, and the two guys who decided to "Rocky Horror" the movie stayed for the entire thing, so at least they weren't bored!

We sold a number of subscriptions to Sirens as well, four of them without having to talk them into it! They wanted them because they'd read the magazine! (See? I TOLD you people read it! They don't just buy it for the free gum!)

The only drawback came at the very end of the show. A sextet of douche-waffles decided to attempt to take advantage of our and Sofiya's good graces. But they were the instruments of their own misfortune, which turned out to be very funny in the end. Still, we should have allowed Kane to hurt them.

And while I'm sure I'll forget a few names, we just wanted to say thanks to Rob, Tammy, Amber, Codger, Chris (Phreeq), Yo Joe, Johnny, Harry (sorry we were out of #4), Debbie, Mr. Skin, Marv, Chadwick and company, Ryan and Michelle, Gabby, Betsy, Sid, Ari, Kane, Megan, Ron, Cathy, Jeremy, Jen, Monique, Saint, Monet and August. And, especially, Tim B.

And Acid and my Monkey, Kory Chupacabra (and maybe I'll explain that one later).

So let's hear it for selling out of Splatter Movie! Hear that, distributors? People LOVE US!

Right... going to bed now.

A Feast of Flesh news

The movie formerly-known as Abattoir, now completely and from henceforth forever known as A Feast of Flesh, was officially announced by Fangoria last week. Read all about it by clicking this link. Camp Motion Pictures' Blood Earth Films label is putting this out November 6.

As you can imagine, this is pretty exciting news for us. It'll be our first official release since Severe Injuries and seeing it about to go world-wide is just boggling the mind right now.


While I'm not sure at the moment who created the promo art, I can say that the photo was taken by David Cooper, who is also the chiarascuro master who took my icon photo and is the D.P. on Professor Jack and the Electric Club (below).

We'll give you more news as we get it. Stay tuned!

SPLATTER MOVIE update

The Splatter Movie odyssey continues to continue. This past weekend seemed oddly relaxed, perhaps due to the fact that we were all aware that it was our last big weekend. This shoot’s guest star was Tom Sullivan, effects wizard of The Evil Dead and co-star of The Absence of Light. Like Debbie Rochon weeks ago, Tom plays himself in Splatter Movie, so it wasn’t a stretch for him to get into character. He and his nephew, Sean, came in Thursday night, allowing for an easy, leisurely shoot on Friday.

Saturday, as we wrapped Tom’s scenes, we completed a crucial sequence with a Steadicam, thanks to Patrick Desmond. He and Rich Conant of New Illusions Studios came down to help out, making the trek from Ohio to lend a hand. In this sequence, Stacy Bartlebaugh-Gmys, our star from Abattoir, gets hung up a few feet in the air by one leg wrapped in barbed wire. To her credit, she never complained nor batted an eye when six large men lifted her from her ladder perch and helped her into position. Granted, she was more afraid of the ladder, but that’s beside the point.

Sunday consisted of a tricky decapitation attempted with only digital removal. Half the shots in the sequence had to be shot with multiple layers, to be combined later in Photoshop and After Effects. If it worked as well in practice as it did on paper, it should be a fairly sweet – if extremely bizarre – sequence.

Just before that, however, through a series of fortuitous events, we sweet-talked our way into using a cherry picker and got an awesome aerial shot for the opening of the film. Despite my abject hatred of heights, I found myself leaping into the bucket of the crane, belting in and shooting the shot from 60 feet in the air. Two keys: never taking my eye from the camera eye piece and never, at any point, actually thinking about what I was doing. Neither DP Jeff Waltrowski nor Amy could look at me while I was up there and not just because they were in the shot below. They were certain that the second they glanced in my direction, I’d spill from the bucket, the crane would fail and slam me into the ground, I’d drop the camera… None of those catastrophes actually happened and, eventually, I was returned to Earth. It’s not an experience I’d care to duplicate but the shot turned out sweet.

One thing I’d like to bring up for the education of other indie filmmakers out there: when Amy and I arrived at the site on Sunday, we discovered that all of the power was out. Saturday, the Department of Public Works was installing new telephone poles and making a god-awful amount of noise, but they didn’t disrupt the power. Sunday, they were still installing and, at this point, were disrupting power. Fighting down the panic of having to cancel the indoor shooting (already made complicated by the ongoing construction going on at the Hundred Acres Manor), we were just about to go up to the workers and ask if power would be restored when a woman in a little sports car drove up, leapt out and started screaming at the guys working. We couldn’t make out what she was saying, but there was much arm waving and hysterical body language. After a minute, she stomped back to her car, slammed the door, gunned the engine and peeled out of the parking lot. This presented a terrific opportunity for us to not do that. Instead, we brought the guys doughnuts and water, talked about the weather and asked how things were going. The foreman volunteered the fact that the power would be on in a few minutes and to let them know if their noise interrupted shooting.

The morale of this story: don’t be a dick. Most people are generally interested in being helpful. If there’s a result you’re looking for, and the people before you are the most likely candidates of helping you achieve that result, not screaming at them tends to make all the difference. The second morale: be on the lookout for dicks and try to time your non-dickhead approach to directly follow their inappropriate behavior. There’s no better opportunity than looking good in comparison to someone worse. With so many assholes in the world, with so many terrible filmmakers/athletes/etc., sometimes showing up and not being horrible is all the effort needed. Not taking part in the World’s Biggest Cocksucker Competition, an on-going reality show, is usually the smartest move.

Anyway, we’re in the home stretch on the film now. For all intents and purposes, we’re about three days away from completion, and we’re not even talking three full days. One day of scene and two half-days of pick-ups. Then we’ll have a finished film. One that some people will be completely unable to make head or tail of, one that many others will find both satisfying and pretentious at the same time, but ultimately, one that people will look at and say “Only Happy Cloud Pictures would have done this movie.” (“Would”, not could. The distinction is considerable.)

So make sure to keep checking both the Splatter Movie Myspace and the Amy Lee Parker Tesseract Myspace. Fun stuff is coming all the time.

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Tippi Hedren is loose in the ducts!

Two weeks ago, Amy and I took a break from killing ourselves on the Splatter Movieset and turned towards killing ourselves to get to New Jersey in time for the Fangoria Weekend of Horrors.

Like the Chicago show, the Jersey Fango is a great time and a terrific opportunity to network and catch up with friends. Unlike the Chicago show, we don't make a lot of money and the crowds are a lot thinner. Theories abound to explain this. The best one seems to be that the fifteen Monster Manias held throughout the year and the two Chillers draw attendance away from Fango. It's not like the golden days of the early 2000's when people had money. Gas tanks must be fed and at a higher price! Otherwise, the Eldritch God Dick Cheney will awaken, rise from his subsea slumber lair and shoot us all in the face.

Anyway, we like the show, profits be damned. So, Friday morning, we drove our six-plus hours to Secaucus, arriving around 11:00 in plenty of time to set up and relax before the 2:00 early-bird entrance time. Except the second we stepped through the door, we heard from line-dwellering friends (I'll Bury You Tomorrow's Alan Rowe Kelly and Art and Alana from Ultra Violent Magazine) that Creation Entertainment, the company in charge, will be opening the doors at noon to accomodate the demand. Our three-hour window vanished before our eyes.

Check in, rush upstairs, change clothes, sponge off the road dust, rush downstairs, find the registration, find our table - hi, hi, hey, good to see you, what's happening? what the fuck did you do to your hair? Tony Timpone? Passed him in the lobby. Good to see you. Not that way, I hate that guy. Hi, just a sec, be right back.

Our table was actually in a really good spot. We were in a corner, at the rear of the room, against a wall, between a loading door, an indie company promoting a movie called Closet Space (I believe... it's been two weeks and I'm old, sue me!) and our best friends at Pop Cinema (including the incomparable Paige K. Davis, filmmaker and organ grinder monkey Henrique Couto, and my good friend of nearly 15 years, Justin (Skin Crawl) Wingenfeld). Which was just awesome.

Then, as we began setting up, we heard a terrible scratching, screeching noise. At first, we thought someone had on some sort of odd sound effects record and put on the "Birds" track. A small rain of debris fell next to us and we looked up - there was a bird's nest just inside the drop-panel ceiling, under the sprinkler. There were holes in the wall between our room and the parking lot (the whole hotel was a disaster, incidentally - crumbling ceilings and walls, stains throughout) and the birds found this just lovely. Beneath the sprinkler, on the floor behind our table, a collection of twigs, dust and powdered bird shit had accumulated.

At first, this was funny. I mean, at most shows that are NOT Cinema Wasteland, we're used to being shit on figuratively. Now we were being shit on literally. We shook our heads, hung our posters, displayed our new issues of Sirens of Cinema (on sale now wherever Sirens of Cinema is sold!), and sucked it up. The nice thing about Creation Entertainment-run shows is that the head of security, Tammy, has become a great friend of ours over the years. She's awesome. She saw the bird shit. She went ballistic. "Tell the hotel, right now, to clean this up. This is a health hazard."

Oh, yeah. Bird shit isn't healthy to breathe or be around. Yeah, the little winged rats are cute, but they're teaming with mites, fleas, all sorts of unpleasantries. And these bastards were also loud.

So I politely (yes, politely - I can be polite! Go fuck yourself!) asked the nice something-Americans behind the hotel desk to send maintenance to vacuum up the pile of disease we were sharing space with.

Sometime Saturday afternoon, after two more requests and a mention of "health code violation", a two-man team of custodians arrived with a push broom and a dust pan. Away went the now-large pile of bird debris into the garbage - a receptacle located exactly four feet away on the other side of our table.

By this time, we'd hung a sign on the wall that said "Yes, there is a bird's nest in the ceiling", having grown tired of answering the question "is someone playing a sound effects record back there or are those real birds?" The avian shrieking wasn't helping our sales, that's for sure. Every now and then, the squawking would get so loud, I'd bang on the ceiling with a poster roll, yelling at them to shut up and feeling like the grumpy old guy downstairs. It usually resulted in silence for ten to thirteen seconds. Then they'd start up again. Every third time I tried it, I'd bump one of the panels and get a face-full of nest as a reward. That was fun.

In between the bird-battles, we got the chance to catch up with fine folks like Coralina Cataldi-Tassoni, star of Argento's eagerly-awaited The Third Mother, who contributed to the new issue of Sirens; Scooter McCrae, master of weird horror like 16 Tongues and my underpaid composer; Tabitha and Mom Sharon, who run Corpses by the Bunch, who had their own woes to deal with; Anthony and Karen from East Coast Kitty. I met Stan Winston for a moment. He signed my Pumpkinhead DVD (for f/x wizard Eric Molinaris' birthday) and shook my hand before I was punched out of line, Time Bandits-style, by his After Dark handlers. We had a nice evening's dinner on Friday with Debbie Rochon, mere hours before she had to fly to Italy. Intrepid Fango editor Michael Gingold swung by (and we joined his nibs, Scooter, and about a thousand other people from evil clown movie 100 Tears for dinner on Saturday - a nice, intimate affair). We showed folks the Professor Jack and the Electric Club trailer I'd cut. We thrilled folks with some sneak footage from Splatter Movie. We drank to kill the pain caused by the incessant squawking of ceiling-dwelling sparrows.

That afternoon, one of the customers passed out in the aisle and hit his head on a table. Amy went to help him up and he latched onto her arm, wouldn't let her go. He was disoriented, had been drinking, and didn't know his own name at first. About an hour later, the paramedics from the hospital across the street finally arrived. The man, Bob, couldn't tell anyone his address or even how much he'd had to drink. Another man, who first identified himself as Bob's "handler"--then "friend", then "neighbor", then "a guy who drives him to horror shows"--just wanted to take Bob home. Bob was dehydrated and his blood pressure was through the roof. The paramedics, with Amy's help, got him into a gurney and wheeled him out of the room - almost taking Amy with them, as Bob still wouldn't let go. These are the adventures of my own personal Wonder Woman.

Saturday night was spent with our friends from Digger Films, the French Canadian film crew. Steve, Dave, Hugo and their buddies P.H., Johnny, T-Bag and Nova (these are all nick-names, of course; French Canadians all have Klingon names unpronounceable by their U.S. neighbors). T-Bag, incidentally, was not this magnificent man's real nickname. He told me, in a very noisy bar, to call him "T-Man". I didn't hear "man". So he was amazed when I replied, "You really want me to call you that?"

It got even funnier, later, when I realized my mistake. Not that I corrected it. The hilarity increased when the others discovered what "tea-bagging" actually was. I convinced the others not to tell him until they were halfway home. He was a lot bigger than I am.

(Unfortunately, he was told the truth towards the end of the evening. Somewhere along the line, we'd picked up a guy from Rhode Island who insisted there were fifty-two states in the Union: Washington D.C. and "East Virginia". As a result, I referred to him as "52" for the rest of the night. I like giving nicknames. It's a source of power. It was, of course, 52 who broke the news to T-Bag, feeling sorry for the poor, lost Frenchie. The joke was on 52, though, because T-Bag thought that was just as hilarious as the rest of us did. So there, 52!)

Sunday, I was not hung over. Miraculously. I was tired and desperately wanted to go home, but that's normal Sunday fatigue. My table was still over-run by bird mess and they seemed even louder today. Tammy had finally run down someone from Creation to witness the tragedy. Majid, the talent co-ordinator, was outraged. He demanded that housekeeping do something. Tammy insisted that I get my hotel room comped. The hotel didn't want to do either of those things. My fear was they would kill the birds, but by wildlife laws, they're not permitted to even move the nest. Finally, the same two custodians showed up with a plastic bag and draped it over the sprinkler inside the ceiling to prevent further mess.

This pissed the birds off even further. They started moving to the exposed hole in the wall, poking their beaks out and squawking at us with visible outrage. So, great, we go from lung disease to tetanus shots from beak-punctures. Yay.

I was very grumpy at this point. Irrationally, I was thinking this was a respect issue. That they'd stuck us in the corner intentionally - ha ha, wouldn't it be great if Mike and Amy got shit on all weekend? I knew this wasn't true, of course, but when you get into a pissy mind-loop, it's difficult to free yourself from it. While browsing the Pop Cinema table, an actress I don't particularly get along with, but never had anything against, appeared beside me with a ratty-looking entourage. They started heckling Chainsaw Sally, the star and director of which happen to be, of course, really good friends of mine. The actress agreed and tossed the DVD aside with derision. I smiled at her and pointed to one of her movies. "You were really good in this, by the way," I said.

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, thanks."

I pointed at another one. "And you really sucked in this."

Her jaw hit the table. I gave her a bigger smile and walked away.

Bitch.

Anyway...Majid, still outraged, took us up to see one of the heads of Creation to rectify the situation personally, even though it wasn't Creation's fault or responsibility. It was, however, Creation's show, so I thought a personal apology would be nice. With the show in full swing, though, including a couple hundred swooning middle-aged James Marsters fans, no one else from Creation could be spared. We did end up getting our hotel room comped. This vanished expense actually pushed us slightly into profit! So we spread the love and bought stuff from our vendor friends.

The highlight of Sunday was breakfast with Justin. He's my oldest "adult" friend. I've known him since 1991 and we've seen each other through some extreme highs and lows, got each other jobs, gigs, acted in each others' movies. Since he moved to New Jersey with his wife, Trinity, and Amy and I moved to the farthest reaches of PA, we don't see each other that much. Now he has a beautiful new baby (Reagan Poe), a slew of good reviews for his movie Skin Crawl, we have our company, farm, horses and dogs and cats - it's hard to find time to just sit and talk. Breakfast was cold and late but the company couldn't have been better.

The drive home, as usual, was long and painful and seemed to take forever. Sundays, regardless of the show, always suck. It's filled with goodbyes and packing and exhaustion. Sundays should be banned from conventions, as a rule.

Still, I can't say that we weren't treated really well, particularly by Majid, Tammy and her daughter Amber, and their compatriot Chris. Fangoria always hosts a good show, regardless of the turn-out, and I'd be lying if I didn't say I wasn't looking forward to next year, regardless of the wildlife. I'll just bring an umbrella next time. And possibly all of the cats.

Post-filming recovery

It's after midnight and I'm still capturing footage. I spent a good deal of the day, on and off, sifting through hours of video shot this weekend. Our first production weekend on Splatter Movie went very well, if I do say so myself. We had at least three cameras rolling at any given time so there's a lot to go through. Too early to tell what's gold and what's garbage, so I'm allowing myself to be generous with the longer takes here. Of course, my hard drive space is going to be eaten rapidly at this rate, so I will likely be judicious later.

Saturday was a "getting to know you" day. There were a couple of folks - like our brand new PA Jordan and Nic Pesante's paramour, Catherine, not to mention effects artist du jour Eric Molinaris and make-up artist Lorena - with whom we'd never worked before, and at least one - 2nd Camera Jon Wamsley - who only Amy and I had worked with (on I Spit On Eli Roth - as detailed in Sirens of Cinema #8, on sale now!). So it was a good day for everyone to get acquainted and re-acquainted and especially to check out the space.

The Hundred Acres Manor is growing. Production Designer Ethan Turon is putting together new rooms for the upcoming season, so he and his crew were working while we were scouting locations and just running amok and exploring.

Sunday, Debbie Rochon came down to shoot a couple of pretty intense scenes for Tesseract, the movie-within-the-movie that Amy's character, "Amy Lee Parker", is directing. That's the stuff capturing now in the next room (it's always best if I go do something else when I capture so I don't sit on top of the Mac as its working) and it just looks gorgeous. Jeff Waltrowski, our man-about-town from Hero Headquarters, lit both her scenes nearly single-handedly and the colors are just amazing. Amy decided that the Tesseract footage should be very Argento-esque, with the frames filled with color while the actors themselves would be lit with white light. So the reds and blues and greens in these scenes just pop throughout.

Amy and Debbie have a scene together that will actually be Tesseract's climax - very bloody and very stylistic. I'm really happy with what has been captured, even though I'm only about halfway through the tapes that have been shot (like I said, at least three cameras at some point. Five was actually the record). If I don't get this stuff logged before the next shooting date, however, I'll start to backlog and that just won't be good. However, at this rate, we'll be sifting through at least five hours of video for every weekend we shoot.

If you want to see a very brief tease, we posted Amy Lee Parker's first video blog over on the Tesseract myspace page. You'll have to join as a friend, of course, to see it. Trust me, there will be more coming.