Re-Evaluation /Third Time's The Charm

Recently, I spoke to a real Horror aficionado, a die hard fan, one who makes my admiration of the genre seem quite pedestrian.  He told me his favorite movie is THE THING (1982), but that PHANTASM from 1979 is high up on his list.  Now, I have never had a love for Carpenter's THE THING, though I can certainly appreciate its technical achievements and cool musical score.  But jeez, my memories of watching PHANTASM in the late Nineties have never faded, where Jeff and I watched it and disliked it so much that we never went on to its many sequels.  I have always remembered it as being both idiotic and confusing, both when I saw it as a child on television, and as a young adult.

But this guy absolutely *loves* Horror, so I asked the guy, "Can you help me to appreciate PHANTASM?  Because I never have been able to."  And he said, "Well, it's not for everybody.  But hey, why don't you try PHANTASM 2, which was made a couple of years later.  Maybe that will be more your style."

I mentioned it to Jeff, who has been watching a couple of movies each week with me, several of them in our favorite genre, and when we went to the library together, he produced a copy of the 1979 original and said, "What do you think?"  Well, I told him how I remembered thinking it was a dogturd the last time I saw it, but he reminded me that we watched SILENT NIGHT, DEADLY NIGHT last month and that it pretty much kicked ass.  So, I shrugged and said I supposed I'd watch it with him if I had to.  I suggested we play a drinking game where every time Angus Scrimm said "Boooooooy," we'd take a gulp, hoping that would make it more enjoyable.*

Well, he also got a couple other movies, and I much preferred watching those to PHANTASM, but eventually, he proclaimed the time had come.  And I gotta say, I tried to find good things in the movie, such as the framing of a couple shots, a couple of angles of Scrimm staring or smiling, and the lovely--if repetitive--score by Fred Myrow . . . but it was few and far between.  There is the scene where the shiny ball kills the Tall Man's employee rather than its intended victim, and the gore and excessive amount of blood are pretty great.  

But that's a single moment, in a ninety minute borefest.  

It may be that, twenty-five years later than the last time I saw it, I liked PHANTASM even less than before.  And I have become far more tolerant of mediocrity lately than I used to be since, a lot of times, simply making a movie during the Golden Age of Slashers will be enough for me to give it at least two stars out of nostalgia.

Huh.

I recalled, both previous viewings, being horrified (in completely the wrong way) by how train-derailingly not scary the fuggin' jawas were, and in that respect, I was not disappointed.  But man, everything else . . .

. . . everything else ranged from mediocre to festering garbage.  It's all so slapdash and meandering, like when I was a kid and I'd get my friends together and start the camcorder up and we'd just make up whatever scene we were going to shoot on the fly, with no thought of where it might be going in later scenes.

The story is nonsensical, from beginning to wow, that ending, where is it all a dream?  Was it a boy's imagination coping with tragedy, which would almost be an effective ending if it were handled well, but then the Tall Man shows up and grabs the booooooooy and we roll the credits.

Hey, maybe something that I love you think is total dogshit (Big Anklevich tells me this at least once a month), but I pretty much had my evening ruined by watching PHANTASM again.  But Jeff helped out by saying, "Look on the bright side: you don't have to watch it again for another twenty-five years . . . and by then, you'll probably be dead."

Thanks for that.

*It didn't.  I believe the first use of "Booooooy" came at an hour and ten minutes in, and by then, Jeff's drink had gone flat, and was now room temperature--which, in Jeff's defense/condemnation, is approximately forty degrees Fahrenheit.

Life Imitates Art - Miracle Edition!

One of these days, I'm going to release my novel "Balms & Sears."*  The road goes ever onward, as they say.  And for nearly two years now, this photograph, taken by Nine Koepfer, was going to adorn the cover:

You see, the novel is about Alec Ewell, who from at least four years old, has had the ability to heal.  Over the years (he's fourteen when the book begins), he has used that power, which his grandfather calls Balming, to heal animals and people, to the point where he can bring an animal back from the point of death.

When I first saw Koepfer's photo, I knew that's the image I wanted for my cover: a dead or dying bird, being touched or held in the hands of a child.  And I still love that image.

However, while I was editing audio yesterday at the family cabin, I heard a sharp thump from the windows beside me, and as has happened multiple times, a bird had flown into the glass.  Sometimes, the birds are fine, but often, they break their necks or wings or spines, and I find their still bodies on the deck below the window.  Last time, there was a dead woodpecker there, and this time, I went out to check, and found a poor, sad gray and white finch or swallow (let me know and I'll change it) fluttering on the wood slats, an unsightly bulge in its feathers behind its neck.

I've watched them die before, and this one was surely a goner, so I picked it up so it could, I don't know, slip away in a warm hand, or pass away quicker due to panic in the clutches of a deadly predator.

It occurred to me that this was like my cover to "Balms," and I grabbed my phone and took a photo, thinking that it could serve just as well as a cover, not considering that a) the hands belong to a middle-aged dork rather than a teen or child, and that b) I couldn't very well hold the bird in my hands or touch it with my index finger if I had to hold up my phone to take the picture.

I set the bird down where the rays of the sun could hit it as it passed, and went back inside, just in case I'd better wash my hands (I don't know that birds aren't clean animals, but the fact that it was dying made me think I ought to, even though the cause of death was a shiny reflection).  When I went out to check on the bird, though, it had rolled over onto its legs, which surprised me, considering its injuries, and when I went out a few minutes later, the bird was standing up, and seeing me, hopped off the log where I'd set it, and ran to the edge of the deck, where it jumped off, and ran off into the brush.

Later on, when I was carrying my junk out to the car, I saw the bird in a tree, obviously recovered enough that it could fly.  So, just like Alec Ewell, and like Judd Nelson in an unsuccessful 1986 movie, I've got the touch, I've got the power.

*It was SUPPOSED to have come out in September or early October, but alas, Rish B. Outfield was involved, so no.

Not Quite Christmas, But Close

So, this is a post to promote my holiday story "The Day Before The Day Before Christmas," which is available on Amazon.

This is one of those stories--that I just can't stop writing--about a town with an odd belief or practice: namely, you're not supposed to drink soda on the 22nd of December.*  Visiting Uncle Jake thinks nothing of it, and downs a glass of Diet Coke, but discovers that bad luck befalls those who break this rule, at least according to his nephew and niece.

Yeah, another one of those, but surely not the last.  Feel free to pick up a copy at Amazon AT THIS LINK.

Often, I disparage my own work, because I can see only the flaws, but like "Newfound Fame," which I went through recently to re-format it, I find a lot to like in this story.  Would I go so far as to say that it is good?  Sure, why not?  It's nearly Christmas!

*Yes, Big, I understand that . . . but the entire story takes place the following day.