This is a wonderful set of 50 cards, ‘an educational guide for viewers,’ from Funfax, copyright 1994. This series ‘examines the best sci-fi and horror programs from that decade’ [1960 to 1970]. Click to enlarge. You will find the information on the back of each card nostalgic and interesting, and a very good selection of unforgettable episodes.
Zombos Says: Sublime
MARTIN
(nods, slowly)
I see that now. But I don't understand. Why not?
ROBERT
(softly)
I guess because we only get one chance.
(a crooked smile)
Maybe there's only one summer to a customer.
The fifth scripted episode of the Twilight Zone, Walking Distance, written by Rod Serling, aired on October 30th, 1959. It concerns one Martin Sloan (Gig Young), age thirty-six, burned-out, fed up, and racing his expensive sports car into the distance where neither the direction nor time it will take is something he's sure of. He just wants out. What he wants out from is back there in New York City, the place he's racing away from. What he hopes to find is somewhere ahead of him, but it's still quite a distance away. How close he comes to finding it will be a little side trip; a brief moment of respite, bittersweet and soft to touch, but it will remain a little side trip nonetheless, because he still has quite a ways to go.
Call it the Golden Age, nostalgia, the uncluttered simplicity of childhood memories filled with cold ice cream eaten on hot summer days, endless bike rides, and sparse responsibilities making abundant time uniquely your own. We each have our own special slice of Golden Age pie gulped down deeply within us. Some may get a bigger piece, and for some it may not be as sweet, but it's there to be savored, especially during those grown-up times of inner turmoil and uncertainty when we long to go back for another taste.
For Martin Sloan, his unforgettable slice of pie is Homewood, the place where he grew up, filling his childhood days with shooting marbles, playing ball, and riding the merry-go-round. For me it would be Brooklyn, for you, who knows, it could be anyplace. He's driven back there by the 1950's Rat Race of mundane routine, his days now filled with endless meetings and warding off fierce competition to his successful status qou, driving him to seek his own personal status quo ante. He gets his chance when his car needs a few hours servicing. Homewood's only a mile and a half away from the gas station, walking distance for someone who's got some time on his hands. Strange that he doesn't recognize how close he is to the town where he grew up. Maybe it has been that long.
The time machine he steps into, cleverly designed as a drugstore complete with soda fountain, has him reminiscing over his love for three-chocolate-scoop sodas, only a dime each. The suddenly familiar counter-clerk makes him one. It still costs a dime. He steps out of the time machine and into Homewood; his Homewood. The one he remembers and can't forget. The one where you can down three-chocolate-scoop sodas and not worry about gaining weight. Ever.
What Serling wrote about in 1959, the longing we all succumb to when age bends us a little lower, and time twists us a lot tighter, remains as true today as it did then. Call it timeless. Only today you may be tempted to replace those ice cream sodas with something else that starts with an i, or maybe ends with an ii. But the sentiment is the same. Martin's sturm und drang is ours, today, tomorrow, always.
When Martin realizes he's fallen backward in time he desperately tries to stay. Wouldn't you? But his younger self is still growing older and riding the merry-go-round and gulping down all those dime sodas. There isn't room enough for the two of them. Martin realizes this eventually. Reluctantly. But his dad (Frank Overton) convinces Martin he must leave and let his younger and happier self enjoy the best time of his life. It's his summer now, only he doesn't know that because he's just a kid. How could he? Martin tries to make his younger self understand this, but winds up hurting both of them. Would that 'one summer to a customer' be as carefree and happy for you if you knew it wouldn't last?
For every idyll-personified summer there usually follows a winter of discontent. Serling tackles this inevitable seasonal change of sentiment again in A Stop at Willoughby, The Incredible World of Horrace Ford, and Kick the Can. But it is here in Homewood he's at his persuasive best in conveying the emptiness that leads to desperation that leads to a desire to return to the child grown over by the adult and those wonderful days of summer that grow regrettably shorter into the Fall.
NARRATOR'S VOICE
…And perhaps across his mind they'll flit a little errant wish…that a man might not have to become old…never outgrow the parks and the merry-go-rounds of his youth.
(a pause)
And he'll smile then too because he'll know it is just an errant wish. Some wisp of memory not too important really. Some laughing ghosts that cross a man's mind…that are a part of the Twilight Zone.
24 July.–There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short, and entering the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last night another man lost, disappeared. Like the first, he came off his watch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear, sent a round robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate angry. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will do some violence. (from the Captain's log, Dracula by Bram Stoker)
ZC Rating 4 of 7: Very Good
The doomed voyage of the Russian schooner Demeter, in Bram Stoker's Dracula, is one of the more horrific passages in the novel. Imagine being trapped aboard a ship with the blood-thirsty devil: there's nowhere to hide that's safe; no one strong enough to save you; no one living to hear you scream. Budgetary necessity forced the removal of this terror by night from Bela Lugosi's Dracula, and there's been no movie to date–although The Last Voyage of the Demeter has been in production limbo for years–that has chronicled the ship's encounter with the undead nobleman. Bram Stoker himself only provides a few tantalizing glimpses into the terrible fate of the crew through the Captain's log entries.
Now writer Gary Gerani and artist Stuart Sayger take over the ship's wheel to navigate those days of dread and death. There's a formidable challenge inherent in describing the Demeter's last days: we know how it ends. It's hard to build suspense when you know nobody survives. Or will they here?
Sayger's artwork takes much of it's power from the non-glossy paper, providing a rough, muted canvas for his water-colored hues that bring life to his inked lines. He has a knack for capturing the salt in the sea air, the splinter's in the mast's wood, and the terror stalking the deck. Gerani's characters are hardened men of the sea, a spirited captain, and one very young sailor still enamored by the wonders of the sky and the water when seen from the crow's nest. Then there's Anatole, a savage brute of a seaman who revels in his manliness. How will he handle the intruder onboard, one savage pitted against another?
This first issue's 22-pages bring the crewmen, the mysterious boxes of earth, and Dracula together for the last voyage of the Demeter in a promisingly dramatic way. Even though we know what should happen, Gerani and Sayger give us flesh and blood people to be concerned over–except, maybe, for Anatole–and Sayger's splash illustration for the vampire during one of his attack's, rendered murkily, as if seen through mist, indicates the white gloves are off. If the momentum begun in this issue continues, the power of Dracula over the living and the elements will provide a vivid and suspenseful confrontation; the one Bram Stoker alludes to in his novel.
Far too many years ago than I can fully recall, there was this little store wedged into a cramped side street in New York City. I'd visit it every so often in the company of my dad, as I was too young to travel or carry much money back then, of course.
I have one somewhat flickery memory of the store's proprietor standing behind a counter stacked with photographs; real photographs, not the digitally rendered or stored ones so ubiquitous today, but the developed-in-stinky-and-toxic-solution ones: thousands of them. They teetered, tottered, and sprawled across the counter top, and spilled out in reluctantly tidy alphabetical order into wooden bins, dozens of them, which filled the small floor space, creating cramped isles to browse from.
The photographs or stills were of actors and scenes from movies. I remember one visit in particular when I discovered Flash Gordon stills. My dad argued on the price–I forget how much–so I had to choose a few from the handful I held. Buster Crabbe was a certainty. Ming the Merciless (Charles Middleton) and King Vultan (Jack 'Tiny' Lipson) were keepers. Dr.Zarkov (Frank Shannon) and Prince Barin (Richard Alexander) had to go. I held tightly onto Princess Aura (Priscilla Lawson), but my dad wasn't too keen on her because of her wonderfully skimpy outfit. He tried pushing Dale Arden (Jean Rogers) on me, instead, but she just didn't have the same appeal for me. Dale was too darn wholesome. I held my ground and wound up leaving with the princess, the dashing hero, the merciless villain, and the second banana bird-man.
Shoot ahead too many years to forget. I don't attend horror conventions often, but when I do, the most enjoyable experience for me is meeting the people of my nightmares and getting their autographed photos. These actors and creative folk are responsible for much of my misspent childhood, some of my awkward teenage years, and most of my definitely questionable, but enjoyable, dotage. Here's a rogue's gallery of some of the ones I've met so far. (click to enlarge)
…
This 9-card subset from the The Simpson's Mania card set from Inkworks (copyright 2001) provides a taste of Treehouse of Horror Halloween fun from the television series. The picture on the back shows a ghostly surprise when held under black light.
Zombos Says: Poor
Roxy joined the conversation. "We need to work this out," she said firmly. "We've got to find a way to feed ourselves on extended tours without leaving a trail of carcasses behind us. I heard they found the ones in Detroit and Miami. Sooner or later some junior detective is going to stick some pins in a map and make the connection. Dumping these things in a harbor or a vacant lot is not going to work. Even if they happen to find one, we've got to make sure that there is nothing linking the carcasses to us."
Reading Thomas Hauck's novel Lucas Manson is like sitting in one of those taxing corporate meetings that should have died at the sixty-minute mark but still lingers on well past it; and you need to take a bio-break badly; and there's no more coffee; and somebody needs to say something that brings closure and quickly. I'm exaggerating somewhat, but I've read very few novels that force me to skim pages because of their lengthy 'corporate meeting' styled discussions blowing off the action with 'tell me' instead of more preferable 'show me' exposition; leaving me with feeling the payoff–the all important underpinning that justifies a story's events and characters–doesn't add up. There is not enough suspense written in to make it a thriller; not enough horror described to make it frightening; and worse, not much excitement to be garnered from the characters and their actions. Lucas Manson's structure is more draft-stage than print-ready.
…
Combine the two most horrible tastes you can imagine–like motor oil and someone else's vomit–and you won't even come close to this level of nasty. Yeah, I eat brains. (Gwen in I, Zombie, Issue 1)
Zombos Says: Good
I, Zombie from Vertigo is an urban fantasy set in Eugene, Oregon, a town very much like Archie Comics' Riverdale. Instead of Jughead, Betty, and Veronica, however, the grave-digging Gwendolyn Dylan has friends like Ellie, a Go-Go Dancer ghost with a beehive hairdo, and Scott, a were-terrier boyfriend with puppy-love eyes. The gang likes to hang out at Dixie's Firehouse, the local malt shop and diner.
When not at Dixie's, Gwen digs graves at the Green Pastures Cemetery, which boasts their naturally wholesome methods of interment. Gwen's dirt-shoveling skills come in handy because she's a 20-something zombie who needs to chow down on a mass of gray cells every month to keep from turning into a less attractive and stinkier one. The catch is that when she eats a recently interred person's brain, she experiences the memories, pleasure, anguish, and desires the person left behind before shuffling off to points unknown. This time around, that shuffling off involves murder.
There's a lot of kitschy-cute weirdness crammed into this first issue: a mysterious corporation concerned about the surge in permanent residents at Green Pastures Cemetery; a former boyfriend Gwen anxiously avoids; the question of who murdered her latest dinner guest and why; and paintball vampires prowling around. Introductions are fast and brief in this ambitious issue, leaving me with anticipation for the next issue and hoping it doesn't fall flat under its own weighty cuteness. Michael Allred's artwork melds with the odd characters and their peculiar talents well enough to keep the tone balanced for the light and dark drama-kitsch writer Chris Roberson is aiming for.
DC Comics sent me a courtesy copy for this review.
“Collect colorful pictures of exciting characters encountered during the timeless travels of the Tardis. There are 12 octagonal cards to collect”–from Cadbury Typhoo Limited. Copyright BBC 1976.
The Doctor certainly encounters a lot of monsters in his travels, don’t you think?
Zombos Says: Fair
With the zombie well beginning to run dry of ideas, it's tough to come up with new angles to build around the gut-munching simplicity of the undead. Fast or slow, young or old, there's not much you can do with them beyond their insatiable appetite for flesh and sweet meats, and the duck and cover action it usually entails. While gimmicks abound, like dressing them up in Victorian finery and serving them up with tea and crumpets, you can only go so far before even they start looking long in the tooth and come up short on the drama.
One thematic darling of the zombie fiction set is to have a pandemic erupt sending citizens and politicos, civilians and military to hell in a designer handbasket. Usually blamed on terrorists or a military experiment gone horribly wrong, this virus hits the population hard and takes down everyone in its path. Queue the final curtain and much wailing and gnashing of teeth (on both living and dead sides of course).
In Tooth and Nail, Craig DiLouie follows the soldiers through the hell they must travel when New York City becomes a massive killing zone. His virus is the Hong Kong Lyssa, a variation that mutates into something more like a parasite than simply a nasty bug. His Mad Dogs– what the people infected with the virus are called–act very much like extras from 28 Days Later, but in his claustrophobic urban battleground, with no Starbucks, Dunkin' Donuts, or even a 7-Eleven open to grab a coffee break and Twinkie, the platoons sent to protect the
population wind up needing protection from that population even more. This sets up the intriguing emotional, spiritual, and intellectual conflicts inherent in such a situation: how can the military fulfill its primary objective to protect a population that is devolving more and more, by the minute, into an enemy. It's a unique premise. DiLouie, unfortunately, does little with it.
The last book I read that handled present tense well was David Moody's Hater, which was also written from the 'questionable perspective' of the narrator. DiLouie writes Tooth and Nail in the present tense, but his stream of action from characters to places to thoughts becomes awkward and intrusive at times, and twice shifts unexpectedly into a first person narrative, leaving me wondering who's speaking. Piling on military jargon and dividing chapters between the various platoons, the scientists at the medical facility researching a cure, and the Tilden Middle School campaign gone sour, it's a hard go to remember which platoon was involved with what mission and where they were or were headed. I eventually lost track of which soldiers went with which platoon halfway into the story. The scientists were easier to follow because they were written with two-dimensional dialog and B-movie scientist-type temperaments.
DiLouie provides a list in the front of the novel that spells out the military abbreviations used; AG stands for "assistant gunner," and FPF is "final protective fire." But after paging back and forth a few times to find out what each abbreviation meant, I felt like I was back in college doing a term paper. I bet you don't know what SINCGAR* stands for? An odd use of brief subtitles for chapters and transitions within
those chapters sticks out like a sore thumb in the reader's eye, either
telegraphing key upcoming moments or jarring his narrative flow. They reminded me of those melodramatic blurbs on the Mars Attacks! trading cards, just not as effectively used here.
At the crux of the story are the soldiers and their mental anguish over dealing with Mad Dogs, potential Mad Dogs, and ignoring pleas for help from desperate New Yorkers while trying to stay alive. Their growing consternation, helplessness, and resignation to the inevitable breakdown in command center communications and conflicting goals leaves them spiritually and mentally handicapped, unable to cope with a rising death rate and their lowering prospects for success. DiLouie almost succeeds in capturing this roller coaster of potential drama, but sacrifices the fast turns and sudden dips for repetitive action sequences involving platoons making their way to somewhere because of seemingly random orders, through streets filled with hordes of Mad Dogs. At times these sequences are engaging for us as much as the soldiers–DiLouie works hard to incorporate realistic military strategy into these battles–but in-between them the rest of the story lags behind, filled with good-soldier-does-his-duty-to-the-end-no-matter-what flippancy.
The virus itself transforms into a parasite well into the novel, although this sudden change in its propagation characteristics gives the impression DiLouie only thought of making it a parasite well into the novel. With no foreshadowing, the revelation carries little dramatic impact when it appears and fails to provide much dramatic direction afterwards (read The Andromeda Strain and you will understand what I mean). His scientists are too busy doing B-movie duck and cover gyrations when their medical facility is compromised to appreciate the twist, leaving only one of them to convey the sudden discovery to a disintegrating military establishment.
In one promising plot thread that DiLouie brings up, but annoyingly leaves dangling, a soldier goes AWOL after a pretty college girl entices him to help her. What he eventually finds is a bunch of college kids who want to steal his weapons so they can hop over to New Jersey with a better chance of survival. They even ask the soldier to join them, reasoning he's the best one to handle the fire power. He bluntly says no, they leave with his guns, and this fetching storyline dies as quickly as it began.
I can't help but wonder how the college kids made out.
*SINCGAR: single-channel ground and airborne radio system
A digital copy of Tooth and Nail was provided for this review.
How much longer till Halloween? Here are the Dart Flipcards, Inc. The Munsters autographed trading cards for your Munsterish delight.
I met the adorable Pat Priest at one of the Drunken Severed Head's invitation-only parties, held during a Monster Bash convention. She regaled us with funny stories of her work on The Munsters set, how she turned down a free car from Elvis, and how she threw away the show's scripts and other future hot collectibles when no longer needed. Memorabilia was not a hot topic in those days apparently. I ate at Al Lewis' restaurant called, fittingly enough, Grampa's in Greenwich Village back in 1987. I didn't notice the place until this guy sitting in front yelled "Are you hungry?" and held the door open for us, inviting us in. It was Al Lewis, chomping on a big cigar and having a ball. The Italian food was awesome, too.
A small picture vibrating with grand passions, “Godspeed” transforms the vast lawlessness of the Alaskan wilderness into a playground for damaged souls and Old Testament mischief. Jeannette Catsoulis, New York Times)
Once again, Ms. Catsoulis’ review is perplexing to me. Interesting, but very perplexing. (Zombos)
ZC Rating 2 of 7: Fair
Twice I started watching Robert Saitzyk’s thriller Godspeed and twice I stopped at the same scene in the movie. I wondered why. It’s when faith healer Charlie Shepard (Joseph McKelheer) and Sarah Roberts (Courtney Halverson) have awkwardly met and each wants the other to go in a different direction, which is either to find something or to lose something, or maybe both. Intensity should be radiating from them but it doesn’t and I couldn’t pin down why. Maybe it’s Saitzyk’s direction, which lingers too long on scenes, trying to give them importance the story and its characters can’t muster, or maybe it’s McKelheer’s struggle (he co-wrote with Saitzyk and Knauf) with overly contemplative dialog inadequate for fully expressing his struggle with his inner demons. There’s a weightiness to Godspeed that doesn’t add up given its story, and for a thriller–I wouldn’t call Godspeed a horror movie–it never finds the intensity it needs to involve us, or justify its artsy spiritual despair spilling over into bloodshed at the beginning and the ending of the movie.
Given the beautiful but lonely vista of the Alaskan location, Saitzyk doesn’t allow his tormentors or their tormented much interaction through metaphor or religious iconography with the wilderness surrounding them–and in them; instead, he fills the empty spaces with drawn out, self-conscious talkiness, where everyone moves hopelessly around a lot pontificating on their desires and sins without making us feel they’re sharing the burden with us. Neither are their actions embellished or even made insignificant by God’s intrusive knack with nature all around them. This leaves the movie’s underwhelming religious-poking bland to watch, forcing more of our attention on a weak story just not engrossing enough to hold it, which, given the soul-searching and ulterior motives abounding at its heart it should. Godspeed doesn’t let us feel the philosophical ardor it so heavily tries to concern us with.
While Shepard’s family is tastefully being killed, seen between glimpses of the serene aurora borealis lights and his tryst with a prostitute, the emotional impact of the murders falls flat. Moving too slowly, back and forth, between the lights, the murders, and the prostitute’s consternation over his need for her when he has a beautiful wife at home, Saitzyk’s monkish pacing dulls the intrinsic horror and, worse, fails to build momentum beyond Shepard’s retreat into the wilderness.
We see him months later, all Grizzly Adams and living in a trailer home, when Sheriff Mitch (Ed Lauter) pays a visit to apprise him that nothing has been discovered concerning his family’s murder. Mitch asks about his questionable past, the one that brought him to the small town. Saitzyk and McKelheer beat this scene to death while Mitch waits for Shepard to vent his frustration and anger. And vent it some more. At the local diner, Sarah finds him blocking out lines in his Bible with a Magic Marker. When she ventures closer, he explains what he’s doing: he’s blocking out the lies of God. Sarah needs him to return home with her so he can save her brother Luke (Cory Knauf) from himself. Luke hates Shepard. Luke wants to start his own little world of salvation for his followers. Too much time is spent listening to Luke preach to his followers and showing closeups of their faces as they intently pay attention.
Exactly what Shepard is retreating from is not fully explained. It’s possible he really does have a gift buried in him for faith healing; but it’s also possible he’s a charlatan who really does want to heal the sick. Maybe he’s a bit of both: a faith healer who’s lost his gift for healing and wonders why God has forsaken him. Does he blame himself? Does he blame God? His inner turmoil starts well before his wife and child are murdered, and his inability to heal has leached out to overwhelm Sarah and her brother.
The both of them are in a soul-searching freefall after the death of someone close and important to them. Both blame Shepard, but for different reasons. Sarah is drawn to him both romantically and spiritually. Luke is drawn to him but with a different reason. All three suffer from their inner demons, but given all of this inevitable tension from unfulfilled love, seething hatred, and constant religious questing, the monotone direction keeps it corked, the superficial story keeps it bottled up, and the acting keeps it on the shelf, never threatening to become more than something interesting to look at but not to partake in.
Here is the twelve card story for the series, The Surgeon, from Rosem’s Midnight Madness Card Set. Story is by Steve Kiviat, and illustrations by Alfredo Osorio. (Copyright 1990 by Rosem Enterprises.) His patients have more to complain about than their medical coverage.