From Zombos Closet

JM Cozzoli

A horror and movie fan with a blog. Scary.

Book Review: Fright Night On Channel 9

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Fright_night_on_channel_9

Zombos Says: Excellent

For me, and many like me, the impact of Fright Night has not lessened over time, but the generation that I am part of, the one that can truly appreciate this era, is rapidly aging. It's not difficult to imagine a point in the not too distant future where Fright Night, and all the programs like it, may be lost to fading memories and a society no longer interested in such antiquities. (James Arena)

I'm not as big a fan as James Arena is, but his passion for Fright Night, a horror-hostless, near midnight showcase of the good, the bad, and the ugly in fantastic cinema, that ran on New York's WOR-TV from 1973 to 1987, is well shared in Fright Night on Channel 9 from McFarland Press.

I don't often read McFarland titles because they're awfully expensive and not all of them are well-written or carefully researched. Being a Brooklyn boy growing up watching Channel 11 and Channel 9's sumptuous telecasts of horror and science fiction movies, both foreign and domestic, I couldn't resist Arena's book. If you're familiar with Fright Night, or just love to read about television in the days before anyone could see just about anything they fancied anytime they chose,  this book is a gem of interviews, anecdotal nostalgia, and glimpses into how the biz worked to bring packages of movies to affiliate stations on a regular basis. We're talking pre-video and pre-digital here, when stations ran 16 and 35mm prints, spliced up the film reels frame by frame for commercials, and did a little editing to run in allotted times and–more or less–to remove the occassional booby show, or overly nastiness, not fit for young eyes.

Within the two parts of Fright Night on Channel 9, Arena recalls the ritual of watching Fright Night regularly at the late-night hour as well as capturing that unique feeling of excitement of finally getting to see that movie you had heard was so awesome or so awful you just had to see it. Part One: The Story of Fright Night provides the history of the show, enriched by the interviews and the wheeling and dealing work involved to acquire "product" like Universal's horror pictures, Hemisphere's Block of Shock package of movies, and  Samuel M. Sherman's Independent-International Pictures Corp. and his Euro-horror movies for the show's run. Part Two: The Films of Fright Night lists all the movies that were shown with airdates. Arena goes further than simply regurgitating plot synopses by adding his personal observations to the various entries, making this part enjoyable reading as well as informative.

Hanging onto the movies once they were contracted for play wasn't always easy. The highlight of the book for me is  Samuel M. Sherman's  recounting of a run-in with a bankrupt processing lab holding his 16mm prints of his Exorcism at Midnight and House of Doom. The WOR contract stipulated delivery of a specified number of movies and couldn't be fulfilled while the lab held onto them. Elements of the shyster lawyer, the payola-or-kiss-your-prints-goodbye scenario, and the eventual showdown, to strong arm the prints from the lab, is a wild and wooly story. 

I read Fright Night on Channel 9 in one night. Half of my effort was made because I remembered the unique experience of watching the show, and others like it, which has shaped my horror habit of today, but the other half is because James Arena kept me up late with his vivid remembrance of a culturally significant "antiquity" that shouldn't be forgotten, nor the people who made it so.

Comic Book Review: Deadlands, Black Water
One Shot

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Deadlands black water

Zombos Says: Fair

There are times I scratch my head wondering if I'm not getting something; you know, in the sense of not understanding the story because I'm either missing important information I should have known before reading, or maybe I'm just lazy-eyeing it and I'm overlooking the obvious.

Then there are those times I read comics like Deadlands: Black Water and opine the sad fate often befalling the One Shot: not enough space to tell the story fully, no followup issues to spell out the obtuse into clarity. That irks me a lot, especially when the artwork is appealing, and the ghost of a story's there to haunt you just a little bit, but not enough to warrant the effort of turning a page.

I get the fact this is a one shot comic based on an RPG adventure. So what? I shouldn't have to know the game's intricacies to enjoy the story, although it would've probably helped me fill in some gaps in getting from the first to last pages. What Mariotte, Turner, and Sellner fail to accomplish is fortifying their story with enough sensible motivations and character actions beyond the perfunctory. I like weird westerns. I also like getting more explanation and better rationale for the weirdness. I know, it's a pet peeve I can't shake.

A portly man driven by a mysterious vision of a woman forces him to travel into dangerous territory with his bodyguard. They hook up with Lyle Crumbfine, tour guide through the dangers they need to circumvent to reach their destination. Expendable victims are provided; roll the dice.

The gun blast that blows a man's brains out at the end doesn't have a plausible explanation and it isn't rational given the story's context leading up to it (however, possibly plausible if you allow for Crumbfine's game hindrance, which is Grim Servant o'Death). And I'll reckon the fast walk-through, of we-don't-have-the-pages-to-show-you-this-stuff-so-just-take-our-word-for-it, kills whatever death at every page turn suspense those Deadlands should be providing. Black Water is shallow as weird western mayhem goes, and disappointing when you consider the artwork provides the only supernatural energy, of which the cover's the most exciting page in the whole book because it implies all the intrigue you won't find inside.

Not helping is the secondary 5-pager, The Kid in "Outlaw," which falls under Dime Store Backup: Part 4 of 4. Okay, I'll bite: tell me how it makes commercial and artistic sense to take much needed, flesh-out, pages away from  the main story in a ONE SHOT?

This is one shot that misses its target.

Comic Book Review: ’68 Hardship One Shot

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Zombos Says: Very Good

Zombie wars are hell, but there are worse ones. Teddy’s still fighting the Viet Cong in Hitchcock County, Nebraska, only it’s not 1968 anymore and zombies, and a twister, are gearing up to stress him out even more. He can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys, living or dead, so the potential for messing up his chances at survival is high, and the pressure keeps mounting.

I remember the Vietnam War and how I was a stone’s throw away from being drafted and shipped out. I remember how close I was to peeing in my pants when I sat down in front of a big, noisy typewriter, answering questions asked by a disinterested administrative type who typed the answers onto my draft card.  I remember holding the 4A draft card and thinking I’m so f*cked. Even my dad, who fought in World War II, said we’d move to Canada before he saw me fight Charlie and company. It wasn’t a good time for anyone. The guys I knew who came back from Nam never stopped fighting it in their nightmares or their memories.

Teddy fought that war, got a Section 8, and wound up still fighting the war years after. Not a good thing when you need all your wits to combat the walking dead. Mark Kidwell, Jeff Zornow, and Jay Fotos provide the essential spilled entrails and bloody gore, but it’s not only the zombies messing up the landscape, and that’s where ’68 Hardship moves to higher ground. It’s vivid, it’s sadly realistic, it’s never dull. If you like seeing zombies sliced and diced by a threshing machine, this is for you. If you like zombie stories with more bite beyond the usual us against them, this one’s for you, too. For Teddy, it’s all about us against them, only he can’t pinpoint exactly who “them” should be.

There was a television series in the 1960’s called Combat! starring Vic Morrow. Although it was about soldiers in World War II, Image Comics captures a lot of the show’s grim and gritty and realistic face of war in their ’68 series. The more realism in zombie stories, the better they are for it by bringing the zombies closer to home, even if they, like wars, don’t seem to change much.

The Girl With the
Dragon Tattoo (2011)

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Rooney-maraZombos Says: Excellent

The revelation of the serial killer in The Girl With the Dragon Tatoo brings with it the most chilling line delivered onscreen since Silence of the Lambs‘ Chianti and Fava beans culinary mashup: a starker revelation that being a victim is one part maniacal killer, two parts victim’s mistake. When it’s added up, demoralizing insult is heaped on potential injury for journalist Mikeal Blomkvist (Daniel Craig) in this strong R-rated mystery.

Because it is a mystery you will need to pay attention. This is the second time I was asked for an explanation of a film’s story in the theater’s men’s room after the film. “You saw Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, right?” “Yes.” “What the hell happened?”

The labrynthine investigation of Henrik Vanger’s (Christopher Plummer) family tree and the living and dead closet skeletons inhabiting the island, where relatives avoid each each, can be vexing enough, but the story is not only about them: it’s about Blomkvist being successfully sued by a financial predator he was investigating; it’s about that girl who likes tattoos and hacking into people’s personal lives, Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara, who looks a lot like her name sounds). She’s preyed upon by a social worker who can’t keep his pants zippered; then there’s a 40 year-old disappearance, complicated by more Nazi-skeletons rattling in that closet and a serial killer who may still be active.

I could go into detail, but it’s better to watch it unfold. Just stay alert. It becomes dicey when Lisbeth teams up with Blomkvist. She did a very thorough background check on him. He knows about it. She was so good at it he figures she’d be a perfect assistant. She can’t seem to keep her pants zippered when he’s around, so he reluctantly lets her investigate that, too. The movie’s a hot roll in moist bedsheets. It’s a study in predator types. It’s a downbeat, whitewashed landscape of cold days and nights, and dangerous revelations. It’s also a puzzle involving not only the pieces but how they’re fitted into place, one by one, and the unsavory picture those pieces create. Craig doesn’t muscle-up his Blomkvist and Mara doesn’t muscle-down her Lisbeth. The roles stay brittle: they get beat up, they get even.  Lisbeth is a lot better at getting even.

She’s one victim who knows how to exact revenge that’s also economically rewarding. My guess is this is the part that capped the confusion the guy in the theater’s men’s room had. It’s a little drama after the stage’s main event has played out, so it’s natural to drop your attention a notch at this point. Don’t. It’s even more fun to watch Lisbeth play with her mice. I’d wager if Lisbeth made it into a Bond movie she’d better play Bond’s sister. Otherwise he’s going to get his ass kicked but good.

Comic Book Review: Fatale 1
Tentacles and Tommy Guns

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Fatale image comics
Zombos Says: Very Good

Noir and Lovecraft seem to go together like Victorian and Gothic; all dark tones and hardboiled moods that lead to bruised knuckles and bloodied bodies dumped in greasy alleys or sprawled across attic stairs or gasping out last breadths while some hellspawn squishes close by.

Ed Brubaker's direct, terse words and indirect, terse characters capture crime noir's rythm of lightly brushed cymbals and pensive bass strumming, and Sean Phillips panels his landscape morosely, filling it with dark places and brooding recesses, hiding mystery in every corner. Colors provide faint contrast, but Dave Stewart knows to leave well enough alone and highlights the shadows by ignoring the light. This is crime noir. There's little light in crime noir, even during the day. Which works just dandy because there's little light in horror, too.

No creeping tentacles here. Yet. But the sense that something nasty and lugubrious and mucousy wet, sliding and sloshing around the next corner, is always on high. First issues are so hard to nail down tight; either they're too bland with lengthy exposition leading nowhere and no revelations, or too ham-fisted with constant rote motion and not enough exposition to build suspense. Good crime and horror needs that suspense, but they also need enough action, uncertainty, and characters having lousy luck at the worst possible moments to make you turn the page or read the next issue. Brubaker, Phillips, and Stewart hit the jackpot here. Words are as important as imagery for the noir aesthetic and on both counts this first issue provides the right mix of textual and visual narrative in its pages, which run from 5 to 8 panels deep each page in a traditional layout.

The story starts with a funeral and loose ends needing to be tied up before they strangle somebody. There's the obligatory old dark mansion, papers to go through, the handsome and rugged in-over-his-head guy who's made all warm and masculine inside by the mysterious woman who holds the answers to the questions he's about to have his face rubbed in by sinister big henchmen with dark glasses and impatient demeanors. The backstory goes back a world war or two, and there's a few splattered cultists who probably shouldn't have done what they did. But now it's too late.

At 24 pages, this is a fine read. You know fine reads, don't you? They're the type we used to get before comic books went on a diet and cover prices fattened up. So kick back that two fingers of scotch, puff on that Camel until the smoke makes you teary-eyed and your throat hoarse, and pucker up for that big, wet one. Only don't be surprised if it's slimy and cool on the lips and smells like yesterday's catch.

This is noir horror, baby.