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Deceit And Betrayal’s Bitter Fruit
11/9/2016
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Hmm, let’s see. I’m going to guess twelfth birthday, here. Maybe thirteenth, but twelfth feels more likely. Appetite, The Headless Children et al. have sunk their vampire fangs deep into me, and I now shun the sunlight fields of chart pop. No, what my darkened, corrupted soul craves is raw rock and metal, preferably still dripping blood.
Yeah, I was kind of a dick at twelve.
Anyway.
Yeah, I was kind of a dick at twelve.
Anyway.
A TANKED UP MOB
4/5/2016
That smoke has a name, and the name is prejudice.
And when deployed in this way, it serves only to obscure the truth.
My Life In Horror
Every month, I will write about a film, album, book or event that I consider horror, and that had a warping effect on my young mind. You will discover my definition of what constitutes horror is both eclectic and elastic. Don’t write in. Also, of necessity, much of this will be bullshit – as in, my best recollection of things that happened anywhere from 15 – 30 years ago. Sometimes I will revisit the source material contemporaneously, further compounding the potential bullshit factor.
This is not history. This is not journalism. This is not a review.
This is my life in horror.
Every month, I will write about a film, album, book or event that I consider horror, and that had a warping effect on my young mind. You will discover my definition of what constitutes horror is both eclectic and elastic. Don’t write in. Also, of necessity, much of this will be bullshit – as in, my best recollection of things that happened anywhere from 15 – 30 years ago. Sometimes I will revisit the source material contemporaneously, further compounding the potential bullshit factor.
This is not history. This is not journalism. This is not a review.
This is my life in horror.
A Tanked Up Mob
It was going to be something else. It was supposed to be something else. Sorry Alex. Sorry Jim. My Life In Horror does Film Gutter will have to wait.
Sorry to you too, dear reader. Not much light in this one. Some, but not much. Too sad. Too angry. Too tired.
I was ten years old when Hillsborough happened. Unlike some earlier and later tragedies, I don't have a vivid memory of the event itself. As I've previously mentioned, my family didn't turn the news off, so I'd have seen it, but I have no immediate memory of the day itself. What I do have is an association of a sense of dread with the name. The very word casts a shadow inside. That kid feeling of Something Bad. I knew Hillsborough was Something Bad. I knew that People Died. Were, in point of fact, crushed. The figure 96 hadn't registered. Nor had the whys and wherefores.
Sorry to you too, dear reader. Not much light in this one. Some, but not much. Too sad. Too angry. Too tired.
I was ten years old when Hillsborough happened. Unlike some earlier and later tragedies, I don't have a vivid memory of the event itself. As I've previously mentioned, my family didn't turn the news off, so I'd have seen it, but I have no immediate memory of the day itself. What I do have is an association of a sense of dread with the name. The very word casts a shadow inside. That kid feeling of Something Bad. I knew Hillsborough was Something Bad. I knew that People Died. Were, in point of fact, crushed. The figure 96 hadn't registered. Nor had the whys and wherefores.
And that anger comes from where all anger always comes from, of course: fear.
There’s a ghost haunting my life in horror. He doesn’t haunt all the entries, but a few. Yes, quite a few. I know a big part of what I’m doing with this monthly column is circling that ghost wearily. Finding ways to talk about him without talking about him.
So tonight I’m going to talk about the most disturbing book I’ve ever read. I’m almost certain this will be one of the least read posts of this series, and that’s fine.
So tonight I’m going to talk about the most disturbing book I’ve ever read. I’m almost certain this will be one of the least read posts of this series, and that’s fine.
I leap to my feet, clapping so hard I can feel the impact right up to my shoulders, and I’m far from alone - there’s people jumping up all around me.
One thing I’ve noticed about this column so far: the articles are pretty evenly split between expressions of joy and horror. This makes sense - I love horror, but at the same time, duh, it’s horrific. And the sheer breadth with which I cast my net when using that term has in itself almost become part of the game at this point. That said, one thing I’ve noticed is that, with very few exceptions, the joy columns outperform the darker ones - sometimes vastly so.
With that in mind, and because next month will be one of the darkest yet, let’s go with joy, this time - especially as it’s an unexpected joy, one that all but jumped out at me unawares this week, and left me with a mind still fizzing at the brilliance of it all.
It’s the 20th February, 2016, and for my sins I am 37 years of age. I’m at the Dominion theatre in the west end of London, due to a happy accident involving my father scoring some overseas work at short notice and a non-refundable ticket. In attendance is my stepmother.
The stage dressing is beautiful. A safety curtain with the name of the show projected onto it prevents any view of the performance area, but the clockwork scrolling up and across the arch, gold effect on red, is gorgeous. And the logo, as we both remark, is pretty iconic.
That said, I have to say that overall my expectations are fairly low. For one thing, I have a huge attachment to much of the original cast, and most of them are not in attendance today (and not all of the ones that are will be playing the roles they did previously). For another, well, I basically don’t like musicals. At all. Rock/pop operas, fine, but sing all the time or don’t sing at all is my basic philosophy, mainly because in practice the broadness of the non-singing performances sets my teeth on edge, and I find the transition from one to the other to be not just goofy but actually grating. And no, this isn’t a musical, more like a narrated pop opera, so we’ll probably be fine, but on the other hand, it’s the West End, so they’re probably contractually obliged to have interpretive dance at some point, so blah.
With that in mind, and because next month will be one of the darkest yet, let’s go with joy, this time - especially as it’s an unexpected joy, one that all but jumped out at me unawares this week, and left me with a mind still fizzing at the brilliance of it all.
It’s the 20th February, 2016, and for my sins I am 37 years of age. I’m at the Dominion theatre in the west end of London, due to a happy accident involving my father scoring some overseas work at short notice and a non-refundable ticket. In attendance is my stepmother.
The stage dressing is beautiful. A safety curtain with the name of the show projected onto it prevents any view of the performance area, but the clockwork scrolling up and across the arch, gold effect on red, is gorgeous. And the logo, as we both remark, is pretty iconic.
That said, I have to say that overall my expectations are fairly low. For one thing, I have a huge attachment to much of the original cast, and most of them are not in attendance today (and not all of the ones that are will be playing the roles they did previously). For another, well, I basically don’t like musicals. At all. Rock/pop operas, fine, but sing all the time or don’t sing at all is my basic philosophy, mainly because in practice the broadness of the non-singing performances sets my teeth on edge, and I find the transition from one to the other to be not just goofy but actually grating. And no, this isn’t a musical, more like a narrated pop opera, so we’ll probably be fine, but on the other hand, it’s the West End, so they’re probably contractually obliged to have interpretive dance at some point, so blah.
And then, the lights go down........
I knew it was his heart. I could hear it beating.
It’s dark. Like at night. No, worse. We’re inside, so no stars, no moon. It’s the true dark of a confined space. To the sides, there’s a faint green glow. Behind, if I were to look, the flickering red pinpoints, burning to yellow with the inhalation. But I probably don’t look. Why would I, when what fills my field of vision is so bright?
The screen is enormous. It redefines ‘big’ for me in a way that life probably never tops. I mean, you spend your life looking at square CRT TV screens, and then… then, there’s this! Gigantic, blazing bright, casting everything else into its shadow. And the sound! Rumbling, roaring. You can literally, if it’s the desired effect, hear a pin drop, with crystal clarity.
The inside of my mouth is a war zone - the salt of butter popcorn crashing against the sticky sweetness of the 7-up - but my mind is in perfect harmony, every sense bent to the task of absorbing the story playing out in front of me.
And it’s not my first rodeo. Jedi was my first. Of that, I remember little that I can place with clarity from that viewing (as opposed to the many tens of times I have seen the film since). Vader’s mask appearing to glower from the screen, dwarfing the whole room with its malevolent presence. Luke’s green lightsaber. The crackle of lightning and fizz of sabers clashing. Little more.
Assume An Attitude
6/1/2016
My Life In Horror
Every month, I will write about a film, album, book or event that I consider horror, and that had a warping effect on my young mind. You will discover my definition of what constitutes horror is both eclectic and elastic. Don’t write in. Also, of necessity, much of this will be bullshit – as in, my best recollection of things that happened anywhere from 15 – 30 years ago. Sometimes I will revisit the source material contemporaneously, further compounding the potential bullshit factor. Finally, intimate familiarity with the text is assumed – to put it bluntly, here be gigantic and comprehensive spoilers. Though in the vast majority of cases, I’d recommend doing yourself a favour and checking out the original material first anyway.
This is not history. This is not journalism. This is not a review.
This is my life in horror.
Every month, I will write about a film, album, book or event that I consider horror, and that had a warping effect on my young mind. You will discover my definition of what constitutes horror is both eclectic and elastic. Don’t write in. Also, of necessity, much of this will be bullshit – as in, my best recollection of things that happened anywhere from 15 – 30 years ago. Sometimes I will revisit the source material contemporaneously, further compounding the potential bullshit factor. Finally, intimate familiarity with the text is assumed – to put it bluntly, here be gigantic and comprehensive spoilers. Though in the vast majority of cases, I’d recommend doing yourself a favour and checking out the original material first anyway.
This is not history. This is not journalism. This is not a review.
This is my life in horror.
KILL YOUR BROTHER. YOU'LL FEEL BETTER
3/12/2015
PRESS PLAY FOR A FULL EXPERIENCE
My Life In Horror
Every month, I will write about a film, album, book or event that I consider horror, and that had a warping effect on my young mind. You will discover my definition of what constitutes horror is both eclectic and elastic. Don’t write in. Also, of necessity, much of this will be bullshit – as in, my best recollection of things that happened anywhere from 15 – 30 years ago. Sometimes I will revisit the source material contemporaneously, further compounding the potential bullshit factor. Finally, intimate familiarity with the text is assumed – to put it bluntly, here be gigantic and comprehensive spoilers. Though in the vast majority of cases, I’d recommend doing yourself a favour and checking out the original material first anyway.
This is not history. This is not journalism. This is not a review.
This is my life in horror.
Every month, I will write about a film, album, book or event that I consider horror, and that had a warping effect on my young mind. You will discover my definition of what constitutes horror is both eclectic and elastic. Don’t write in. Also, of necessity, much of this will be bullshit – as in, my best recollection of things that happened anywhere from 15 – 30 years ago. Sometimes I will revisit the source material contemporaneously, further compounding the potential bullshit factor. Finally, intimate familiarity with the text is assumed – to put it bluntly, here be gigantic and comprehensive spoilers. Though in the vast majority of cases, I’d recommend doing yourself a favour and checking out the original material first anyway.
This is not history. This is not journalism. This is not a review.
This is my life in horror.
Kill Your Brother. You’ll feel better.
Because here's the thing - sometimes you go back, and it’s bad. Not just ‘not as good as I remember’, not just ‘hasn't aged well’, I’m talking ‘actively god-awful, what the hell was I thinking, now I hate myself and the decade of my youth just a little more than I did before’ bad.
Way back when I talked about the WASP record The Headless Children, I noted how the album kind of broke down into three camps in terms of the individual songs, those camps being ‘actually, that’s still a legitimately good song’, ‘that’s obviously not great but I remember why I liked it’ and ‘how did I EVER think that was an acceptable use of my time?’.
But what to do when an entire movie falls into that final camp? How do you approach it when you have a movie that’s a no-brainer shoe-in for My Life In Horror - a movie that honesty dictates you must include, that was formative and hugely influential on 13 year old you - but also a movie that you saw more recently and detested? Despised? Flat out hated? Disliked it so much you felt ashamed of young you, and the holes in his critical thinking and evaluation so large that a garbage truck like this could be driven through it?
Tonight, I will attempt to provide an answer to that question. Tonight, armed only with a netbook, a bottle of Bulleit Bourbon, a tin Deadwood shot glass, a packet of Tunnock’s Caramel wafer biscuits, and a copy of the movie, I will attempt to channel 13 year old me. Talk to him, but also have him talk through me. Reason with him, in the unlikely event that such a thing is possible. Tonight, I aim to put that little goober straight, whilst also giving him the chance to make his tragically misguided case. A transcript of a commentary track recorded across time, if you will.
Wish me luck.
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