Like everyone, I've been listening to a lot of classic grunge over the last few days, ever since word came that Soundgarden lead singer Chris Cornell killed himself in a Detroit hotel room on May 17.
I was born at the very end of 1977, which — depending on which demographer you read — makes me either the oldest millenial or the youngest member of Generation X. For my part, I've always identified much more strongly with the Gen Xers. Grunge was largely the soundtrack of my middle and high-school experience. The songs — Pearl Jam's "Jeremy," Alice in Chains' "Them Bones," Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and "Come As You Are" — were everywhere, as inescapable as Def Leppard and Poison had been just a few years before.
I actually came to it all a bit late, having spent the earliest part of the 90s listening only to classic rock and jazz and completely ignoring whatever it was my contemporaries were into. Still, I wasn't living under a rock. I couldn't help but absorb at least some of what was going on. I became interested in early 1994 when my parents finally broke down and decided to pay for cable TV. MTV was a revelation to me, and one of the big eye openers was Soundgarden's video for "Black Hole Sun."
I've talked a bit about this before. By the time I really started paying attention, the whole "Seattle sound" thing was on its way out. Kurt Cobain killed himself right around that time, and grunge began its long, slow decline as a relevant movement. I swam around in the grunge kiddie pool for a little while, mostly sticking to the mainstream stuff, before diving into the murkier waters of metal and industrial and finally finding myself washed up on the surreal sun-blasted beach of more genuinely bonkers music like late-period Faith No More and Mr. Bungle. I had a genuine appreciation for a lot of what had been lumped together under the grunge label, but overall I remained pretty grunge-adjacent as a music fan. It all just felt a bit too turgid, too self-serious, too all around earnest for my tastes.
It wasn't until a few years later, when the airwaves had been thoroughly conquered by the likes of Limp Bizkit, Sugar Ray, and Staind that I really started to see how pioneering the best grunge bands were. But even then, Soundgarden was never a favorite. When I was younger, my tastes went toward the more straightforward quasi-thrash of Alice in Chains and the punk nihilism of Nirvana, and when I got a little older I learned to appreciate the stolid musicality and adventurousness of Pearl Jam (who I had previously dismissed as sellouts, because that's what all my friends were saying). With the exception of some specific songs ("Black Hole Sun, "Outshined," and "Jesus Christ Pose,"), Soundgarden just never quite did it for me. I liked them well enough, but I never loved them.
Chris Cornell, though. Even I wasn't dumb enough to miss what a powerhouse singer he was. I actually preferred the one-off Temple of the Dog to Soundgarden, and later I became a fan of a lot of his solo work. When I was in college, "Seasons" (his mostly acoustic track from the "Singles" soundtrack) became a staple on various mix tapes on my many drives between Colorado and New Mexico.
After the announcement of his death last week, I decided to go back through the Soundgarden catalogue and see what I had been missing. And, by the Gods, the faithful had been right all along. I've had "Louder Than Love" and "Badmotorfinger" on almost constant rotation for the last few days, and it's like I'm hearing them for the first time. These are, quite simply, two of the best rock and roll records I've ever heard. They're bruising, complex, ferocious, and darkly beautiful in all the ways only early grunge could be.
I think where I went wrong is starting with their megahit "Superunknown." There's some great stuff on there ("Black Hole Sun" and "Spoonman" are as good as we remember them), but overall it just doesn't have the sparkle that the earlier records do. It was their big commercial breakthrough, but you can feel their ambivalence throughout — the way they stubbornly work against their better instincts and end up a little stuck. There's a constant glower to the record, a sort of relentless drone, that — while interesting — sucks up most of the energy. I'd always thought of Soundgarden as the most lugubrious of the Big Four Seattle bands, but after really diving into the earlier stuff I think that impression was based almost entirely on an initial meh experience with what I think is their weakest record. I even like 1996's much derided "Down on the Upside" better.
I know that most of the bands who were saddled with the "grunge" label always bristled against it, and it's true that it became a bit of a joke as the decade wore on. "Flannel" became a code-word for the sort of brain-dead stoner who would drone on about Sylvia Plath and recite bad poetry at dorm parties. But what's gratifying about listening to the best of the genre now (not just Soundgarden, of course, but other classics from Nirvana and Pearl Jam down to lesser-known albums like TAD's "Inhaler" and Screaming Trees' "Uncle Anaesthesia") is how well the music has aged. I've loved Pearl Jam's "Vs." and "Vitalogy" for years. Both of those records sound to me like they could have been recorded yesterday. It's a bit harder to listen to Nirvana with objectivity because the music became so iconically connected to that time period... but if you can manage it, both "Nevermind" and "In Utero" are as viscerally affecting today as they were when they were released (their weirdo noise compilation "Insecticide" might be even more so).
Unfortunately my earlier favorite Alice in Chains hasn't stood the test of time quite as well. It's hard for me to quantify what the difference is, but outside of a few specific tracks ("Them Bones," "Would?" and pretty much the entire "Jar of Flies" EP), to me their music seems more dependent on nostalgia for its continued power. Maybe it's just because I was such a huge fan at the time that I can't quite separate my experience of listening to them now from what it was like back then. For some reason, listening to Alice in Chains makes me feel old in a way the other bands don't.
Grunge has been kissed by tragedy since the very beginning, when Andy Wood died of an overdose before Mother Love Bone could have the breakthrough they deserved. There's a reason why people are joking about putting Eddie Vedder in a vault right now; it's pretty stunning to consider that the lead singers of all the biggest grunge bands are now dead (including, of course, Scott Weiland of Stone Temple Pilots). Pearl Jam was always the least grungy of the grunge, but those of us who still want there to be something left in the genre are clinging to Vedder like a life preserver.
And yet, what's most surprising to me about going back and listening to the music now is how fundamentally joyful so much of it is. Yeah, the guitars are downtuned and the lyrics are all about death and drugs, but on the best stuff you can hear the joy cutting through the darkness like a buzzsaw. I think that's what I'm responding to so powerfully with "Badmotorfinger" and "Louder Than Love" right now. The pleasure the band is taking in what they are creating is visceral. Whether they liked it or not, those guys were fucking rock stars, and it was evident right from the beginning.
As far as Cornell's suicide goes, I don't have anything too profound to say about it, other than to say that when his wife expressed shock and a belief that it might have simply been triggered by taking too much Ativan, I totally buy it. People are trying to make sense of it. Here's a guy who seemed to have everything, who had been honest about his struggles with depression and drug addiction and seemed to have come out the other side, who had a loving wife and family and a resurgent career to look forward to. There must be some reason why he would do something like this. It must have been premeditated, people seem to think, and I've seen no shortage of posts analyzing cryptic comments he made, or looking back at lyrics from 20 years ago ("Fell on Black Days" has come up more than once), or discussing the fact that the band played Led Zeppelin's "In My Time of Dying" just a couple hours before he died (something they'd apparently done a bunch of times). People just don't want to believe that the final act could have been spontaneous or arbitrary or simply because he maybe took three little pills instead of two.
But when I almost killed myself, it was completely spontaneous and arbitrary. To be fair, I'd been spiraling down for awhile and had been hiding it from my friends and family. I was caught in a feedback loop of formless anger and gnawing depression that was scary because it was so unrooted in anything actually going on in my life. I had just graduated with an MFA, and I was interning at a major Hollywood studio. Things were going pretty well. And yet, I had this sadistic asshole in the back of my head whispering at me that it was all a lie, that I was a fraud, a bad person, that everyone hated me, and on and on and on. There were no legitimate reasons for me to feel the way I was feeling, so that asshole made up a whole bunch of fake reasons and I couldn't get him to stop. When I look back now, those reasons are as alien and incomprehensible to me as I'm sure whatever might have been going on in Chris Cornell's head would be if we were able to hear them now.
And then, in the middle of one of my many sleepless nights that fall, I found myself standing on a third-floor exterior walkway/balcony of the apartment building I was staying in. I wasn't planning to kill myself. I just needed some fresh air. But, as I stared out over the churning gray-green fog of nighttime LA, listening to the drone of far-off traffic and watching the sick glow of the streetlights below, the asshole in my head spoke up. "Just jump," he said. "Why not?" And in that moment it made total, perfect sense to me. So I climbed up on the railing, balancing precariously on the last bar and holding onto the wall as I flexed my ankles and prepared to leap.
The only thing that stopped me was my talent/curse for always being able to imagine the worst-case scenario of any situation. What if I don't die? I thought. What if I just break my neck and end up stuck in a chair and taking in all my food through a tube?
"Shut up!" the sadistic asshole yelled. "Just do it!" But by then it was too late. I'd had the moment of clarity I needed to realize what the fuck I was doing. I climbed down, shaking from the soles of my feet to the top of my head, and lit a cigarette. I stood there smoking and shaking and realizing that I needed to do something. I needed help.
If that clarity had come a half-second later, I wouldn't be here now.
It's been over a decade since I've felt that way or come anywhere near doing what I almost did that night. But the asshole is still there, whispering at me from the bottom of a well, and I know I need to be in constant conversation with myself to keep his voice in check.
This is why I have trouble with a show like Netflix's "13 Reasons Why," because — as good as it is at showing the horror so many teenagers are experiencing every day — it still posits that there ARE reasons, and that those reasons are real. I think I get what the show is trying to say, but that's still a dangerous road to go down. Because no matter what is going on in someone's life, those reasons are always lies (keep in mind, I'm NOT talking about euthanasia or assisted suicide, which — regardless of what you feel about it — is a different animal altogether).
I suspect Chris Cornell had his own sadistic asshole whispering lies at him in the back of his head. I suspect whatever his final thoughts were, whatever his supposed reasons, they'd make no sense to us. If this makes it seem like I'm saying his death was just sad, dumb, and meaningless, it's only because depression itself is sad, dumb, and meaningless.
And sometimes it wins.
Man, I really wanted to like The Void.
I was sold from the first trailer months ago. The second trailer only sank the hooks in deeper. All the early buzz has been good, giddily comparing the film to Carpenter, Lovecraft, Clive Barker, and Lucio Fulci. And then, earlier this week, i09 posted a bunch of retro-themed posters that hit all my horror-nerd happy places like a good massage.
I really wanted to see the movie these people were selling me. I still do.
Unfortunately, The Void is a fucking mess.
Aaron Poole plays Daniel, a small-town cop whose night of sleeping in his cruiser is interrupted by the sudden appearance of an injured young man running out of the woods. Daniel runs the poor fellow to a nearby hospital, conveniently near-deserted due to a recent fire. Also convenient (for the narrative, if nothing else) is the fact that his ex-wife (Kathleen Munroe) works there.
Then one of the nurses goes all stabby, turns into a giant bug or something, and a bunch of weird dudes in white sheets with triangles over their faces show up and won't let anyone out. It's at around this point that the movie stops even trying to make any fucking sense.
Writer/directors Jeremy Gillespie and Steven Kostanski (I should have known things wouldn't go well when I saw that their previous collaboration was something called Manborg) have a decent handle on the mechanics of a horror movie. There are more than a few genuinely disturbing images here, all begging to be part of a better film. The creature effects are pretty good, and I did appreciate how much of it was done practically, with rubber and latex rather than CGI. And their hearts seem to be in the right place. It's clear how deeply influenced this film is by Lovecraft and John Carpenter (particularly The Thing and Prince of Darkness). There's also a healthy dash of Clive Barker's Hellraiser thrown in for good measure.
Unfortunately, none of it really adds up to anything. The storytelling manages to be both incomprehensible and way too on-the-nose. From an image-to-image basis the movie almost works, but when it's all strung together the muddled direction and lack of focus make its spare 90 minutes something of a slog to get through.
There are a lot of ideas here... something about a doomsday cult, dark medical experiments, dead fathers, dead babies, and — of course — the titular "void." Too many ideas, in fact. It's all scattershot and undeveloped. You'd think the bad guy's constant expository monologuing would help, but it sure doesn't. I wish I could tell how how it all links together. If it's any consolation, though, I'm pretty sure Gillespie and Kostanski have no idea what's going on here either.
Lovecraft-inspired "cosmic horror" is one of my favorite literary genres, but it's also one of the hardest to pull off in cinematic form. Ridley Scott's original Alien and Carpenter's The Thing probably do it better than anyone else. I was really hoping I'd be able to add The Void to that list.
Better luck next time, I guess.
I just posted a review of The Gits' seminal 1992 album Frenching the Bully in honor of International Women's Day. Now here are five more amazing women — working all across the artistic spectrum — whose work has inspired me in many different ways.
Filmmaker — Kathryn Bigelow
Until the last few years — when women like Jennifer Kent (The Babadook), Leigh Janiak (Honeymoon), and Karyn Kusama (The Invitation) — began dominating the genre, there had always been a serious dearth of women out there directing horror movies. Mary Lambert has a pretty strong entry with Pet Sematary, but overall the horror world (like most of cinema) has remained kind of a boys' club.
Kathryn Bigelow made a mark on the genre early with her 1987 neo-noir vampire classic Near Dark. It's one of the best horror movies of the 80s, rivaling acknowledged classics like The Thing, Alien, and A Nightmare on Elm Street. It's sleek, stylish, and scary as fuck. The bar scene remains one of the best exercises in cinematic suspense.
Bigelow bounced out of horror pretty quickly, but she continued to make "boy" movies all through her career. She's maybe most known for Point Break and (in more recent years) the Academy Award-winning The Hurt Locker, but Near Dark and her underrated cyberpunk classic Strange Days are still my two favorites. The influence of both of those movies on my own work is incalculable.
Actor — Sigourney Weaver
Sigourney Weaver was probably my first real onscreen crush, because little 7-year-old Scotty kind of fell in love with Dana Barrett in Ghostbusters. Even as a kid I could recognize there was something different about her take on the classic damsel-in-distress; Dana was caustic, funny, and wouldn't take any of Peter Venkman's shit. When she kisses him at the end, it's less a moment of moony-eyed love and more one of "okay, I guess you earned it."
But it was the first two Alien films that cemented her as one of my all-time favorite actors. Ripley is, to me (and pretty much every film-lover of my generation), the ultimate badass woman on screen. Even the gratuitous shots of her in her panties in the first film can't take away from the no-nonsense ferocity of her performance. The character was ill-treated by the later sequels — but Weaver never gave an inch, always gripping tight to the core of what made Ripley so special.
Writer — Shirley Jackson
"No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone."
That's one of the four or five most famous opening paragraphs to a horror novel — indeed, any novel — of the last century or so, and it sums up everything I love about Shirley Jackson's prose. Her writing was both precise and quietly forceful, and she had a tendency to sneak up on you, burying the knife between your shoulder blades when you were least expecting it. The Haunting of Hill House was one of those books that rewired my brain, made me realize exactly how much you could do without showing anything. It's one of the quietest ghost stories of all time... and quite possibly the scariest.
We Have Always Lived in the Castle is just as good, if a little less personally revelatory to me. And, of course, "The Lottery" is among the most perfect short stories ever written.
Musician — PJ Harvey
I just posted about Mia Zapata of The Gits, who is probably overall my favorite female rock singer. But PJ Harvey is way, way up there. When I first became aware of her in the mid 1990s with "50 Foot Queenie," I had no idea what to make of her. I knew I was intrigued, but I found her combination of ferocity and raw, unapologetic sexuality frankly a little bit scary. And I like things that are scary.
When she released her classic To Bring You My Love and its single "Down By the Water" not long after, I realized what an all-around powerhouse she is. The music on that album is stunning — dark, smart, sexy, equal parts alluring and threatening in a way I could never quite define. Her lyrics are poetic and confrontational in a way that my metal-addled brain can't quite wrap itself around.
She's remained a strong musical force in the years since, releasing a number of incredible albums. She's also had a few amazing collaborations with male contemporaries like Tricky, Nick Cave, and Thom Yorke.
Artist — Kim Myatt
U.K.-based horror artist Kim Myatt is a pretty recent discovery for me, and I don't know a whole lot about her. I also don't have much in the way of vocabulary to talk about the visual arts, so it's hard to know what to say about her paintings aside from the fact that I just find them really fucking unnerving in a way no artist has since I first saw H.R. Giger. Her work is truly nightmarish in the very literal sense of the word; I've had actual nightmares that look like this.
My secret dream is to get her to do the book cover for my novel when it's finally finished.
Back in the late 80s and early 90s, Seattle was the Mecca of the rock-and-roll world. The many disparate scenes (heavy metal, punk, bluesy bar rock, etc.) would all quickly get lumped together under the "grunge" label and then credited with singlehandedly destroying all the regressive cock-rock of the 80s. Practically overnight, platinum-selling artists like Poison, Motley Crüe, Warrant, and RATT were swept aside by a tsunami of soulful, tortured artistes like Eddie Vedder (Pearl Jam), Chris Cornell (Soundgarden), Layne Staley (Alice in Chains), and the scene's very own John Lennon-figure, Kurt Cobain (Nirvana).
As fresh as this new wave was, though, it was still pretty male dominated, at least as far as the mainstream was concerned. The adjacent "riot grrl" scene got a bit of ink at the time, but it was largely ignored in favor of what the boys were doing. The only woman who really broke through in a big way was Courtney Love (Hole), and for as many albums as she sold she was still mostly portrayed as a possibly homicidal Yoko, blamed for either driving her husband (Cobain) to suicide or perhaps even having him murdered.
Progress was, shall we say, limited.
But that doesn't mean that there weren't a lot of women in the alternative rock scene of the time, and that they weren't making music every bit as rad as the dudes were. From all-female riot grrl bands like 7 Year Bitch and Bikini Kill to woman-fronted, mixed-gender groups like The Breeders, the 90s was one of the most vital decades for women in rock.
One of those mixed-gender bands was The Gits, and they were perhaps the group most thoroughly poised to crack the mainstream before Hole did it a couple years later. Originally from Antioch, OH, they relocated to Seattle in the late 80s and then proceeded to destroy basically every other band in their path. Alternately labeled a riot grrl group (a label they resisted) and a grunge band (a label that didn't mean anything to anyone actually involved in it), what they really were was simply one of the tightest, most powerfully cathartic punk bands of their time. Like Nirvana, their influences were varied and eccentric, from full-on hardcore to Patti Smith and old-school R&B, but they threw it all into a thresher and produced music as crackling, aggressive, and alive as anything The Sex Pistols or Black Flag had made in the decades previous.
The element that tied it all together for them was lead singer Mia Zapata, who — on the night of July 7, 1993 — became the scene's most tragic figure when she was accosted, beaten, raped and murdered by a stranger while on her way home from her local bar. The killer wasn't caught for a decade, and her death — along with the cloud of suspicion that descended upon the Pacific Northwest music scene — was the first nail in the coffin for the waning Seattle juggernaut.
But in the short time she had, her effect on the Seattle scene — and by extension, the rock music as a whole — was seismic. The band wasn't able to go on without her, but they did manage to leave two full-length albums, 1992's Frenching the Bully and 1994's posthumously released Enter: The Conquering Chicken.
Frenching the Bully is one of those records I stumbled on in late high-school (probably 1995 or 1996) that didn't quite leave a mark at the time. I liked it, but at that moment I was just too caught up in metal, and my tastes were leaning steadily more toward the extreme. The Gits' abrasive but still pop-inflected punk just didn't quite resonate.
It wasn't until a few years later, maybe around 2001 or so, that I gave the record another spin. And it knocked me the fuck out. Of all the records saddled with the "grunge" label, I think it's maybe second only to Nirvana's In Utero in terms of raw, high-octane power.
Zapata is simply one of the best singers that punk rock has ever produced. She's like an unholy cross between Patti Smith, Janis Joplin, Bessie Smith, and a lawnmower. Her rough-hewn vocals are both melodic and abrasive, and she had an instinctual sense of how to perfectly modulate between those two poles. On a straight-ahead hardcore assault like "Here's to Your Fuck," her lacerating vocals are like barbed-wire on the skin. But she had the ability to turn right around on a track like "Second Skin" and very nearly croon.
The rest of the band — guitarist Joe Spleen, bassist Matt Dresdner, and drummer Steve Moriarty — are a solid unit, playing a pretty straightforward brand of punk that's both tightly controlled and always feels like it's on the verge of spinning out of control the way the best punk rock should. Musically, the band always makes me think of The Clash, who on their first album stuck pretty close to punk's basics while at the same time showcasing the kind of chops that would allow them to experiment so radically on their later records. The Gits displayed a similar control over the music's dynamics, performance, and songwriting that, while not breaking any new ground, made their music just better than most of their peers. They're adventurous enough on both of their albums to make you wonder what could have been if Zapata had not been killed.
But they were all smart enough to realize that Zapata was their not-so-secret weapon. Spleen, Dresdner, and Moriarty wisely stay out of her way. The music is electric, but it always serves to support the whirlwind of energy and charisma that she was harnessing.
The best song on the album is "It All Dies Anyway," an epic, bristling, rage-filled paean to suicide and early death that manages straddle the line between punk fury and the kind of arena-rock fullness that many of the band's contemporaries were so afraid of. Listening to Zapata snarl "death is the sickest way for attention" and "they cut the cord/it cuts everything that's living in me/well it all dies anyway" is more than a little painful, considering what happened to her and what would happen to Cobain less than a year later. She could be singing about herself, or someone who she knew, or about the entire Seattle scene.
Unfortunately, The Gits are very often treated as a footnote these days, remembered more for the tragedy of Zapata's murder than for the music itself. This is a shame, because the music was pretty fucking great, and Zapata deserves to be regarded not just as a martyr but as the full-throated rock-and-roll frontwoman that she was.
In a sense, the horror movie and the social-issue movie are two genres that really should not work together. Social issue/political movies are designed to make you think. The successful horror movie, on the other hand, deals fundamentally with all sorts of lizard-brain irrational anxieties and fears. By its very nature, to be effective it needs to bypass our capacity for thought altogether.**
And yet, the world is rife with amazing movies that marry politic commentary with gut-level terror. From the original Godzilla up through the recent Purge trilogy, the genre has shown a unique capacity to bash its way through all the noise and wield social criticism like a cudgel. I'm not sure why it works, but it does. Satire in horror doesn't tend to be subtle, but it can be stunningly effective when the balance is right. By marrying the supposedly "irrational" fears of horror to astute social observation, the best political horror movies manage to suggest — and sometimes even prove — that those irrational fears are maybe not so irrational after all.
Into this stew steps Jordan Peele, one half of the comedy team Key & Peele, with his new film Get Out. It's about Chris (Daniel Kuluuya), a young black man dating Rose (Allison Williams), a fetching and seemingly too-perfect white girl. He and Rose are on their way to visit her parents (Bradley Whitford and Catherine Keener) for the first time.
"Do they know I'm black?" he asks.
She scoffs: "Mom and dad, my black boyfriend will be coming up this weekend. I just don't want you to be shocked that he's a black man."
And therein lies the heart of both this film's horror and its social commentary. Rose immediately tells Chris that he's being silly — that his fears are, in fact, irrational. But Chris lives in a different America, and he knows better.
And so does the film. Its central dramatic question is simple: what if all the supposedly "irrational" fears that African Americans have about even the most "liberal" whites in this country are not just true, but so so SO much worse than anyone could ever have imagined?
Peele shows an incredible facility for building suspense around these fears, particularly for a first-time director known mostly for comedy. And he starts right from the very opening frames of the film, where another young black man, Dré (Lakeith Stanfield), finds himself lost in a tony white neighborhood. A car starts following him. He puts his head down, trying to ignore it. But the car keeps pace, like a cougar stalking a deer through the underbrush. It's a scene that is probably familiar to most young African American men in this country — the flurry of questions that tumble through the head in a moment like that, about just what, exactly, does this person want? And, in the post-Trayvon Martin world, it should really be familiar to white people as well.
Is this standard-issue suspicion and harassment, or are things about to turn really catastrophically ugly? It's a real question, lived every day by African American men and women throughout the nation.
Nine times out of ten, maybe, the car just keeps going.
This film, however, is about the tenth time.
Rose assures Chris that his fears are unfounded. "My dad would have voted for Barack Obama for a third term if he could have," she says, as if that's supposed to mean something. When her dad gives Chris a wholly inappropriate hug upon their first meeting and then repeats the line almost verbatim a little later, we know what Chris knows — that this show of tolerance, inclusion, and reassuring white liberalism is just that... a show.
And then things get really weird.
I don't want to say too much more about the plot for fear of spoiling the experience. From the raw power and emotional vulnerability undergirding the film, it's clear that Peele is pulling from a certain amount of personal experience here. But he also knows his movies, and he dips liberally into two of the great 70s paranoid horror satires — both not so coincidentally adapted from novels by Ira Levin. The first, of course, is Rosemary's Baby (1968). The second, The Stepford Wives (1975), seems an even more direct source of inspiration.
As in those two films, one of Peele's greatest directorial moves is in his choice of casting. Both Rosemary's Baby and The Stepford Wives played their villains against type, depicting people whose very innocuousness becomes the vehicle for the horror. In Rosemary's Baby, the idea that a Satanic coven might be headed up by an adorable elderly couple (Ruth Gordon and Sidney Blackmer) only heightens the paranoia, and every seemingly innocent act becomes increasingly freighted with menace. Likewise, the many men of The Stepford Wives are a threat to Joanna (Katherine Ross) exactly because they seem so flabbily domesticated.
In Get Out, Catherine Keener is quite good as Rose's mom Missy and Williams is great as Rose, but it's the choice of Bradley Whitford (of The West Wing) as Rose's seemingly clueless dad Dean that turns out to be the purest stroke of genius. You can't listen to Dean's superficially well-meaning pronouncements without thinking of The West Wing's Josh Lyman, the blowhard 1990s liberal doofus that everybody just can't help but love.
As in Rosemary's Baby and The Stepford Wives, Peele also managed to find a lead who is supremely relatable. Kuluuya is a real discovery for me, one of the most organically expressive and intelligent young actors I've seen in a long time. We immediately buy into the film's premise because he buys into it. When things start getting hinky, we trust Chris's instincts without question.
For the first two thirds of the film, Peele is remarkably assured as a director. He's got a strong sense of how to use the camera to build suspense, and he ratchets up the tension with patience, only once or twice hitting the horror a little too hard (there's one musical sting that I really wish had just been deleted altogether). The film is sleek and stylish without ever being showy. The moments of genuine weirdness, when they come, are so unexpected that they solidly knock both Chris and us off kilter, and we never regain solid footing.
It's only in the final third that the wheels begin to come off the bus a little bit. Up to that point, Get Out is a very nearly note-perfect film. But Peele is a bit clunky in the way he handles the final reveals. He never lost me completely, but he does make a few choices that caused the entire foundation of the film to begin to feel a little creaky. I suddenly found myself questioning the basic plausibility of the scenario in a way I hadn't for the previous hour, not because of what Peele is saying but because of a somewhat hamfisted execution. I was willing to go where he was leading, but he never quite got me across the finish line. The film tries to go full Grand Guignol at the end, but it kind of lands somewhere between Dr. Giggles and The People Under the Stairs. The sudden detour into an almost retro B-movie landscape is jarring because so much of what had come before is just so damn good, and it's disappointing because Peele comes close to finding his iconic "He has his father's eyes" moment but never quite does. Instead, there are a couple lines of dialogue toward the end that are so bad I audibly groaned and got the stink-eye from the old lady sitting in the seat in front of me.
Still, even with its flaws, this is one of the best and most thought-provoking political horror films in a long time. It's no sin to swing for a homer and hit a two-run triple instead. I fully expect Peele to return to straight comedy soon, but I hope he's not quite done with the genre just yet. I think he's got a full-fledged masterpiece still in him.
**There have been a couple different discussions on Facebook about whether Get Out is a horror film or a thriller. I fall solidly in the camp that it's a horror film through-and-through. The distinction may seem a bit arbitrary, but I was asked to expand on my theory of the difference between the two genres. So here goes.
Horror and fear aren't quite the same emotion. A suspense film can engender a fear response, but true horror is deeper, more primal, more elemental. It really is about the lizard brain, and about digging through the subconscious soup of our id for all the dark creepy crawlies that live inside. On its most basic level this can mean gore — as Stephen King said, "if I find I cannot horrify, I'll go for the gross-out. I'm not proud" — but it's really more fundamental than that. Horror movies horrify because they trigger our deepest, most animal fears of "the other" and "the unexplained."
This is why the Uncanny Valley effect is so crucial to the horror film; things are more terrifying when they are just a a little bit off. A little bit WRONG. Get Out spends most of its time in the Uncanny Valley, and Peele mines it brilliantly.
A suspense film or a thriller, on the other hand, tends to deal in a more superficial kind of fear. This isn't a knock; I love a good thriller. But it's the proverbial "rollercoaster ride" critics like to talk about. The fear is not designed to stick to your spine the same way it should in a good horror movie. It's not the stuff of nightmares.
Thrillers often do a lot of other things — All the President's Men, for example, is a fantastic newspaper procedural, whereas Rear Window is a great character study. But the fear created is often just a narrative tool meant to get us from point A to point B. It's rarely the point in-and-of itself.
The fundamental difference, I suppose, is that if the fear you feel while watching a movie is fun, then it's a thriller. If it shakes you up and disturbs you in a more profound way, then it's a horror movie. It's an imperfect distinction, I know, and there certainly is a lot of crossover between the two. But that's what I've got.
Just in time for the Oscars, here's my annual list of my twenty favorite movies of 2016.
All the usual caveats apply regarding the number of films I didn't manage to see. There's no La La Land on this list (although, to be fair, from what I've seen of the trailer I doubt it would have made it anyway). Neither have I managed to see Denzel Washington's Fences or Martin Scorsese's Silence. And there are a number of foreign films — The Handmaiden, The Wailing, Elle, Under the Shadow, etc. — that I still need to get to.
There are two films, Manchester by the Sea and The Birth of a Nation — that I somewhat purposefully avoided because of alleged bad behavior by folks involved (Casey Affleck in the case of Manchester, director/star Nate Parker in the case of Birth). I'm not saying I'll never see them, and I'm not going so far as to say I boycotted them, or that you should do so. They just made me feel icky, so they got bumped way down my list of priorities.
So, of the 2016 films that I did get to see and in ascending order, here are my favorites:
20. The Neon Demon (Nicolas Winding Refn)
Somewhere between number 20 on my list and an honorable mention, The Neon Demon wins my Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans award as this year's reigning slice of batshit crazy from an acknowledged master filmmaker. Like Bad Lieutenant (directed by Werner Herzog), I really liked this film but I can't quite decide if I liked it because I think it's actually any good, or if I just appreciated its particular brand of gonzo awfulness. It's either a flawed masterpiece or a pompous piece of shit. It's certainly trash; the question is whether it's good trash.
What's undeniable is that it's beautiful to look at, and it's sublimely entertaining in its own nonsensical and grotesque way.
19. Hail, Caesar! (Joel and Ethan Coen)
This is minor Coen Brothers, certainly, but fuck if this movie wasn't entertaining. A sort of lighthearted, frothy cousin to the Coens' nihilistic masterpiece, Barton Fink, Hail, Caesar! is a meandering stroll through old Hollywood. Like most Coen films, the narrative is both ridiculously complex and practically meaningless. But Hail, Caesar! has a breezy looseness that I found charming. What matters here are the set pieces and the performances. Just when you think the movie is about to go up its own asshole, the Coens' and their cast lay us flat with another note-perfect pastiche.
The best moments are Channing Tatum's self-consciously homoerotic dance number, and the hilarious "would that it were so simple" bit with Ralph Fiennes and newcomer Alden Ehrenreich (the next Han Solo).
18. The Purge: Election Year (James DeMonaco)
I really like DeMonaco's Purge trilogy, and they've just gotten better as his budgets have gotten bigger. They're undeniably ridiculous and more than a little sadistic, but the blunt-force nature of the satire is spot on, particularly in this strange new post-Trump world we find ourselves in. There's not a lot more to say about this movie, except that I'd vote for Sen. Charlie Roan (Elizabeth Mitchell) in 2020 if she ran.
17. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (Glenn Ficarra and John Requa)
This movie came and went without leaving much of a trace, which is a goddamned shame. Both funny and trenchant, Ficarra and Requa's adaptation of journalist Kim Barker's war memoir The Taliban Shuffle is undoubtably one of the most underrated movies of the year. Ficarra and Requa manage the high-wire act of keeping the subversive comedy balanced against the seriousness of the subject matter, without ever tipping over into disrespect on one side or schmaltz on the other. And Fey really should have been nominated for a Best Actress Oscar. She's never done better work.
16. Hush (Mike Flannigan)
Mike Flannigan has been one of those directors to watch in horror for a few years now, and Hush is by far his most accomplished work yet. A standard riff on the classic Wait Until Dark home-invasion theme, with Kate Siegel playing a deaf (rather than blind) author being menaced by an inscrutable psychopath, Hush doesn't break any new ground. But it does what it does so well that you just don't care.
John Gallagher's somewhat dead-eyed, mouth-breathing approach to acting works much better here than it did in The Newsroom. He makes for a legitimately scary, if somewhat one-note, bad guy. Siegel is the revelation here. A relative newcomer, she holds the screen like a true movie star. I'm excited to see what she does next.
15. The Eyes of My Mother (Nicolas Pesce)
This is by far the weirdest movie on my list, beating out even The Neon Demon. It's also one of the most auspicious debut films I've seen since Darren Aronofsky's Pi. It's as stark and bleak a horror movie as I've ever seen, but lead actress Kika Magalhaes is one of the most compelling screen presences to come along in years, and she pretty much singlehandedly keeps this thing aloft.
One critic described the movie as "...unnervingly like a Diane Arbus photo that's been stretched into a film." That's about right.
14. Train to Busan (Yeon Sang-Ho)
The world really doesn't need any more zombie movies. But if we're going to keep getting them, I hope we got more like this. Sort of like Snowpiercer crossed with Dawn of the Dead, Train to Busan is as balls-out nasty fun as you could ever want it to be. But it's also got a real heart at its center, which is something most modern zombie movies miss. I was actually rooting for the living this time instead of the dead.
13. Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (Gareth Edwards)
I'm really liking what Disney is doing with the Star Wars saga so far. With Rogue One, Director Gareth Edwards and writers Chris Weitz and Tony Gilroy managed to make a standalone story that still feels like it compliments the larger world of the main narrative. It's far from a perfect film; the CGI Tarkin and Leia were unfortunate choices, and I'm still not entirely sure that Forest Whitaker wasn't dropped in from some aborted Tim Burton movie. But it's a solid entry that manages to be its own thing while remaining part of the overall Star Wars universe, and it has definitely whet my appetite for The Last Jedi.
12. 10 Cloverfield Lane (Dan Trachtenberg)
For the record, I really liked Cloverfield, and I don't care what you say. But I'm glad J.J. Abrams didn't decide to do a straight sequel, and instead gave us this weird little gem of a horror film. The tone is completely off-kilter, managing to be funny when you think it'll be scary, then pulling the rug out and being scary all over again. John Gallagher is doing his John Gallagher thing here, but both Mary Elizabeth Winstead and John Goodman go toe-to-toe like a couple old masters of the screen. And, for my money, the semi-controversial last act is just about perfect. God bless J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot for having the balls to throw things like this out into the marketplace. I can't wait for their take on Stephen King with the upcoming Hulu series Castle Rock.
11. The Nice Guys (Shane Black)
I've had a man/writer crush on Shane Black since I was a little kid and I first saw Lethal Weapon. That movie bent my head backwards and completely defined the entire concept of "action move" to me for years. He famously disappeared for awhile, but I'm happy to have him back, and as a director as well as a writer. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang is one of the best movies of the early 2000s, and I absolutely loved his subversive take on the comic book movie with Iron Man 3.
The Nice Guys is classic Black: funny, trashy, irreverent, and full of weird and unexpected heart. The buddy-cop dynamic between stars Ryan Gosling and Russel Crowe is the best since... well, since Murtaugh and Riggs in Lethal Weapon. And even the Shane Black signature precocious kid (Angourie Rice) is fantastic. The movie didn't do that well at the box office, which is a shame because I would have liked to have seen this turn into a franchise. But I'm stoked to see what Black does with The Predator.
10. Zero Days (Alex Gibney)
2016 was a pretty good year for horror movies, but the scariest movie I saw was Alex Gibney's tour-de-force documentary about the Stuxnet computer virus. The whole thing plays out like a really great spy thriller — you half expect Jason Bourne to wander in about halfway through to start punching people. But when the real-world implications of what Gibney has revealed begin to sink home... you'll be forgiven a few sleepless nights.
9. Blood Father (Jean Francois-Richet)
This is the movie I saw last year that I've got the most complicated feelings about. It's one of the best pulp-noir action movies I've seen in a long time, with all the grit-filled grace of classic Sam Peckinpah. But it stars Mel Gibson, a guy who I've loved in the past but who — following all his relatively recent bad behavior, including dropping anti-semitic and racial slurs and supposedly beating up his girlfriend — I really don't want to support. And it's not like I can say Blood Father is so good in spite of him; its simple genius lies in how it manages to tap into the brokenness at the heart of its deeply damaged star. I think it is, in its own way, an important film. But I'll leave it to you to decide whether you want to see it.
8. OJ: Made in America (Ezra Edelman)
Arguably, Ezra Edleman's epic 467-minute ESPN documentary doesn't belong on this list since it was released as a multi-part TV series, but I'm going to include it. I don't care if you remember the O.J. case or not. This is simply a must-watch documentary. To call it comprehensive is an understatement; Edelman uses his subject to paint a disquieting picture of race relations in America for the last half century or so, and he crafts a deeply compelling — and equally disquieting — portrait of O.J. Simpson himself. O.J. is as complicated a public figure as America has ever produced, and Edelman cuts through all the noise in an attempt to get to the true center of the man. The most unsettling discovery is that there may be no center at all.
7. Hell or High Water (David MacKenzie)
Scottish director David MacKenzie blew the doors off with his previous film, the brutal prison drama Starred Up. His follow-up, Hell or High Water, is a relatively quiet, incisive a look at the troubles plaguing rural America, all wrapped around a bank-heist thriller starring some of the best actors working today. Chris Pine and Jeff Bridges do solid work, but the real star of the show is Ben Foster, who just always makes every movie he's in that much better.
6. Christine (Antonio Campos)
I've been mildly obsessed with the Christine Chubbock story for a few years now, ever since I stumbled on it during one of my late night-night excursions down the Wikipedia rabbit-hole. Antonio Campos (Simon Killer and Afterschool) was the absolute right person to tell this story. His movie never treats Christine with disrespect, but he manages to retain the story's edge. The movie is funny, until it's not, and sharp all the way through, and it feels totally real. Rebecca Hall's unsentimental portrayal of the troubled TV reporter is yet another Oscar snub that feels almost criminal.
5. Green Room (Jeremy Saulnier)
In my perfect world, a movie like Jeremy Saulnier's Green Room would be in consideration for the Best Picture Oscar. But there's no way a movie this nasty ever makes it onto that stage. I'm glad to see Saulnier didn't feel the pressure to pull punches after the success of his ultra-low budget Blue Ruin; if anything, Green Room is even more brutal. A violent locked-room thriller about a punk band trying to fight its way through a gang of murderous neo-Nazis, it's got the feel of my favorite direct-to-video exploitation films of the 70s and 80s, but with the smarts and precision of the best of the European arthouse. It needs to be seen if only for Patrick Stewart's dripping-with-menace turn as the head Nazi, and the late Anton Yelchin's final role as a surprisingly resourceful punk-rocker just trying to survive.
4. Tower (Keith Maitland)
This is hands-down one of the best documentaries I've ever seen. Like Waltz With Bashir before it, it uses rotoscope animation to take you past the talking-head interviews and put you right in the middle of a time and place largely obscured by the weight of history.
We've all heard of the shootings at the University of Texas tower back in 1966, but Maitland makes us experience it in a way that only this inventive approach can allow. He wisely choses not to focus on the killer Charles Whitman at all, instead incorporating interviews and re-enactments with survivors, including a pregnant woman, two cops, and a teenage boy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. This is a powerful testimonial to one of the foundational tragedies of the modern American experience.
3. Moonlight (Barry Jenkins)
Quiet, beautiful, and utterly devastating, Barry Jenkins's Moonlight is definitely the movie to beat at tonight's Oscars (although my guess is that the statue is going to go to Damien Chazelle's La La Land). Every single frame of this film is packed with meaning, and every tiny gesture — a downturned look here, a shrug of the shoulders there — is packed full of meaning. This movie is a master class in subtext, and it ripples with both erotic and violent heat that is rarely, if ever, expressed. There wasn't a single moment that didn't feel like it wasn't about to explode into something much bigger. It's to Jenkins's credit that he manages to keep a lid on all the emotions boiling just beneath the surface. The movie doesn't quite provide the release you want it to, but that just means it'll stick with you all that much longer.
2. Nocturnal Animals (Tom Ford)
I snuck this one in under the wire, and it managed to knock Moonlight from the number 2 slot. I know a lot of people will call this film pretentious, but I found it captivating. It's really two movies in one, and the non-traditional interplay between the interwoven narratives is fascinating not just as an experiment, but as a perfectly realized examination of the power of narrative itself. What Nocturnal Animals is about, more than anything else, is how our ability to empathize with ostensibly fictional characters can ultimately reveal our own personal truth to ourselves.
It's also, in part, an incredibly suspenseful noir/revenge picture. Amy Adams is good (in my opinion, her relatively small supporting turn here is way more interesting than her leading performance in Arrival), but Jake Gyllenhaal and Michael Shannon own this thing. These are career-best performances for both actors, and the fact that their storyline comrpises the "fictional" part of the movie makes their accomplishment all that much more impressive. I was also blown away by Aaron Taylor-Johnson's turn as one of the most frightening psychopaths to appear onscreen since Anton Chigurh.
1. The Invitation (Karyn Kusama)
No movie knocked my socks off more than this little indie horror/thriller, and I've been singing its praises for months. Director Kusama (Girlfight, Jennifer's Body) has crafted a nearly perfect film (from a script co-written by her husband), and it tightens the screws so steadily but imperceptibly that you don't notice the pressure until it's practically too late.
The story of a man (Logan Marshall-Green) and his new girlfriend (Emayatzy Corinealdi) visiting the home of his ex-wife (Tammy Blanchard) and her new husband (Michael Huisman) for a mysterious dinner party, The Invitation presents a problem for which there are two equally plausible solutions, and it steadily misdirects all the way through until finally revealing the truth. The final revelation is both shocking and inevitable, and it all culminates in a last shot so simple and yet so horrifying that I very nearly threw up when I realized what I was looking at.
As horrifying as it is, though, this movie is about so much more than a Hitchcockian exercise in tension and suspense. At its core, it's one of the most overwhelming depictions of loss, grief, and love that I've ever seen.
I don't want to say too much more, because to spoil this film would be a crime. But if you haven't seen it yet, you really owe it to yourself. I don't care who wins all the Oscars; as far as I'm concerned, this is the best movie of the year.
Channel Zero: Candle Cove (2016) — Memory, the Uncanny, and the Trauma of Children's Television in the 70s and 80s
For years I had this recurring nightmare about The Smurfs.
It was a specific episode of The Smurfs, actually... one that I always assumed must have been a product of my overactive imagination. This "episode" was essentially an uber-violent zombie Smurf-pocalypse, where one of smurfs was bitten by a strange fly and morphed into a bloodthirsty monster with black skin, glowing pink eyes, and razor sharp teeth. He could only make a gutteral croak — "gnap!" — and went around chowing down on the other smurfs, either tearing their guts out and ripping them limb-from-limb or turning them into identical flesh-eating demon-zombie-smurfs. When Hefty Smurf was bit, the heart tattoo on his arm turned into a skull and crossbones.
This dream ended with Smurfette and Papa Smurf trapped in a burning mushroom house, trying to fend off the hoarde of demon-zombie-smurfs trying to get in. I always woke when a weeping Smurfette turned to see Papa Smurf looming behind her, his skin shrivelling and turning black, his mouth opening to reveal rows upon rows of dripping fangs, as the inferno blazed around them--
This nightmare persisted well into my early 20s. Then one night, in college, I happened to mention it to a few friends. One of them looked at me strangely. "That's not just some nightmare, dude," he said. "That was an episode."
I scoffed. There's no way that the Hanna-Barbera company would have ever produced — much less aired — something as gruesome as that.
"Seriously," he said. "That's 'The Purple Smurfs' episode."
This was the late 90s, well before YouTube, so it took a bit of digging until we managed to find a video stream of the episode. I watched, stunned and vaguely unnerved, as my nightmare unfolded right there on the computer screen in front of me:
Now, obviously over the years my brain distorted what I had seen, amping up the horror to an excruciating degree. The smurfs didn't turn corpse black, but rather candy purple. There were no glowing pink eyes or dagger teeth, and they weren't consuming each others' flesh but rather simply (and somewhat adorably) biting each other on the tail. It ends with Papa Smurf alone in the burning mushroom house, not with Smurfette. But, in the broad outlines, the episode was my nightmare. Even the sound they made — "gnap!" — was the same. For whatever reason, "The Purple Smurfs" lodged itself in my subconscious, fused itself with the clips and images I must have absorbed from any number of age-inappropriate zombie and vampire movies, and festered there. Ridiculous as it sounds, it became a thing that haunted me for nearly two decades. The dreams were scary.
And even now, at almost 40 years old, watching the silly thing that is "The Purple Smurfs" gives me a chill and raises the gooseflesh on the back of my neck. Whatever it turned itself into, it's still there in my head... so much so that the flesh-eating zombie smurfs — my flesh-eating zombie smurfs — became the basis for the Magog, the demonic race of human-eating monsters in my (still in-progress) horror novel, The Darks.
"His was a body of serrated angles and hard lines; limbs equal parts arachnoid and wraithlike, hard ebon skin stretching like thin canvas over arms and legs that jutted outward from his body like blades. His torso was twisted over itself like a fibrous root. Pink, sunken eyes peered out from deep sockets like dried up wells. His cheeks were the long pitted hollows of a mummy’s, the skin dried out from a millennia of lacerating desert sun. It was cracked and torn in spots, the scaly black tendons showing and the white double rows of fangs jutting through like stalactites from the roof of a cavern."
Such is the nature of memory. We experience all sorts of inconsequential things in childhood, and those things stick in the malleable gray matter of our developing brains where they twist and mutate, grow angry and dangerous. The dog that growled at us once on our paper route becomes a snarling hell-hound that stalks our dreams. The friendly but vaguely sinister old man next door becomes the Boogeyman that terrorized our neighborhood after the sun went down.
As we grow older and the true experience becomes more and more distant, the corrupted memories either fade away or they attain an almost totemic significance in our minds. They remain vaporous, just out of reach, and it becomes impossible to know what was real and what was imagined.
Aside from "The Purple Smurfs," I have a couple other memories that, when I look back, seem impossible. One involves a children's picture book given to me by my grandmother that, as I recall, seems to have ended with a little girl skinning a cat alive. Another involves a sitcom — complete with a laugh track — that featured a young woman continuously brutalized in her apartment by midgets wearing red-and-white striped leggings and carrying machetes.
These things simply can't exist — and yet I remember them, as clearly as I remember my college graduation.
And I know I'm not alone. One friend told me, years back, that she had been terrified as a child of some great, shambling creature that lived in her closet and that only she could see. She remembered coarse brown fur, watery yellow eyes, and a great elephantine trunk. And teeth, of course... jagged slabs that jutted from beneath the trunk like broken tombstones. It was only when she was a teenager and watching an episode of Sesame Street with her niece that she realized the terrible beast was noneother than Snuffaluffagus. Another friend had a sharp memory of an episode of Mr. Rogers where Mr. Rogers took a young boy into the back room of a bicicyle shop and molested him. When I said "Dude, that wasn't Mr. Rogers, that was the Very Special Episode of Diff'rent Strokes," a lightbulb went off behind his eyes. Probably the same light bulb that went off behind my eyes when my other buddy said "That was 'The Purple Smurfs' episode."
"Uncanny" is defined not as something that is simply mysterious or frightening, but something that is "strangely familiar." In psychological terms, when we are presented with the uncanny, it doesn't just create fear but sparks an unnerving cognative dissonance. It's the very paradox of the thing that disturbs us. What is so frightening about these impossible childhood memories isn't that they're impossible, but that they're almost plausible.
And it's this sense of the uncanny — the almost plausible — that author Kris Straub brilliantly tapped into with his 2009 creepypasta entry Candle Cove.
Candle Cove, by Kris Straub
Reprinted from ichorfalls.chainsawsuit.com
Subject: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Does anyone remember this kid's show? It was called Candle Cove and I must have been 6 or 7. I never found reference to it anywhere so I think it was on a local station around 1971 or 1972. I lived in Ironton at the time. I don't remember which station, but I do remember it was on at a weird time, like 4:00 PM.
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
it seems really familiar to me…..i grew up outside of ashland and was 9 yrs old in 72. candle cove…was it about pirates? i remember a pirate marionete at the mouth of a cave talking to a little girl
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
YES! Okay I'm not crazy! I remember Pirate Percy. I was always kind of scared of him. He looked like he was built from parts of other dolls, real low-budget. His head was an old porcelain baby doll, looked like an antique that didn't belong on the body. I don't remember what station this was! I don't think it was WTSF though.
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Sorry to ressurect this old thread but I know exactly what show you mean, Skyshale. I think Candle Cove ran for only a couple months in ‘71, not ‘72. I was 12 and I watched it a few times with my brother. It was channel 58, whatever station that was. My mom would let me switch to it after the news. Let me see what I remember.
It took place in Candle cove, and it was about a little girl who imagined herself to be friends with pirates. The pirate ship was called the Laughingstock, and Pirate Percy wasn't a very good pirate because he got scared too easily. And there was calliope music constantly playing. Don't remember the girl's name. Janice or Jade or something. Think it was Janice.
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Thank you Jaren!!! Memories flooded back when you mentioned the Laughingstock and channel 58. I remember the bow of the ship was a wooden smiling face, with the lower jaw submerged. It looked like it was swallowing the sea and it had that awful Ed Wynn voice and laugh. I especially remember how jarring it was when they switched from the wooden/plastic model, to the foam puppet version of the head that talked.
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
ha ha i remember now too. ;) do you remember this part skyshale: "you have…to go…INSIDE."
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Ugh mike, I got a chill reading that. Yes I remember. That's what the ship always told Percy when there was a spooky place he had to go in, like a cave or a dark room where the treasure was. And the camera would push in on Laughingstock's face with each pause. YOU HAVE… TO GO… INSIDE. With his two eyes askew and that flopping foam jaw and the fishing line that opened and closed it. Ugh. It just looked so cheap and awful.
You guys remember the villain? He had a face that was just a handlebar mustache above really tall, narrow teeth.
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
i honestly, honestly thought the villain was pirate percy. i was about 5 when this show was on. nightmare fuel.
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
That wasn't the villain, the puppet with the mustache. That was the villain's sidekick, Horace Horrible. He had a monocle too, but it was on top of the mustache. I used to think that meant he had only one eye.
But yeah, the villain was another marionette. The Skin-Taker. I can't believe what they let us watch back then.
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
jesus h. christ, the skin taker. what kind of a kids show were we watching? i seriously could not look at the screen when the skin taker showed up. he just descended out of nowhere on his strings, just a dirty skeleton wearing that brown top hat and cape. and his glass eyes that were too big for his skull. christ almighty.
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Wasn't his top hat and cloak all sewn up crazily? Was that supposed to be children's skin??
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
yeah i think so. rememer his mouth didn't open and close, his jaw just slid back and foth. i remember the little girl said "why does your mouth move like that" and the skin-taker didn't look at the girl but at the camera and said "TO GRIND YOUR SKIN"
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
I'm so relieved that other people remember this terrible show!
I used to have this awful memory, a bad dream I had where the opening jingle ended, the show faded in from black, and all the characters were there, but the camera was just cutting to each of their faces, and they were just screaming, and the puppets and marionettes were flailing spastically, and just all screaming, screaming. The girl was just moaning and crying like she had been through hours of this. I woke up many times from that nightmare. I used to wet the bed when I had it.
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
i don't think that was a dream. i remember that. i remember that was an episode.
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
No no no, not possible. There was no plot or anything, I mean literally just standing in place crying and screaming for the whole show.
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
maybe i'm manufacturing the memory because you said that, but i swear to god i remember seeing what you described. they just screamed.
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Oh God. Yes. The little girl, Janice, I remember seeing her shake. And the Skin-Taker screaming through his gnashing teeth, his jaw careening so wildly I thought it would come off its wire hinges. I turned it off and it was the last time I watched. I ran to tell my brother and we didn't have the courage to turn it back on.
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
i visited my mom today at the nursing home. i asked her about when i was littel in the early 70s, when i was 8 or 9 and if she remebered a kid's show, candle cove. she said she was suprised i could remember that and i asked why, and she said "because i used to think it was so strange that you said ‘i'm gona go watch candle cove now mom' and then you would tune the tv to static and juts watch dead air for 30 minutes. you had a big imagination with your little pirate show."
I just discovered Candle Cove the other day, when I was listening to a pop-culture podcast that mentioned the newish SyFy show Channel Zero. The premise of Channel Zero is that each season will be a limited series, like True Detective or American Horror Story, and the hook is that each season will be an adaptation of a different viral creepypasta entry. Season One just concluded in mid-November. It was, of course, an adaptation of Candle Cove.
As a horror fan, I've always had a love-hate relationship with creepypasta and its Reddit cousin NoSleep. The fact that it's all user-submitted content is both a blessing and a curse. The great thing about the democratization of media is that everyone gets a chance for their voice to be heard, which allows for some amazing outside-the-box work from otherwise unknown creatives. The worst thing about it is that everyone gets a chance for their voice to be heard, which makes finding the good stuff all that much more challenging. For every brilliant sliver of horror like "Slenderman," "My dead girlfriend keeps messaging me on Facebook," or "The Russian Sleep Experiment," there are fifteen entries that are, to be frank, unreadable garbage.
Candle Cove is one of the best I've come across. Structurally, it's a near perfect horror story. Aside from the clever gimmick of composing it in the form of an online forum thread, it's almost classic in its narrative approach and the way Straub amps up the tension with each new strange detail. It's direct, to the point, and understands that horror is at its best when it is fundamentally left unexplained. In its simplicity, it reminds me of two of my all-time favorites, Richard Matheson's "Born of Man and Woman" and Joe R. Lansdale's "Down By the Sea Near the Great Big Rock." It also recalls some of the best work from masters like O. Henry, Theodore Sturgeon, and Harlan Ellison.
Candle Cove seems designed to speak specifically to my generation, those of us who still remember life without Google and cable TV, when our entertainment was wholly curated by a strange cadre of mysterious adults out there somewhere, programming whatever was on TV. So much kid's entertainment of the 70s and 80s was downright bizarre, and we always seemed to stumble across it on our own, without any real sense of context to guide us.
Even the mainstream stuff (like Hee Haw, Land of the Lost, Voltron, and Fraggle Rock) was kind of bent. But the truly odd stuff was on Channel 2. I still remember Channel 2 (in New Mexico) before it was Fox; it was on the UHF band, and it seemed like for at least 12 hours out of the day it spit nothing but static. But occasionally you'd switch over to it and something would be coming through. Old monster movies, or Spanish telenovelas.
And, sometimes what came through... well, it would be real weird. Like the dubbed Japanese show where a guy turned into a metal-plated giant and fought enormous salamanders (turns out, that was Ultraman). Or the nonsense variety show where a dude with an impressive Jew-fro sang songs while wearing a unitard displaying all his internal organs (that was Slim Goodbody).
I'm pretty sure it was on Channel 2 that I saw the sitcom (or whatever it was) with the machete-wielding midgets.
Straub takes a very simple but genius concept — what if those horrible things we remember seeing as children actually existed in the form that we remember them, and they were created with some sort of opaque and malicious purpose? — and runs with it. Most importantly, he knows just when to get out. We never find out who created Candle Cove, whether it was supernatural or some sort of mass hysteria. We just know that it existed, and the way the characters' memories unfold creates that sense of the uncanny and the creeping dread that comes with it. What makes this story so spooky is how believable it seems. If you didn't know this was flash fiction, you could almost convince yourself that Candle Cove was real, and that you saw it too.
By its very nature, Channel Zero: Candle Cove doesn't have the option of maintaining that level of ambiguity. What works in a one-page short story simply can't sustain a six-hour TV series. This isn't a knock, but a simple acknowledgment of the difference between the two mediums. Channel Zero writer/producer Nick Antosca (Hannibal) simply had to find another way.
Mostly, he succeeds. The show stumbles here and there — at times, Antosca and director Craig William Macneill (The Boy) try too hard, belching out some regrettable on-the-nose dialogue or pushing too hard for a creepy image and thudding into cliché. But, on the whole, the show works, and I found Channel Zero: Candle Cove to be a singularly unnerving experience.
The show centers on Mike (Paul Schneider), a child psychologist who seems to have suffered some sort of mental collapse. On the verge of divorce and about to lose custody of his daughter, he is drawn back to his home town of Iron Hill, Ohio, for the first time since childhood. When he was a kid, he and his friends watched a strange TV puppet show called Candle Cove. It only aired for two months in 1988, when Mike was 11 (for the record, I was 11 in 1988 as well). It was at the end of the dial, and ran at odd times of day, and while the show was running, five kids — including his twin brother, Eddie — disappeared. Four of them were later found dead. Eddie (played in flashback by Luca Villacis, who also portrays young Mike) remains missing.
Mike reaches out to his old friend Gary (Shaun Benson), who is now the town sheriff and who happened to marry Mike's childhood girlfriend, Jessica (Natalie Brown), and asks to look into the files regarding the murders. Meanwhile, his memories of Candle Cove begin to intrude, and he becomes convinced that there's a link between the show, the murders, and his brother's disappearance.
And, he discovers, Candle Cove is airing again. The kids of Iron Hill are watching.
From there, Antosca and Macneill craft a show that's equal parts Twin Peaks, Netflix's Stranger Things, early Cronenberg, and a less-cheesy Children of the Corn. It's low budget but stylish, and the acting is alternately affecting and effectively off-putting. The first four or five episodes burrowed deep under my skin, conjuring that sense of the uncanny that Straub mined so effectively with the original story. We see just enough of Candle Cove the show for it to register, but Macneill wisely obscures it with editing and framing, often shooting from the side, through a window, or behind the kids' heads as they watch. It exists in little glimpses and fragments... like those distorted childhood memories that it's trying to mirror. The puppet show is both silly and sinister in just the right way, and Antosca and Macneill walk a delicate tightrope in keeping the correct balance between those two poles.
Where Channel Zero: Candle Cove doesn't work is in its explanation for the source of the show, and what its ultimate purpose is. I get why Antosca had to do it, and he probably did as good a job with it as could be expected, but the mystery, once solved, is inevitably something of a letdown. It's less "oh shit!" and more "really?"
But up until that point, I found Channel Zero: Candle Cove to be legitimately frightening. Like Straub's original story, it taps into something primal and dark, something that's both very specific but will be universal to anyone born between, say, 1965 and 1980.
Channel Zero: Candle Cove is liable to be compared the most to Stranger Things. The comparison — from the time period and the setting all the way down to the central "monster" — is apropos. But Stranger Things, as much as I admired it, is really meant to be more entertaining than genuinely disturbing. The pleasure of that show comes from a very self-conscious attempt to capture a specific kind of nostalgia. We see the references — to King, to Carpenter, to early Spielberg — and our recognition of those references makes it oddly comforting.
There's no such comfort to be found in Channel Zero: Candle Cove. It's also trading in nostalgia... but it's a nostalgia of a much nastier sort. It's digging for something truly nightmarish, and attempting to bring us back to a time where we were at our most vulnerable to outside controls. Sometimes those controls hid behind candy and silly music and puppets.
And sometimes those controls meant to hurt us.
I don't quite know what to say about Metallica's new album, Hardwired...To Self-Destruct, their first since 2008's Death Magnetic.
Look, I grew up with Metallica. They were the first true metal band I ever listened to. I had a homemade cassette tape in the fourth grade that I used to carry around and listen to constantly, with Master of Puppets on one side and Iron Maiden's Seventh Son of a Seventh Son on the other. And I stuck with them for a long time — a lot longer than most of their more hardcore, orthodox fans. To this day I'm just about to the only person I know willing to defend Load (1996) and its flawed but fascinating follow-up, Reload (1997).
Here's the thing: while everyone else was screaming "sellout!" after those albums dropped, I somewhat quietly felt like they were a natural progression for a band that had at that point been around for a decade and a half, nearly single-handedly invented a musical genre they were growing tired of, and were looking a long and public middle-age square in the face. Sure, they cut their hair, but so did Phil Anselmo and Kerry King, and it's not like either Load or Reload particularly sounded like anything else that was out there at the time. There were some grunge influences, but both albums were primarily rooted in a kind of thick, melancholy Southern dude-rock vibe that, at that time, was definitely going against the grain. It seemed to me then and seems to me now that if they were truly just chasing the dollar they would have kept churning out endless rehashes of the Black Album for the next thirty years. They didn't want to do that, and James Hetfield obviously wanted to try his hand at being Bob Seger for a little while. I was willing to go with it.
It wasn't until their tone deaf fight against Napster and the self-indulgent Some Kind of Monster documentary that it became undeniable to me that Metallica had lost the plot. It wasn't that they had sold out, exactly. It was just that whatever fire that had driven them for their first two decades seemed to have finally been extinguished. What was left was nothing more than a collection of petty and pouty rock-star tics that I had no way to connect with.
2003's St. Anger was certainly an embarrassment, the worst of their or any band's career, chewing up the dregs of a nü-metal genre they clearly didn't understand and spewing forth with an unlistenable splat. But even that album, in its way, felt like a mostly honest representation of where the band was at at the time. When, at the behest of producer Rick Ruben, they tried to go back to the old thrash-metal well with Death Magnetic, the question was "why now?" The album was certainly a step-up from St. Anger and it was accomplished on a technical level, but there was no life to it. The album felt like they had taken all the filler tracks from their 80s masterpieces (like "To Live is to Die" from ...and Justice for All and "Escape" from Ride the Lightning) and put them all on one album, with none of the greats. So why would I ever bother listening to Death Magnetic if I could just throw on Master?
Hardwired...To Self-Destruct continues largely in the same vein. It's better than Death Magnetic. But it's at its least interesting when it's trying to thrash. Songs like "Hardwired" and "Atlas Rise" are certainly listenable, but they don't really announce themselves with any sense of purpose. The better songs, like "Dream No More" and "Confusion," either play with the pop/groove-metal tropes of the Black Album or actually dip their toes into the hated waters of Load/Reload. But even those never fully commit. I enjoyed pretty much every song as it was playing, but nothing stuck. There was no singular riff or groove that was memorable the way the central riffs in "Master of Puppets," "For Whom the Bell Tolls," "One," and "Sad But True" are. The record gets a little bit of lift in its middle section, but I felt one step ahead of it the whole way through. It's not exactly paint-by-numbers, but it's fairly predictable.
Mostly, the ferocity it's reaching for just feels manufactured and not particularly credible anymore. It's not an age thing; Slayer and Anthrax are about the same age and they've managed to put out some pretty great records over the last few years (Megadeth, the fourth and least of the "big four" of thrash metal, hasn't done anything worth a damn in decades as far as I'm concerned). There's an urgency to Slayer's Repentless (2015) and Anthrax's For All Kings from earlier this year that just doesn't exist in Hardwired...To Self-Destruct. It's not that I'll never listen to Hardwired. It's just that I'll probably never think to.
I'm not a Metallica hater. They've long been one of my favorite bands, even if my relationship with them has grown complicated over the years. I was rooting for them to find their way back to their true selves with Hardwired. It didn't quite happen. I think they should stop trying to capture the old magic and give us what they think we want, and get back to trusting themselves and saying "fuck you" to everyone else... the way they did, frankly, with Load and Reload.
French-Canadian director Denis Villeneuve (Prisoners, Sicario) has made a career out of dark, stylish thrillers and dramas that generally aim to leave the viewer with a strong feeling of existential dread. His new sci-fi film, Arrival, takes many of those elements but tries to leave the audience with a feeling of hope.
It's outside of Villeneuve's general wheelhouse, and unfortunately he doesn't quite carry it off. The movie is best when it digs into big ideas or plays similar notes as his previous films. When he strives for something brighter and more human, he doesn't seem to quite seem to know how. So he ends up falling on a lot of cliché to carry the day.
Amy Adams plays Louise, a linguist and interpreter brought in to try to find a way to communicate with the denizens of an alien ship (one of twelve around the world) that is hovering above a Montana field. With her are an army colonel played by Forrest Whitaker, a (maybe) shady CIA operative played by Michael Stuhlbarg, and a theoretical physicist played by Jeremy Renner. Meanwhile, she's plagued by memories (?) of a daughter who died of a rare blood disease. The importance of these flashes to her other life do not become clear until the final act.
Arrival is full of interesting ideas regarding language and communication, and it's at its best when it's exploring those ideas. There's a real love of the science of language in this film, and the way the alien language is rendered and ultimately explained is captivating.
Where the movie falters is in the more granular storytelling. Villeneuve isn't satisfied with the suspense of trying to watch two species try to communicate, so he backloads in a lot of geopolitical conflict that feels as half-baked as it is ponderous. There's much made early on about how difficult it is for the other scientists around the world to even begin the process of communication, but Louise's solution is so absurdly easy that it feels like a beat that should never have made it beyond the initial outline stage.
Louise is the only human character who's even a little bit developed, and she's developed largely through cliché; she's just another iteration of the sad-lady-scientist played by Jodie Foster (Contact), Sandra Bullock (Gravity) and even Helen Hunt (Twister). The rest are shadows upon the wall, and their agendas are never really made clear. Renner is able to fill in a few blanks with a very personable performance, but the script does him no favors. Stuhlbarg and Whitaker do what they can, but ultimately the movie strands them.
The aliens' agenda doesn't make a whole lot of sense either. The bones of a purpose are there, but it's all so undeveloped it feels as tenuous as the wisps of smoke they use to write their language. And the "twist," such as it is, manages to be confounding and predictable all at once.
I'm a big Villeneuve fan, so I'm inclined to see this as an ambitious but overall minor stumble. It's worth seeing — for the look and texture of the film as much as anything else — but you'd be fine waiting until it's available on VOD.
This post is by request. I made a couple similar posts on my old blog about five years ago, so I guess you can call this an expansion or an update. If you're curious about the original posts, you can find them here and here.
I'm including both novels and anthologies here. My only criteria was to stay away from some of the most blatantly obvious choices (I Am Legend, The Haunting of Hill House, Ghost Story, The Shining, The Exorcist, etc.).
In no particular order, here goes!
1. Stephen King, Firestarter (1980)
I had to start with some King, but I decided to go with one of his more underrated novels... so underrated, in fact, that I didn't get around to reading it until just last year.
This book knocked me out. I've never heard much good about it, so I guess I expected it to be of roughly the same quality as the 1984 adaptation (where they made the truly surreal choice to cast George C. Scott as a one-eyed Native American). The book follows a similar (although a bit more complicated) plot trajectory, but the writing is among some of King's best — lean and visceral. It's as much a 70s-style paranoid thriller and action potboiler as it is a horror story, but King crafts a couple of his most disturbing sequences here. The first is the initial college drug trial (modeled on the real-life MKUltra experiments conducted by the CIA) that devolves from a pretty standard meet-cute between Charlie McGee's then teenaged parents Andy and Vicky into a genuine hallucinatory nightmare. The second is the "ricochet" that occurs when Andy McGee uses his limited mind-control abilities on a mid-level government functionary, inadvertantly implanting a sexual fetish (involving garbage disposals) into the poor guy's mind, which eventually blossoms into a full-blown psychosis. I think you can guess how that ends.
2. Clive Barker, Cabal (1989)
This book is not exactly underrated. It's definitely beloved amongst horror fans, but it's largely overshadowed by Barker's other work (particularly "The Hellbound Heart," which became Hellraiser).
The basis for the 1990 film Nightbreed, Cabal sees Barker taking a pretty standard Lovecraftian trope — a mysterious race of monsters dwelling in an isolated underground city in the wilds of Canada— and twisting it into the type of transgressive, hyper-violent, hyper-sexual queer allegory that only he could write. The movie hews pretty close to the book (which makes sense, considering Barker wrote and directed it himself), but the original novel definitely has a lot more edge, and the character of Decker (memorably portrayed in the film by David Cronenberg) is largely stripped of his B-movie camp and becomes a truly terrifying — and all too human — monster.
3. David G. Hartwell ed., Foundations of Fear (1992)
This anthology has a companion piece, The Dark Descent, but if you're going to pick just one then this is the one to go with. It's got some of the greatest horror stories of all time all gathered together in one place.
The book kicks off with Daphne Du Maurier's classic "Don't Look Now" and ends with "Notes on the Writing of Horror: A Story," an incredibly weird treatise/novella by Thomas Ligotti. In between you'll find John W. Campbell's "Who Goes There?" (the foundation of John Carpenter's The Thing), as well as work both famous and obscure by luminaries like H.P. Lovecraft, Arthur Machen, Gertrude Atherton, Theodore Sturgeon, and many more. Two of my favorites are Robert Silverburg's funny/creepy take on a parasitic alien invasion "Passengers," and Clive Barker's surreal classic "In the Hills, the Cities."
4. Dan Simmons, Carrion Comfort (1989)
If you forced me to list my three favorite contemporary horror novels of all time, I'd have to go with Stephen King's The Stand, Thomas M. Disch's The M.D., and this one. Equal parts holocaust epic, espionage thriller, political caper, and sci-fi horror novel, Carrion Comfort centers on the idea of "mind vampires," i.e. folks who can take over other people's consciousness through sheer force of will.
The book spans decades, from the concentration camps of Nazi-occupied Poland to the American South of the early 1990s. Amidst all the explosive action (even including a couple helicopter chases; this would make one hell of a movie), Simmons spends a good deal of time considering what the implications of the existence of such creatures would truly be for the world we think we know. And in the character of elderly Southern Belle/vampire Melanie Fuller, he presents us with the one of the fullest — and most terrifying — portraits of a true sociopath that I've ever encountered in literature.
5. Al Sarrantonio ed., 999 (1999)
When this book came out in 1999, editor Al Sarrantonio pretty boldly declared his ambition for it to be seen as a successor to Kirby McCauley's legendary 1980 anthology Dark Forces. And goddamn if he didn't pull it off.
This anthology features a lot of the usual suspects in contemporary horror fiction (King, Gaiman, Ramsey Campbell, etc.), but my personal favorite is "The Book of Irrational Numbers," by the then relatively unknown Michael Marshall Smith. It's one of those slow burners that leaves you wondering halfway through where it's going, but by the end has burrowed itself deeply under your skin.
6. Adam Nevill, The Ritual (2011)
The relatively straightforward prose style belies how deeply weird this book actually is. It focuses on four old college friends who embark on a middle-aged trek across the Swedish wilderness, where they encounter both a monster and a teenaged black metal band looking to experience something authentically demonic. By the end it's hard to predict which element of this trifecta is going to turn out to be the most bloodthirsty.
7. Anne Rivers Siddons, The House Next Door (1978)
Anne Rivers Siddons isn't particularly known for writing horror fiction, but this 1978 classic definitely puts her amongst the best. The House Next Door takes as its at-the-time original (pre-Poltergeist) conceit that a house can be "born bad" — i.e., that it can be haunted from the moment it is constructed. Narrator Colquitt Kennedy and her husband Walter watch as three different sets of neighbors move into the house next door and come to tragic — and possibly demonic — ends. It's as spooky for its view of suburban ennui and familial dissolution as it is for its supernatural underpinnings.
8. Nick Cutter, The Troop (2014)
This book fucked me up. On its face it's a pretty standard horror story; a Boy Scout troop on a weekend getaway is infected by a genetically engineered parasite that eats the body from within. I can't say it's the most original thing I've ever read.
But holy fucking God can Cutter (real name Craig Davidson) write. Both this and his followup, The Deep, are written with such visceral power that I didn't so much read the books as experience the events firsthand. For its part, The Troop confronts us with some moments of extreme body horror that are so terrible I shudder to think about them even two years later. But aside from the sheer force of Cutter's writing, what really elevates this book above its more generic brethren is the heart he manages to infuse into his main characters. As gross and bluntly terrifying as the novel is, it leaves the reader primarily with an overwhelming sense of human tragedy.
9. Kim Newman, Anno Dracula (1992)
The first (and best) of Newman's Anno Dracula cycle, this book takes as its central premise the startlingly simple question: what if Dracula had won? From there he spins off of Bram Stoker's original and creates an alternate history that — with its meta nature and cameos from historical figures (Oscar Wilde) and fictional characters (Mycroft Holmes) — by rights should be an irritating gimmick. But Newman is a fantastic writer, and his knowledge of English literature and history is encyclopedic. His universe is so richly detailed and impeccably constructed that it actually comes close to overshadowing its source material.
10. T.E.D. Klein, Dark Gods (1985)
I reviewed Klein's novel The Ceremonies in my previous post, but this collection of four novellas is my favorite of his work. Klein is a towering figure in the world of "literary horror," and his reputation is based largely on this volume alone. A clear devotee of H.P. Lovecraft and other pulp writers of the early 20th century, these stories are quietly old-fashioned in the best possible way. These are the type of subtle, slow-burn tales that seem to stroll amiably along with you until they suddenly turn on you and sink their claws in.
There's not a stinker in the bunch, but my favorites are the opening story, "Petey," about a (maybe) monster that (maybe) decides to drop in on a fancy dinner party, and "Nadelman's God," about a disturbed young man who builds a deity out of a trash pile on his roof. The undisputed classic (published in McCauley's famed Dark Forces anthology) is "Children of the Kingdom," about a subterranean race of creatures from Costa Rica that take up residence in the New York City sewers before making their presence known on the night of the Blackout of 1977.
11. Justin Cronin, The Passage trilogy (2010-2016)
I'm cheating here, because this is three books instead of one, but they work so well as pieces of a larger narrative that it only felt right to include all of them as one entry. Cronin's multi-generational epic about a world overrun by ravenous vampires may seem, on paper, to be just another take on the zombie-apocalypse sub genre that seems to have dominated the horror shelves for the past few years. But Cronin is such a fantastic writer, and his world and characters are so rich and full of life, that they manage to exist in a class all by themselves.
Spanning centuries, the story chronicles the destruction of our world (which, by Cronin's clock, would be starting just about now) and the birth of a new one a thousand years in the future. In between, the human race barely clings to survival against the assault of the "virals" — mutated humans made immortal and bloodthirsty by a mysterious South American virus. We pick up with a group of survivors in an isolated California colony a hundred years from now, travel across the Southwest to a militaristic community in Kerrville, Texas, find our way to a decimated New York and, eventually, a resurgent society in the South Pacific.
Our guide through all of this is Amy, five years old when she is infected but mysteriously left unchanged (except for having also been made immortal) by a strain of the same virus that has decimated the earth. Cronin populates this world with a group of supporting players you will fall in love with (this is the first book since The Stand where I found myself outright weeping at more than one of the characters' deaths), and never forgets the fundamental (and tragic) humanity of those afflicted by the virus. Through Amy, he gives us a bridge between us and the monster hidden within.
12. Thomas Tryon, Harvest Home (1973)
It's been awhile since I've read this one, but I still remember it pretty vividly. Like The Wicker Man and Stephen King's "Children of the Corn," Harvest Home takes us to an isolated, modern-day rural community in thrall of an ancient pagan faith that demands both obedience and sacrifice. Insert Ned and Beth Constantine, New Yorkers looking for a quiet hamlet in which to raise their children and... well, you can probably guess where this goes.
The joy in Harvest Home is in the details and the way Tryon ever-so-slowly tightens the screws until you can hardly breathe. You think you know what's going to happen, but somehow it all manages to be just a little bit more awful than you expected.
13. Thomas Tessier, Rapture (1987)
More a thriller than an outright horror novel, Rapture will still lodge itself in your spine. Deeply, quietly disturbing, it's the story of Jeff, a successful tech entrepreneur who reconnects with Georgianne, his old friend and crush from high school. Jeff decides that he and Georgianne were meant to be together; the only problem is that she's now happily married to a nice, devoted man and has a precocious college-aged daughter. So Jeff systematically decides to remove them from her life.
What makes Rapture so effective is that we never leave Jeff's perspective, and Tessier allows us to see the twisted logic behind his plan. Jeff is cold, calculating, oddly romantic, and utterly insane. Tessier also explores the weird convergence between crippling nostalgia and twisted sexual desire. There's a real, burning eroticism to this novel that makes its ultimate resolution that much more disturbing.
14. Poppy Z. Brite, Drawing Blood (1994)
This strange, powerful little novel by transgender Louisiana author Poppy Z. Brite (now going by Billy Martin) is at once a haunted house novel, a Southern Gothic, a tragic abusive narrative, a treatise on the power of art, and a powerful queer love story. Comic-book artist Trevor McGee returns to his now-empty home nearly a decade after a tragic act of violence befell his family. There he meets and falls in love with Zach, a young man on the run from the authorities. But Trevor's demons — and something in the house that wants more blood — threatens to tear them apart.
This is one of those books where almost everything important that happens occurs under the surface. The violence is almost all psychological, but it spills across every page and stains even the happiest moments. It's not so much a quiet story as it is one that seethes with barely contained menace. And Brite's unapologetic and frankly erotic view of a gay male relationship was starkly transgressive for its time — indeed, almost so much so that it threatened to overshadow how beautifully rendered that relationship actually is. But today, with our (hopefully) more open-minded view, the deep soul-wounding tragedy that lies at the heart of the novel becomes even more crushingly apparent.
15. Thomas F. Monteleone ed., Borderlands 1-5 (1990 - 2004)
Another cheat, but I just can't pick which volume of this anthology series is my favorite. These books were groundbreaking when they first arrived, and the stories contained within feel as cutting edge now as they did then. Eschewing traditional monsters in favor of more surreal and psychologically skewed narratives, editor Thomas F. Monteleone's goal was to push past genre conventions, drop a stick of dynamite into the writers' subconscious and see what floated to the top. So we get a farmer who falls in love with a malevolent potato, a fashionable line of purses made from the skin of aborted fetuses, and much more. These stories are by and large less shocking than they are deeply, deeply unsettling. With nearly every story you're left wondering "how the fuck did they come up with THAT?!?" as you get ready to take a hot shower. This is transgressive '90s horror at its absolute best.
My favorite in the series is "Sweetie" (Borderlands 2, 1991) by G. Wayne Miller, the account of an angry man who finds the corpse of a baby wrapped in a blanket by the side of the road and takes her home with him, where he manages to convince himself that she's still alive and he's her "Daddy." It's beautiful, heartbreaking, and VERY disturbing. I remember that story hitting my brain like a shotgun blast when I read it in high school. I still thought of horror at that time as being about vampires and werewolves and things hiding in the closet. The horror in this story springs from the protagonist's own ravenous emotional need and loneliness.
To this day it's one of the most deeply influential things I've ever read... so influential I think I sort of inadvertently did a riff on it 15-ish years later with my own short film, maybe not-so-coincidentally also called "Sweetie."