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You’re Gonna Miss Me: a Film About Roky Erickson

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By Matt Harries

Roky Erickson’s passing on May 31st rightly saw a wave of recognition from those touched by his life and works. Musicians especially have been quick to acknowledge the influence of his band, The 13th Floor Elevators, as progenitors of psychedelic and garage rock, as well as Erickson himself as a shining example of the wild energy of underground music in the formative days of its rise into the heart of the Sixties countercultural explosion. The story of Roky Erickson is well-known in broad terms but to a degree that, to me at least, still feels somewhat underappreciated. His life was like the tale of the Sixties encapsulated in one man; the raw, naive idealism and hedonism that swept like a wave across America and the Western world in particular, eventually breaking apart on the savage rocks of the Establishment, the Moral Majority and the Seventies.

The notion of the Psychedelic itself, the tripped out, mind-expanding kaleidoscope of energy from that era, was never completely destroyed. It merely became more diffuse, surviving and gradually infusing itself throughout multitudinous sub-cultural tropes in the decades that followed. Roky Erickson, whose light shone so brightly and whose subsequent downfall felt like a retributive strike from the conservative hegemony (in fact on some level it probably was), did not stay down but rather fought on and on and did enough to make a lasting impression on many of today’s musicians. Witness for example, Chelsea Wolfe’s rendition of ‘Night Of The Vampire’ or  Joshua Homme’s words on social media upon news of the great man’s death – ‘I believe in Roky Erickson.’

Despite the admiration of such high profile musicians, a quick look at IMDB reveals that You’re Gonna Miss Me, Keven McAlester’s 2005 film about Erickson, has a little over 900 ratings. Compared to some other music documentaries, for example Dig! (over 5000), A Band Called Death (over 3000) and The Devil & Daniel Johnston (over 8000), it seems as though this story has perhaps not fallen on the same number of ears as the music and influence deserves. If you have an interest in acid culture, the Sixties counterculture or the ongoing story of psychedelic rock ‘n’ roll; or if a tale that combines the tragic demise of Syd Barrett with the plot of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest sounds appealing – then you really should give this film a chance.

It essentially has two distinct elements, the most expected being a recounting of the saga of The 13th Floor Elevators. To this end we hear from a host of ‘originals’; from drummer John Ike Walton, whose experiences with LSD led to him quitting the band, to Erickson’s ex-wife Dana, as well as other luminaries such as Powell St.John, Chet Helm and Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top.

The Elevators formed in the fertile Austin scene in 1965 when Roky Erickson left his first band The Spades and joined up with future bandmates including lyricist and jug player Tommy Hall and (still criminally underrated) guitarist Stacy Sutherland. By the autumn of the following year they were touring the West Coast and subsequently released their first album The Psychedelic Sounds Of The 13th Floor Elevators, a huge favourite of the countercultural movement. A raw slice of garage rock and the newly coined ‘psychedelic’ rock, it is also notable for Hall’s sleevenotes, which espouse the use of drugs to ‘chemically alter [mankind’s] mental state’ on a ‘quest for pure sanity.’

Despite the success of their debut, follow up Easter Everywhere was, despite being widely regarded as their best work, not enough to repeat the national success of its predecessor. The band’s use of drugs, notably LSD and peyote, saw drummer John Ike Walton and bassist Ronnie Leatherman leave and by 1968 they were having to perform without Erickson due to his frequent hospitalisations, including an eventual diagnosis of schizophrenia. While his use of psychedelic drugs is well documented, Erickson also fell victim to that old musician’s scourge, heroin. His excesses with both drugs were becoming a thing of local legend, much to chagrin of the local police. So it was that law enforcement came down hard on the singer. Arrested for possession of a ‘matchbox’ of marijuana, the erratic frontman found himself being sent to Rusk State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. For a man described by first wife Dana as ‘just a little boy’, known in earlier years for his unfailing politeness and innocent charm, this was a heavy-handed gesture to say the least.

Erickson’s former psychiatric doctor recounts how his charge was a quiet presence who seemed content simply to write music, which he noted down in a legal pad as he sat in the hospital corridors. Eventually, galvanised by his presence, a collection of inmates decided to form a band of their own. Alongside the musician were a collection of murderers, rapists and violent offenders. ‘You tell me how that makes sense,’ asks Dr X. ‘Because it doesn’t.’ There were more than just potentially uncomfortable associations to come for Roky though, as Doctors chose to treat his psychosis with a combination of forced electric shock treatment and thorazine injections. It would be four years before he was finally released.

Interspersed with the recounting of this story, we are also shown the results of years of dubious diagnosis, ongoing drug and mental problems and ineffective treatments. Roky in person, or rather, to borrow another eccentric artist’s nomenclature, The Non-Artist Formerly Known As Roky Erickson is by now living amid a sea of electronic sound-emitting equipment, from musical keyboards and toys to television sets and alarms; a cacophonous cloud of white noise and bleeps and static hiss. This is the only environment in which Roky, now a portly, shuffling but harmless individual of 53 or so, can find the mental quietude that allows him to sleep. The only person he answers to is his mother Evelyn. She is an interesting lady herself; indeed in some way the film is as much about her as it is about Roky. A chance, as she herself puts it early in the film, to give her own side of the story, after ‘being judged for my sons.’

Evelyn’s story is recounted by her using a collection of large cardboard displays of photos, hand written notes and assorted ephemera that she had created over the years in an attempt, she admits, to reassure herself she had done the right thing as a mother to five sons. Marrying young, she gave her best years to her boys, of whom Roky was the oldest, with a gap of around twenty years to youngest son Sumner. Physically and mentally exhausted after Sumner’s birth, and faced with a husband who simply refused to talk to her, she gave up alcohol and ‘withdrew sexually’, choosing instead to focus for once upon her own recuperation and spiritual growth. Her devotion to her sons was however such that she inevitably became warden to Roky in the years, beginning around 1980, when increasingly he turned away from music and inwards to his tangled thoughts and impenetrable inner logic.   

In the decade following his release from Rusk and legal readmission into the ranks of the ‘sane’, Erickson continued to pursue his music, his heart’s desire and his unfortunate predilection for drugs, but the previous years of substance abuse, heavy treatment and confinement had left him prone to paranoid delusions. Perhaps chief among these was the infamous notion that he had been inhabited by a Martian, thus rendering him an alien and furthermore an ongoing victim of psychic attack by humankind. There were failed marriages that in their brief terms saw lucidity and structure inevitably dissolve. The mind of Roky Erickson began to seek some kind of predictable pattern in the lives of others, as he developed an obsession with the post, one time even being arrested for taking his neighbour’s mail into his house in huge quantities (the charges were later dropped after he pleaded that he didn’t actually open any of it).

Eventually he stopped taking his psychiatric medication – something he had been prone to do all along. In this he was supported by his mother Evelyn, who believed (not unreasonably) that drugs ‘hide your real feelings’ and that a clean living, spiritually rewarding life could help Roky live with some modicum of independence. For several of the other Erickson boys, this behaviour was symptomatic of the overly controlling behaviour of their mother from the early stages in their lives. Perhaps the most disgruntled was Sumner, the youngest, who had virtually become estranged from Evelyn and had made it his one goal as a young man to leave the Erickson household and move as far away as possible. In future years he made a success of his own life in music, as a classically trained tuba player. He never forgot his oldest brother, but his desires to have meaningful contact foundered upon his ever-strained relationship with his mother.

The childhood home was an environment that evidently left a lasting impression upon several of the sons. Chaos and clutter abounded. The pool a stagnant green puddle, the yard a confusion of abandoned junk and overgrown plant life. The kitchen a playground to rats until the lights were turned on, the cats and dogs of the house scrambling over each other and around anyone wanting to make food. Given Evelyn’s own cluttered home, filled with musical instruments, endless letters, paintings and photographs, Roky’s own junk-filled abode seems to have less roots in his psychic turmoil than we initially assume. On a darker note, brother Don, who himself admits to struggles with alcoholism and an attempt to commit suicide in the late Eighties, refers obliquely to his mother telling him of seeing his father alone in the bedroom with one of the other boys. It’s a memory he chose not to pursue, deciding to leave the unknown horrors of his mother’s partially formed revelation buried in the depths of the past.

Finally, in the pivotal act of the film, the past and present lives of the Erickson brood converge. As Evelyn dips her toes in the flowing waters of a nearby river, Sumner and accompanying officers of the law swoop and persuade Roky to leave with them. This repatriation to Sumner’s home in Pittsburgh, for all the shock waves caused within the family itself, provides an opportunity for something that at one time seemed at best an impossible dream. Afforded the proper treatment, both in terms of modern psychiatric medicine and for his potentially fatal dental ailments, and crucially now resident within the stable environment of his youngest brother’s home, Roky Erickson defies every expectation of a tragic ending, and returns to health and amazingly, to his music.

In the last 15 years of the Roky Erickson story, he would return to the recorded and live arenas on many occasions. In 2015 in Texas, he took to the stage with Tommy Hall (the jug playing psychedelic guru whose absence from the entirety of You’re Gonna Miss Me is its most glaring omission), John-Ike Walton, Ronnie Leatherman and his own son Jegar. The 13th Floor Elevators defied time and any kind of reasonable logic to perform again, over 50 years since their fiery heyday. A remarkable twist in the story of a man who seemed to live many lives during his time on earth; loving son, interdimensional voyager, wayward parent. One of the founding fathers of psychedelic music and the spirit animal for countless like-minded experimental musicians the world over. No matter how enduring the man himself, he who returned again and again from so many trials, the musical legacy of Roger Kynard ‘Roky’ Erickson will surely continue long into the future. I will leave the last word to a contemporary of Roky’s, a certain Doctor of Journalism and fellow psychedelic traveller;

‘History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of “history” it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time—and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.’ (Hunter S.Thompson).

Human, All Too Human: the Films of Mike Flanagan

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By Guest Contributor Matt Harries

‘The stories aren’t about horror, they’re about challenging ideas, confronting our darkest natures, and facing universal fears.’

Part 1: Absentia to Gerald’s Game

Mike Flanagan is a name you could reasonably describe as ‘hot’ among fans of screen horror. The self-confessed Stephen King nut recently declared a wrap on shooting for his second full-length adaptation of the famed writer’s work. Following on from Gerald’s Game in 2017 is Doctor Sleep, itself a sequel of sorts to Kubrick’s classic rendering of King’s 1977 novel The Shining. If the weight of expectation surrounding such a venture wasn’t daunting enough, this is also Flanagan’s biggest project to date in the eight years since his breakthrough full-length Absentia. However for anyone with an eye on the progress of the showrunner behind Netflix hit The Haunting Of Hill House, it will seem as though this is merely the continuation of a smooth ascent into the upper echelons of silver screen horror for the Salem-born director.

Is it reasonable then, to assume that Flanagan must have a keen eye for what sells tickets and for what studios want when they agonise over where to spend their dollars? On one hand, yes, he has been quietly successful and well-received for a string of modestly budgeted successes. However it is his persistent admiration of the human potential of horror, his refusal to ‘dumb down’ or resort to the well-used and abused tropes that infuse so much mainstream fodder, that has seen his star rise. Could it even be possible that he can also help to raise the notion of the worthiness, depth and importance of horror, that oft-maligned, lampooned and at times almost contemptuously disregarded branch of fictional entertainment?

Although the seeds for Flanagan’s success were sewn back in 2006 when his short Oculus: Chapter 3 garnered positive attention on the indie circuit, it was the 2011 release Absentia that marked his first major directorial step. Made for an estimated $70,000 budget, Absentia is in fact a great example of what has become recognisable as ‘a Mike Flanagan film’. Although there is a supernatural ‘monster’ of sorts – which remains virtually unwitnessed throughout and is referred to only speculatively – the overarching themes here are of loss and grief, hope and despair. The main characters include a heavily pregnant single woman and her sister, herself a one-time drug addict and runaway. The two are reunited when the latter rejoins her sister, who has been forced to declare her long missing partner legally dead (‘In Absentia’, to use the legal terminology).

Flanagan draws together a dark web of loss, regret and forlorn love. Through the speculation of the characters, he suggests a link to mythologies throughout human history in which individuals mysteriously disappear from their loved ones. With Absentia, he gives this realm of accumulated human pain – what spiritual teacher Eckhart Tolle might refer to as the ‘pain body’ – an actual physical manifestation. No matter how resilient man and womankind might be, this shadowy realm seems to persist as an inevitable underside to the human experience.

2013 saw Flanagan’s 2006 short emerge as a fully fledged horror film, named simply Oculus. This film delves into the dark history of a seemingly malevolent looking glass, that causes those who gaze upon it to experience nightmarish hallucinations and eventually enact bloody murder. This is perhaps a more genre-typical use of a haunted or possessed object, but it is humanity’s own dark character that is the food upon which the mirror hungrily feeds. The mirror suggests the infinitesimal meta-realities of the individual human experience, each person seeing their own subtly distorted version of reality. In this instance the mirror wreaks havoc upon a young family – family being another preoccupation of Flanagan’s work. The two young children grow up and finally unite to try and destroy the mirror in a sharply directed, clever and satisfyingly scary horror.

2016 was a busy year for Flanagan, with three releases. Hush, which stars his wife Katie Speigel (who also co-wrote), sees fresh life injected into the slasher flick, via the crucial use of perspective change. In this case we see and most importantly, ‘hear’ the world from the point of view of Maddie, a deaf-mute woman who lives alone in relative isolation. Despite the temptation to shoot entirely sound-free, Flanagan and Spiegel opt to drop the sound at certain moments, thereby showing the proximity of the killer to Maddie even as she goes about her evening activities blissfully unawares. Much of the script was developed in Flanagan and Speigel’s own home, allowing them to literally walk through the potential scenarios in the script. The use of the domestic setting succeeds in connecting us – likely as we are to be watching the film in our own homes – with the peril Maddie finds herself in. We see her preparing food as the killer stands pressed against the window behind her, we want to reach out, to shout, but in some ways we are as helpless as Maddie initially appears, before she eventually triumphs through sheer will and determination to survive. 

Before I Wake is perhaps less an outright horror than a supernatural fantasy. Again Flanagan bases his tale within a very specific family dynamic, this time telling the story of an 8 year-old boy named Cody who starts a new life with foster parents who had previously lost their own young son in an accidental drowning. From the very first night in his new home, the sleeping Cody appears to manifest incredible visions, which later begin to include the couple’s own deceased son. While Cody’s ability to manifest his dreams entrances his new foster mother, who sees her birth son before her every night as though he is real, Cody also experiences nightmares. From within these bad dreams a monstrous creature – The Canker Man – appears, and begins to terrify the family in the waking world.

Eventually we learn that the Canker Man was created by the child’s perception of his birth mother’s death from pancreatic cancer years before. To once again borrow the idea of the ‘pain body’, here the fear and loss experienced, this time by a child, is manifested as a seemingly malevolent force, all too real and capable of causing terrible harm. How easy it is to imagine children everywhere in such their own terrible circumstances, be it war, illness or the threat of violence. Many times children are forced to frame their own pain in a narrative they can understand, to conceptualise what is beyond their ability to rationalise at their young age. Flanagan admits to having come from a large extended family who, as a consequence of having so many members who inevitably would suffer their own fatalities, illnesses and travails, in turn became inspiration for the themes he chooses to express through his work.   

To wind up the busy year, the next project for the director was the sequel to 2014’s popular but critically panned supernatural horror Ouija. Despite a declared aversion to sequels, Flanagan took the project under the proviso that he would be able reframe the narrative in order to distance his film from the original. In Ouija: Origin Of Evil, the family unit this time consists of a young widow and her two daughters, who are watched by malevolent spirits awoken by use of the titular Ouija board. Again this film is notable for Flanagan’s trust in young actors. Starring alongside Annalise Basso, who previously featured in Oculus, is Lulu Wilson, who delivers an impressively creepy performance as younger sister Doris.

With an eye for period detail (in this case the 1970s) and an effectively chilling atmosphere, Flanagan and cinematographer Michael Fimognari created a film that kept enough subtle links to interest fans of the original, while managing to break away from the first film sufficiently to establish their own narrative. Critics hailed the film as a huge improvement. Another feather in the cap for Flanagan, whose approach of a family-centred dynamic and trust in unknown young actors would be taken to a new level with his future work.

Having worked his magic on a heavily criticised franchise, Flanagan next turned his attention to what had long been regarded as an ‘unfilmable’ book adaptation, namely Stephen King’s Gerald’s Game. In what is regarded as one of King’s sparser narratives, Gerald and wife Jessie retreat to an idyllic but remote lakeside property, with the intention of reviving their ailing marriage. Even on the outward car journey there are signs that the couple have differing energies. Bruce Greenwood’s Gerald seems wolfishly focussed on Jessie (Carla Gugino), who for her part seems aware of her husband’s ardour but unwilling to engage with it.

They are briefly held up by the appearance of a large dog, which they surmise to be a stray, which refuses to move out of the road as it feeds on roadkill. Soon after arriving, in another demonstration of the contrasting  intentions of the couple, Jessie tries to call the dog to feed with the expensive Kobe beef Gerald purchased especially for their getaway. Does Jessie’s concern about this feral animal act as a metaphor for her failure to recognise the darker, animalistic impulses within her husband? If she is not entirely ignorant of Gerald’s intentions, she does not actively fight against them.

Soon they are in the bedroom. Gerald’s fervour is obvious; although seemingly unwilling, Jessie somewhat passively allows him to manipulate the situation. To her surprise, he produces a pair of handcuffs, which he uses to secure her wrists to the wooden bed frame. With his wife helpless, Gerald’s interior life is suddenly revealed as one of dark and possessive sexual lust, something which seems to shock Jessie. As things progress beyond her control, now faced with the stark fact of their own utterly opposite feelings, the mood darkens further. Jessie yells to be released as her husband becomes frighteningly rough. Suddenly he catches his breath – the onset of a heart attack. He slumps on top of Jessie, unconscious. Trapped beneath his inert body, Jessie struggles to move her husband’s body. Finally she succeeds in pushing him off of her and off of the bed. His head cracks sickeningly on the hard floor. Blood quickly begins to pool around his skull. Gerald is most definitely dead, and Jessie remains handcuffed to the bed. Amazingly, the above takes place within the first ten or so minutes of the film!

In the novel, Jessie begins to hear voices in her head, each representing a facet of her psyche. These voices help Jessie to delve into her past to uncover painful suppressed memories, such as the sexual abuse she suffered at the hands of her father. Working through the pain caused by these memories in turn renews her will to survive. Flanagan, along with another regular collaborator in producer Trevor Macy, cleverly recasts Greenwood and Gugino in much the same way King uses the voices in Jessie’s head. A more confident, knowing version of Jessie parades in front of her; the version of her that knew what she was getting herself into over the unhappy years as Gerald’s subservient trophy wife. Alongside her we also see Gerald, now repurposed as the antagonistic, critical facet of her dead husband. Together these phantoms torment Jessie with the knowledge of her past failings and her increasingly dire current predicament, but in their own way they too force Jessie inwards, allowing her to confront those demons of her past, both of her childhood and her adult life.   

Alongside these visions Jessie also sees another strange, dreamlike figure, who appears in the darkness of the bedroom carrying a box full of bones and strange trinkets. Gerald taunts her, telling Jessie that it is Death himself coming for her. Much later, with Jessie free from the lake house and healing her wounds, we learn that this figure was all too real – in fact a necrophagous serial killer who is being tried in court. She strides into the courtroom and confronts the man. Seeing his face shift from her father’s, to Gerald’s and back, she tells him that he ‘seems so much smaller than I remember.’ This marks the final triumph for Jessie, who turns and leaves the court with the ‘monsters’ of her past diminished and conquered, her true strength discovered and her life renewed. 

Look out for the second part of Matt’s feature – Hill House and beyond – coming soon.

From Epic to Epic Disappointment: Game of Thrones S8

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By Guest Contributor Helen Creighton

Game of Thrones has finally ended, and not in a way everyone found entirely satisfactory.

This is nothing new in television; there’s a history of beloved, long-running shows dropping final seasons or finales that leave their audiences feeling cheated. Take the long-running 80s hospital drama St. Elsewhere, concluded with the abrupt and unlikely revelation the entire show was a figment of an autistic boy’s imagination, and took place in a snow globe.  The last season of the hugely successful sitcom Roseanne upped the ante by asking audiences to believe the previous nine seasons about the comedic trials and tribulations of a lovable working-class family were merely a pathetic work of fiction written by a depressed, widowed and financially-ruined Roseanne. Like most clever-clever metafiction  pasted onto perfectly functional stories, let alone long-running comedies, this proved less than wildly popular. Then there was the more recent and hugely popular Lost; years of mystery piled upon mystery revealed to be simply red herring piled upon on red herring and a revelation that the entire story took place in – literally – Purgatory was generally rejected as rather unsatisfying by those who had tuned in for six years previously. Amazingly, that kind of ‘fooled you! it was all nonsense, all along!’ bait and switch just doesn’t play well with audiences.

Hell, fan engagement and disappointment with fiction goes back a long way further than the TV age. People have always engaged emotionally with good stories. It’s not just Game of Thrones that had people speculating on probable deaths. In 1841, when the newspapers carrying the final chapter of Charles Dickens’ novel The Old Curiosity Shop arrived on a ship in New York, people following the saga crowded the harbour and shouted to the sailors, “Is Little Nell dead?” so beloved was the character in the hearts of the general public, in an age where nobody cared about spoilers. When she was revealed to be indeed (spoiler!) dead, it evoked outrage. Letters were written to the newspapers. Reputed judges were found in their chambers, weeping over the book. The Irish politician Daniel O’Connell declared himself so outraged by Nell’s death that he flung the book out of the window of the train he was travelling on and declared the writer incompetent. Oscar Wilde waded in some decades later to declare the death should move anyone to tears .. . of laughter,  which just goes to show trolling also existed a long time before the internet.

Certainly, bitching about fiction – and being inspired by it, and bitching about it because we care about it, goes back to the ancients.  We care about stories – about imaginary people and places – because they help us make sense of ourselves and the world. Stories define nations and people; they forge identities. On a more prosaic level, investing hours and a great deal of thought and emotion in a thing tends to make people protective of a thing, and the flipside of excitement is disappointment.

So it’s not actually weird for people to get a bit upset when they feel a good story has been let down and metaphorically want their money back, throw their remote at the telly in the manner of the aforementioned Mr. O’Connell throwing books off a train or just take to the internet to bitch and meme a bit (hello!).

So, back to Game of Thrones and its last hoorah. I present the following with the proviso that I have not spent eight years finding major fault with the show; I thought it was near-flawless for the first four seasons, went south in season five (those live-action Bratz Doll versions of the Sand Snakes didn’t seem to belong in the same universe as the other characters for starters) and six (again, the nonsensical Dorne plot which is really enough for an article all of its own given it replaced an actual, usable and better plot from the books, but hey, the showrunner wanted to work with the actress Indira Varma who played Ellaria Sand, and jettisoned Alexander Siddig’s character Prince Doran Martell  to write some nonsense around her), and started to show serious narrative problems with the truncated season seven, but generally I was galloping along relatively happily with it for the most part and very excited for the final run.

So this isn’t about simply never being pleased with the show or about attachment to particular characters whose arcs went ways I didn’t care for, or throwing my toys out of the pram the moment I found something I didn’t like. It’s about watching an epic come to an conclusion that not only  doesn’t live up to its promise, but presents some of the worst writing of the entire run in what should have been its finest hour. The expectation, despite some serious bumps along the way, was a pay-off as complex and interesting as what had gone before; what we got what a series of poorly-connected plot points, meaningless ‘subversion’,  plot holes and character regression all of which seem to add up to more of a lazy ‘fuck you’ than a satisfying conclusion.

Egos abound in showbusiness where actors and showrunners like to pretend audience opinions matter deeply when those opinions are overwhelmingly positive, and suddenly cease to matter when negative. It’s a business where everyone wants to believe they deserve the bouquets, but never the brickbats. Well, in my view the brickbats for this season are fully deserved and nearly all of them have been aimed squarely at one single aspect of the show – the writing…

Let’s start with Daenerys. Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains.Which, after episode five of season eight, can be basically shortened to, ‘Hitler’. Her descent into blood and fire Targaryen Nazi, or shall we more tactfully say ‘potential tyrant’ (Adolf Targaryen?) was not without foreshadowing.

She’s always been capable of violence, as indeed are pretty much all the characters in Game of Thrones. Even Sansa eventually coldly sits and tortures a man (deservedly) to death. It’s a horribly violent world where the strongest prevail and rule, the throne is taken via war when primogeniture fails, and where justice is retributive and punitive, never rehabilitative. Yes, she had declared her intent to ‘break the wheel’ of wars, successions and oppressions, which some took as her intent to foist some pleasant form of social democracy on Westeros via dragon power, but I always saw as rather ominous, Tito-esque kind of viewpoint. Can’t oppress each other when you’ve got one big scary tyrant to oppress the whole lot of you equally, right? And of course, she has all the lofty entitlement of an aristocrat.

Yet she also showed an instinct to protect the weak; as Khaleesi, she prohibited the rape of captives by the Dothraki. She chained up two of her dragons – her ‘children’ – in a dungeon, when the third went rogue and incinerated a shepherd’s child in Mereen. She refused to open the fighting pits at Mereen despite it being a popular move with the citizenry because she hated the violence. She spent a deal of time freeing slaves from their shackles and when she crucified 143 ‘masters’ it was in response to their crucifying the same number of children along the road to Mereen to taunt her. She burned Vaes Dothrak to the ground, but only after the Khals declared their intention to rape her to death, using horses if they couldn’t complete the job themselves.

Yes, she’s from a line known for their tendency toward madness. Her own father had succumbed to it, but is described as having taken nearly ten years for the symptoms to go from increasingly poor hygiene and paranoia, to sadism and murder, to eventually deciding to annihilate the entire city and everyone in it with wildfire. Ten years.

So you have to give me more than one single episode between Daenerys feeling increasingly frustrated with the North for not falling at her feet, Jon getting cold feet about their incestuous relationship, a dragon dying due to her own stupidity (framed by Benioff and Weiss, showrunners as her ‘kinda forgetting’ the Iron Fleet existed) and the death of a friend to going full Russian Front on King’s Landing innocents, not before, but after the city surrendered to her. Her mutterings as having to ‘rule through fear’ come across less as encroaching madness and more as a policy decision made through little more than ego, pique and impatience together with the rationalisation, not entirely uncommon throughout history, that the ends justify the means. The post-devastation Little Nuremberg moment (dragon wings substituting for cathedrals of light, I guess, and a really nice effect actually) in the finale just came off as oddly campy, ‘turn up the evil to eleven’ territory while Grey Worm doing an ISIS-style execution scene fresh off the blocks was a bit much.

Given a full season at least of a gradually decaying personality,  the ‘magical mad queen’ storyline could have been entirely convincing and actually fascinating; Tolkein’s Galadriel if she had chosen to keep the Ring and become corrupted by its power. The tension would have built toward more interesting and hopefully, more intelligent betrayals. Varys, master of spies and whispers, writing a plain text betrayal letter to potential allies? Come on. This man survived years of Mad King Aerys and then the erratic and sadistic King Joffrey without a scratch. As it was, her sudden attack of the genocides came off as just another in a line of pop-up ‘subversion’ of audience expectations that had ironically become entirely predictable in a thoroughly rushed season where getting from A to B in as little time as possible was the point, character and in-world reality be damned.

Subverting expectations. Yeah. Here’s the thing.  In Television Land, though, it’s possible to become a victim of your own success and the carefully-plotted genre subversions (such as setting up a protagonist who is killed before the end of the first season) eventually seemed to set up an expectation for the show to keep surprising the viewer for the sake of surprise alone, not because it makes sense of anything or follows on from previous plot developments. Take the the killing of the Night King by Arya Stark, a decision made by the showrunners a couple of years previously for the sole reason of the old  ‘subversion of expectations’.  Subversion for the sake of simple shock-surprise  is not subversion. It’s just a cop-out.

Other characters suffered from as similarly abrupt and unsatisfying turnarounds as Daenerys. Jon Snow, after being given little to really do all season after his arc was terminated to hand Arya the big kill in The Long Night, wanders around like an increasingly confused puppy, is persuaded by Tyrion (who seems to have all the big ideas in this show now) to murder Daenerys and carries out the order within the matter of a few minutes’ screen time. This, despite spending much of the episode convinced she has really done nothing wrong. Arya, after spending years being obsessively and actively murderous, is convinced by The Hound to drop her pursuit of violence after a few seconds of consideration in the thick of the massacre at King’s Landing. Meanwhile, her endless episodes of  Faceless Man training proved of zero use in the entire final season apart from some admittedly impressive staff  fighting – the last time we see her use another face is to serve up some relatively pointless House Frey revenge porn in season seven.

Jamie Lannister spent years slowly being humbled by experience and redeemed by his actions, only to be the fool that returns to his folly as the dog returns to his vomit – the vomit in this case being his sister and their incestuous relationship, but only after a really odd 21st century-style one night stand with Brienne of Tarth. Classic tragedy, I suppose, a man destroyed by succumbing to his worst instincts,  but again, so abruptly done it’s just jarring and unconvincing.  From fighting for humanity and then cheerfully beering it up with comrades post-Long Night battle to bailing the next day and finally stating he doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself and Cersei in the space of one episode – this from the man who at his prideful, obnoxious Lannister peak killed a king to save the small folk. They not only abruptly terminate and retard seven years of character development, they make Jamie a smaller and meaner man than he started. One has to ask, why? Has a certain nihilism set in and they simply wish to deliver a fuck-you to those good old audience expectations yet again, or did they just not think it through? I can only think that if this is how Jamie Lannister ends in the book series, going down in a pile of rubble with his sister, it will make a whole lot more sense than, ‘Got up this morning, decided I love Cersei after all, see you suckers in hell’.

I’d ask the same question about the whole kingship deal too. After a really jarring scene in which Grey Worm has inexplicably summons the lords and ladies of the seven kingdoms to decide the fate of Tyrion, and then allows the prisoner to dominate the proceedings, we end up with King Bran the Broken, for no reason other than Tyrion suggesting it for vaguely poetical reasons and everyone agreeing within a matter of seconds as if it’s a matter of deciding what to have for lunch. Bran, an impotent king with no heir or likelihood of it who is – quite literally – away with the fairies, creepily omniscient as his various quips imply, uninterested in the nitty gritty of ruling, doesn’t seem altogether like the wisest choice.

Amongst Bran’s closest advisors turns out to be Bronn, who may be a highly entertaining and understandably popular character, but is a man who has from the moment he appeared stated how his loyalty is always for sale.  Then there’s Tyrion as his Hand, a man whose terrible advice, not to mention his eventual betrayal, set Daenerys up for eventual final defeat. Why is anyone listening to Tyrion at this point about anything, let alone Grey Worm? Why hasn’t Grey Worm killed Tyrion, and Jon for that matter, given his previous enthusiasm for murdering prisoners and traitors on the spot? Why didn’t Daenerys? She had nothing better to do than burn another traitor alive for the spectacle at that point but instead acted oddly reasonably toward him for a ‘mad’ queen and kept Tyrion on ice, unlike Varys. Perhaps, like Daenerys, Grey Worm recognised Tyrion and Jon’s incredibly thick and enduring plot armour and need to survive to the series end? This whole council scene has to be the most underwritten, illogical and unconvincing event to ever be portrayed in eight season with only Sansa really saying anything relevant to the realities of the situation. 

We are then witness to a  weird tonal shift with a meeting of King Bran’s Privy Council with Tyrion and Bronn sniggering about getting those brothels built again, eh? We’re left with two middle-aged frat boys who are concerned with having their boners serviced in the face of a ravaged continent with a pissed-off dragon on the loose, and Brienne of Tarth who is inexplicably writing soppy entries for the record about the precious honour of Jamie Lannister who, in Westeros term, had very much dishonoured her last time they met. Remember this is a world where a one night stand between Rob Stark and a girl from a noble house and issues of honour pertaining to that essentially led to the most infamous massacre of the whole series, the Red Wedding. Oh yeah, and there’s Sam to deliver a cringey reveal on the book series titles, and Sir Davos so we can hear one last Stannis-type grammar joke (Stannis told it better). In reality, how long is anyone expecting this dodgy set-up to last? And what is Bran really king of anyway, apart from a pile of bones, ash and rubble? Why does anyone need a high king now anyway, given he has no armies to protect them with or food to feed them with?

Is the subtext here that we’re just back where we started, the struggle for power is eternal and that all that bloodshed really achieved nothing? It’s really hard to tell if it’s all meant to mean anything at all. Perhaps like Jamie seducing Brienne before backflipping into sister-worship, it was all bit of ill-advised fan service because hey, people love Bronn’s wit and Brienne’s courage; Brienne is of course an underdog, and Sam has been set up as the greatest underdog of all time from season one so must predictably win everything – women, career, babies, life itself – whatever the obstacles or odds; and people understandably love the ever-sympathetic Peter Dinklage as Lannister underdog Tyrion -and want him to end well no matter how stupidly his character has behaved, and so on. It comes off as a weirdly shallow happy ending in a series which isn’t supposed to deal in them. Only Jon and Arya’s departures have any sense of bitterness or emotional devastation to them, although the nerd in me is still wondering where Arya found the money for the cool clothes, the sailors and the rather nice ship, given her ancestral house was just reduced to rubble and a whole lot of dismembered peasants. Endless war leaves you poor. Sansa got some nice new threads too, despite Winterfell being sat on and ripped apart by an ice-dragon and zombies not long before. Perhaps everyone individually made a run to the Iron Bank for a generous reconstruction loan? Remember when the series actually dealt with the reality of running a kingdom? So much is glossed over, which wouldn’t matter if so much of the series hadn’t been dead set on dealing with the actual intricacies of power before all this. You can’t help but wonder, as they all nod sagely at Tyrion’s whimsical suggestion that Bran should rule because he has the best story, what Tywin Lannister or Oleanna Tyrell would have to say about the whole thing.

There’s also the question of Bran’s or rather, the Three-Eyed Raven’s omniscience never being used when it would have advantaged the North and Daenerys, time and time again during the battle of The Long Night or beyond. Was that simply bad writing and we’re meant to believe just as Daenerys ‘kinda forgot’ (kudos Benioff and Weiss) the Iron Fleet existed in episode four, Bran ‘kinda forgot’ he could warg into animals, see all of the past and bits of the future and warp time (see the whole Hodor plot, seemingly long-forgotten) and so on because the writers sure did – or is there a suggestion he’s the real final villain of the piece, allowing the various bloodbaths to take place so that the One Eyed Raven, not Bran Stark,  could eventually take the throne? A final defeat of men by the Children of the Forest? I honestly think that’s getting way too complex for what series eight turned out to be, which was really little more than a series of poorly-connected bullet points and some fan servicey bones thrown in here and there.

Of course, not all of the fanservice was terrible – it was great to see as much of the ever-popular Tormund Giantsbane as we did before he was consigned to the north again. Kudos to magnificent ginger Kristofer Hivju for his always pitch-perfect performance. The writers didn’t fail him either – he was as charmingly offputting as ever. There were some really nice small character moments in A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms too; Arya and Sandor’s brusque, understated conversation on the battlements, Brienne’s knighthood, Tormund’s flirting and Podrick’s song.

Great acting from Nikolai Coster-Waldau too, by the way, in his scenes with Tyrion and Cersei, and kudos as ever to Lena Headey who spent years perfecting that self-satisfied Cersei power-smirk and wine-swirl business.  You can’t fault most of the acting in this series (OK, apart from that ridiculous moustache-twirling panto-pirate Euron Greyjoy hamming it up to eleven, but the blame for that lies directly with the directors), or the FX or the set piece battles; it’s just the narrative becomes hurried to the point of  incoherence in the final stretch and the floor goes out from under the thing under the pressure to finish everything.  Perhaps the lone survivor apart from Tormund in terms of character was the always wonderfully-written and played bitter bastard Sandor Clegane aka The Hound, whose character arc seemed fulfilled by trying to dissuade Arya from a life of soul-destroying violence (albeit a bit late in the game, and with far too instant success) and dying with massive courage, confronting his brutal brother and his lifelong terror of fire.

Overall though, I fall into the Daniel O’Connell , remote-chucking disappointment camp. I hope when The Winds of Winter finally emerges in print – in late 2020, we’re now told by Martin himself – I won’t be inspired to fling it off any form of public transport.

Dead by Dawn Fest 2019

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By Guest Contributor Marc Lissenburg

The biggest accolade I can give the Dead By Dawn International Film Festival is the fact my continued attendance ensures I devour every delectable morsel projected onto the silver screen. Annually, without fail, darkly feverish cinematic delicacies are chosen with unbridled passion and scheduled with logical precision. If you can in any way relate to that concept, for 4 days in April, The Filmhouse on Lothian Road, Edinburgh becomes a horror fans’ Mecca!

2019 incredibly witnessed Dead by Dawn in its 26th year. With assured quality to match its longevity, what sights did festival director Adele Hartley have to show us….?

THURSDAY

Along with 19 programmes showcasing a staggering total of 66 films, guest of honour this year was the subversively masterful American director, Jeff Lieberman. Modestly claiming that, after John Landis last year, having a guest with the same initials was easier on the DbD email filing system, Jeff was invited to the stage to officially launch the event. 

With the festival boasting 5 of Lieberman’s finest flicks, there were plenty of opportunities to listen to his charming anecdotes, some of which even managed to refrain from mentioning LSD! Jeff explained that his love for cinema began in the 1950s when gorging on the plethora of atomic horror flicks that were essentially inspired by nuclear war propaganda peddled by the US Government. When the 1970s rolled round and atomic bombs were replaced by misinformation regarding the effects of Lysergic acid diethylamide (LSD) on the human brain, it appeared a cynically obvious choice to conjure a yarn that exploited this fear to violent extremes.   

Fittingly, the inaugural film was a personal favourite of mine, 1978’s BLUE SUNSHINE. The story about the belated side effects of a menacingly potent strain of LSD transforming dabblers into murderous follicularly-challenged psychopaths exudes 1970s panache and satire.    

(I discuss Jeff Lieberman a little more when relaying a discussion I had with a lovely lady of Latvian heritage if my memory serves me correct who I ‘purely by chance’ bumped into during one of the sensibly placed festival intermissions…) 

But for now, back to Thursday evening’s proceedings and next up was the ‘One Big Happy Family’ selection of short films. Of the five films featured, it was MAGGIE MAY by director Mia Kate Russell from Australia that really resonated. It’s a tale of female siblings who deal with the passing of their mother in very different ways which results in accentuated languor in its purest and most vicious form.

My journey north of the border had started to take its toll at this point, so it was interesting to note that Dennison Ramalho’s THE NIGHTSHIFTER was scheduled for 1.15am, resulting in an eye burning finish just after 3am.  Adele’s fervent prologue regarding the film went on to explain that the reason for such an uncompromising time slot was due to its ‘injury time’ inclusion after the schedule had effectively been agreed.

If our empress of ceremonies’ words stoked my interest, it is fair to say my heavy eye lids were truly obliterated with the opening frames of this Brazilian masterpiece. Sao Paulo’s finest marching powder couldn’t have done a better job –  basically, I woke the fuck up and was so appreciative of the efforts put into getting this picture crammed onto an already bustling schedule.

The tale concerned Stenio (Daniel de Oliveira), a morgue worker who engages in a bit of cadaver chatter while going about his nightly duties. While these surreal nocturnal conversations usually just involve the corpses disbelieving their demise or craving revenge, events take on a sinister turn when Stenio actually acts on a bit of advice offered. The fusion of the deceitful domestic milieu, along with a depressingly gritty and plausible backdrop, easily lured me into the narrative. Add to that lashings of autopsy-based gore and the bar of debut features was set astronomically high, to say the least.  A stunning piece of filmmaking and one that I was so grateful to witness on the big screen. The appetite had been whetted and the touch paper lit. An awesome start…

FRIDAY

Friday’s programme kicked off in beautifully bizarre fashion with the ‘What You Make It’ shorts. ARTURO simply blew my mind. It was flagrantly my favourite animated short. This 7-minute oddity from Italy’s Alessandro Bavari, complete with thumping soundtrack, would be the perfect aperitif to Gasper Noes’ CLIMAX in my humble opinion.

Other personal highlights on the programme were Kimmy Gatewood’s morosely comical CONTROL, a 16-minute serving of suicidal preparation that admittedly left a lump in the throat. ALTERNATIVE MATH provided some hilarity with its political correctness on steroids clip about a teacher correctly marking a student down in a test for making basic error go viral.

Another debut feature was to follow in the form of G Patrick Condon’s brain frying INCREDIBLE VIOLENCE. The picture begins with a filmmaker confiding to a friend that he has squandered away the quarter of a million bucks he was granted to finance a movie he was contracted to make. His predicament is compounded by the fact that he has been loaned the money from a law firm. In other words, he is fucked! What follows is a devious tactic to conjure a horror film with no funds.

As the title suggests, this was an arduous watch at times, with some daring sequences graphically depicting torture and humiliation.  The mazy plot as the film progressed was a little perplexing I felt.  However, the sheer boldness of Condon to announce himself as a director to the world with such an audacious piece of cinema shone through and ultimately justified its place on the schedule.  

‘It’s the End of the World’ assortment of mini movies followed after welcoming director Max Isaacson to the festival. His 12-minute apocalyptic chunk of kickass, PIPE, was made all the more enjoyable when hearing tales of 12 year old actress Elizabeth Hunter’s confidence when going for her role as Pup. Max was approachable and it was lovely to see him attend most of the screenings and indulging as a fan not just a guest. Cool jacket too!

Up next was another Lieberman feature, JUST BEFORE DAWN, and the onstage Q & A that complimented it provided more light-hearted but factual insight into his individual style as a film maker. The outdoor sequences seemed death defying at times, though I am not sure the audience was entirely convinced by his claim that, despite being friends with Tobe Hooper, he has never seen The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Mmmmm….

We were then onto something that has intrigued me from the instant I first heard about it – Juuso Laatio and Jukka Vidgren’s HEAVY TRIP. While not in any way a horror movie, this Finnish, Norwegian and Belgium production is one of those films you walk away from the festival telling your friends, “you NEED to see this!”

Initially I felt it was a little too slapstick for my palate, but once the characters and narrative started to ripen, assisted by some razor-sharp dialogue, the movie won me over big time.  It’s a simple enough tale of a Finnish Black Metal band, Impaled Rektum, who have been honing their “Symphonic post-apocalyptic reindeer-grinding Christ-abusing extreme war pagan Fennoscandian metal” skills for 12 years before finally getting their big break at the biggest music festival in Norway.  Unfortunately dealing with sleazy promoters and having a vocalist who projectile vomits when faced with an audience hinders their evolution!

The high tempo of jokes and storyline fuelled with the energy of Scandinavian metal (helped along by Filmhouse’s state of the art sound system) made this perfect Friday night viewing.

The risk of missing something distinctively twisted and beautiful meant I fuelled myself with caffeine and reserved those elegant pint glasses of ice cold exuberantly priced Erdinger Weissbier for post-screening bonding with fellow attendees. So tonight, with a sensible finish time of just after 1am and the bar still open for a couple of hours, the perfect opportunity presented itself to clink glasses with friends old and new and discuss personal highlights so far. Cheers…!

SATURDAY

Saturday began with more high calibre and diverse shorts by way of the ‘Natural Selection’ film programme. Personal highlights were Alex Noyer’s beautifully crafted and vicious CONDUCTOR whose 7-minute tale involving a music competition with an ominously violent climax really impressed.  And special mention has to go to TJ Power’s YOUR CALL IS IMPORTANT TO US. It is a genius slice of call centre hell that not only culminates in a ludicrously extreme finale, but also managed to extort my sincerest sympathies for the initially abhorrent victim’s torment!

The subsequent film earned my vote for ‘Best Feature’ and this opinion was apparently shared by other attendees, as it walked away with the prestigious Audience Award chainsaw for that category.  TOUS LES DIEUX DI CIEL (All the Gods in the Sky) started life as a short film in the form of award winning short UN CIEL BLEU PRESQUE PARFAIT (A Nearly Perfect Blue Sky). 

Rather than simply expanding the original yarn by process of extension, enigmatic director Quarxx has literally taken the original short movie, diced it up and used the originally filmed scenes as pillars for a mesmerizing panorama to be built around.

Apart from learning the movies’ naissance via its introduction, I had no prior clues as to narrative, subject matter or style. I am certain this lack of knowledge was hugely beneficial as this powerfully captivating piece of cinema positively enthralled me for the full 110 minutes.

 Although the imagery was at times extremely outlandish and bizarre, the story had me gripped in reality, with its unique depiction of anxiety driven depression and twisted guardianship. Admittedly distressing at times, Quarxx poetically manages to treat each character with the utmost compassion despite their deplorably bleak plights.

I make no apologies for the vagueness of this summary as I feel the impact of this fascinating piece of cinematic brilliance needs to be encountered with as little preparation as possible in order to experience its full effects. Simply genius.

The ‘2D and Deranged Shorts’ programme that followed provided a rich tapestry of warped animation peppered with sharp wit and surrealism. Pick of the bunch for me was David Barlow-Krelina’s CATERPILLARPLASTY with a premise concerning the concept of society’s fixation on physical flawlessness. The Canadian short proved to be a marvellous blend of weirdly repulsive sequences that, despite their peculiarity, still made a blatantly obvious statement. 

The Saturday agenda of Dead by Dawn is traditionally a monstrous one. Looking at your watch at 21.45hrs with the comfort there is still over 8 hours of weird and wonderful entertainment to gorge on is testament to that.

CUTTERHEAD, the debut feature from Rasmus Kloster Bro, was next on the bill and proved to be a truly gruelling watch at times. It centres on a reporter Rie (Christine Sonderris) who joins the workforce structuring an extension to the underground transport system in Copenhagen.  Initially, the movie plays out as a fly on the wall visual document as it cannily immerses the viewer in the confined setting.  Bereft of natural light, with the intricate processes by the workers shrewdly woven into the dialogue, the style of the movie is astutely authentic.  

What develops is an extremely effectual depiction of claustrophobic catastrophe. The infectious use of sound made all the more potent by accompanying panic stricken scenes of complete darkness. Not content simply to submerge the viewer in the stifled environment, the proverbial mind-fuck of needing blind faith in crisis rescue I found remarkably effective, as our protagonists are faced with the unenviable task of shielding their sanities. I highly recommend this picture and was privileged to be subjected to its full efficacy thanks to the pitch-black theatre.

Fried chicken courtesy of a certain Colonel admittedly provided my evening sustenance for the full four nights. While this gourmet choice may seem somewhat unadventurous, watching the security guy on the door really earn his pennies defending the Colonel’s honour was too irresistible not to enjoy on a nightly basis. How fitting then that a programme of ‘Finger Licking Good’ shorts was next up.

I recently learned that the grand master purveyors of sizzled poultry dropped that particular slogan from their marketing propaganda back in 2011. Apparently it was considered too “food-centric” as the corporation aimed for a more “healthy eating” image.  Ridiculous eh?!! What next? A Disney remake of A SERBIAN FILM just to keep things “nice”? Anyway. I digress…

I am sure my 1970s comrades are familiar with the aforementioned slogan, along with old wives’ tales regarding deep fried rodents being inadvertently served up. But there were no Kentucky Fried Rats in this programme of shorts. Oh no, it was WAY worse than that! Food-related subversive short films featuring foul mouthed psychotic grannies, harmonious hilarity, bizarre TV commercials and a heart-rending tale of a pet bunny were entreatingly diverse. But it was a bowl full of retch inducing acne flavoured retribution in the form of Kate MCoid’s IT’S NOT CUSTARD that tested the old gag reflexes. Despite running at a mere 7 minutes, it still managed to lay the foundations for a grossly effective punch line.  

The Lieberman Late show double bill was soon to be upon us. Interestingly for me, this coincided with the interesting exchange I referred to earlier. You see, despite this being a film festival and not a convention, guest of honour Jeff Lieberman very kindly agreed to sign and pose for selfies with fans for free. He also brought a wonderful array of rare goodies to tempt attendees to cross his palm with silver. 

OK so… some of you may have heard of so-called “pubic triangle” in Edinburgh, duly named due to the trio of strip bars. I admit my thirst got the better of me at one point and no sooner had the head settled on my pint of Tenants that I heard those enticing words..

“You want dance? Just twenty pound….”

“Oh hi. Erm… no I am having a quick drink in-between movies.”

“Look… I do you dance, ten pound…”

“Oh right… well…. you see I would…. but Jeff Lieberman is doing this signing at 11pm. I mean he has some amazing stuff. Like he raided his office or something and brought them over for the festival. Lobby cards, reproduction original posters and a selection of Blu- rays. If you’ve got your own stuff, he’ll willingly sign it for free but anything off his stall is £20. Really unique stuff, so I am kind of saving my cash till then”.

“Jeff who?”

“Lieberman!  Lie-ber-man. You know, he is known as “Lebo” in the industry.  He did SQUIRM and DEAD BEFORE DAWN. You ever heard of that movie BLUE SUNSHINE? Wow you MUST see it. It has this scene right at the beginning. This guy is, like, crooning to this lass at a party and… well I won’t spoil it but there is no gore, no blood, no violence, no nudity but the scene STILL shocks the bejeezus out of me every goddam time! Its sooo cool! “

…sighs.. “Ok, I do you dance for five pound…”

(Smiles knowingly at the camera and winks… fade to black…)

Back at the Filmhouse (via the cash point), and after snatching a wonderful memoir from the Lieberman marketplace, the Late Show featuring SQUIRM and SATAN’s LITTLE HELPER was about to begin. The wonderful introduction by Lebo himself explained the simple inspiration for each movie. For the former, it was how he was haunted by a childhood experience of watching his brother electrocute the soil in order to ascertain worms for a fishing trip. This gross-out memory when later mixed with LSD quite simply gave way to the slithery shocker that that is SQUIRM.

The latter, on the other hand, came to be via observing folk who don gorilla fancy dress outfits feeling it somehow grants them the right to grope female party goers and be a complete and utter dick in general. Henceforth, SATANS LITTLE HELPER was spawned.

The Saturday night programme is where your constitution for late night horror really gets a rigorous workout. But, knowing there is only one day to go was motivation enough for this attendee to endure scorching retinas and see it through to the final credits. 

SUNDAY

I had a decent enough rest given the circumstances, but was still somewhat fatigued as I dragged myself into the bathroom of my humble B & B on Sunday at around 11am. Luckily the good folk who ran it must have realised this and very graciously turned off the hot water for the day. Thanks guys! An ice-cold shower and pint of steaming hot coffee later I was in place for the final day.

The two short film programmes that graced the final day, ‘Splendid Isolation’ and ‘Red in Tooth and Claw’ proved to be another eclectic blend of skewed originality. It was from this collection that the joint winners for “Best Shorts” emerged. Conin brothers Chris (director) and Sam (cinematographer) along with actor Paul Bullion were on hand to introduce their 12-minute film, OSCARS BELL, revealing it was inspired by true events.  The intriguing little film centring on a simple family camping trip really delivers a shockingly eerie climax and is definitely worth tracking down.  

Sharing the Audience Award for Best Short was another British film directed by Jonny Kenton, DEAD BIRDS. Weighing in at 35 minutes, the mix of black comedy and poignancy topped off with some deliciously-framed gore got my nod.

YOU MIGHT BE THE KILLER (Brett Simmons) on the other hand did little to stoke my interest, most likely due to my subjective aversion to so called comedy horror. While that personal stance is often compromised by the sharp ingenuity of certain short films, I struggle to maintain interest with full length productions of that ilk.  This hip Scream-esque reference-laden slasher destroys any notion of plot ambiguity with its very title. The regular “counsellor death count” graphic that peppered the movie with annoying regularity had a hint of a one trick pony to me. It did however rouse my fellow audience throughout and appeared to be generally well received.

The final day had two new features. LUZ, a German production written and directed by Tilman Singer. Introduced as having a ‘fractured narrative”, this relatively short feature of 70 minutes is disorientating and unorthodox, with a distinctly vintage feel without overstating the era. The seemingly dispersed, almost sketch-like sequences eventually converge to skilfully blend the story together in a very clever way. The result was a picture very satisfying and enough to entice this viewer into a revisit for subsequent viewings.

The customary hoot that is ‘Punk Pass the Parcel’ meant a flurry of little black packages looped around the auditorium with gusto! There were no gimmicks here as the little prizes revealed themselves to be a crop of current Arrow Video Blu-ray releases. Impressive.

It was, however, a little disappointing that the time-honoured Shit Film Amnesty only had three entries. Can’t complain, as I didn’t contribute myself, but I already have next year’s donation wrapped in Andrex with a damning verdict ready to be inked!

The festival was sadly nearly at its end. The closing feature, REMOTE CONTROL, was a very fitting way for the final Lieberman feature to screen. The scheduled post screening Q & A gave way to a more informal ‘meet and greet’ in the bar afterwards.

I had no plans to write a review before attending this year’s festival. But there is such a unique spirit to Dead by Dawn that I felt compelled to spread the word. The pure devotion and drive that goes into organising this event is something to behold. I very naively had this vision that festival organisers had filmmakers petitioning them to showcase their wares and therefore being faced with the simple task of cherry-picking what they thought worthy.  How wrong I was!

Digital streaming of movies to miniscule devices continues to promote ‘convenience’ above ‘enchantment’ when it comes to indulging in films.  If that is not enough, the vile terms ‘consumers’ and ‘content providers’ have nauseatingly made it increasingly complex to negotiate a film onto the festival schedule when not dealing directly with the filmmaker.

Dead by Dawn, however, radiates a deep love and respect for the uniquely magical cinema experience which, for me, is nothing short of inspiring.

Adele Hartley, we salute you…

Dead by Dawn Festival runs every April in Edinburgh. For further information, check out the official website: deadbydawn.co.uk

First Reformed (2017)

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By Guest Contributor Matt Harries

In an era where a phrase such as ‘world building’ has entered the lexicon of the expectant cinema-goer, it is all too easy for the brightest lights, most groundbreaking camera work and most stupendous action sequences to steal the hearts and minds of the viewer. Conversely, it seems that all too often the films which make the loudest noises leave the faintest trace, as we watch beautiful people with impossible powers saving the world with almost numbing regularity. In the case of Paul Schrader’s First Reformed, we have a film which asks questions relating to the weightiest of subjects, but does so with what seems like an uncharacteristic subtlety in modern mainstream cinema.

It is unusual for me to discover a film via the score, but that’s how I first came to know of the existence of First Reformed. Lustmord is a name familiar to fans of the Dark Ambient sub-genre and it was via his Bandcamp page that I discovered that the characteristically ominous strains of his work were being used in a soundtrack. This had the effect of imbuing the film with a sense of dread and anticipation before I even knew what it was about, as Lustmord has carved out his career as a supreme master of the audial sense of foreboding. His music can also be described as cavernous, oceanic, intense and chilling, so I was instantly expecting something in the realm of a psychological horror. While there are one or two hard-hitting moments which can be described as horrific, what is delivered is far subtler than some typical horror tropes such as the malign supernatural or extra-terrestrial entity. The source of the inauspicious threat is very much part of the zeitgeist, discussed across all platforms on a daily basis; namely, our destruction of the planet.

It is difficult to talk about the nuts and bolts of First Reformed without a nod to the personal history of writer and director Paul Schrader. Perhaps inevitably known as the screenwriter behind Martin Scorcese’s 1976 classic Taxi Driver, Schrader has made it known on several occasions that the medium of screenwriting should be used as an opportunity for catharsis. Indeed, he suggests it is only through the willingness to ‘drop your pants and show your own laundry’ that writers should work in the field. A cursory look into his past reveals that while espousing the ‘self-therapy’ of writing, Schrader himself once suffered a stomach ulcer due to excessive drinking, as well as other turmoils suffered under unsustainable stress. Given these experiences, as well as a self-professed fascination with characters who go against the grain of society and who seem to act against their own best interests, it is clear that the film’s central character Reverend Toller (played by Ethan Hawke) represents to some extent Schrader’s lifetime of interests and experiences as a writer and a man.

Toller is himself a writer, albeit he writes in a journal with no intent of publication or witness by another – other than his Creator. The goal is wholly cathartic – ‘when writing about oneself one should show no mercy’. Although often painful and not without moments self-recrimination, this process of daily confessional is carried out with an ascetic’s rigour. The exercise of withholding nothing becomes increasingly influential in Toller’s journey throughout the film. The events that transpire upon meeting troubled young couple Mary (Amanda Seyfreid) and Michael (Phillip Ettinger), act as a spark to tinder against his increasingly stark mindset of unflinching honesty.

It is heavily pregnant Mary who introduces herself and Michael to Toller. She confides that Michael wishes her to terminate their unborn child. Upon meeting him, Toller learns that the cause of Michael’s despair is the what he sees as the inevitable collapse of human civilisation within his own lifetime, due to the wilful destruction of our natural world for fuel and resource. How, he reasons, can he justify bringing his daughter into a world which faces an inevitable cataclysm of environmental and subsequent societal collapse? Michael strongly questions Toller about the folly of raising a child in a doomed world. Sensing a challenge, the pastor responds with vigour and asserts that Michael’s daughter is ‘as (alive) as a tree. As an endangered species…full of the beauty and mystery of nature. A life without despair is a life without hope,’ he continues. ‘Holding these two ideas in our head is life itself.’

For all Toller’s wise words, in private he continues to act against his own interests in a way which is strikingly reminiscent of Paul Schrader’s struggles as a young writer back in the 70s. His journal writing is accompanied by the nightly drinking of whisky, by the bottle, despite his own escalating ill health. The despair which ultimately proves too much for Michael begins to consume him too, until, seen as an anachronism by the Church’s ruling body and harbouring an increasing sense of indignant rage, he begins to formulate ideas of retribution. Here there is a clear parallel with Schrader’s earlier creation Travis Bickle, memorably portrayed by Robert De Niro. Toller too is a former member of the military, and like Bickle is drawn toward a violent solution to the problems imposed by the world, one that carries the stain of impotent fury and a state of mental fortitude on the brink of collapse. Toller’s actions declare a willingness to stand up and make a mark for the fallen heroes of the struggle against corporations and governments who damage the planet for gain, while also acting as an outward expression of his own changing attitudes. Fuelled by the words of Michael ringing in his ears, as well as the increasing sense of isolation inside his church, he begins to dream of martyrdom.

While it may be easy to see Toller as a cross between Taxi Driver’s Bickle and Michael Douglas’s D-Fens in Falling Down, First Reformed defies being easily categorised alongside those films, specifically by introducing Amanda Seyfreid’s character Mary as a source of compassionate, inclusive energy, one that acts as a counterpoint to the more violently masculine impulses shown by other characters. Despite her own fears and vulnerability, she refuses to condemn Michael for his actions and later on, as she becomes closer to Toller, she introduces a ray of light into his increasingly dark world view.

The film’s final sequence could have gone in one of several directions, with Schrader apparently having written two different endings before settling on the one he did. The chosen ending perhaps suggests love is the mechanism by which the opposing forces of hope and despair are balanced. While this sentiment has a well worn feel to it, it is the power of First Reformed to provoke questions of the viewer that is perhaps its great strength. There is the question of responsibility – of state, of Church and of the individual. Not only toward the natural world, which through greed and apathy faces what many observers agree is a mounting crisis, but crucially toward ourselves. Can we each face our maker, our conscience, or our own sense of morality with absolute honesty? In the light of this fearless honesty we may choose to shine upon our own actions, are we able to recognise a way to balance the light and darkness in ourselves and thus the world? If so we may, like writer Paul Schrader, yet have a say in which way the story goes.

From Terra to Terror: Alien at 40

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By guest contributor Matt Harries

Back in 1979, the late John Hurt almost certainly had no inkling whatsoever of his coming place within cinematic history. In this brief role among many in a storied career, he acted out one of the silver screen’s most iconic deaths. The gruesome demise of Executive Officer Kane of the USCSS Nostromo undoubtedly left an indelible mark upon cinema as a whole, horror cinema in particular and likely anyone who has watched it since. With the release of Ridley Scott’s classic Alien, the arena of macabre storytelling moved into the stellar depths. Space horror was born.

40 years later, and while the number of ‘true’ space horrors remains rather small, mankind’s preoccupation with space exploration remains at the forefront of his greatest ambitions. Indeed now the talk is of returning man and woman to space once again, to the moon and eventually, beyond. The International Space Station has been in low orbit around the earth since 2000. Ever more we are looking toward the goal of expanding the human frontier. The likes of Elon Musk, all ambition, passion and undefinable otherness, think big and talk big regarding the possibilities of space exploration. Our farthest travelled spacecraft, Voyager 1, was launched just before Alien, in 1977. In the intervening years it has travelled some 13 billion miles into space – only human imagination has taken us further. For is it not upon the paths our most far fetched imaginings describe that the dreams of science are eventually realised?

Regarded from space, the earth stands out like an exotic jewel. Its colours of blue and green, swirling whites and greys, its stark, arid browns and yellows; together these colours speak the language of biological life, and as denizens of the earth it is our language, the language of our blood and of our bones. Our earth, rarest of gems among the cold stars, an impossible multitude of distant, scattered diamonds. The locus of our particular species, all we are; contained within a sphere that floats amidst an immensity so boundless we can only reach for it conceptually.

At times here on earth we see our world as both vast and crowded, beautiful and mundane, barren and verdant. Stunningly alive and at the same time, slowly dying. When we look back at from space, whether from a photograph taken on the surface of the moon, or an image beamed from a distant satellite, we are struck by a keen sense of our world’s relative insignificance, its rarity and fragility. It is surely a wonder we should ever dream of leaving.

We are often told by certain spiritualists that there is no true separation between ourselves and the universe. Yet who can truly suppose to know such a truth, to know it in their bones? The idea that we are one with faraway Pluto, with Saturn and its ringlets of ice and rock, with the vast swirling gaseous storms of Jupiter – yet alone with the unmapped, unknown and unseen that exists beyond our reckoning – this seems an almost counter-intuitive leap of the imagination. On the other hand, as we are creatures of the tides and forests and the soil; we feel this as an indivisible part of our connection with the world. Yet humanity greedily dreams of a life away from Mother Earth, away from the source of our physical bodies, the cradle of life. How can it be that we feel somehow constrained here on this planet? How is it not enough to simply remain here, embracing our fate and the earth’s as one and the same? One thing that is certain is that we have been dreaming of travelling beyond our solar system and expressing this desire through our imaginations, for uncounted generations.

In 2019 we seem, perhaps more than ever before, to be living in the shadow of imminent dystopic predictions. Climate change, global economic instability, famine, war, mass migration. The sixth extinction. The Anthropocene era. These are some of the pressures that, as described by many a science fiction yarn, will eventually drive humanity forward on its quest to leave the earth and populate the solar system and beyond. While visionaries such as Musk bend their considerable intellect and wealth upon this goal, imbuing their efforts with a narrative of humankind’s growth, expansion and achievement, science fiction continues to offer an altogether more cautionary parallel narrative. One that seeks to examine the implications of what happens when we reach beyond the protection of Gaia, placing ourselves into the very maw of a godless, sometimes malicious, universe.

Reclassified as a distinct entity by virtue of its extraterrestrial setting, fundamentally space horror is a cinema defined by location; usually a vast spacecraft capable of interstellar travel. The action may move at times on to a planetary body or perhaps into the void of space itself, but is aboard these vessels where much of space horror’s defining tropes take their dreadful shape. The quintessential mother ship, whether the Nostromo in Alien, the Event Horizon, or the Elysium in Pandorum, is at turns labyrinthine, vast, monolithic and claustrophobic. Both sanctuary and tomb. Nothing reinforces mankind’s precariousness quite like the voyages that take us into deep space, for the invisible cord that connects all living things on earth is stretched thinner and thinner, until it no longer tethers. Beyond the reach of human agency, these often sentient world-structures designed by man can take on sinister new aspects, as if they no longer need to obey the whims of the small fleshy creatures who walk their tunnels.

In Alien, the ship’s computer, MU/TH/UR was always aligned with the mission of Ash, the rogue science officer played by Ian Holm, for whom preservation of the xenomorph sample was the prime objective. In Event Horizon, the eponymous ship ‘returns’ from travels beyond human reckoning with what seems to be the intention to journey back to this realm of ‘pure chaos’ carrying a fresh human cargo. In Pandorum, the Elysium, over the course of its massively elongated mission lifespan, becomes far less a haven than a miniature hell, within which humanity mutates into something altogether monstrous.

Whether it is the spacecrafts that are our homes, the artificial intelligences designed to protect us and act in our best interests, or, various memorable turns such as Sam Neill’s maniacal leading scientist Dr William Weir or Guy Pierce’s billionaire entrepreneur of the Alien mythology; humanity’s intentions in space horror are rarely reflected in the outcomes of our actions. The examples of the failure of human intention are many and varied. Time and again, we confidently assert our might against the barely understood horrors of the universe. Our strongest warriors are defeated by the savage defiance of unearthly creatures. Our most advanced technologies are rendered unusable or unsuitable, their purpose and function usurped. Our greed for material wealth, for advantage in warfare or empire building – how swiftly these ambitions, that are unchecked upon our own terms, leave us hapless as mice before the hawk when we stray too far.

Perhaps our greatest strength as a species is our sheer curiosity, our hunger to fathom the darkest depths and overcome what seem like the boundaries of our condition. To ceaselessly redefine them, moving beyond them and integrating them into our sense of who we are. To make clear who we must become if we are to move beyond our status quo. Mankind, the restless wanderer, whose desires and dreams are too great to let his very home in the universe confine him. Where will this ceaseless pushing get us in the end? In 1979 Ridley Scott’s Alien demonstrated that for all we believe ourselves equipped to tackle the challenges of deep space – for all the crew’s good intentions, or the guile and hunger behind the secret will that drives the true mission of the Nostromo – we are simply another creature wandering unawares, among unknown stars haunted by the unseen and unimagined forces of the universe.

In 1639 John Clarke, the headmaster of a Lincoln Grammar school, noted in his collection of proverbs Paroemiologia anglolatina, that ‘he that pryeth into every cloud may be struck by a thunderbolt.’ Perhaps though, it is fitting we leave the final word to one of the film’s taglines, quoting Science Officer Ash;

“The perfect organism. Its structural perfection is matched only by its hostility…its purity. A survivor – unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality.” …Is there room enough in space for us and it?

Stairway to Hell: The Exorcist

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By special guest contributor Marc Lissenburg

“What’s the scariest film you’ve ever seen?” It’s a query I am faced with on an alarmingly regular basis when folk learn of my fervent horror movie fanaticism. Despite the somewhat tedious probing, my enthused and instantaneous retort each time is – “THE EXORCIST!”

Now I accept one man’s ‘classic’ (Kermode) is another man’s ‘crap’ (LaVey) and, as such, have no intention of reigniting that particular debate with this article. I will, however, afford myself a little subjective self indulgence simply to convey the motivation for penning this piece.

I first watched The Exorcist aged 14, a couple of years before it was withdrawn from UK home video circulation after being refused an 18 certificate under the 1984 Video Recordings Act. Its esteemed director, William Friedkin, has been forthright in claiming he intended the film to be an “emotional experience”. That concise précis perfectly describes my personal attachment to the picture, for numerous reasons. You see, up until viewing The Exorcist, my horror edification had largely been through gore-tinted glasses as I indulged in Video Nasty culture on VHS. But just a few minutes into Friedkin’s masterpiece, I was overcome with the sense I was watching a ‘serious horror film’.

My inaugural viewing as a teenager enticed me to understandably bask in the tremendously profane blasphemy on offer. Along with this, the notion that an innocent 12 year old girl being used as a mere vessel by Pazuzu implied possession could happen to anyone. The concept sent shrills down my pubescent spine. Then there was my ill-fated Catholic upbringing. The obnoxious nurturing ultimately accelerated my journey toward Satanic freedom, or at the very least, “faithless slime” as Regan so eloquently put it. Either way, it undoubtedly increased the potency of the movie’s vital religious element.

But it was the film’s location of Georgetown that fascinated me. Having family that reside in Washington DC, it seemed sacrilege not to make the unholy pilgrimage t0 the landmarks immortalised in Friedkin’s menacing picture. 31 years after my initial viewing, I finally trekked over the Potomac Bridge to what I consider the Mecca of horror locations….

Having a cousin that graduated in Georgetown as a personal tour guide certainly helped. I was in awe of her intricate knowledge of the area, yet openly chastised her for never watching the movie itself. The first thing that struck me about the district situated in the Northwest of Washington DC was an enthralling sense of historic charisma. Cobbled sidewalks complemented by processions of thriving trees dwelled harmoniously among antique constructions. The meld offered a unique balance of homely neighbourhood and enigmatic tradition.

Before long, the almost regal facade of the Georgetown University Campus stood proudly before me. Its Georgian brick architecture and proud steeple seemed to radiate a sense of history. Originally a Jesuit private university when founded in 1789, the structural design has remained intact despite the proud evolution of the buildings’ function. The campus site is of course briefly featured in the ‘movie within the movie’ sequence that serves to establish Chris MacNeil and Burke Denning’s characters and relationship. The liberal grassy zones in front of the eminent structure were now patently evident, as opposed to being crowded with the ‘demonstrating public’ in the movies preliminaries.

The main arched entrance exemplified the grandiosity of the building by appearing to swell in size as I approached it. A scaling stone stairway ushered me to the inspiring Georgetown Seal mosaic floor motif which sat before the double door entrance.

Although not featured in the movie, the mythical significance of the design is such I felt it was worth mentioning. You see, legend has it that if you set foot on the seal, you will not graduate in 4 years’ time. Despite this alleged myth being completely irrelevant to a tourist such as me, something made me respectfully sidestep the section as I entered the illustrious building. This act, I was assured, is replicated by the mass of students who onerously side-step the design, even during rush hour!

A dissecting walk through the impressive Healy Hall led us to the tranquil setting that is known as the Dahlgren Quadrangle. Before us stood the Dahlgren Chapel of the Sacred Heart. Crowned on the University’s website as the “spiritual heart of the Georgetown community”, the Catholic chapel is in fact a century younger then the Campus that encircles it.

Despite ‘St Mikes’ (the place of worship’s appellation in the film) only being afforded a few seconds of screen time, I found its exterior instantly recognisable. Made up of lustrous brickwork housing the Celtic styled window arch that leads toward the solitary bell and crucifix at its summit, the location remains identical to its depiction on celluloid 44 years previously.

Despite the overtly sanctified status of the edifice, I was saturated with blasphemous cravings when I entered the vestibule. I couldn’t refrain from polluting the serene atmosphere with a puerile demonically whispered “it burns” as I placed my hand in the font of ‘holy water’, much to the embarrassment of my younger, yet considerably more mature cousin. Then I caught sight of the pristine foliage meticulously positioned either side of the altar. It evoked that shocking scene whereby a priest’s attempt to carry out his duty of placing flowers at the chapel’s centre is infamously interrupted by the odious desecration of a holy statue.

The somewhat garish 1970s chic of the chapel’s interior in the movies’ scenes where Father Karris conducts a Catholic mass, gives way to more traditionally serene surroundings in the present day. Absent is the crimson carpet that flowed toward the altar for example. The arched designs carved into wood took on a near luminescent glow behind the troubled priest in the film. Today however, possibly due to a few conservative coats of varnish, the wood takes on a darker, more subtle guise.

Just above these carved designs are a quintuple of stained glass windows. We only get a teasing glimpse showing the bottom edges of the in the movie’s aforesaid church scenes. It is very evident, though, that the embellished glasswork predictably remains respectfully identical today. Resisting Pazuzu’s attempts to guide my hand in the act of writing some profane demonic quote in the Chapel Book of Prayer Intentions, we took the short stroll to 3600 Prospect Street.

Obviously this is the property frequently referred to as the “Exorcist House” due to its portrayal as the MacNeil residence in the movie. The distinctive black metal railings that separated the property from the sidewalk have been predictably forfeited in favour of a solid wood privacy fence, no doubt due to pesky groupies such as myself. By some good fortune however, the large solid wood gates were generously left open on the afternoon of our visit granting us the voyeuristic delicacy of being able to ogle the house’s fascia. The ajar front door conjured images of Karl carrying a comatose and blanketed Regan from the 1972 Mercedes 280SE into the house. While ingesting the honour of being confronted with the most iconic residence in horror history, visions of Regan saying goodbye to Father Dyer in the movies closing scenes washed over me. What enriched the experience was just how similar the site appeared. There was simply no need to decipher our location. Bar the aforementioned fencing, everything was seemingly unaffected by the claws of time. Even the duet of lamp posts, both capped with metallic flying birds, remained proudly guarding the house’s entrance. There was of course one last site to behold on our tour of terror – The legendary “Exorcist M Street steps” themselves…

Watching the movie again recently, it’s notable just how little screen time the unwittingly sinister set of steps is given. The fatal climactic plummet of Father Karris naturally imbued them with notoriety. But it’s two other wonderfully photographed scenes that put the landmark in the limelight. Firstly, there is Lieutenant Kinderman’s inquisitive ascending gaze as he ponders Burke Denning’s ungodly demise. Then in the film’s closing frames, we witness Father Dyer’s solemn and regretful look downward.

The concrete staircase is offset from the house and it’s a renowned fact that an extension was temporarily built onto 3600 Prospect Street to give the impression that Regan’s bedroom indeed lingered above the 75 steps. Surveying the palpably steep descent from the landmark’s apex, I was instantly struck with just how impressive the stuntman’s plunge was, considering the precipitous concrete was only mitigated by a mere half inch of rubber at the time of filming.

I cautiously negotiated the flight of steps ensuring I suffered no such fate as the collared protagonist. The landmark was officially made a tourist attraction in a Halloween ceremony attended by creators William Peter Blatty and William Friedkin in 2015, an honour confirmed by the handsome plaque on the wall at the base.

Scrutinizing scenes in the film where the stairwell featured, I noticed the scarlet word “PIGS” apparently sprayed onto the wall just over the stairs railings. This had now been replaced by unreadable blue graffiti. The same ‘artist’ had seemingly added the obligatory “Fuck Trump” protest to the tourist attraction! The climb upward obviously proved more arduous, and after a few circuits causing my leg muscles to smoulder, I knew it was time to bid farewell. I did however manage to persuade my cousin to capture me in “Karris pose” laying face down on the pavement at the stairs base.

I was previously a bit torn about horror locations. For every Oakley Court there is a site that has been renovated to the point of it being completely unrecognisable from the movie it originally featured in. But my Georgetown experience has certainly given me the bug. Next stop, southern Germany for all things Suspiria….!

Folk Horror: Weird Wales

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By Nia Edwards-Behi and Keri O’Shea

Keri: When Universal Pictures set about cementing the developing horror genre with a series of tales – both old and embellished – the small country of Wales, in the United Kingdom, was oddly integral to this process. The ‘Old Dark House’ (1932) was set in deepest, darkest Wales, the rain lashing, forcing the house’s inmates to stay put until escape was possible; The Wolf Man (1941), which spawned a new horror archetype, silver bullets and all, saw its central character get ‘the bite’ in Wales, before running amok through its landscapes. Why was Wales, a country which has – let’s be fair – struggled to gain recognition as a country in its own right, chosen as the backdrop for these American productions? Was it just remote enough to serve a purpose?

It’s because, I’d argue, it’s a landscape which is just on the border between modern and predictable and the somehow strange, unknown. It’s part of the United Kingdom, one of the wealthiest union of countries in the world, and it’s predominantly English-speaking, whether first or second language, but it’s still an outlier, a mystery, home to an ancient language, a country with a rich tradition of cultural practices which are distinct from those of its neighbours. The presence and promotion of the Welsh language (Cymraeg) still seems to be a source of discomfort to many (often monoglot English) commentators. Just a couple of weeks ago, a debate on bilingual schooling in Wales gave rise to many angry and baffled voices which could not countenance Welsh as a medium, despite there never being any indication that the lingua franca of English was being replaced. Somehow, having a parallel language on the doorstep is seen as worrisome and negative.

Wales also has a history of social protest and insurrection, which perhaps has some perhaps troubling pagan overtones – maybe prompting the question – how well does one know one’s neighbours? Welsh protest moments are, by any accounts, a strange phenomenon. The ‘Scotch Cattle’ of the early 1800s blended theatricality with real menace. Consisting of groups of men unhappy with their treatment at the hands of bosses or colleagues, they would gather at night for what were called ‘midnight terrors’, often wearing animal skins, blackened faces, with some blowing horns and many bellowing like cattle. This was intended to intimidate, and no doubt, it worked. The Cattle would damage property and machinery if they felt it was necessary to their aims, and they sent dramatic warnings to their peers – often written in animal’s blood. A message left as a warning to blacklegs (strike-breakers) stated, after naming the men responsible, “we are determined to draw the hearts out of all the men above named, and fix two of the hearts upon the horns of the Bull…we know them all. So we testify with our blood.”

The so-called Rebecca’s Daughters also challenged the social order in a theatrical manner, this time wrecking and burning the tollgates designed to generate income on Welsh roads, at the expense of many of the poorest in society. Dressing as women, led by a ringleader – ‘Rebecca’ – these men turned their actions into something of a dramatic performance, complete with a script. Surely, on some level this kind of history fed into the film Darklands (1996), albeit the film chose to explore cult consciousness rather than straightforward protest. Even the name, ‘Darklands’, corresponds with the so-named ‘Black Domain’ in South Wales, where many of the protest movements mentioned above took place, and in this film the amassed strangers with their rituals seem to call to that strand of Welsh history.

There are other historical practices in Wales that seem to call to a pagan past: the ceffyl pren (‘wooden horse’) was yet another way to bring down the wrath of the community upon any transgressors – by literally affixing them to a wooden frame in some cases, or more often, publically burning an effigy of them. Then, there’s the Mari Lwyd, a (frankly terrifying) midwinter practice where a shrouded horse skull is carried door to door by a bearer and a band of performers, where, to gain entrance into the homes they visit, a singing competition takes place. Whilst well-intentioned (and similar practices take place in other parts of Northern Europe) this is one vision which definitely has as much potential to scare as to entertain. Even if you expect to see a seven-foot bipedal horse creature at the door, it’s bound to be a bit of a shock. On occasion, by the way, this particular tradition still takes place at Christmas in Wales.

A historically strong sense of community, a sense of justice that can sometimes lash out at others and a love of shocking theatricality: these are things that seem to unite the Welsh throughout documented history, and they are also key components in many seminal folk horror films. So why, then, have there been so few Welsh horror films since the country’s name was invoked by Universal in the early decades of the twentieth century – much less folk horrors? Sure, the ‘Celtic Revival’ of the late nineteenth century no doubt helped to stop lots of the old practices and customs from slipping away entirely, but even aside from any historical precedents, there’s an absolute wealth of Welsh folklore which has yet to see the light of day.

The Mabinogion and New Welsh Folk tales

Nia: Wales’ most famous myths, The Mabinogion, have been the basis for a number of other, usually fantasy, works of art over the years, even including a South Korean MMORPG. The Mabinogion are a wide series of tales, written first in the 11th or 12th century and drawing upon the oral tradition of storytelling from much, much earlier. The tales are arranged into four ‘branches’, with characters appearing in various stories and the histories intertwining. The Mabinogion are the earliest examples of prose recorded in the literature of Britain, so to say that they are ‘folk’ is to under-state things.

It seems quite strange that while Wales has managed to take advantage of the whole Scandi-noir thing with its own take on the subgenre, TV series Y Gwyll/Hinterland, that we’ve yet to take advantage of Game of Thrones fever with a venture into the Mabinogi. While these tales are most obviously suited to the fantasy genre, there are some truly horrific elements to them that are absolutely ripe for the picking, either in direct adaptation or in more imaginative modern interpretations. There have been plenty of literary re-imaginings of The Mabinogion, such as the ‘New Stories from the Mabinogion’ series by Seren Books, but we’ve yet to see (to my knowledge) something like this taking place on screen, and certainly not the big screen. Perhaps the most famous tale of all, that of Branwen, features, in its climactic battle, a hideous construction, namely y pair dadeni, or the resurrection cauldron. That’s right, on a battlefield in Ireland, dead soldiers are flung into a cauldron and revived…where’s the medieval battle zombies film version of that?!

Branwen might be primarily tragic romantic history, but there are some profoundly horrific elements to it that would make for riveting – and entertaining – viewing. Likewise, there is some phenomenal body horror in characters such  as Blodeuwedd, a woman created from flowers, a character whose ultimate fate some may vaguely know via Alan Garner’s The Owl Service and the subsequent television series. Blodeuwedd is the most famous example, but there are many other transfigurations from man to beast, such as the brothers turned into mating pairs of animals for three years by their vengeful uncle. Cripes.

It’s been refreshing, then, that the best examples of recent Welsh genre filmmaking have drawn on notions of folk, while not relying on the Welsh mythological tradition. Perhaps indeed it’s because of the familiarity of tales like those of The Mabinogion that they’ve been avoided for so long, even in adaptation. The benefit of that is that when rare Welsh (and I mean culturally Welsh, you know, not just made in Wales) genre films come along they tend to be imaginative and interesting for it.

Director Chris Crow has a track record for imbuing his filmmaking with a sense of history and his most recent feature, The Lighthouse, is a really magnificent example of what can be achieved with notions of folk. By no means a traditional folk horror film, The Lighthouse draws on a singular moment in Welsh history and enlivens it with a tremendous sense of time, place and identity. The two men, trapped in the lighthouse in question, could well represent a rather traditional idea of the Welsh psyche befitting its period setting – God-fearing and self-loathing. Another recent example is Yr Ymadawiad (The Passing), a Welsh-language film which very strongly draws on Welsh history and landscape in such a wonderful way that to say too much rather spoils the film.

If there’s one thing to be said for these films, as much as I like them, it’s that they’re rather coy about the horror elements, and while I’m all for pushing genre boundaries, I’m also very much for witches and magic and creatures and otherworlds. It’s given me quite a thrill to see the project Cadi, formerly known as Gwrach (that’s ‘witch’ in Welsh), selected for this year’s round of Cinematic productions, the scheme that also brought us The Lighthouse. There’s scant detail so far, as expected of a film in pre-production, but it’s set in the present day, so I’m certainly excited. As genre productions in Wales seem to be on the rise, I can only hope that soon we’ll be turning to our mythology for some more horrific inspiration.

Film Review: Sexual Labyrinth (2017)

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‘A passionate tribute to the cinema of Fulci’? It’s words like these which act like bait to writers like us, so when this statement was attached to the press release of a new film, Sexual Labyrinth, my curiosity was piqued. That the press release also mentioned paying homage to Joe D’Amato (ah yes, he) and Luigi Atomico (no idea) only made me wonder more what the film could possibly have in store. Well, spoiler alert: this ‘vision of female sexuality’, again words used in the press release, has nothing whatsoever to do with Fulci that I can see, from his early sex comedies all the way through to his horrors. Nada. Joe D’Amato? Not an expert on his stuff, though I’ve seen a few D’Amato films, and I suppose the rough-shod human flesh on display throughout wouldn’t have looked too amiss in some of his work – though I’m not sure that this is particularly ambitious on the current filmmaker’s part, or complimentary on mine. I think the best thing to do here is to say a bit more about what is on offer.

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Special Feature – Ceremonial Celluloid!

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By Marc Lissenburg

Sleep deprivation aside, I prefer a clear head when treating my senses to horror based cinematic pleasures. Conversely, I personally find that my other passion, heavy-as-hell metal, is often better savoured while somewhat imnebriated. With this in mind, I’ve often pondered the curious instances whereby these two leisurely pursuits collide, pitching staunch sobriety against medicated blissfulness.

My disclosing ramble basically alludes to the fun that can be had with trying to identify the sound-bytes of sampled dialogue from our beloved horror genre that are cunningly interwoven into the heaviest music on the planet. This endeavour does have a varying scale of complexity, however. Whereas on one end of the scale, Regan McNeil’s profane howls are the proverbial no-brainer, the other end of the spectrum contains dialogue from flicks whose degree of obscurity make it down right infuriating to identify!

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Remembering Herschell Gordon Lewis, 1929-2016

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By Keri O’Shea & Nia Edwards-Behi

Keri: It’s no great surprise that Herschell Gordon Lewis, pioneer of so many infamous gore and exploitation movies, sustained another life as an advertising guru both before and after the 1960s heyday of his filmmaking career. In a number of ways, his films probably had a similar impact to his direct marketing strategies down through the years. Direct marketing has to land an immediate impact on the potential client, or else it’ll be ignored; it has to stand out against a raft of competition, but if it’s successful, then even a modest hit can pay serious dividends. On the flip side of all that, of course, this kind of tactic can irritate or even infuriate the people on the receiving end, who may not enjoy having their attention diverted by something quite so in-your-face and crass…

For HGL, the parallel must have been clear and intuitive, and so he made the best of both worlds throughout his lengthy career – sometimes landing a hit, sometimes not, but always keen to move on to the next thing, the next possible big break. Perhaps being born right at the start of the Great Depression would have taught him that you just worked at whatever presented itself in order to survive: this he did, and his entry into the shady world of low-budget cinema simply came about because it was the right move at the right time. HGL, by now working with legendary huckster David F. Friedman, first turned his hand to a number of softcore nudism movies (the only way to get that much flesh past the censors in those days) and these made back more than he’d spent; so far, so good, but when this all started to seem a little tame for audiences, HGL decided to move into horror.

Of course, he kept all avenues open, continuing to make sexploitation and even kids’ films during his career, but seeing a gap in the market for shock, Herschell Gordon Lewis’s Blood Feast, released in 1963, is widely-credited with being the first true ‘gore’ movie. Whilst those of us who grew up decades later may be well-used to splatter, indifferent to it even, back in the mid-sixties this was something radical – and, judging by the rise and rise of gore and mondo cinema in this era, people soon had the taste for it. Keen to deliver while the going was good, HGL stuck with the gore and churned out several more titles such as Color Me Blood Red and The Gruesome Twosome. The powers-that-be were, of course, dismayed at all of this censor-baiting, but there’s no such thing as bad publicity when you’re trying to make a living from film.

It is largely thanks to the DVD renaissance of the 1990s and in particular the likes of Something Weird Video, who have made it their business to bring us a whole host of otherwise lost lowbrow movies from the 20th Century, that we can now acknowledge HGL as the ‘Godfather of Gore’. Around half a century since they were made, his gore movies are still gloriously good fun – grisly, inventive, but also wryly humorous and self-aware. It meant that I, years after first seeing a still from The Gore Gore Girls in a copy of The Dark Side magazine, got to see the films in motion – and it turns out, they’re as zany and bold as you’d hope from such titles. If ever you ask yourself ‘Should I be laughing at this?’ whilst watching a HGL movie, then the answer is almost certainly ‘Yes!’: HGL never set out to make Doctor Zhivago, and he wanted us to have fun. And as we do so, we can also take in the ingenuity which delivered special effects clearly far before their time.

It was after a lengthy hiatus of thirty years (!) that Herschell Gordon Lewis, by now a marketing executive again, was tempted back to cinema, releasing a sequel to Blood Feast and making a few cameos in new films made by a new generation of fans. Then, in 2009, it was announced that HGL had made a brand new film of his own – and it would be premiering at Abertoir, Aberystwyth’s yearly horror film festival, with the man himself in attendance. The Uh-Oh Show, a bloodthirsty skit on the reality TV shows which had sprung up as the new face of exploitation during HGL’s absence, was so new at this screening that all the TV screens and monitors in shot were still in green-screen. As for the guest of honour Herschell Gordon Lewis, who did a Q&A after the film, he was everything I’d hoped he’d be: a realist, affable, good-natured and modestly proud of his lengthy career. Ever the pro, when asked by an audience member about what to do if you wanted to sell a film that had languished for years, his advice was straightforward: “Tell them you just wrapped!” It was a real pleasure to hear him speak, and over the next few days of the festival the shine never went off the fact that The Godfather of Gore was just walking around, Mrs Gordon Lewis in tow, happily mingling and chatting with his fans.

HGL had a long, industrious and remarkable life. He saw a lot of changes, and he drove a lot of them too. Without meaning to revolutionise low-budget cinema, he still did it, and the resulting films have lost nothing of their power to entertain during the intervening years. He will be greatly missed, but he will always keep that moniker, ‘The Godfather of Gore’, which he wore so well and with such reserves of natural charm.

HGL with Abertoir director Gaz Bailey, 2009
HGL with Abertoir director Gaz Bailey, 2009

Nia: I have great memories of Herschell Gordon Lewis attending Abertoir Horror Festival in 2009, back when I was only setting out on helping out with the festival after being a dedicated attendee since its beginning in 2006. Lewis was an absolutely charming guest – happy to talk to attendees, sign DVDs and posters, and just generally attend the festival, enjoying the films and events as much as anyone. That year there were old trailers programmed in front of features and naturally several trailers for Lewis’ films were included. I fondly remember being sat near Lewis as he exclaimed at one of the trailers ‘is that really one of mine?!’ I wish I could remember which particular trailer that related to! He gave a talk on his career, a filmmaking masterclass, and it was so full that people were having to stand at the back – and this in small-town Wales! I can only imagine the sorts of home-crowds he could draw. Like so many gore-meisters, in real life Lewis was an absolute delight.

One of my favourite things I’ve read about H G Lewis is in Bill Landis and Michelle Clifford’s book Sleazoid Express, wherein they note that one of the few early, exploitation gore filmmakers to emerge the other side relatively successful and happy was Lewis, having left the filmmaking career behind him for a career in marketing. Even so, it seems obvious that, even though he seemingly left exploitation behind him, he never resented those films nor the people who still enjoy them to this day; indeed, he really revelled in it. He will be sorely missed.