tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74151782024-03-18T05:48:40.065-04:00The Vault of BunchenessBeing a window into the thoughts and interests of a self-proclaimed entertainment ronin. Commentary, recipes, pop culture reviews...FUN FOR ALL!!!
© All original text copyright Steve Bunche, 2004-2023.Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.comBlogger3346125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-70972682759105485442024-01-13T16:36:00.005-05:002024-01-13T17:58:23.797-05:00AS SEEN DURING LUNCH AT THE POPEYE'S CHICKEN AND BISCUITS IN SUNSET PARK <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS5w5Ef1oLlH6kQj1-hrYHzE9ARxx0f8PwyXIx9ZD8d3BFu_wgXJc6qNBmE98GGqcVgalkB2M8eQFhfM85k_mP7v4hGqeBuSXWfauMXcMiqE-_POgP3VtjzeHcYALDuroaNg1hwExEsaYsrDwk0G4nzkYuY08mHl6jsKVb9G1PeUlxYIXEnb6TAw/s640/0POPEYES.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS5w5Ef1oLlH6kQj1-hrYHzE9ARxx0f8PwyXIx9ZD8d3BFu_wgXJc6qNBmE98GGqcVgalkB2M8eQFhfM85k_mP7v4hGqeBuSXWfauMXcMiqE-_POgP3VtjzeHcYALDuroaNg1hwExEsaYsrDwk0G4nzkYuY08mHl6jsKVb9G1PeUlxYIXEnb6TAw/w640-h480/0POPEYES.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p><i>The esteemed Popeyes Chicken and Biscuits on 5th Avenue in Brooklyn's sunset Park. My fast food chicken joint of choice for the past couple of years.</i></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto">Today I had a craving for my first lunch at the Chinese-run Popeyes in Sunset Park, so I hauled my ass down there via the B63 MTA bus. As I enjoyed my meal, I looked around the eatery's interior, as I always do, and today I saw two times of interest. First was this sign on the wall.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWr96XO1arkZTTLk4pjXCyGTHGJBU98JpBxQNocKv8F6Ovfo8fnPTOiP2RQlVGmE-KfhK85huihV5Ga4WbcmvDgyCKvlABEV0vh2h3GNYReCPcMWEEHsVeuMPmsLsFoEFsK2WwkBXJUsroo9UxguLGD3-jwBU-smpkTjX9rgoc-KVhKc5mgNcWNw/s4032/IMG_5773.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWr96XO1arkZTTLk4pjXCyGTHGJBU98JpBxQNocKv8F6Ovfo8fnPTOiP2RQlVGmE-KfhK85huihV5Ga4WbcmvDgyCKvlABEV0vh2h3GNYReCPcMWEEHsVeuMPmsLsFoEFsK2WwkBXJUsroo9UxguLGD3-jwBU-smpkTjX9rgoc-KVhKc5mgNcWNw/w480-h640/IMG_5773.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><p> <span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto">What incident prompted the need for this placard?</span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto">And then, as I readied to leave, I noticed this on the floor beneath the table where I had enjoyed my lunch. </span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto"> <br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwezHey-U20RoYC8mp9zLIdJGXR1mdTowWZivAlLpTXOvC1S1YRch6baKMWNREX4LtdDUQid1IiPAzxlYnKincobapksx6ayTRxsAJb9L5oYJhTvmhU7zKrTNNptcd3Q7W7A1pn4ttuVY4ut4z4EshzGIoBApy2nHya_0JyfWthXjKiUKLqGsUIw/s4032/IMG_5774.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwezHey-U20RoYC8mp9zLIdJGXR1mdTowWZivAlLpTXOvC1S1YRch6baKMWNREX4LtdDUQid1IiPAzxlYnKincobapksx6ayTRxsAJb9L5oYJhTvmhU7zKrTNNptcd3Q7W7A1pn4ttuVY4ut4z4EshzGIoBApy2nHya_0JyfWthXjKiUKLqGsUIw/w480-h640/IMG_5774.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto">Please pardon my ignorance, but is that a crack pipe?</span><p></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-56571307505992929732024-01-06T21:48:00.005-05:002024-01-06T21:48:39.308-05:00MORE RECORD ARCHAEOLOGY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJLwGgwXnoaM7UA849OpXmibtCkuQWOA5LyhK_N5MmQSFwMfWUtbtp4QtJ3ZjDzaC-YBCJPIbvi6HK_F-FQWuHREfE5rvX29Lt2RHwocQmj-Cc2-PdzoGfOt7g36HsqwPwqENkPL0FH75TLTwIrOivZG1kM-IwS1zFMjFhWTDW9CN2GKKKOAXf7Q/s1576/Screenshot%202024-01-06%20at%209.31.41%E2%80%AFPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1574" data-original-width="1576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJLwGgwXnoaM7UA849OpXmibtCkuQWOA5LyhK_N5MmQSFwMfWUtbtp4QtJ3ZjDzaC-YBCJPIbvi6HK_F-FQWuHREfE5rvX29Lt2RHwocQmj-Cc2-PdzoGfOt7g36HsqwPwqENkPL0FH75TLTwIrOivZG1kM-IwS1zFMjFhWTDW9CN2GKKKOAXf7Q/w640-h640/Screenshot%202024-01-06%20at%209.31.41%E2%80%AFPM.png" width="640" /></a></div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">To give you an idea of what I as being programmed with during my formative years, at age 5 my mother gave me not the Pufnstuf soundtrack, but a knockoff cover album by a Christian group. The content is no different from that on the original soundtrack, and some filler material is added to pad out the run time, but there's nothing in the original that would be considered offensive or blasphemous, so why re-record it? My guess is that they did it so they could tone down the more agressive/psychedelic sounds of the relatively far more heavy-sounding musicianship on the original. This album is an example of white people white-a-tizing their own music, and the result is as bland as skim milk diluted with tap water. </span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">When I pointed out that this was not the real Pufnstuf album but rather a "fake," my mother dug her heels in and insisted "It's better for you." After enduring it one time too many, I managed to trade my copy for the real thing. The older sister of a neighborhood playmate collected bad albums and needed a copy, so she traded me for the real one. The real one has Mama Cass's "Different," which was an early anthem for me. Anyway, this album displays all the worst elements found in children's records, and it preserved, track-by-track, on YouTube. I had not heard it since early 1972, and it was just as weak as I remembered.</span><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-24082917275793068252024-01-05T16:11:00.000-05:002024-01-05T16:11:12.158-05:00A SHOW OF LOVE FROM DOWN UNDER<p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Upon arriving home from treatment — over two hours after I was released — the day's mail contained this unexpected show of love from my niece Indira, Indi for short, and it made my entire week. She lives in Australia, so I only get to see her face-to-face once every few years, and she is growing into a teenager who inherited her New Yorker mother's sweetness and beauty. She's terrific and I wish I could see her (and her brothers and mother) more often. That said, this letter was a tonic, and I will cherish it forever. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBRLFjMFdNraaBkv0SPVTp48yI7eKRiL21c41qGaenV08B27dPBnE8wq_4lb6mJ4mJn-T4RP9UHXhepW_Uuy0nf9dUiWEtWliV0Rj2t_eQXcGYEIu_hT3Zl17P7D1bSEbjw1kDcfcWWhz3CAd8cRCuKgC2vAvfRycpIwfX24-Ai9WBQXRIh68SFA/s3324/IMG_5758.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="3324" height="578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBRLFjMFdNraaBkv0SPVTp48yI7eKRiL21c41qGaenV08B27dPBnE8wq_4lb6mJ4mJn-T4RP9UHXhepW_Uuy0nf9dUiWEtWliV0Rj2t_eQXcGYEIu_hT3Zl17P7D1bSEbjw1kDcfcWWhz3CAd8cRCuKgC2vAvfRycpIwfX24-Ai9WBQXRIh68SFA/w640-h578/IMG_5758.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-70245059795141016232023-12-29T04:33:00.005-05:002023-12-29T04:33:48.205-05:00NOT TONIGHT, I'M ON MY PYRAMID<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCmrn-sgyJrlICfrhsfYleYpa_MEE4b4X_4Ee-SK0lwJAGrCqfG0Ps2qlIeEO1TcpLCcH2s41dA3UFDHJRmsf4l11CWm2Zv6R9JqCl7Y46wTX2vBho8e_4qMRgifzIxv0fPdt8X5z7yItMdNWDERQtASP17MfQU0P6_syg9q1zsCaXnPjqSopz9A/s900/0cleo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="900" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCmrn-sgyJrlICfrhsfYleYpa_MEE4b4X_4Ee-SK0lwJAGrCqfG0Ps2qlIeEO1TcpLCcH2s41dA3UFDHJRmsf4l11CWm2Zv6R9JqCl7Y46wTX2vBho8e_4qMRgifzIxv0fPdt8X5z7yItMdNWDERQtASP17MfQU0P6_syg9q1zsCaXnPjqSopz9A/w640-h428/0cleo.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; white-space: pre-wrap;">Once again I cannot sleep, a state brought about by general anxiety over my nearly 91-year-old mother's dwindling health and the endlessness of kidney failure/dialysis and by the fact that insomnia is just one of the many possible side-effects of the illness. I tried using Melatonin tonight but it did not work, so I lay awake staring at the ceiling, alone in my head with my thoughts. I finally gave up trying to sleep and instead sought a long, boring movie to hopefully lull me to sleep. I chose CLEOPATRA (1963), the legendary ultra-expensive Liz Taylor epic whose box office failure nearly bankrupted 20th Century Fox. </span></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; white-space: pre-wrap;">I saw CLEOPATRA in bits and pieces during my adolescence, when it used to run divided into parts over five days on The 4:30 Movie in the '70's, but I had never watched it from start to finish, and without commercials. Seeing it while under the thumb of insomnia as I have several hours to go until I must get out of bed, dress, and await pickup for dialysis affords me a new and interesting perspective on it. Yes, it's ridiculously bloated at over four hours, but it's not as dull nor as camp as its infamy suggests or as I remembered it being. It's lavish to the point where the budget practically pours off of the screen, and that extravagance makes it a festival of eye candy. Sure, the dialogue is often stilted, but that was, and frankly still is, par for the course with Hollywood historical epics, and at least it has a huge cast of top-shelf actors to deliver it. </span><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; white-space: pre-wrap;">With that taken into consideration, I don't buy Liz Taylor as the very Ptolemaic Cleopatra from a visual standpoint (translation: she does not work as an inbred ethnic Greek; way too white), but she wears the gorgeous costumes quite fetchingly and delivers the queen's unflappable arrogance as easy as breathing. (Perhaps expressing more than a little of her own personality.) </span></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, I do not find CLEOPATRA to be anywhere near as bad as contemporary reviews and most opinions of it popularly espouse. It's simply the last huge Hollywood epic of the classic era, bigger than most, but also no worse than many. If you ask me, its only real crime was being an exorbitant flop, and critics and the audience always love to dog pile on a loser when it's down. For me the bottom line is that it's saving my sanity during my latest bout of inability to sleep, and for that I am most grateful to it. </span></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; white-space: pre-wrap;">That said, it's back to ancient times with Liz and Dick...</span></span></div><p><br /></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-71882752177004337992023-12-28T13:49:00.004-05:002023-12-28T13:49:41.702-05:00OPEN CHANNEL D<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd9IzqquK5-mcfaXr1w0ny3jWD6_d7iPKeKtwZvktz30p90hLhXqz8j0589Ou-1ji_EYgmkgAO7drzb89MpHFMio0dcOiZIVxBCh9T1WOLbuhDXy3vjmCTGISiZsi0duXG5RGzrgHOhVlkqhp5MxdeiUVoijGPAfSyWw9wg73UjrdxO9f2W8YGpg/s1440/0UNCLE%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd9IzqquK5-mcfaXr1w0ny3jWD6_d7iPKeKtwZvktz30p90hLhXqz8j0589Ou-1ji_EYgmkgAO7drzb89MpHFMio0dcOiZIVxBCh9T1WOLbuhDXy3vjmCTGISiZsi0duXG5RGzrgHOhVlkqhp5MxdeiUVoijGPAfSyWw9wg73UjrdxO9f2W8YGpg/w480-h640/0UNCLE%20.jpg" width="480" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">It’s time for POP CULTURE ARCHAEOLOGY WITH GRANDPA BUNCHE!</span><p></p><div><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: -apple-system-font; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">While making today’s breakfast, I watched a YouTube article where a mother who’s a bit older than me watches classic TV shows with her 30-something son and they discuss them from the perspective of seeing them during original air versus watching them from the perspective of someone born well after the fact. Today’s subject for examination was THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E, which was easily the biggest ’60’s super-spy item this side of 007 at the time, and definitely the most popular of the wave of Bond imitators that flooded the airwaves during that era (though most of the other Bond wannabes crashed and burned quickly, even U.N.C.L.E.’s terrible spinoff, THE GIRL FROM U.N.C.L.E, starring a young Stephanie Powers). (It should also be noted that the only other spy shows of the ’60’s that did as well in the ratings were THE AVENGERS, an imprt that was picked up by ABC, and IT TAKES A THIEF, which was terrific but for some reason is all but forgotten today.)</span><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">So, inspired by the discussion of U.N.C.L.E. and my clear memories of it — I had dodgy bootlegs of it via the Union Square Nazi maybe a decade ago, so it<span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">’</span>s fresh in my mind — thinking of snagging the boxed set of Season 2 of THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E. (hands down the best that series had to offer) but it was only available as individual seasons on Region 2. I personally have no problem with foreign discs, as I have an all-regions player, but I like to own as much as possible on Region 1 so I can lend to my friends. </span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">Anyway, I remembered that the only way the show was available on home video in the States was as either a handful of VHS tapes that cherry-picked two episodes per tape (I had a couple of them during my VHS phase) or as a fancy complete series set that came in a metal briefcase. The latter was great for completists, but what most don't recall about THE MAN FROM U..N.C.L.E. is that though it lasted for four seasons (and a terrible reunion TV movie fifteen years later) and had two memorable protagonists, the overall series simply wasn't that good. </span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">The first season was decent, as it was American TV's first attempt at aping the James Bond formula (the series debuted after the release of FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE and just a few months before GOLDFINGER, with the latter being where the '60's super-spy mania was ignited), but the show was still little more than an obvious Bond knockoff with the sex and violence toned down for primetime viewing. Season 2 saw the show moving to color, which truly brought it to life, but the showrunners also made the series' tongue-in-cheek aspects more overt, but that was okay because it worked. For my money, Season 2 is all that the casual viewer with an interest in '60's spy pop culture needs to bother with.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">Then, halfway through Season 2, BATMAN premiered and instantly became a pop culture phenomenon that ushered in “camp” as the new big thing. Without any real understanding of what camp actually is, network honchos scrambled to create shows with what they thought was a camp sensibility, and also tried to shoehorn it into already existing series, much to the detriment of the existing shows in question. That’s why LOST IN SPACE became so aggressively idiotic during its second and third years (though that idiocy arguably made that show more fun and memorable), and why THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E. went full-tilt comedy for Season 3. Those of us who have clear memories of U.N.C.L.E. will tell you in no uncertain terms that Season 3 was ruinous for the show, as its plot veered directly into the outright ridiculous, absurd, and silly, with the emphasis on making everything look as intentionally cheap and bad as possible. Look up “The My Friend the Gorilla Affair” as my go-to example of the absolute nadir of the series. Just appalling in every possible way. There is nothing that fails harder than unfunny comedy, and by that yardstick Season 3 was a massive and embarrassing failure. In one season they managed to undo all of the progress and quality of the previous seasons offerings. And it should be noted that the BATMAN-inspired camp wave was a fad that lasted maybe a year, and ddamned near every American TV series that jumped on the camp bandwagon was dead by the end of a <span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">season, or less, and pretty much all of them except for BATMAN, LOST IN SPACE, and U.N.C.L.E. are forgotten today. (Though MY MOTHER THE CAR deservedly lives in infamy.) And super-popular though it was, even BATMAN was dead at the end of its third year, largely because its novelty was over. (The show would have been given a fourth season on NBC, provided that all of the sets like the Batcave and such could still be used, but ABC had all of the sets torn down when they got the cancellation notice.)</span></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">Realizing the shift to camp was a terrible idea, the U.N.C.L.E. showrunners again changed gears for Season 4, returning the program to its more grounded roots and even giving it a bit more of a darker adult edge, but by that point the damage was done and it was only a matter of time before cancellation. It was the end of the 1960’s and the spy boom was petering out anyway, so the plug was pulled on U.N.C.L.E. halfway through its final season.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">U.N.C.L.E. was fondly remembered for the next 30+ years, enshrined mostly by those who were kids when it first aired and who were too young for the more adult thrills of the Bond franchise, though it surprisingly did not turn up much in sydication in the major U.S. markets. (It mostly aired in regions like the Midwest, for some reason.) But then the home video boom happened and lavish DVD sets of classic TV shows became a thing. It took a while but THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E. eventually saw relase in a fancy metal briefcase that collected the entire series rather than putting it out in individual season sets. That edition was released at around a hundred bucks, and despite my avid interest in ’60’s spy pop culture, I had no interest in owning the whole series, and certainly not for a hundred bucks. Apparently the general audience shared my sentiment, thus leading the briefcase set to tank to such a degree that it was seen as lack of interest in the property, so no further relases of the series were forthcoming, not even as individual seasons. </span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">I like having “comfort programming” close at hand, and the closest I could get for THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E. is a set of the theatrical films spliced together from episodes of the series for release in Europe, where they spiced things up for the movie audience by adding levels of sex and violence that would never have been allowed in the original TV versions. </span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV4UywHaD_HEOOs8nDbq2Y4vc57dZ5-aWaHekbVFBRbKonPpxTzcK5F5ey3LQRxaxLmnL7EnTawiSOvxVjqh13tSEXUbhA-l4ZHR1kh9B_NMpECD0sqnnr3sC2U0WIE44GBzNnLyhXF2b9a_RCLiaPwht53zHuNWK9nZcXIK3KGj97kDvDzaClMQ/s1104/0UNCLE2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1104" data-original-width="828" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV4UywHaD_HEOOs8nDbq2Y4vc57dZ5-aWaHekbVFBRbKonPpxTzcK5F5ey3LQRxaxLmnL7EnTawiSOvxVjqh13tSEXUbhA-l4ZHR1kh9B_NMpECD0sqnnr3sC2U0WIE44GBzNnLyhXF2b9a_RCLiaPwht53zHuNWK9nZcXIK3KGj97kDvDzaClMQ/w480-h640/0UNCLE2.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">Those films sometimes showed up on American TV as filler for afternoon and weekend movie showcases on local TV stations, and that was how I first saw THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E., as it never ran in syndication on the East Coast in my youth. I saw ONE SPY TOO MANY (1966), which was the show’s only 2-part story, “The Alexander the Greater Affair," one afternoon on Channel 9 when I was around 11 or 12, and found it a lot of fun, so from then on I kept my eyes open for more. Little did I realize that the much ballyhooed actual series would turn out to mostly be another item that was <span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">bigged-up the nostalgia of now-grown children.</span></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.847); font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">And the failed briefcase set now starts at over $200 when encountered on eBay and other collector’s resources. Absolutely NOT worth it.</span></div></div>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-22178800425883072642023-12-25T17:39:00.000-05:002023-12-25T17:39:00.430-05:00(MY BETTER) HOME FOR THE HOLIDAY<p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">What a difference three solid hours of sleep makes! </span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I am quite refreshed and in a good mood, so I just accepted Tracey's offer to join her family for Christmas dinner. My attendance was contingent upon how I felt after today's dialysis, and thanks to treatment occurring two hours early (my session started at 8am, so I was back here before noon), thus granting me early dismissal and some decent time to nap upon getting home, I was able to enjoy more hours of rest than I would have if I had gotten home at my usual 3-ish or later. </span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I was still feeling the malaise of my time observing my mother's decline for a week when I started my day, so I was gearing up for spending Christmas night alone, with a humble feast of bangers and mash with some of my favorite country sausages from the schmancy artisanal butcher shop in place of traditional British bangers — I enjoy proper bangers, but the country sausages are a whole other level — but that would only have served to allow my brain to ruminate on my mom's situation. </span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">That is NOT what I need to be doing today. </span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Christmas Day is for spending time with friends and loved ones, and Tracey and I have been the tightest of family since we met 18 years ago, so much so that I had a major hand in helping raise her daughter, my niece Aurora, from age two or three, so I am quite entrenched. And Tracey struck relationship gold with Matt, her second husband, as he treats her like the living, breathing treasure that she is, plus he's amazing with the very-much-a-teenager Aurora. They are only a little over a mile away, and it gives me comfort to know that the door to this artsy nuclear family is always open to Uncle Bunche. And the icing on the cake is the presence of a huge, sloppy Great Dane who barks at me at first — he's doing his job, so good on him — but once that reminder of his guardian presence is made, he's all up on me, leaning into me for pets and scratches in his favorite spots.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">In short, what could have been a miserable Yule will instead be one of welcoming and nurture. No judgement. No infantilization. No dysfunction. For the first time in quite a while, I feel happy.</span></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-1518267657192725382023-12-24T17:46:00.000-05:002023-12-24T17:46:10.243-05:00CHRISTMAS 2023<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSWjKNp3A0sxwGB6quCTkDg2LEmVjkZy1u1ovlhhKzIaAcZo5dJ3RcG12gRtqGGbAaCrE9TbDOq_K2Y2Xzym8JyQconrM3kJK7UE5dsGnVWxtj-mNimcYe4Bl3A9f2kVgg3mXurRUEf-9PVDKL4i51yPzNI3t2UwQXSuifn1hcEAbp0C7eIVGCA/s4032/IMG_5673.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSWjKNp3A0sxwGB6quCTkDg2LEmVjkZy1u1ovlhhKzIaAcZo5dJ3RcG12gRtqGGbAaCrE9TbDOq_K2Y2Xzym8JyQconrM3kJK7UE5dsGnVWxtj-mNimcYe4Bl3A9f2kVgg3mXurRUEf-9PVDKL4i51yPzNI3t2UwQXSuifn1hcEAbp0C7eIVGCA/w640-h480/IMG_5673.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><i>Christmas Eve at the dollhouse. Things were not exactly merry, as this could very well be my mother's final Christmas. We shall see...</i><p></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally back at home in Brooklyn, and return to the Vault of Buncheness has seldom felt as good. I'll unwind while enjoying the schmancy Reuben sammich I picked up from the artisanal butcher shop — no hyperbole, it is simply one of the five most delicious and perfect sandwiches that I have ever been blessed with — and wallow in the nurturing comfort that is my own bed, covered with comforters that are just the right size, weight, and textures.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">But back to my general reality.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">It's a sucky Christmas Eve, as such things go, because leaving Mildred alone in the dollhouse does not make me feel good. When I left she was hunkered into her favorite chair in the living room, and when I made to exit I kissed her cheek and said a heartfelt "I love you." She said "I love you" back to me, but her voice was barely audible, and it looked like she was trying not to cry. And having unavoidably observed her behavior for the past seven days, I would bet good money that after I left she just sat there, all alone, staring off into the middle distance for hours.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Upon waking this morning, mom did her best to deny that I was leaving in a few short hours, repeatedly telling me that she had no idea that I was leaving on Christmas Eve, and also claiming that she did not know I had to go in for dialysis on Christmas Day, all stated as indignantly as possible. I don't know how much of that was "chemo brain" or what, but once she processed that I was not going to stay she fell back on her tried and true "I'm a helpless little old lady" schtick that was a dead-on repeat of the way her own mother acted during her infamous time of staying with us during the summer of 1988. I was happy to help, but my mother is a world-class liar and gaslighter who will do and say anything in order to get what she wants and garner attention, something she has done consistently for the past 46 years, so I have no idea how much of her actions today were legit or just more play-acting. Whatever the case, I butched up and weathered the remaining hours with grace and did my best to exit with class, kindness, and compassion.</span><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Look at the above Christmas pic of Mildred and myself (photo kindly taken by Tom Petrone, whom my mother has openly noted as her "second son" for over forty years). You'll note that neither of us looks particularly festive. Both of us are doing our best to weather our respective illnesses while acknowledging that our conditions and their treatments are kicking our asses, and this year neither of us wanted anything for Christmas, so there were no presents. </span></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Well, not exactly. </span></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">My spending a week at the dollhouse and enduring my mother was my big gift to her — she has openly stated that she knows she's an irritating pain in the ass — along with stocking her fridge and pantry with an insane (in retrospect) amount of nearly every food, snack, and dessert that I could think of that she would enjoy, which I just realized was my repeating of of some of her programming, specifically that "food is how you show love" Unfortunately her cancer and the side-effects of chemo leave her with little appetite for an actual well-balanced meal, so I ended up wasting a LOT of money, but at least I tried. I was determined to get her to eat solid meals, but the only one she could fully manage on a daily basis was a breakfast of one of my famous fluffy scrambled eggs, with grilled buttered toast and quality thick-cut bacon. (She has a toaster that she never uses, opting instead to grill her toast in a toaster oven that she refuses to learn to use properly, thus dragging out the toasting time.) Her usual go-to when cooking for herself is a boring fried egg, flipped over twice and fried to the consistency of rubber, her preference since childhood not because it's particularly enjoyable but because it's quick and easy to make, as her life's mantra is "now, Now, NOW!!!" My scrambled eggs are whipped with a long-tined fork for a few minutes in a deep bowl, thus folding as much air into the eggs as possible. The whipped eggs than get slowly cooked in a small sauce pan in which I have allowed but to melt but only barely sizzle, stirring slowly and carefully the whole time. Once cooked to the desired level of soft-but-done, the eggs are plated, and they are invariably a light and fluffy delight. My mother loves them, and one of my few pleasures while in the house during my stay was seeing the look of utter foodgasm on her face as she consumed her egg between bites of thick-cut smoky bacon. When I make breakfasts is about the only time when my every movement is not observed and criticized, and I treasure those moments of peace. </span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Before I left I noted how much food was left over, and the amount is considerable. Even when at her healthiest I doubt Mildred could have polished off everything put before her over the course of the past week, but at least I tried. She barely pecked at homemade dishes like the delicious sausage marinara reduction that I made, among others, plus assorted takeout when she did not want something homemade, though she did express great enjoyment at the vat of chicken and dumplings that I stewed. She pecked off of that for several days, loving every minute of it. It was actually just a slow-simmered stewed whole chicken, cooked in chicken stock with a couple of Knorr bouillon cubes, a large minced onion, some black pepper, and a bag of hearty, wide noodles that are cooked in the pot with the chicken from shortly before the chicken gets tender. Keep on low heat and stir occasionally so nothing sticks to the bottom of the pot. When the chicken has cooked enough to be separated from the bone with a spoon, pour in a bottle or two of Heinz home style Chicken gravy and blend it into the mix. The noodles will be ludicrously soft — this is NOT a meal for those who enjoy their pasta al dente — and very much infused with the flavors of everything surrounding them, and what you end up with is a dish almost indistinguishable from certain types of old school southern chicken and dumplings, only you don't have to go to the trouble of making dumplings by hand and doing the science tricks necessary for making them turn out just right. It's easy to make and my mom absolutely fucking LOVES the stuff, so that's all that matters.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Sorry to ramble, but this is the first time in a week that my thoughts have had room to breathe. It's good to have my train of thought back.</span></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-78683944131133516142023-12-22T20:45:00.005-05:002023-12-22T20:59:10.467-05:00A REMEMBERANCE OF CHRISTMASES WITH THE ADVENTURE TEAM<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSg0vqcVbnVscsDe17I4uW2OZrKKnl6NPW2cQ1DKxAJONbwad0DzUzHcUSnxuipYNbdnPMiMR8MZxlMezhJfYEKHKv3BJsC0zfhNhfd_P9uXbXnTrtsMwXAzVg98wds97b_ElRBzkoHQvf3pQz_0poaTRAvFtpDBYde98Lz5qVhtyOsZ0T9j3Xzw/s2048/Screen-Shot-2021-12-03-at-5.31.25-PM-2048x1153%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1153" data-original-width="2048" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSg0vqcVbnVscsDe17I4uW2OZrKKnl6NPW2cQ1DKxAJONbwad0DzUzHcUSnxuipYNbdnPMiMR8MZxlMezhJfYEKHKv3BJsC0zfhNhfd_P9uXbXnTrtsMwXAzVg98wds97b_ElRBzkoHQvf3pQz_0poaTRAvFtpDBYde98Lz5qVhtyOsZ0T9j3Xzw/w640-h360/Screen-Shot-2021-12-03-at-5.31.25-PM-2048x1153%20copy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto">A
friend just posted a page from the 1973 Sears Wishbook, the go-to
source for satisfying all children's toy avarice during the annual
winter holidays, and that image kicked the Wayback Machine in my skuul
into high-gear, returning me to my earliest years in Westport.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC7BEqr3VhFyp2thTHBz62jVjZpykL4p8JVr4ivjviUSyTNpaNZpCuoYWktRVOdOfkUGXb1Gs54k-uSHVmgECfmWJNU2apxJj3rSrbN9BGLn1JJ8D3gI0vUL9yQJJHBb5MVo_bszwiGAQTNRy0-cPF6jYVWpYJwix_YqFObL2rznRQjsX4-FCGWw/s1000/01972B.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="728" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC7BEqr3VhFyp2thTHBz62jVjZpykL4p8JVr4ivjviUSyTNpaNZpCuoYWktRVOdOfkUGXb1Gs54k-uSHVmgECfmWJNU2apxJj3rSrbN9BGLn1JJ8D3gI0vUL9yQJJHBb5MVo_bszwiGAQTNRy0-cPF6jYVWpYJwix_YqFObL2rznRQjsX4-FCGWw/w291-h400/01972B.jpg" width="291" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje0HI9ch4L5rk-w3QWwnkKWCyCb2dCMWhyphenhyphennjiyoC9bcv9Hz8J_NuK2cSFDJG3ny9zaxBCd1tX7C4xqoweHmIT4ebGiis8SvSJctfE-0pDKiebz7Vmi6cN5M4KYpYJJC74_C9uJkzBFKD64SKh2NbBMxLcS-eNFwG7KK9Cx7kPeTjaEI05UYxHYeA/s1276/01972A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1276" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje0HI9ch4L5rk-w3QWwnkKWCyCb2dCMWhyphenhyphennjiyoC9bcv9Hz8J_NuK2cSFDJG3ny9zaxBCd1tX7C4xqoweHmIT4ebGiis8SvSJctfE-0pDKiebz7Vmi6cN5M4KYpYJJC74_C9uJkzBFKD64SKh2NbBMxLcS-eNFwG7KK9Cx7kPeTjaEI05UYxHYeA/w201-h400/01972A.jpg" width="201" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"> </span><i>Sears Wishbook G.I. Joe spread (1972)</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto">My
parents' disaster of a marriage first began to display visible signs of
collapse around 1971, and they were at full-blown war by the time we
moved from San Francisco to Connecticut in June of 1972. They thought
seven-year-old me did not notice their open vitriol toward each other
(it was as plain as the noses on their faces), but just in case they
buried me with toys every Christmas. My dad was an IBM exec, so he could
afford lavish amounts of presents, and the Christmases <span></span>of
1972 and 1973 found me awakening to all of those years' new GI Joe
stuff, even the top-shelf vehicles and bases, and two or three Adventure
Team Joes to be deployed when my older ones inevitably fell apart from
play. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"> </span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7R35j4KOwzhU8pziR1MDrhwKPrp7Zw6cziS62lKIuGPCt19F5dxxwxHlX_a7s01ejueT1AM0kaRhFP1NMicSraRk4_sHBqrak5upQaAvGGhoL0rZfQ7bOgv8fUzHobUnH28Ol2S4IdaasTmRw1nWX7AWuBJmNVB-2d_1D790108J6kevHEig4w/s621/fladd-gi-joe-page-assorted.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="621" data-original-width="500" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7R35j4KOwzhU8pziR1MDrhwKPrp7Zw6cziS62lKIuGPCt19F5dxxwxHlX_a7s01ejueT1AM0kaRhFP1NMicSraRk4_sHBqrak5upQaAvGGhoL0rZfQ7bOgv8fUzHobUnH28Ol2S4IdaasTmRw1nWX7AWuBJmNVB-2d_1D790108J6kevHEig4w/w516-h640/fladd-gi-joe-page-assorted.jpg" width="516" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sears Wishbook G.I. Joe spread (1973)</i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto">I was grateful for all of it, because play was my way of
disconnecting from the vicious, dysfunctional hellhole that was our
home. Those miserable years are what sparked my love of toys, an
interest that persists a half-century later, though now I display toys
instead of playing with them. Nonetheless, they still grant me comfort.</span></div>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-61569350268835143342023-12-20T01:22:00.000-05:002023-12-20T01:22:08.612-05:00ADIEU, ARCHER (2009-2023)<p style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxfHPa5hLKWsnGnFqRxoA1-4YxQPfEEgj33jLAoxue3H7rIHcxicQb2tf7JzbJQOs00cTEy9B1hF55Shwxhs2WLPBJY8rqL394KTPHlSqALPs8V1hg3HGwoKNwUgUn4feXE_Fgmm_A_Ve6hGTDkxVJ_Suj4e_SworXf-jsxdHtIZsg90DU7_z5yA/s1280/0ARCHER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxfHPa5hLKWsnGnFqRxoA1-4YxQPfEEgj33jLAoxue3H7rIHcxicQb2tf7JzbJQOs00cTEy9B1hF55Shwxhs2WLPBJY8rqL394KTPHlSqALPs8V1hg3HGwoKNwUgUn4feXE_Fgmm_A_Ve6hGTDkxVJ_Suj4e_SworXf-jsxdHtIZsg90DU7_z5yA/w640-h360/0ARCHER.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Couldn't sleep — yeah, I know, a real shock — so I passed time by watching "Into the Cold," the series finale for ARCHER. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">It's hard to believe that the show lasted for fourteen years, which I watched religiously, and its characters have become as familiar and comfortable as the cast of THE SIMPSONS, only in a setting that deftly lampooned the world of James Bond and the plethora of super-spy entertainment/culture that's been with us since the boom of such in the 1960's and that still persists. It was a satisfying ending and I will be sad to see it go, but if I'm being honest I have to say they should have called it a day when Sterling went into a coma that lasted for several seasons, thus shaking up the spy format with season-long lampoons of various genres that were all creations of Archer's comatose mind. None of that was bad, but it just didn't bear the same focused flavor as what preceded those seasons. It also should have bowed out gracefully when Mallory Archer died, as Lana simply did not possess the same gravitas as a boss, nor the hilariously complex comedic dynamic that was woven from what's basically the dysfunctional relationship between a 007 stand-in and his capable-but-alcoholic mother. Nonetheless, I stuck with it and was rewarded with a dependable source of laughs, so it was a painless decline.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">So, I will be wistful about the lack of further ARCHER going forward, but what's left behind is largely timeless and can be enjoyed for as long as home video keeps it available. My hard copy collection of super-spy stuff is considerable, and you had better believe that ARCHER has its place in my DVD library. That said, I salute all who worked on the series. You guys knew your subject and lampooned it with love. "PHRASING!!!" </span></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-73273549774430394772023-12-19T11:33:00.001-05:002023-12-19T11:33:09.116-05:00BACK IN WESPORT<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqdsQkg-OW-5diDbZszjL9-4OFxI1mspLqeXH0YrsX9dbCSxo0CX8mNsxTgjSuhrnuML_RjyqhIuVtL4oqiqFi7HtV-QmmCLWcWT1gDZhqRqldlhU_UrzHdr3QOdliiog3ixnWJ4EH1ncjXTlqDQLY_irvwoXjsKr2bBenjIJTCovXllp0vg8uMQ/s4032/IMG_5614.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqdsQkg-OW-5diDbZszjL9-4OFxI1mspLqeXH0YrsX9dbCSxo0CX8mNsxTgjSuhrnuML_RjyqhIuVtL4oqiqFi7HtV-QmmCLWcWT1gDZhqRqldlhU_UrzHdr3QOdliiog3ixnWJ4EH1ncjXTlqDQLY_irvwoXjsKr2bBenjIJTCovXllp0vg8uMQ/w480-h640/IMG_5614.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div> <i> Mom's 2023 Christmas tree. A sad marker of the inevitable.</i><p></p><p></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I'm currently staying at my mother's house in Westport, Connecticut for a week, getting dialysis in Fairfield while mom continues to dwindle from the double-whammy of aged decrepitude (she'll be 91 if she makes it to the end of next month) and cancer in both lungs, plus the debilitating chemotherapy that goes with the latter. She's off at chemo at the moment, so I have a few hours to myself.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">While mom is off at chemo, I am looking over the house where I came of age, and it just feels like a sad and foreign place. If truth be told, while this is the residence where I came of age, it holds no sentimental attachment for me, as I could not wait to get out of here upon graduating from high school. When mom inevitably gets escorted to Valhalla, I will return here to settle her estate and se the house properly disposed of, but that will likely be my final appearance in Westport for any considerable length of time.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">The sight of mom's tiny Christmas tree adds a note of wistfulness, as Christmas was always a big deal for her, and the thought that this very well could be her final Christmas absolutely guts me. Christmas hold no sacred meaning for me as, unlike my mother, religion holds no meaning for me, and I outgrew the fairytale of Santa Claus by the time I was nine, So I will be glad to be done with it. That said, this is a far cry from the lavish annual yuletide tree that mom would prop up and decorate. This year we both agreed that neither of us need anything, so no gifts, and the tree was always for her, so though it's meager, it serves the purpose of making mom happy. so that's all that matters.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, it's like a dollhouse gene-spliced with a mausoleum in here, and I am well past the limits of my tolerance for its ultra-pristine and cutesy atmosphere and I'm only two days into my stay of seven days. I pine for the noise and day-to-day madness of NYC and for the comfort of my own bed and pile of comforters whose texture does not rankle my dermatitis-irritated skin. I miss my autonomy, as every time I come here since leaving for NY in 1990, my every movement and word is judged and criticicized after being focused upon and analyzed with an unnerving laser-focus. I value the quiet environment of my humble Park Slope studio apartment, and the freedom to simply leave a room for a moment and not have that action questioned or complained about. Though it kicks her ass, her chemo session allows me a few hours free of my mother's obsessive/oppressive presence, and I am glad of it. I will take care of her when she returns and make sure she eats and rests, as she will be quite debilitated, but know that being stuck in this psychological/emotional torture garden that I fled nearly thirty-four years ago eats at my very being.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I love you, mom, and I will do my best to make your remaining time comfortable, but Sunday afternoon and me setting foot onto the Manhattan-bound Metro North train cannot happen soon enough.</span><br /> </p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-71072280820326501872023-12-14T17:23:00.001-05:002023-12-14T17:23:26.554-05:00HASHING IT OUT<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0szsw2VV-53VzqaSCiASPjkBzQA2dk7PZ4YeWwa35Y3mW-VElXEa0tk-4LMLiDc6K5aFrXHFZQlP2movrif8_XSDLxqunkGniWjAcK8sXQBOo8jtsgE7yAPoYhe7UsdkGz7ZWu4cRCec7VcBYTsMquORS2pkIfaRqG48L7SCNoE9DcxtiUP-ErQ/s1200/EIcaiUgX0AAjfvk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="817" data-original-width="1200" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0szsw2VV-53VzqaSCiASPjkBzQA2dk7PZ4YeWwa35Y3mW-VElXEa0tk-4LMLiDc6K5aFrXHFZQlP2movrif8_XSDLxqunkGniWjAcK8sXQBOo8jtsgE7yAPoYhe7UsdkGz7ZWu4cRCec7VcBYTsMquORS2pkIfaRqG48L7SCNoE9DcxtiUP-ErQ/w640-h436/EIcaiUgX0AAjfvk.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I was watching a comedy special in which the comedian describes receiving and accidental mega-dose as being a terrifying hell-ride, and it reminded me of an incident from the spring of 1986.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">It was my third year of college and I was eating Saturday brunch in the cafeteria when a particularly annoying friend of a friend saw me and sat himself down at my table. The guy was a hippie-type who was raised on NY's Lower East Side by an artsy/hippie-dippy mother who was dosed on LSD nearly every day of her pregnancy with him, so hallucinogens had little or no effect on the guy. Anyway, he was perpetually stoned on weed and edibles and he knew I was a stoner, so when he sat down he offered me what I thought was a date or some other dried fruit. I thanked him and wolfed it down, noting it tasted like spiced mud. His face lit up like a Jack o' lantern and he exclaimed "You just ate a huge chunk of blonde Lebanese hashish!" I was quite pissed about that because the guy was always eating nuts and dried fruit, so that's what I thought he had given me. I was ready to wring his neck, but something told me it would be a good idea to leave the cafeteria and retire to my basement single in the dorms for the rest of the day. I'm glad I listened to my own advice, as maybe a half hour after eating the hashish, I began a cosmic trip that lasted for something like the next fourteen hours.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Imagine being as high as humanly possible with no way of stopping it, and that feeling going on seemingly endlessly. I was simultaneously terrified and elated, and I made sure to have a stream of friends coming and going for the duration of the trip. They all helped to keep me calm and grounded, and we passed the time with hours of listening to selections from my vinyl record collection — I remember the extended version of the Duane Eddy/Art of Noise "Peter Gunn" collaboration being spun several times, as its twang resonated quite nicely with my elevated state — with visual accompaniment from untranslated Japanese cartoons that were obtained fresh off of the Japanese airwaves from the venerable Tokyo Video bootleg VHS shop near Grand Central.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I don't remember eating anything at any point during the trip, and when it finally ran its course I passed out from sheer mental/emotional/sensory overload. </span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">The next day I tracked down the asshole who dosed me, and I wound up and gave him a piledriver uppercut right in his stomach, which made him throw up all over himself. From that point he was persona non grata around me, and the close friend who introduced me to him in the first place was on board with not bringing him around anymore. Funny thing: a few years ago the friend in question, who today is quite a mess (but that's another story), was reminiscing about those college days and the people she associated with at the time, and with the exceptions of myself and maybe three other people that she named, she noted that all of the "friends" that she ran with were actually pals of the guy who eventually became her first husband, and she evaluated every one of them as "outright pieces of shit," including her future hubby. And the guy who dosed me? She rated him as the worst and most obnoxious of that sordid lot.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Common courtesy Rule Number One among stoners and would-be psychonauts: NEVER dose anyone without their full awareness and permission. It's just not cricket.</span><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-33805769740528092052023-12-07T14:13:00.001-05:002023-12-09T14:14:32.390-05:00REALITY CHECK<p> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Okay… I’ve had some time to process everything that’s gone on over the past several days, and I am now ready to bring you all into the loop on what’s been going on.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">As you all know, my mother is 90 years old, very physically frail after her near-fatal car accident seven years back, and is weathering perpetual exhaustion due to dealing with lung cancer and chemotherapy while living alone. She has a large support system close at hand, so she is being taken care of, but from what I witnessed during my Thanksgiving weekend at her house, I’m just being realistic when I say that it’s obvious her time is running out. Needless to say, that worries me sick, so I am doing what I can to make her remaining time bearable, a task that is quite difficult when one lives in another state and has a life dominated by thrice-weekly dialysis sessions and their subsequent deleterious side-effects.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">So, on Monday I was in my dialysis chair getting treatment when I received a text from my mom’s close friend who’s a Registered Nurse. Upon seeing who it was, my heart sank, but I opened the text and tried to remain calm. The Rn was alerting me to mom being in the ER at Norwalk Hospital because she was having difficulty breathing, and it turned out that it was not the lung cancer but was instead Respiratory Syncytial (sin-SISH-uhl) Virus, or RSV. That was the first I had heard of that virus, but apparently it’s been going around. She’s been in the hospital all week and I was even contacted and asked for permission to put her on a ventilator if it should come to that. Thankfully she has not needed a ventilator, but I’m just glad she’s in a facility where she is getting observed and cared for 24/7, plus her RN pal is keeping close tabs on her and checking in with me. And I have been calling mom several times per day, checking on how she’s doing, chatting with her to keep her spirits up, and letting her grouse about the horrible hospital food. During all of this, mom sounds quite frail and was clearly scared during the early part of her hospitalization, but today she sounded pretty much back to normal, probably because she has been told she will be going home tomorrow. She was told that every day for the past two days, but the third time may be the charm.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">While worrying about my mother’s health and current situation, without her knowledge I have been attempting to book guest services at one of the Davita dialysis centers near her house, as the company has treatment centers all over the country and patients are told. that we can book into any of them if we need to be in another state. That’s great on paper, but I have tried to book guest treatment at any of the Davita centers in and around Fairfield County for the past two Thanksgiving/ Christmas holiday seasons and was told in no uncertain terms that no spaces were available. Originally, no spaces were available due to the COVID lockdown and nobody traveling for the holidays, but this time I attempted to book slots ahead of the actual holiday week for Christmas, as I would like to be at my mother’s house so I can be as much of a help and a comfort as possible. </span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">During Wednesday’s dialysis, I had a conference with my center’s social worker and told him of my mother’s illness, advanced age, and how her time is running out, so would he please help me facilitate getting me. a booking at a center in Norwalk, the town right next to my mother’s. He sadi he was glad to help and that he would get back to me as soon as possible. He contacted me this afternoon and told me that there was nothing available in Norwalk, so now he would try Fairfield and get back to me when he heard anything. If his efforts are anything like mine over the last two years, I expect another strike-out.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">The crux of the matter is that I absolutely cannot take time off from dialysis to care for my mother. If I do, I MY SYSTEM WILL BECOME TOXIC AND I WILL DIE. But I live and get treatment roughly 90 minutes away from my mother’s home, so my daily presence there without my regular treatment on Monday, Wednesday and Friday is impossible. I would gaudy get treatment and endure the post-treatment illness and recovery into the next day in Fairfield County, but it’s looking like that just is not going to happen. The best I can do at the moment is show up after Friday’s session and stay until having to leave on Sunday to resume my regular weekly treatment schedule on Monday. </span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">My mother and I have had a famously difficult, contentious relationship for the past 46 years, and many has been the time when I wished I could simply remove her from my life, but during the past twenty years or so, she has opened up a lot about what made her into the dysfunctional, iron-fisted, belittling, judgmental harridan who was a nightmare to grow up with, and I now see her as a victim of the cruelties inflicted by her psycho mother, my abusive cheater of a father, and the world in general, so I now see her as a victim who needs understand ing and compassion, not scorn. She is still very much a trying presence for me to be around, but she’s the way she is due to what I would armchair diagnose as some form of PTSD that she has refused to manage because doing so would make her appear “weak.” She’s entitled to her opinion, but I call bullshit on that. If she had been able to let her guard down enough to get help and actuall work to heal from the trauma of her miserable past, she’d be a totally different person, but such was not to be and I just have to deal with it as best I can.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">When raising me, my mother had no examples of how to parent or how to foster a healthy psychological/emotional environment, but she di the best that she could and it could have been worse. Anyway, knowing what I know as an adult, I cannot help but feel for the Mildred that could have been, and because of that I will not abandon her, and I will do my best to make her remaining time a positive family experience. I just hope something can be worked out with the dialysis center.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Needless to say, all of this has left me a sleepless, stressed-out disaster, and if I could I would just dig a hole, disappear into it, and hide out for the duration.</span></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-17557607279357975922023-12-01T23:26:00.005-05:002023-12-01T23:26:37.531-05:00GODZILLA MINUS ONE (2023)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr9J8dk2JAnkUg0ebSIvz4IczW1NZ5_sNdcJbdGgvzUrfMMFthJ6XH8rhMOvaQQjPfgeVFUtALZHdYW_ACikTurFtC7mzg3Qj9AFvGGaG88sKtdlkej_DyoccmL5PFeFz9DxPlvUFA0y_gqauXT-nSCL0SBObqSh5zwJ7nRy57bZryC3LhGW3dYbqvYYA/s750/godzilla_202310%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="421" data-original-width="750" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr9J8dk2JAnkUg0ebSIvz4IczW1NZ5_sNdcJbdGgvzUrfMMFthJ6XH8rhMOvaQQjPfgeVFUtALZHdYW_ACikTurFtC7mzg3Qj9AFvGGaG88sKtdlkej_DyoccmL5PFeFz9DxPlvUFA0y_gqauXT-nSCL0SBObqSh5zwJ7nRy57bZryC3LhGW3dYbqvYYA/w640-h360/godzilla_202310%20copy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"We're gonna need a bigger boat..."</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="" dir="auto"><div class="x1iorvi4 x1pi30zi x1l90r2v x1swvt13" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id=":r3s9:"><div class="x78zum5 xdt5ytf xz62fqu x16ldp7u"><div class="xu06os2 x1ok221b"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"><div class="xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">I've
been on the go since waking this morning for dialysis, but I had to pop
in briefly state that I thoroughly enjoyed GODZILLA MINUS ONE. I'm too
wiped-out to write about it at length, but let it suffice to say that
it's definitely one of the Top 3 that the franchise has to offer. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">It's
the best of Godzilla films aimed at grownups, right alongside the
somber 1954 original, as it's basically a drama about the last days of
WWII and their aftermath for the Japanese, focusing on <span><a tabindex="-1"></a></span>a
deserter kamikaze pilot who encounters the pre-irradiated Godzilla and
subsequently plunges into an ongoing state of PTSD and survivor's guilt.
Returning to his bombed-out home, an orphaned girl with an orphaned
infant (not her child) fallin with the pilot and the three form a
makeshift family that does its best to survive. We follow them for two
years and become quite invested in them, but then Godzilla, now mutated
and rendered titanic by atomic radiation, returns...</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">It's
all as serious as a heart attack and bears no trace of the signature
goofiness of many of the series' entries. It's genuinely scary in parts,
quite suspenseful, visually spectacular,and it featrures a Godzilla
that's as mean and nasty as we have ever seen him. Here he's a complete
and utter bastard, an implacable living holocaust that's just plain
unstoppable. While entertaining as hell, there's no "fun" about any of
the proceedings, as Godzilla's path of destruction is treated as the
outright horror that it would be, were it to actually happen. The
sequence where Godzilla razes Ginza is worth the price of admission, and
it will have you on the edge of your seat.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">If it's playing anywhere near you, do <i>not </i>miss this one on the big screen. HIGHEST RECOMMENDATION.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo8NBG1Ii33ennNvXNDqpiQnk3jABN99Off7EQvMQaHbTtzXX2cxn5beOC9XoCi2DWJ9GhBQRecPfv8y3i2cD2vuSO1wImfAU-jCeUhekKEQ7zmG27n8DbfKZTAWtMJxm5pctdP5ZxPAURHMYVnampDAsWqsbDWLQ3fzjrRAetzPPAmOgSUA9BwDC3jhY/s906/flyer_1.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="906" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo8NBG1Ii33ennNvXNDqpiQnk3jABN99Off7EQvMQaHbTtzXX2cxn5beOC9XoCi2DWJ9GhBQRecPfv8y3i2cD2vuSO1wImfAU-jCeUhekKEQ7zmG27n8DbfKZTAWtMJxm5pctdP5ZxPAURHMYVnampDAsWqsbDWLQ3fzjrRAetzPPAmOgSUA9BwDC3jhY/w452-h640/flyer_1.webp" width="452" /></a></div><br /> </div></div></span></div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Poster for the Japanese theatrical release.<br /></i></div></div><p></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-38645305750911234482023-11-01T23:17:00.005-04:002023-11-02T00:01:26.690-04:00RESTRICTED<p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"></span></p><div class="xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Outside of the blogiverse, I've spoken a lot about the curse of living with a strict daily limit on my fluid intake, and some have written in for clarification exactly how much I (and late stage kidney failure sufferers/dialysis patients in general) am allowed to consume. </div></div><p></p><div dir="auto"><div class="x1iorvi4 x1pi30zi x1l90r2v x1swvt13" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id=":rf1t:"><div class="x78zum5 xdt5ytf xz62fqu x16ldp7u"><div class="xu06os2 x1ok221b"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">The maximum safe amount I am allowed is a total of 32 ounces of fluid per day, and that amount is what goes up to the Sharpie line drawn on this half-gallon container. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5QoK4paSFBpsgVrC4Ic16zYqzDaafwHatgYZHyTqJ8Jjzbrr67rxarj0m6mNtoVnpdfszuZsTAtFMnThlxszLWO4xTQaPdCiRekpkdFF1Qjf5bm5kRHNIKGzNiGDBiiIenSwkzlPM1eoaJwY0Z7MnKUP8mk4nNtquwnqeTpf0RTQmRRPc3MBxg/s1104/386472040_1703543063500712_9010850180931331683_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1104" data-original-width="828" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5QoK4paSFBpsgVrC4Ic16zYqzDaafwHatgYZHyTqJ8Jjzbrr67rxarj0m6mNtoVnpdfszuZsTAtFMnThlxszLWO4xTQaPdCiRekpkdFF1Qjf5bm5kRHNIKGzNiGDBiiIenSwkzlPM1eoaJwY0Z7MnKUP8mk4nNtquwnqeTpf0RTQmRRPc3MBxg/w480-h640/386472040_1703543063500712_9010850180931331683_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">That's a little more than two average-sized glasses of anything potable, but also not very much, so you can see how difficult it is to keep within the prescribed limit. And that limit applies to all fluids. Water, soft drinks, coffee, tea, soup, the water and juices in fruits and berries, you name it. </div></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Before going on dialysis, I regularly downed perhaps 80 ounces of water per day, sometimes more, as I subscribed to the belief that the body needs a lot of water. Well, let me tell you in no uncertain terms that going from being able to guzzle at will to having to make do on barely a sip here and there is torturous. There are days when my body craves nothing more than being able to take a long, slow draw from a big bottle of refrigerated Poland Spring, but every trickle of that blessed H2O gets tallied in my head, so imbibing yields only the most fleeting of genuine enjoyment, even when I am thirsty to the point of near madness. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">And because of the restrictions, when I do drink anything, I limit myself mostly to water, with occasional lapses into heavily-diluted punch flavors from the juice aisle at the Associated. Every now and then I will treat myself to a can of soda, but one of those equals around a third of my allowed daily intake, so sodas are a rare indulgence. But that's okay. Since all of this began, I have come to value water like I was a Fremen on Arrakis, and I will happily and eagerly accept water over all other libations.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Whenever I get my long-awaited kidney transplant and I heal from the surgery and everything is declared okay, I intend to finally properly slake my thirst with an aforementioned long bottle of Poland Spring that's been refrigerated for at least a couple of days. And it will be glorious.</div></div></span></div></div></div></div>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-9243916339073325332023-10-31T00:00:00.003-04:002023-10-31T00:00:00.162-04:0031 DAYS OF HORROR 2023 - DAY 31: SUSPIRIA (2018)<p> </p><div><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSsdVjvw_4tuSnai-nWvZFqNhXouwecfpTuZrJC6js86sqrS5TCcVmlnrSsd-l1XczNUDVDr7Z3XyfkdRIAWhZgwd5k0W5KFL7nuMtpSd8hZLOUanC2HciaQJkFXdt1IdBpSssd_AW1QsMBIg_rhZeEUoDT-BibgHGU6syLoDepWskqSYlXS5vSEIRG2o/s1920/1920x1280_cmsv2_1e786b83-4873-5b83-8cd4-440260ba313d-7801822.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSsdVjvw_4tuSnai-nWvZFqNhXouwecfpTuZrJC6js86sqrS5TCcVmlnrSsd-l1XczNUDVDr7Z3XyfkdRIAWhZgwd5k0W5KFL7nuMtpSd8hZLOUanC2HciaQJkFXdt1IdBpSssd_AW1QsMBIg_rhZeEUoDT-BibgHGU6syLoDepWskqSYlXS5vSEIRG2o/w640-h426/1920x1280_cmsv2_1e786b83-4873-5b83-8cd4-440260ba313d-7801822.webp" width="640" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Slaves to the rhythm.</i><br /></div><div><p></p><p>Virginal
American Mennonite Susie Bannion (Dakota Johnson) goes to West Berlin
to study at the all-female Markos Dance Academy during the infamous
"German Autumn" of 1977. (Look it up.) Upon arrival she finds the school
in a state of turmoil due to student Patricia Hingle (Chloe Grace
Moretz) vanishing after telling her psychiatrist, Holocaust survivor Dr.
Josef Klemperer (Tilda Swinton in very convincing old man makeup), that
the school is actually a coven for witches. Before she disappears,
Patricia gives the psychiatrist her journals, which contain detailed
information on the goings-on within the school/coven, including notes on
the Three Mothers — Mater Tenebrarum, Mater Lachrymarum, and Mater
Suspiriorum — three pre-Christian witches of immense power. When
Patricia goes missing, the aged psychiatrist begins to investigate.</p><p>While
settling in at the dance academy, Susie is immediately tasked with
learning the choreography to a complex multi-person dance that the rest
of the students have been rehearsing, and she proves so good that she is
given the lead. But just before Susie's leap into the spotlight, Olga
(Elena Fokina), a student, who was close with the missing Patricia, has a
meltdown and curses out Madame Blanc (Tilda Swinton again) and bolts to
her room, where she prepares to leave the school. Madame Blanc carries
on nonetheless, directing Susie to try the dance, and as Susie performs
various severe movements, an isolated Olga is thrown bodily around an
empty and mirrored studio room with each abrupt gesture by Susie, her
body becoming more and more impossibly distorted and broken as the
performance goes on. </p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCLgZEE4JG7EEj1lJoWfzoj9y3fpGLqGm4sCgabCIkwipJJp0POSiR1wLQO9iCDnTFgsCZjzaOOPRK1KgQBLkiZbPWbbMi24vtKaNWY77guv6_L7PDCJiuidIGXlt8ZFNdedapYnn-d8eA8tuFW8IAKdBgxgAKXTSu82SehxMjnQQZOvCvptXZLsdX0yA/s1920/OLGA.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1040" data-original-width="1920" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCLgZEE4JG7EEj1lJoWfzoj9y3fpGLqGm4sCgabCIkwipJJp0POSiR1wLQO9iCDnTFgsCZjzaOOPRK1KgQBLkiZbPWbbMi24vtKaNWY77guv6_L7PDCJiuidIGXlt8ZFNdedapYnn-d8eA8tuFW8IAKdBgxgAKXTSu82SehxMjnQQZOvCvptXZLsdX0yA/w640-h346/OLGA.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The horrific fate of Olga.</i> </div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">When
Susie is done, several of the school's matron's go to the
still-breathing Olga, skewer her with handheld meathooks, and spirit her
body away.</p><p style="text-align: left;">From there, as rehearsals intensify for an upcoming live performance of Madame Blanc's piece, entitled <i>Volk</i>,
Susie becomes drawn into the coven and more of what's going on with the
coven, its members, and their purpose is slowly revealed, with Susie
right in the center of it all, and Dr. Klemperer getting more than he
bargained for as he uncovers the dark truth. I would love to tell you
more, but the rest of the film's surprises are best gone into cold...<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Legendary
director Dario Argento's 1977 SUSPIRIA is hailed by the majority of
horror fanatics as one of the scariest pictures ever made and a landmark
in Italian horror, but I have to go against the herd and proclaim it a
load of overrated bollocks. It admittedly looks great and is quite
eerie, I won't fault it for either of those aspects, but the film is a
textbook example of style over narrative substance. The conceit of a
German dance academy being a front for a coven is little more than a
framework upon which Argento could hang assorted violent/gory set
pieces, or an excuse for creative set design and lighting, as there
really isn't a story to speak of. The 2018 version is another matter
altogether, as director Luca Guadagnino takes the basic elements of
Argento's vision and weaves them into a well-fleshed-out examination of
several themes, including motherhood, death, loss, the dynamics between
females, embracing female sexuality, the abuse of power, and Germany's
awareness of its culpability for the Holocaust. Over the course of its
lugubriously-paced 2.5 hour run time, we get to know and understand the
characters and how real world events are reflected in the coven, and we
learn what's up right along with them. </p><p style="text-align: left;">In
this era of endless remakes that seek to cash in on name recognition
while rendering what was once adult content into a soft, safe, and
sanitized PG-13 confection, it's nice to see a remake that has the balls
to take chances and treat the audience like grownups. The script
approaches its particulars with the assumption that the viewer has had a
good deal of life experience, as well a working knowledge of late-20th
century world events (much of the current events cited in the story is
not explained in full detail), and the lengthy run time allows
everything room to breathe. And the embracing of the R-rating allows for
multi-person nudity that makes perfect sense for the events depicted
and is never gratuitous, and the story's gory and violent visuals are
let loose with abandon and skillful realization.</p><p style="text-align: left;">I
could go on and on but I'll just leave with a recommendation that when
sitting down to watch SUSPIRIA 2018, it's a good idea to have had a nap
beforehand, as its slow and quiet pace can act as a soporific. I suffer
with insomnia, so I came to it quite tired and ended up nodding off a
few times, which necessitated backing up to where I left off and
starting again. The film is in no way boring, but it's easy to crash on
if you're just plain exhausted.<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">And with that... <b> </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!</span></b></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgEtcNgCXIOZEpw5tNAL-pA8V_qnaD04XlytOoxYO9N9IYficDSaiWwvtFg9YPDwFdz87x-mbTBC0MUj-U7YGlAwoGkVmigbrg4AKd2BFhSR8ZurtpMbesRlyrsl6NPk4oAeFODe46O9v_2mqzRK0OD4LZ_19SymdqHDw0grcLtO5GG4TQXYRFyJ17xyg/s2897/lf.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2897" data-original-width="1953" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgEtcNgCXIOZEpw5tNAL-pA8V_qnaD04XlytOoxYO9N9IYficDSaiWwvtFg9YPDwFdz87x-mbTBC0MUj-U7YGlAwoGkVmigbrg4AKd2BFhSR8ZurtpMbesRlyrsl6NPk4oAeFODe46O9v_2mqzRK0OD4LZ_19SymdqHDw0grcLtO5GG4TQXYRFyJ17xyg/w432-h640/lf.jpg" width="432" /></a><br /><i>Poster from the theatrical release.</i><br /></p></div>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-60385240921200966522023-10-30T00:00:00.003-04:002023-10-30T05:50:53.027-04:0031 DAYS OF HORROR 2023 - Day 30: John Carpenter's VAMPIRES (1998)<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTl8tigT0rMgp_ZJ3HcY2OjhyphenhyphenEOkojeEhRSXy-EP1IH7eEkipX_mmNsJxPts2Q2bEf3yKgc3BmckxWApc_NclK23iQIFrw5_nA5Yopf5ed-jvGqCGa2aosHt4DPR2TC8ZujcZJDtWXVlj7b77VqV-AEeY1HvyIf2TDlxEhiiuuVrp7Ig4p-IVY9ZZ8scI/s3000/Vampires_1998_2%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1985" data-original-width="3000" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTl8tigT0rMgp_ZJ3HcY2OjhyphenhyphenEOkojeEhRSXy-EP1IH7eEkipX_mmNsJxPts2Q2bEf3yKgc3BmckxWApc_NclK23iQIFrw5_nA5Yopf5ed-jvGqCGa2aosHt4DPR2TC8ZujcZJDtWXVlj7b77VqV-AEeY1HvyIf2TDlxEhiiuuVrp7Ig4p-IVY9ZZ8scI/w640-h424/Vampires_1998_2%20copy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><i>"Well first of all, they're not romantic. It's not like they're a bunch
of fuckin' fags hoppin' around in rented formal wear and seducing
everybody in sight with cheesy Euro-trash accents, all right? Forget
whatever you've seen in the movies: they don't turn into bats, crosses
don't work. Garlic? You wanna try garlic? You could stand there with
garlic around your neck and one of these buggers will bend you fucking
over and take a walk up your strada-chocolata WHILE he's suckin' the
blood outta your neck, all right? And they don't sleep in coffins lined
in taffeta. You wanna kill one, you drive a wooden stake right through
his fuckin' heart. Sunlight turns 'em into crispy critters." - Jack Crow on vampires. </i></p><p>In
New Mexico a team of hardened Vatican-sponsored vampire hunters led by
Jack Crow (James Woods) routs a nest of undead suckfaces, destroying
nine of them with extreme prejudice. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pmVbY332FgRb4Y0ZxmsJ0AIo6p8wtnWjqTrpMB8i4Pm7beou6PAh-3z08UZ3CFvxH0PUhuY5FFNy1mDDkaW9LKW1UVkSFiXgixWfqSxlOi3YWYILEGthP9ip9qBG46C7Gd53sDVmEei_gONN0VOdE6v-yAfT2FaS9tq5fWqVudiE1rjc4HdAGBHeFyM/s640/Vampires-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="640" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pmVbY332FgRb4Y0ZxmsJ0AIo6p8wtnWjqTrpMB8i4Pm7beou6PAh-3z08UZ3CFvxH0PUhuY5FFNy1mDDkaW9LKW1UVkSFiXgixWfqSxlOi3YWYILEGthP9ip9qBG46C7Gd53sDVmEei_gONN0VOdE6v-yAfT2FaS9tq5fWqVudiE1rjc4HdAGBHeFyM/w640-h268/Vampires-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><i>The
team of Church-appointed vampire slayers receives a blessing before
getting down to the business of wiping out undead suckfaces.</i></p><p>Not
a bad day's work, but where is the master vampire? Seemingly nowhere to
be found. But no big deal. The team celebrates their victory at a
sleazy motel, surrounding themselves with whores and getting hammered.
Too bad they didn't do a more thorough search of the acreage where the
house serving as the vampires' nest was, because they they would have
noticed the blatantly fresh grave only a couple hundred yards from the
residence. </p><p>At sundown the master vampire, Valek (Thomas Ian
Griffith), claws his way out from the soil, and track the hunters to
their place of revelry. In short order the master suckface mercilessly
and gorily slays all but Crow, whom he calls out by name, and Crow and
his righthand man, Montoya (Daniel Baldwin) barely manage to escape,
dragging a bitten prostitute with them. Despite Montoya's protests, Crow
knows that prostitute Katrina (Sheryl Lee) has 48 hours before she
fully transitions to being a vampire, but as she chcnages she will
become connected to the master, hearing what he hears and seeing what he
sees, so the hunters can track the master through Katrina. And there's
also the question of how the master knew Crow's name. Crow realizes that
the hit on the vampires' nest was a setup because the master knew not
to be present, so who marked the team for a massacre? After returning to
the motel to stake, behead, and bury the dead and burn the place to the
ground, and, with a young priest in tow (Tim Guinee), the proper hunt
for Valek is on. But exactly who is this Valek, why is he so powerful,
and what is he after?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_oOyHaxPTqJLLFrfhuvkM14Uz1vD0_ExBQ54__v3ovEhZb6eDbABilUCtoh5Fn_cUdd_NhFh-DClAPQZBCe8b1EI3UebPrIEvg1FgUo3dD2NNovOGezib9JJawFeeA-XG9vZqnjVrtcDOsXAig7xL00B7YSguMXjv7uRBbzN6mrR9lNLcMsaEm4KJzEo/s1308/01.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1308" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_oOyHaxPTqJLLFrfhuvkM14Uz1vD0_ExBQ54__v3ovEhZb6eDbABilUCtoh5Fn_cUdd_NhFh-DClAPQZBCe8b1EI3UebPrIEvg1FgUo3dD2NNovOGezib9JJawFeeA-XG9vZqnjVrtcDOsXAig7xL00B7YSguMXjv7uRBbzN6mrR9lNLcMsaEm4KJzEo/w640-h352/01.webp" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Makin' with some stakin'.</i><br /></div><div><p style="text-align: left;">Yer
Bunche has been a John Carpenter fan since seeing the network
television debut of HALLOWEEN back in 1979, and I have seen all of his
films over the 44 years since. His films often bear a signature look,
feel, and sound and, good or bad, they tend to entertain me with an
experience akin to reading a comic book, but some comics books are
masterpieces, others are just okay, and what remains are wastes of
trees. VAMPIRES, though quite entertaining, a very much a flawed work
that feels like Carpenter's heart just wasn't fully in it. The script is
about 2/3 polished, but it falls apart significantly during the final
act. The ending is one of carpenter's weakest, and by the start of the
final reel I found myself checking my watch.</p><p>I first saw VAMPIRES
when it came out, but that was during a period I consider my "lost
years," when I went through life engaging in excessive drinking and
weed-smoking, so I saw a lot of movies in states so wasted that I barely
remember the details of a lot of those flicks. This was one I remember
finding middling at best, so I hoped that in seeing it again I would
experience a work whose merits I had mostly erased with my own drunken
disconnect. But no, my initial impression was spot on, and what I got
was pretty much a mid-level actioner that was like what I would have
come up with in my backyard at age seven while enacting a story with my
Adventure Team G.I. Joes and their mobile support vehicle, only with
vampires. (Though I did not have any dolls that would have made for
decent vampires. I did, however, have a Mego Supergirl that served as an
all-purpose female character, so she would have been a good fit as
Katrina.) The film doesn't bear the signature Carpenter look or feel,
nor is the score as pronouncedly loaded with Carpenter's composition
flavor. Among the roster of the director's works, VAMPIRES, while an
okay way to pass just over ninety minutes, is a lesser work, and you
miss little if you give it a miss. There are many much better vampire
films to be seen, so go for something like Hammer's KISS OF THE VAMPIRE
or TWINS OF EVIL.<br /></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbonH-rJzIfMGnaHtDHwsarVmxUHIfXaAWV1WYsq7K9dqbaGyGX74kwl1zwr2HeHlea3Jq14KaMLN5366YAYpVPoGqnzyLxXEW8Fdgm0DoLwqoL_BLrejOAMnDTQxqYVFjNcfflfG2bAsxnYHHDv-rfOOChbezWpIkcqgaK2fzYEd9q2GWBcaSaXBweqU/s500/0VAMPS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="337" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbonH-rJzIfMGnaHtDHwsarVmxUHIfXaAWV1WYsq7K9dqbaGyGX74kwl1zwr2HeHlea3Jq14KaMLN5366YAYpVPoGqnzyLxXEW8Fdgm0DoLwqoL_BLrejOAMnDTQxqYVFjNcfflfG2bAsxnYHHDv-rfOOChbezWpIkcqgaK2fzYEd9q2GWBcaSaXBweqU/w432-h640/0VAMPS.jpg" width="432" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Poster for the theatrical release.</i><br /></div><p></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-43801644607121778712023-10-29T00:00:00.004-04:002023-10-29T00:00:00.162-04:0031 DAYS OF HORROR 2023 -Day 29: THE BABADOOK (2014)<div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCvP2EQZ6Q52T2jVAsR5gVz6-189S2EZm6GVzrujQzUKPjL_Za8mHvmaf6YQwJMX9Riv_Munwlh1L5uRYgP2KobCPM0yV9_ZBbXoMzoBsP057PZrOOCfxM_QPabJvDZZrAUr6jApXg6Hm_6LGYdqlGBbxNK1W5n22vNMMQ35Ks4uHWv4KC0mDjn1MZgvI/s620/The-Badadook-010.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="620" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCvP2EQZ6Q52T2jVAsR5gVz6-189S2EZm6GVzrujQzUKPjL_Za8mHvmaf6YQwJMX9Riv_Munwlh1L5uRYgP2KobCPM0yV9_ZBbXoMzoBsP057PZrOOCfxM_QPabJvDZZrAUr6jApXg6Hm_6LGYdqlGBbxNK1W5n22vNMMQ35Ks4uHWv4KC0mDjn1MZgvI/w640-h384/The-Badadook-010.webp" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>If it's in a word, or it's in a look... You can't get rid of the Babadook.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;">Amelia
Vanek (Essie Davis), a single mother in suburban Australia, struggles
with raising her six-year-old son, Samuel (Noah Wiseman). The boy's
father was killed in a car accident while driving in-labor Amelia to the
hospital, so Amelia has held onto and not processed her grief over the
entirety of her son's life. The boy is raised knowing that his father
was killed on the day he was born, but all mention of the father is
swiftly shut down by his mother. The pair pretty much live isolated
within their house, with their most frequent social interactions being
with Mrs. Roach (Barbara West), the kindly old lady next door, so their
world is quite insular and sad. Samuel is an intelligent, creative kid
who is learning elementary stage magic and build functioning weapons for
home defense, but his behavior has become increasingly erratic and
aggressive, some of which may have to do with him being on the spectrum,
which leads to his mother withdrawing him from school. Caring for her
difficult son while also juggling her job as a caretaker at a home for
the elderly has left Amelia a wrung-out mess, both at work and at home.
She has not slept for weeks, and catering to her son's constant needs
wears her down to the point of her beginning to weary of motherhood. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;">Part
of their nightly ritual is Amelia reading the restless child a story to
lull him to sleep at bedtime. One night, Samuel selects a book from the
shelf that neither has seen before, a book entitled "Mr. Babadook,"
about a dark and scary monster that announces its presence by screaming
"BA BA BA DOOK DOOK DOOK" and then terrorizing its victims. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"></span><span style="font-size: small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTT5_Ha-_45qKCpFUz4mDw3Nd9a5_fkG0nl9cK15fQzi_eQwTYxfH2eRo9Ld8mXwfj60YPwSst3FPP17l-To7R38lmL31ESmd8cfDr47mdPlw1TzjooRlCP2kzPmi0wjL8YI0UayoZwLT-Nldr2_HVxuHDPoxUxUT7BB95aBMvaopWvadZIfSHL6oheds/s2048/23BABADOOK2-superJumbo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTT5_Ha-_45qKCpFUz4mDw3Nd9a5_fkG0nl9cK15fQzi_eQwTYxfH2eRo9Ld8mXwfj60YPwSst3FPP17l-To7R38lmL31ESmd8cfDr47mdPlw1TzjooRlCP2kzPmi0wjL8YI0UayoZwLT-Nldr2_HVxuHDPoxUxUT7BB95aBMvaopWvadZIfSHL6oheds/w640-h426/23BABADOOK2-superJumbo.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;">The
book spooks the shit out of Samuel, who already had fears of monsters
lurking beneath the bed and in his closet, but once the book is read, he
begins to see the Babadook and yells at it to go away. Of course Amelia
thinks it's just another element of her son's issues, but when scary
and dangerous things begin to happen, Amelia and Samuel are confronted
with the Babadook. But even with all of the experienced evidence, is the
creature real, and if so, what is its motivation? Or is Amelia, whose
patience and nerves are beyond frayed, simply going mad?</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j">It's
nice to know that studios can still make intelligent horror films for
grownups (though it should come as no surprise that a film of this
nature was not made in the United States.) </span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">I
steered clear of THE BABADOOK for years, because I often disagree with
the opinions of those who gush over modern horror efforts seemingly
indiscriminately, and also because it involved a kid, which is often a
formula for trite and toothless scare-free shudders. That said, I'm not
gonna lie when I tell you it's really heavy stuff.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: -apple-system-font; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4wwiqjgmSO9COUcLmwg9mO68k3q2a1WnthLK6yMIC8vD3TMw1pEznekECtPVBADL0ceNrHU9dhU65rHi4ZzLHsO_p9kImkjDlmll5G67oXFJ4fdQoOVpw9QvtHoaJfBOht7RFFHqKEmvOkjTw_pdH8wB8l5bGnKHO-vFeZYgAUpo6Ze7l03-M27Pb0Y/s1280/amelia-babadook-hp.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4wwiqjgmSO9COUcLmwg9mO68k3q2a1WnthLK6yMIC8vD3TMw1pEznekECtPVBADL0ceNrHU9dhU65rHi4ZzLHsO_p9kImkjDlmll5G67oXFJ4fdQoOVpw9QvtHoaJfBOht7RFFHqKEmvOkjTw_pdH8wB8l5bGnKHO-vFeZYgAUpo6Ze7l03-M27Pb0Y/w640-h360/amelia-babadook-hp.webp" width="640" /></a></span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>When a harried mother can take no more.</i> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;">As
the only child of single mother whose nerves and patience were on a
hair trigger, writer/director Jennifer Kent's examination of her story's
two leads hit me like a sledgehammer to the guts. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j">It's
an intense, very emotional slow burn that perfectly communicates the
fear of madness, from the POV of both mother and child, while making us
care for the main characters. There are no cheap jump scares or gore,
but what it brings instead is a mounting sense of tension and dread that
held me riveted. </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j">During
some of the mother's freakouts, I was transported right back to the
fear I felt of my own mother during her manic, angry episodes. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j">Essie
Davis's performance as Amelia is utterly believable and natural,
especially when losing control, and six-year-old Noah Wiseman gives the
best performance by a child actor that I've seen in decades. At no point
does he play Samuel as preternaturally precocious or cloying, instead
enacting a confused and fragile child that we have all encountered at
some point. Or a confused and fragile child that we ourselves were.<br /></span></span></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j"> In
short, THE BABADOOK is an excellent film that I recommend to all who
seek dark material that has more to offer than some dumb-as-dirt slasher
movie or cookie cutter possession flick, but I will not be revisiting
it. Sometimes art just hits too close to home.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j"></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfP7xKcomPJnFtO8xTJaMOvmXXbjXzyFZDgG9h-P30CcnodXOg7Tn4fFTP6BgO_DBWkaNJ4ST19OBMsg7aph5jcgU_h9wA5rRamJW6KcOeoZP3eqpJwPtDUaKRFtq1TOBPzhiiUr6joNGC_V7kWHuB1ytNJ0q7-ffO0RNURK3h1BfCmnXUbib04AcRoY/s1473/MV5BMTk0NzMzODc2NF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwOTYzNTM1MzE@._V1_FMjpg_UX1000_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1473" data-original-width="1000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfP7xKcomPJnFtO8xTJaMOvmXXbjXzyFZDgG9h-P30CcnodXOg7Tn4fFTP6BgO_DBWkaNJ4ST19OBMsg7aph5jcgU_h9wA5rRamJW6KcOeoZP3eqpJwPtDUaKRFtq1TOBPzhiiUr6joNGC_V7kWHuB1ytNJ0q7-ffO0RNURK3h1BfCmnXUbib04AcRoY/w434-h640/MV5BMTk0NzMzODc2NF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwOTYzNTM1MzE@._V1_FMjpg_UX1000_.jpg" width="434" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j"><i>Poster for the theatrical release.</i></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j"></span></span></div><div><p></p></div>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-91027020570551734662023-10-28T05:06:00.004-04:002023-10-28T05:06:59.093-04:00NO LUSTER FOR THIS DIAMOND<p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRptSb17U4CbI-G5ld-rbQBLYeK7VFRLrB__DsKadJfckLrmbP4e3eGBYdQyQTs3vRHbXTmrlkk8gReDq9Ovau8P7kXtmJzjlTgBuPinqHDPpwDsuHIOn4qVrhnjijkgfK7_gAhfMG7kRNSo1qLxW0UwZZGEwvKz_Ub1tHSfkhe_32cEsmJvdn1g/s1632/31440723823.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1632" data-original-width="1050" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRptSb17U4CbI-G5ld-rbQBLYeK7VFRLrB__DsKadJfckLrmbP4e3eGBYdQyQTs3vRHbXTmrlkk8gReDq9Ovau8P7kXtmJzjlTgBuPinqHDPpwDsuHIOn4qVrhnjijkgfK7_gAhfMG7kRNSo1qLxW0UwZZGEwvKz_Ub1tHSfkhe_32cEsmJvdn1g/w412-h640/31440723823.jpg" width="412" /></a><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Lately I've been using Ian Fleming audiobboks to lull me to sleep, and Fleming's super-exhaustive outlining of every detail in a scene's environment puts me out after about 15-20 minutes. Last night, however, I woke up about ninety minutes into DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER, the fourth James Bond novel (originally published in 1956), and lay there in the dark for a while, actually concentrating on the story. I had not read that book since probably 1978, when I devoured all of the 1960's editions of Fleming because they were an ubiquitous presence in second-hand book shops (I got the whole run at Fairfield's long-defunct Book Finder), so I had forgotten just how bad that novel is. </span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">When Fleming is firing on all cylinders, his work is exciting and visceral, but when he's off, it's painful and embarrassing to read. He tends to write American gangsters as cartoon stereotypes straight out of B movies of the 1930's and 1940's, so reading the dialogue of those characters immediately brings to mind the caricatured mobsters from Looney Tunes shorts. It's bad enough while reading the novel, but it's immeasurably worse when an actor reads it aloud in audiobook form. Yeah, I accept that all literature is a product of its era, but DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER serves to underline Fleming's considerable ignorance regarding people and cultures other than his own.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Bottom line: I rank this as Fleming's weakest book, somehow worse than THE SPY WHO LOVED ME (which also featured cartoon gangsters, one of whom was named "Slugsy"). If you ever decide to read Fleming's Bond stories, most of which have little or nothing to do with the subsequent films bearing their titles, I advise you to skip DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER. It has aged about as well as milk.</span></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-68239232111237694522023-10-28T00:00:00.006-04:002023-10-28T00:00:00.147-04:0031 DAYS OF HORROR 2023 - Day 28: KOLCHAK: THE NIGHT STALKER "The Trevi Collection" (1975)<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZZyRzTuF0AE8O2mkMn7mvgTPBNmw1syJM35qhSE6ZXQrkhGAH1zwF6_PWXlezdDsdJzRU15fip4FZnm_w6vbPi6r4X60a5yMJ1k0mla0oplbzpuaTJ2ttmPnXtvb64Yi9MUPLMnQ0tsefeJi3Uz2WWjVyL-mnetfSABBITVnDFezBEl81TgpoNVpLG4A/s633/screen-capture.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="476" data-original-width="633" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZZyRzTuF0AE8O2mkMn7mvgTPBNmw1syJM35qhSE6ZXQrkhGAH1zwF6_PWXlezdDsdJzRU15fip4FZnm_w6vbPi6r4X60a5yMJ1k0mla0oplbzpuaTJ2ttmPnXtvb64Yi9MUPLMnQ0tsefeJi3Uz2WWjVyL-mnetfSABBITVnDFezBEl81TgpoNVpLG4A/w640-h482/screen-capture.png" width="640" /></a></p><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>"Webster's
definition of a coven is concise, terse, without the usual disclaimers
or qualifications. It states simply that 'a coven is a band or assembly
of witches.'"</i></p><p>While covering a garment union extortion racket, a
string of suspicious maimings and deaths surrounding Trevi haute
couture fashion collection for 1975 leads Independent News Service
reporter Carl Kolchak (Darren McGavin) down an investigative trail to
direct confrontation with black witchcraft. As Kolchak, no stranger to
sniffing out the supernatural, does the research, properly arms himself
against old school maledictions, and gets closer to his target, the
witch that he's after marks him as their next victim. But the question
at the root of all of this is who's responsible, and what is their
motivation?</p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibhuVZvCsQ1Zlmwo7DleNYXocHMRHCJDDHLGBWM36EC0WGO4EpWtT7W6uMliXgCz5s_0G_J7ovtFzz6PFu-vWloy31e4rnPqaXf_lB-GgZ3ul9a597U9EeQBOXaWvZajww_VJ_bv31tHrp3o52144KWhelj3euXs6K4kJjbN_uhg_miXEFhAuQwjq0yNE/s629/Kolchak_1x14_003.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="629" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibhuVZvCsQ1Zlmwo7DleNYXocHMRHCJDDHLGBWM36EC0WGO4EpWtT7W6uMliXgCz5s_0G_J7ovtFzz6PFu-vWloy31e4rnPqaXf_lB-GgZ3ul9a597U9EeQBOXaWvZajww_VJ_bv31tHrp3o52144KWhelj3euXs6K4kJjbN_uhg_miXEFhAuQwjq0yNE/w640-h442/Kolchak_1x14_003.webp" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The first thread in a diabolical web.</i> </div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">As
mentioned in previous years of 31 DAYS OF HORROR, KOLCHAK: THE NIGHT
STALKER is part of the bedrock that turned me into a "monster kid" at a
tender age. Though already addicted to horror movies, it was a delight
to receive a weekly network teevee show that brought nine-year-old me
stories of an ordinary man who found himself contending with the weird,
the arcane, and the unnatural, and you can bet your ass that I never
missed an episode while watching from the relative safety beneath our
family room's coffee table.</p><p>I was drawn to Kolchak by virtue of
his very ordinariness, coupled with his willingness to accept the
impossible when directly faced with its complete and utter lethal
reality. He was a Van Helsing for the late 20th century, an unlikely
warrior against darkness whose vocation as a journalist gave him the
patience, tenacity, and tools to do the work of figuring out the old
ways to put a foot straight up the ass of the diabolical, and he never
let his understandable terror spur him to flee. He always got the job
done, often at great personal risk, and because of that he was my shabby
hero.</p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8QpPr5myoG1kOnyDBIY-A149_PAsVB6BuRvB_x7xSnFcyWQJfRTcENv8ehyQuyfH4r-MZRWuXHRM0WgTIYcCKU8SUFm8OWBjepqE9zczUTme-N1kG0DuzXkSikAppE8-X8thEoDbNqCGf5jj6ArUu0y_RXjXi3CQp5ss4Pn8nnO4aTe1wPBDCMcs2-F8/s2791/Screenshot%202023-10-24%20at%208.47.35%E2%80%AFPM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2208" data-original-width="2791" height="506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8QpPr5myoG1kOnyDBIY-A149_PAsVB6BuRvB_x7xSnFcyWQJfRTcENv8ehyQuyfH4r-MZRWuXHRM0WgTIYcCKU8SUFm8OWBjepqE9zczUTme-N1kG0DuzXkSikAppE8-X8thEoDbNqCGf5jj6ArUu0y_RXjXi3CQp5ss4Pn8nnO4aTe1wPBDCMcs2-F8/w640-h506/Screenshot%202023-10-24%20at%208.47.35%E2%80%AFPM.png" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Kolchak seeks answers from a coven. </i><br /></div><div><p></p><p>I
chose to spotlight "The Trevi Collection" because this year's roster of
items needed a dose of Kolchak, as well as a bit more witchery, but
also because in this era of endless reboots, reimaginings, and remakes,
Kolchak is ripe for an update, provided the right cast, scripts, and
directors were in place. "The Trevi Collection" would be a fun place to
start, as witches on the left-hand path are among the most human of all
supernatural menaces, so they are not as easily identifiable as, say, a
stitched-together abomination like Frankenstein's creature, or a full-on
werewolf, or even a triffid. They are the evil that lurks hidden among
us, and once they strike, it's usually horrific and too late. Their
unholy endeavors can take on a myriad of dire forms, so the story
potential is limitless, constrained only by the imagination of the
writer and by what the censors will allow. And since witches usually
bear the aspect of an ordinary person, there's little or no need for
expensive prosthetics or CGI for their appearance, and studios love
being able to turn out a work that won't bankrupt them. Especially if
there's likely a colossal box office return on a relatively low budget.
In this case, picture Kolchak in an R-rated version of this story,
complete with all the tropes of classic black magic narratives. Bloody
sacrifices, nudity, and general disturbing weirdness and actions that
would never fly on TV or with a PG-13 rating. Now, <i>that</i> I want to
see, but unless that quality reboot happens, I will just have to be
satisfied with the legacy of a weekly spookshow that's just a year shy
of being a half-century old.<br /></p><p>Bottom line: If you have never
availed yourself to KOLCHAK: THE NIGHT STALKER, you owe it to yourself
to check it out. In many ways there would never have been THE X-FILES if
not for this series that predated it by two decades. There's good
reason for KOLCHAK to be remembered and revered today, so stock up on
crucifixes, holy water, and garlic (among other items) and join one
fleabag reporter's ongoing battle against that which should not be.</p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu1pGHkllRaekQw2b30il156TOfXQQJ2sFl7nBwUIKALiV0jU4GM3DSlyL5xLDZH4IR6RvvVbKiGEAdgKvegS-gZHU5w1DAmdH6WmPYnazVSibGJmYFg7rvHYF66RkPOh5l1unWqxyBz7ATMmwVN83hSgDw-3-2BjsHvcDN7IIuN7rd7vGvWKenfHZU8A/s1600/aa4cb2df418dbc55bbeb3911b2de19ec113a571aa656b2cf2f5c905df636cd22._RI_TTW_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu1pGHkllRaekQw2b30il156TOfXQQJ2sFl7nBwUIKALiV0jU4GM3DSlyL5xLDZH4IR6RvvVbKiGEAdgKvegS-gZHU5w1DAmdH6WmPYnazVSibGJmYFg7rvHYF66RkPOh5l1unWqxyBz7ATMmwVN83hSgDw-3-2BjsHvcDN7IIuN7rd7vGvWKenfHZU8A/w640-h480/aa4cb2df418dbc55bbeb3911b2de19ec113a571aa656b2cf2f5c905df636cd22._RI_TTW_.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Carl Kolchak: un-deterrable reporter and ass-kicker of the fantastic.</i><br /></div></div>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-23812826106156916102023-10-27T00:00:00.001-04:002023-10-27T00:00:00.161-04:0031 DAYS OF HORROR 2023 - Day 27: INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS (1978)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-_UQgMGmBxBPMNrHgRNNoxzrPCduYIx_oQRKoMt4JIn7hf_oHQOR7ZfNkkmdcEBFnfhbklYjZPHenbuoHVILRFeOVMjr9S7zSVfVxRDrPppCh_uxpYBCPgcrjnxyd5ewC4pqhn8CW76aGQOhw5d7xWyz1i82iOhB16zgR7tBvQgjs2vuZ_5V6MHh-i8/s1132/d6d25d_73a12f71080349d2912106b602012557~mv2.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="636" data-original-width="1132" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-_UQgMGmBxBPMNrHgRNNoxzrPCduYIx_oQRKoMt4JIn7hf_oHQOR7ZfNkkmdcEBFnfhbklYjZPHenbuoHVILRFeOVMjr9S7zSVfVxRDrPppCh_uxpYBCPgcrjnxyd5ewC4pqhn8CW76aGQOhw5d7xWyz1i82iOhB16zgR7tBvQgjs2vuZ_5V6MHh-i8/w640-h360/d6d25d_73a12f71080349d2912106b602012557~mv2.webp" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Fleeing a dead world. Next stop: Earth</i>.<br /></div><div><p>This is going to be a quick one.</p><p>This
disco era remake of the 1956 masterpiece of paranoia updates the story
beautifully, as we are taken along for the ride when a group of San
Francisco residents try to navigate through a subtle incursion from
outer space. Having abandoned their dead world, alien plants land on our
world and reproduce by large seed pods that grow next to humans while
we sleep. The original human is duplicated and replaced by an identical
plant doppelganger that can only be differentiated from the original by
its complete lack of emotion. The invasion of replacements is quiet, but
it swiftly escalates and those who are not part of the extraterrestrial
collective must flee or be subsumed. If unchecked, the encroachment of
the plants will spell the end of humanity, but how to fight an invader
that wears the faces and bodies of friends, loved ones, authority
figures, and whomever else? And who would believe so fantastical a tale
if one was able to get the word out?<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh60xDVjTgA3-TMieuBuCWtGktyLDK6c7MRbGO058dJXRWPceHgz9WuKdH7OeOXnLH1oRCSaOp87uml9OIFpXUt_tPcjEUvF8YGtE47O7PVW71a4Mhok9hJsTJSIyX3GdBFC4kSuG8JErv5uzEcK4zcGxGmoxFCulMpeG3OqKk5vsmvO-Okocln88x84RE/s700/invasion-of-the-body-snatchers-1978-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="700" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh60xDVjTgA3-TMieuBuCWtGktyLDK6c7MRbGO058dJXRWPceHgz9WuKdH7OeOXnLH1oRCSaOp87uml9OIFpXUt_tPcjEUvF8YGtE47O7PVW71a4Mhok9hJsTJSIyX3GdBFC4kSuG8JErv5uzEcK4zcGxGmoxFCulMpeG3OqKk5vsmvO-Okocln88x84RE/w640-h366/invasion-of-the-body-snatchers-1978-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A replacement germinates.</i><br /></div></div><div><p style="text-align: left;">This
quality remake employs the same basic setup as the classic original
(only minus the Cold War allegory) and it's every bit as effective,
thanks to a solid script, tense direction, and a game cast led by Donald
Sutherland, Brooke Adams, Jeff Goldblum, Veronica Cartwright, and
Leonard Nimoy. Much like the original, the frisson here is the familiar
being twisted into something distant from itself, the loss of individual
humanity, and the horror of implacable uniformity. </p><p>That's all I
will say, because if you have not yet seen it for yourself, there are
plenty of surprises that must be experienced cold. Especially one that
shocked the shit out of those of us who saw it during first run while we
were in junior high school. (If you've seen the film, you know <i>exactly </i>which
bit I'm on about.) See the 1956 original, as it still wields
considerable power, and also for the sake of comparison, but this
version is strong meat that can stand on its own.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpTtpVbJavuoEKm7_cxioUxpxPDl6DiupP3sm7Jp_C3fddf_-8_CiBvZ_qeEHW8iSTn6HnZl7er6Q5c0Jle2EwbLfAgpx6F0QaufSomIMaDJDEMd1aBQUUhoMTdKpQq9WsBeGUY0jdz_c8GTYFRkS5waeghoF4YBV9c7934PRjo45Ix3Y98cuhddAU_58/s391/Invasion_of_the_body_snatchers_movie_poster_1978.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="391" data-original-width="258" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpTtpVbJavuoEKm7_cxioUxpxPDl6DiupP3sm7Jp_C3fddf_-8_CiBvZ_qeEHW8iSTn6HnZl7er6Q5c0Jle2EwbLfAgpx6F0QaufSomIMaDJDEMd1aBQUUhoMTdKpQq9WsBeGUY0jdz_c8GTYFRkS5waeghoF4YBV9c7934PRjo45Ix3Y98cuhddAU_58/w422-h640/Invasion_of_the_body_snatchers_movie_poster_1978.jpg" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Poster for the U.S. theatrical release.</i><br /></div></div><p></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-2357010507212139722023-10-26T00:00:00.005-04:002023-10-26T00:39:07.082-04:0031 DAYS OF HORROR 2023 - Day 26: NIGHT OF THE DEMON (1980)<div class="separator" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMByGhoqoDyJwBS3e28_Y94ZLLV-DusAiQtYI_UC6PAb-2FdSUAckoou9Usz5qPTXGvH7KKvucn6HauQNRpOBz6L5TZAJYWe7yOH0Q__8M9OrS_maHWo8B3q1IlrBSYIb1Q0xTq-Wx1q6ljw9g5_fyVXlB76QspnRXpSOYGB6P7OrSaZk3YlPoxhYNQ8/s2016/Bigfoot-2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMByGhoqoDyJwBS3e28_Y94ZLLV-DusAiQtYI_UC6PAb-2FdSUAckoou9Usz5qPTXGvH7KKvucn6HauQNRpOBz6L5TZAJYWe7yOH0Q__8M9OrS_maHWo8B3q1IlrBSYIb1Q0xTq-Wx1q6ljw9g5_fyVXlB76QspnRXpSOYGB6P7OrSaZk3YlPoxhYNQ8/w640-h480/Bigfoot-2.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Bigfoot: HARRY AND THE HENDERSONS this ain't.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;">An
anthropology professor leads an expedition of a handful of students
into the backwoods of California, where they seek to prove the existence
of Bigfoot and determine whether or not the legendary cryptid is
responsible for the murder of an assortment of victims. The search
reveals a community of hillbillies that worship the Sasquatch, with a
clearly unstable woman as the focus of a Bigfoot-related sex ritual, and
stories of dire incidents involving the beast being recounted in
flashback. The expedition is stalked and killed by the monster, and the
unstable woman's history with the creature is made plain. She was raped
by Bigfoot when she was fifteen, a violation witnessed by her religious
fanatic father (who stood by and did nothing), and her father is
convinced that his daughter is evil. Bigfoot's sexual assault was meant
to impregnate the girl as a means to perpetuate his species (he's
apparently the last of his kind), and when she agonizingly gives birth,
her father kills the baby. Now totally around the bend, the girl burns
her father alive in the family's barn. Anyway, while trapped in the
girl's cabin, the expedition is stalked and killed by the beast, with
only the professor surviving the massacre. Upon telling his story to the
authorities and mental health professionals (the events leading up to
his hospitalization are told as a feature-length flashback), the
professor is declared criminally insane. THE END.</p><p style="text-align: left;">NIGHT
OF THE DEMON — not to be confused with other similarly-titled films —
arrived at the start of the 1980's slasher movie boom, and the narrative
is pretty much a backwoods-set slasher with a Sasquatch as the killer.
It stars no one anybody's ever heard of, features overlong takes and bad
editing, and is an exercise in padding and utter boredom. Other than
some memorably shocking set pieces, the film's sole distinction is that
it was one of the films cited on Britain's infamous "video nasties"
roster in the 1980's and banned as a result. I had never heard of this
film until recently, and I totally understand why. It's cheap-looking,
features no scares or suspense, and even its ban-worthy gory and violent
excesses are about on par with gore effects one would see at a junior
high school's cheapjack annual haunted house.</p><p style="text-align: left;">The
film's two standout moments showcase a motorcyclist pulling over for a
roadside piss, only to have Bigfoot's hairy hand grab the biker's penis
from out of a nearby bush and rip it off, thus leading the poor bastard
to bleed out,<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmrEWL855BXKO0WdD6bZrNjxPemAMaEdoZHaiBz-lmlNtjE6FcAHcWt09hYi2RrRpGbrnLMzJfSJuhmiDNNyj8ZxV3ZqXDRrashrWIeffjX_LzHnzghge90aTISmLdl0kn2Z0Upc5szq_2Xvhqf-gnK0GlPDC5g0ZrLl4WqH4TGfoPz62DZh_r9fE-_tE/s720/Penis.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="720" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmrEWL855BXKO0WdD6bZrNjxPemAMaEdoZHaiBz-lmlNtjE6FcAHcWt09hYi2RrRpGbrnLMzJfSJuhmiDNNyj8ZxV3ZqXDRrashrWIeffjX_LzHnzghge90aTISmLdl0kn2Z0Upc5szq_2Xvhqf-gnK0GlPDC5g0ZrLl4WqH4TGfoPz62DZh_r9fE-_tE/w640-h476/Penis.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>and the flashback of Bigfoot raping that girl in her front yard while her shotgun-wielding dad observes in disgusted horror.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL8u0muGWqwHaFqQ2QoV2M29ilqxHebQgk3WjUEUMcnA-YVxvlgWk17xJQNAXjK3SijSOvd9P6-bM_zTQ17SUDDif5BHeGwfWIyNexTYRElEPpICGnslt2a-GO9X3S8j3V6AchThb6DNd5s7-SmMYvSWQ6aGqhVkuGFK4bF3oCZa1Ts0KzQvGlfTDBi3k/s3378/Screenshot%202023-10-23%20at%203.22.56%E2%80%AFPM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1788" data-original-width="3378" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL8u0muGWqwHaFqQ2QoV2M29ilqxHebQgk3WjUEUMcnA-YVxvlgWk17xJQNAXjK3SijSOvd9P6-bM_zTQ17SUDDif5BHeGwfWIyNexTYRElEPpICGnslt2a-GO9X3S8j3V6AchThb6DNd5s7-SmMYvSWQ6aGqhVkuGFK4bF3oCZa1Ts0KzQvGlfTDBi3k/w640-h338/Screenshot%202023-10-23%20at%203.22.56%E2%80%AFPM.png" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><i>A rare example of what's often implied in monster movies being made quite explicit.</i></p><p>NIGHT
OF THE DEMON was an amateurish waste of my time and Amazon rental
money, and I am actually angry that I saw it. It's not so-bad-it-s-good.
It's just a soul-sucking piece of anti-entertainment that is best
avoided.<br /></p><p></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-32343987982219521282023-10-25T00:00:00.001-04:002023-10-25T00:00:00.151-04:0031 DAYS OF HORROR 2023 - Day 25: THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH (1964)<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhSNm5HQD_phZjI3tNkk7x-TFhztwifTWFfj-sZ_Prr58mk1lvrH6c5Qn9buF0Yk32jr-v1t9tTcAbs-QceTaWYCHZisR3JKSbBl3vM8LuBWsz8YxsiOk3vY-G5tIQVphoTT30-Z4cUZmBFSVSbfZDo7U33RxfS5OS1JQlm63Lx6aJ0L21bv7PDKaOvY/s1020/iu-16-1.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="546" data-original-width="1020" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhSNm5HQD_phZjI3tNkk7x-TFhztwifTWFfj-sZ_Prr58mk1lvrH6c5Qn9buF0Yk32jr-v1t9tTcAbs-QceTaWYCHZisR3JKSbBl3vM8LuBWsz8YxsiOk3vY-G5tIQVphoTT30-Z4cUZmBFSVSbfZDo7U33RxfS5OS1JQlm63Lx6aJ0L21bv7PDKaOvY/w640-h342/iu-16-1.png" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>"Can you look around this world and believe in the goodness of a god who
rules it? Famine, Pestilence, War, Disease and Death! They rule this
world." — Prospero</i> <br /></p><p>In medieval Italy, Satan-worshiping
prince Prospero (Vincent Price) rules over a village with an iron hand,
making the lives of his subjects a cruel misery. While on her way back
to the village after collecting kindling, an old woman encounters a
mysterious hooded figure clad from head to toe in crimson, and he gives
her a white rose that he turns red. The figure tasks the woman with
presenting the flower to Prospero and alerting the cruel ruler that the
time of the people's deliverance is at hand.</p><p>Prospero arrives in
the village to announce a feast and masquerade in honor of the end of
the peasants' harvest season, a bounty from which Prospero benefits
while the townspeople starve. Rulers from nearby kingdoms will be in
attendance and the members of the court will find sport in throwing
table scraps to the peasants as if they were dogs. But while the rest of
the town resigns itself to bear the ongoing degradation, a young man,
Gino, and village elder Ludivico speak out against Prospero, and the
prince immediately orders the pair to be garroted. But as the royal
stranglers set to work, Francesca, the elder's daughter, begs for mercy.
Prospero offers to let one of the men live, but the girl must choose
who is to survive — her father, or Gino, with whom she is in love. But
before that dreadful choice can be made, screaming is heard from within a
nearby hut, and when the prince interrupts his cruel game to
investigate, he finds the old woman, who promptly dies, her face mottled
with red blotches. Her demise indicates that a dreaded plague, the Red
Death, has come to the area, so, having determined that his three
victims have not had contact with the old woman, Prospero has the trio
taken to his castle to further his entertainment, and orders his
soldiers to burn the plague-besmirched village to the ground.</p><p>Upon
arrival at Prospero's castle, Gino and Ludivico are imprisoned and
trained in armed combat to serve as amusement for guests at the upcoming
celebration, while Francesca is forcibly stripped and bathed. Striding
in to observe the modest peasant in the bath, Propero notes that she
wears a cross. When asked if the crucifix is mere decoration or if she
is a true Christian believer, Francesca answers "yes" and is told to
take it off immediately and never wear it in the castle again, at which
the terrified girl hands him the cross. Prospero then takes his leave,
but not before ordering his Juliana, his concubine, to dress Francesca
in finery from the Juliana's own wardrobe and that she instruct
Francesca in the ways of the court. Francesca agrees to cooperate, but
if anything happens to her father or her lover, she will die...and so
will Prospero. But Prospero aims to corrupt Francesca and usher her into
his diabolical faith, with the masquerade ball designed as an orgiastic
offering of souls to his dark master. But what of the mysterious hooded
figure in red?<br /></p><p>This seventh of producer/director Roger
Corman's Edgar Allan Poe adaptations is a mashup of the titular short
story and "Hop Toad," but I did not outline that second thread because
it's best experienced with no foreknowledge. All one needs to know is
that the film is a lush, colorful effort that affords Vincent Price one
of his best opportunities to play unabashedly evil. His Prospero is a
cruel and vile despot to whom the lives of his subjects are worth less
than dog droppings on the street. He degrades all who cross his path,
even his concubine, and he simply revels in the pain and humiliation he
causes, so when he inevitably gets what coming to him, it's immensely
satisfying.</p><p>For my money, this is the best of Corman's Poe wave,
and it's a leisurely-paced effort that's not all that scary or gory, but
it has the look and atmosphere of one of Mario Bava's films of the
period. If you ever wondered why Vincent Price, a hammy actor if ever
there was one, is a horror icon, THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH will
provide you with a solid answer. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhKPrgMjwq3rvUr_lilX3vIaR0-NMrbPgVG3q00CSu8nrkPbuzdgwrN0YTHf2QhF6jjxloIQviXNLe0qXkErV5xI8UGJ7kzY5QMftENsF1X23SJ8WtTvU-8Xe26OUg39ltpmYDgr7NMs3_3LMcZtE9FDXs-DbX8Q2XX5vByVZpA4qnUmbQhCCjItehlEc/s397/MasqueOfTheRedDeath(1964film).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="397" data-original-width="250" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhKPrgMjwq3rvUr_lilX3vIaR0-NMrbPgVG3q00CSu8nrkPbuzdgwrN0YTHf2QhF6jjxloIQviXNLe0qXkErV5xI8UGJ7kzY5QMftENsF1X23SJ8WtTvU-8Xe26OUg39ltpmYDgr7NMs3_3LMcZtE9FDXs-DbX8Q2XX5vByVZpA4qnUmbQhCCjItehlEc/w404-h640/MasqueOfTheRedDeath(1964film).jpg" width="404" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Poster for the theatrical release.</i><br /></p><p> </p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-15848292871254667192023-10-24T00:00:00.002-04:002023-10-24T00:00:00.136-04:0031 DAYS OF HORROR 2023 - Day 24: THE GREEN INFERNO (2013)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHFUhXMI27dY5Of55lG964Kg8gzHMw5SjaGFUzgcTU5uG-bRiiHWIC_3BBakvFj_-aFak9_62QFoYyGOIAr0tRoDrnph8EGMePEE9ZIHP_4lCUV1MOvZJAS8mHra5IdC5OPuaj0vGWgFjX3h3pYgsYuimhtquGwgV4XtyV5LjqrW3W9x8bTi55WJkfS0w/s906/luUETazMEx4CP476VPP6OV5ZHGLvJfJZER2D7PNQGVQ.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="906" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHFUhXMI27dY5Of55lG964Kg8gzHMw5SjaGFUzgcTU5uG-bRiiHWIC_3BBakvFj_-aFak9_62QFoYyGOIAr0tRoDrnph8EGMePEE9ZIHP_4lCUV1MOvZJAS8mHra5IdC5OPuaj0vGWgFjX3h3pYgsYuimhtquGwgV4XtyV5LjqrW3W9x8bTi55WJkfS0w/w640-h366/luUETazMEx4CP476VPP6OV5ZHGLvJfJZER2D7PNQGVQ.webp" width="640" /></a></div> <i> "I smell him. Oh, my god...I smell my friend being cooked..."</i><br /><p></p><p>College
freshman Justine (Lorenza Izzo), daughter of a United Nations
attorney, joins a campus activism group led by the charismatic and
intense Alejandro (Ariel Levy). Alejandro plans a journey deep into the
Amazon rainforest, where he and his group seek to bring international
attention to a corporation's illegal deforestation efforts and pillaging
of natural gas that will also wipe out a local tribe of indigenous
people. Justine and Alejandro's followers travel to the Amazon and make
their stand against the corporation's clear-cutters and armed
mercenaries, using their cell phones to broadcast the incident to the
world, but as they make their way home via a small prop plane, things go
awry, resulting in a crash that kills several of the activists.
Justine, Alejandro, and the remaining activists manage to crawl from the
wreckage, but they are immediately captured by the indigenous
tribesmen, who think they are members of the faction that is destroying
their habitat. The tribe are skilled hunters who have co-existed with
the dangers of the jungle since time immemorial, while Justine and the
crash survivors are pampered westerners with no clue of exactly where
they are, no way to communicate with their captors, and no hope of
escape, as they are guarded 24/7 by tribesmen with sedative blow darts.
Unfortunately for Justine and the survivors, the tribe are also cannibal
headhunters, and Justine and crew make for a bountiful feast...</p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwQ8-bA6Q4XNI-Y26OvVhAN2rFaeQo0gIwYedXPBv_Y01N3k36QQYNSgEtwl-H0Zk1e5DT_82TWe-k6lE1P7AmFbOW5iOd5-ckFIWro0qeqQMbChRxjCwlG9cDQRXeFp-5kWL4eqf6D1kWH1pTwZPFnA6pby266yxTKsibjIRybg4RuWcpVeHir7aJaOk/s1280/green-inferno-pic-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="1280" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwQ8-bA6Q4XNI-Y26OvVhAN2rFaeQo0gIwYedXPBv_Y01N3k36QQYNSgEtwl-H0Zk1e5DT_82TWe-k6lE1P7AmFbOW5iOd5-ckFIWro0qeqQMbChRxjCwlG9cDQRXeFp-5kWL4eqf6D1kWH1pTwZPFnA6pby266yxTKsibjIRybg4RuWcpVeHir7aJaOk/w640-h266/green-inferno-pic-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Come and get it!!!"</i> </div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">Basically
a love letter to the Italian cannibal sub-genre — one of the sleaziest,
grubbiest, most negative and exploitative corners of horror cinema —
Eli Roth's THE GREEN INFERNO is perhaps the first iteration of the form
to be realized with actual craft and not just an exploitative desire to
slather the screen with plotless gore and sadism. I've seen several
entries in this singularly unsavory category, and this is far and away
the most competent and professional-looking of the dubious breed, unlike
the garden variety Italo gut-munchers that look and feel like a snuff
film. Roth has crafted a harrowing survival narrative that allows us to
get to know the characters to a decent degree before the mayhem starts,
and once the gruesome ball gets rolling, it's a bleak and nasty affair
for the hapless prisoners. Live dismemberment, dysentery-fueled diarrhea
within a confined space, torture with hungry ants, inspection of the
female prisoner's hymens with a sharp probe, and even the threat of
female genital mutilation are all on the table, and Roth manages to
bring us all of that within the constraints of an R-rating and done more
tastefully than one might expect. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixPNRYv1W2og3SB1xFQbXmz11PZiZUcaotXcKb74InTC_M9o91-LEl0XVYXBUMwkvhJSmB9mXanj06Cz-Rspl8p36zibzA2TwABVw18QNQje9w6qch7JEACwVC5Hlyix9FwAsLDS4-i8-pitam2A5bEmAO5jZgYDdHoxwB5oXhQ8Y87-VPDrNeA1SGroM/s500/greeninferno1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="207" data-original-width="500" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixPNRYv1W2og3SB1xFQbXmz11PZiZUcaotXcKb74InTC_M9o91-LEl0XVYXBUMwkvhJSmB9mXanj06Cz-Rspl8p36zibzA2TwABVw18QNQje9w6qch7JEACwVC5Hlyix9FwAsLDS4-i8-pitam2A5bEmAO5jZgYDdHoxwB5oXhQ8Y87-VPDrNeA1SGroM/w640-h264/greeninferno1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>When one woman's waking nightmare goes from incredibly bad to immeasurably worse...</i><br /></div><div><p style="text-align: left;">Yes,
it's bloody and unabashedly gory as hell, but it's all presented in a
matter-of-fact manner, as if it's all just another day in the existence
of the cannibal tribe (which it is, but only with a sudden windfall of
fresh meat).</p><p>To say more would ruin the surprises, so if you have
the stomach for this sort of thing, I heartily recommend that you check
it out. Unlike the Italian sleaze-fests that it drew inspiration from,
THE GREEN INFERNO is actually a very good film, albeit a particularly
nasty one. I don't think it's anything that someone who watched the more
excessive episodes of GAME OF THRONES couldn't handle, but I get it if
you opt to steer clear. Cannibalism is ugly business and there are few
ways to depict such without going there, but those who brave this film
are likely of stern enough stuff to be able to handle its charnel house
shocks, and if they do they may just be surprised at how much they enjoy
the proceedings. Like I said, I am no stranger to gory cannibal films,
but I cannot say that I actually enjoyed any of the classic examples
thereof. I appreciate them for their audacity and merry willingness to
be as nauseating as possible, but I do not find them to be fun cinematic
entertainment. THE GREEN INFERNO, I am glad to say, is the first such
film that I have genuinely enjoyed, so make of that what you will.</p><p>Oh, and stick around once the end credits roll...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPOCl1oedSiFAWHTPMXQrgf2TYPf1kLXrCayDTyVKXs4HX8QrnpRXqVNU6F8qlw9yg4HkIs9mEFBhB7Th93QCCbwzbjy2nQQ0o5VnPg2iwWpzxyjfX9h11HYy8HoyV1Ka2sKfTbgFEIHq-CziMQ5feVjUJ94Uc6znepAAmbGvI8fOl5eaYPrABpv4DY0/s1838/the-green-inferno-movie-poster.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1838" data-original-width="1240" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPOCl1oedSiFAWHTPMXQrgf2TYPf1kLXrCayDTyVKXs4HX8QrnpRXqVNU6F8qlw9yg4HkIs9mEFBhB7Th93QCCbwzbjy2nQQ0o5VnPg2iwWpzxyjfX9h11HYy8HoyV1Ka2sKfTbgFEIHq-CziMQ5feVjUJ94Uc6znepAAmbGvI8fOl5eaYPrABpv4DY0/w432-h640/the-green-inferno-movie-poster.webp" width="432" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Poster for the theatrical release.</i><br /></div></div><p></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-53173739146938895502023-10-23T00:00:00.001-04:002023-10-23T00:00:00.153-04:0031 DAYS OF HORROR 2023 - Day 23: SHIVERS (1975)<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGo1YLi4xx9BilL04ldEPy6CWHhrn6SKmGZZV-o8uQnVmw6eM7z2no7ib-GvpHjQSbCgOk9kLd0sLCBr0WPW4bbYSAoePoll94_OhkdQygaCiH_tQBNvnhy-3zqcB2kNSnidjJwqC9drNN6qYw4GaKn9ByJCZUxjkg7_3xAvNvOWvFsuBmBkXsUtR6C1o/s1008/cronenberg-15-shivers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="1008" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGo1YLi4xx9BilL04ldEPy6CWHhrn6SKmGZZV-o8uQnVmw6eM7z2no7ib-GvpHjQSbCgOk9kLd0sLCBr0WPW4bbYSAoePoll94_OhkdQygaCiH_tQBNvnhy-3zqcB2kNSnidjJwqC9drNN6qYw4GaKn9ByJCZUxjkg7_3xAvNvOWvFsuBmBkXsUtR6C1o/w640-h366/cronenberg-15-shivers.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"><i>"I had a very disturbing dream last night. In this dream I found
myself making love to a strange man. Only I'm having trouble you see,
because he's old... and dying... and he smells bad, and I find him
repulsive. But then he tells me that everything is erotic, that
everything is sexual. You know what I mean? He tells me that even old
flesh is erotic flesh. That disease is the love of two alien kinds of
creatures for each other. That even dying is an act of eroticism. That
talking is sexual. That breathing is sexual. That even to physically
exist is sexual. And I believe him, and we make love beautifully."</i> </p><p>The
Starliner, a luxury apartment complex on an island near Montreal, is
overrun by caustic parasites that amplify the host's sexual desires,
thus leading to the creatures spreading via any available human orifice.
Transmitted through intimate contact and at other times getting around
independent of a host and attacking at random, the phallic slug-like
creatures reproduce rapidly. The creation of a doctor at a local
research facility with the intent that they be medically useful as, once
implanted, they
search out failing organs, dissolve them, and replace them with full
function. But the apparently insane doctor also intended them as "a
combination of aphrodisiac and venereal disease that will hopefully turn
the world into one beautiful, mindless orgy." So
when he implanted a 19-year-old female student with some parasites (a
girl with whom he he'd been having an affair since she was a minor), she
went all
horny and got down to business with a number of the complex's male
residents, and then it was off to the races for the nasty little
wigglies. Literally overnight, the situation escalates to a
proliferation akin to
a George Romero-style proportions, with the infected behaving like
swarming zombies, only this time around the zombies are sentient and
will sexually assault you, resulting in a mindless, writhing euphoric
dog pile of orgiastic couplings. </p><p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglEuHO4hw0iu_X4_QAPfo5-JaIPYKRPzz7SBAL4g87HqsdquCw_5At9xTtXiISRXQnqlj6w5R4CBfkMOJAIkh50yRUZDiLU2i0BuBEKvOSH1cf-lsvgrgxU2utbr1MB-p7C3vguGoLDEpzx6wv6ExGyAP3mp-efrIuavfUXPevyXG3k1-7tQ4nrJ1QUtA/s1823/Shivers-Still3.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1019" data-original-width="1823" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglEuHO4hw0iu_X4_QAPfo5-JaIPYKRPzz7SBAL4g87HqsdquCw_5At9xTtXiISRXQnqlj6w5R4CBfkMOJAIkh50yRUZDiLU2i0BuBEKvOSH1cf-lsvgrgxU2utbr1MB-p7C3vguGoLDEpzx6wv6ExGyAP3mp-efrIuavfUXPevyXG3k1-7tQ4nrJ1QUtA/w640-h358/Shivers-Still3.png" width="640" /></a><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>A self-contained horny apocalypse. </i><br /></p><p>Young
or old, regardless of sexual orientation and even direct familial
connection, no one is exempt from this horrific invasion, so how does
one keep up with them, much less stop them altogether? The complex's
on-premises all-purpose physician, Dr Roger St. Luc (Paul Hampton),
investigates and attempts to navigate through this hell of the horny but
it soon becomes apparent that there is no escape...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWYTg7SYJDsEEsYIN-K3FPL3gO-GLkA7EkfI9AYKHqVsEIBCdIn7mdg7mBmrAKr6LoBoYT73bCpNZAJz9_hnEPXuOrdxD9h3SSHjM6JHUHQ1WRqm0tFREey1DcLacds-gDJXthslCETCGZW_L4LZOUudn2xkROVOzA9xUuB0-pjAO1XjL-LRwkjIiJO00/s1008/cronenberg-11-shivers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="1008" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWYTg7SYJDsEEsYIN-K3FPL3gO-GLkA7EkfI9AYKHqVsEIBCdIn7mdg7mBmrAKr6LoBoYT73bCpNZAJz9_hnEPXuOrdxD9h3SSHjM6JHUHQ1WRqm0tFREey1DcLacds-gDJXthslCETCGZW_L4LZOUudn2xkROVOzA9xUuB0-pjAO1XjL-LRwkjIiJO00/w640-h366/cronenberg-11-shivers.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><i>A
couple who who just moved in goes to the building complex manager's
office to complain about the sounds of what they think is the other
tenants having an out of control party, only to enter the office and
immediately get violated by six of the sexed-up parasitically-infected. </i><br /><p style="text-align: left;">SHIVERS,
released in the U.S. as THEY CAME FROM WITHIN, is the debut theatrical
feature by Canadian master of "body horror" David Cronenberg, and his
clinical approach to to body gone wrong is apparent from the word "go.
The parasites are an obvious metaphor for STDs in the post-hippie era,
and perhaps even a snarky commentary on the ludicrous setups in '70's
porn where people just walk into a room and start fucking with barely so
much as a "How do you do?" Everybody in this movie gets jumped and
infected, and I do mean <i>everybody</i>, including children, with the
most disturbing example of this being an infected father/daughter pair
who attempt to entice Dr. St. Luc into joining them for a threesome. (I
let out a loud "Eurgh" at that one.)<br /></p><p>But while the parasites
invade and proliferate through sexual assault, the end result is indeed
their creator's intended utopia of a mindless orgy in which all are
embraced and apparently happy (if quite crazed). One of the threads in
this prurient tapestry is that of Janine Tudor (Susan Petrie), wife of
Nick (Alan Migicovsky). Unbeknownst to Janine, Nick has been cheating on
her with 19-year-old parasite Patient Zero and is infected with the
wigglies, so he has grown distant from his wife. Janine worries for him
because she thinks his illness might be cancer or something equally
dire, but once the parasites gain full control over Nick, he attempts to
rape Janine by way of spreading the parasites. Understandably
terrified, Janine flees their apartment and makes her way to the flat of
her best friend, Betts (horror and exploitation film legend Barbara
Steele). They are seen interacting a couple of times earlier in the
film, and it is made clear that Betts is single and independent, and
there are hints of potential for something more than simple friendship
intimacy between the two women. What the audience is aware of but Janine
is not is that earlier that evening, Betts was vaginally invaded by a
parasite while she enjoyed a hot bath and a glass of wine, so Janine is
seeking comfort and support from one of the infected. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLI3x-qEosEVU2bmu85UeomiWSHblpORoV8XxTxi26beHhGkv-ijpbeACsdF-_ENZatJQqEzJ0zcCKetj_jyvIm00Mvty2If2G3fQy4PlRgQtK1tUNfJ93Kd0PQlsanxK3zNygKWJlaCw6dRb5Rgsbm87WxZfn9dcHKZD-f17uAz9OJQ9zAIe4aU8lm6I/s1280/image-w1280.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLI3x-qEosEVU2bmu85UeomiWSHblpORoV8XxTxi26beHhGkv-ijpbeACsdF-_ENZatJQqEzJ0zcCKetj_jyvIm00Mvty2If2G3fQy4PlRgQtK1tUNfJ93Kd0PQlsanxK3zNygKWJlaCw6dRb5Rgsbm87WxZfn9dcHKZD-f17uAz9OJQ9zAIe4aU8lm6I/w640-h360/image-w1280.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><i>Horror
and exploitation film legend Barbara Steele as the unfortunate Betts,
receiving an bathtime unwanted visitor up the cooter. </i></p><p>But
unlike the ravening rapists infesting the rest of the Starliner complex,
Betts is kind to Janine, and offers tender seduction in lieu of violent
assault. The neglected and mistreated Janine responds, thus unwittingly
and painlessly joining the ranks of the infected. There is no violence
in the women's coupling, and if not for the parasitic element, it would
be beautiful. </p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihXMsaJKmcpN0qRCcrHN51zPrytNHJhqSg-FgelJur5jTMWgDL-cEXShJ2cr-5G85KG4FXVQ2QB7qvuYlwWxDbv-hiTspyKV2-PhV7GOQcCwYsVg39QrLifN9wkl_JojrzwtE0ZkXUBcF2ssMw0ysjKSM3gNcsIVxmDg1bf76iSOFJKh9P6YFcwZqz0gA/s3022/Screenshot%202023-10-20%20at%204.07.45%E2%80%AFAM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1694" data-original-width="3022" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihXMsaJKmcpN0qRCcrHN51zPrytNHJhqSg-FgelJur5jTMWgDL-cEXShJ2cr-5G85KG4FXVQ2QB7qvuYlwWxDbv-hiTspyKV2-PhV7GOQcCwYsVg39QrLifN9wkl_JojrzwtE0ZkXUBcF2ssMw0ysjKSM3gNcsIVxmDg1bf76iSOFJKh9P6YFcwZqz0gA/w640-h358/Screenshot%202023-10-20%20at%204.07.45%E2%80%AFAM.png" width="640" /></a></div><i>A dark romantic interlude: sapphic desire is given free rein with the help of a parasite. </i><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">As
the entire complex swiftly falls to the parasites, there is a twisted
joy evident in all involved, so even though the creatures spread via
sexual assault, the victims shortly come to exist in a state of what
appears to be joyfully mindless sexual insatiability, a thronging hive
mind of febrile pussy and cock, if you will, so is the end result really
all that bad? Cronenberg does not answer that question and instead opts
to leave things open-ended, but for all intents and purposes the events
ignited at the Starliner could mean the end of the world as we knew it.
It's like INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS or a zombie apocalypse
narrative where the individual is subsumed into a faceless, mindless
horde, only this time everybody gets laid. </p><p style="text-align: left;">SHIVERS
presents a majorly fucked-up scenario when one stops to examine its
ramifications, and I very much doubt a film like this could be gotten
away with today without seriously toning down the concept and content.
It's quite hellish, and the fact that something so very physical/carnal
and utterly bleak is what Cronenberg brought us in his initial effort
serves as a harbinger of a fascinating and intellectually challenging
filmography marked with uncomfortable explorations of the body and its
potential to lapse into that which is grossly un-human. Not perfect and
in places clearly the work of a filmmaker who was learning his craft by
the seat of his pants, SHIVERS is nonetheless compelling stuff right out
of the gate. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I've been a Cronenberg
junkie since seeing SCANNERS (1981) during its original release when I
was sixteen, but I somehow missed seeing this first film from the
director until watching it for this year's round of essay. Finally
discovering it at age 58 was a real treat, and I strongly recommend it.
One of my favorites from this year's screenings, and now one of my
favorite works from Cronenberg.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKVOCe5lbxEfkYNJxPkR7SrSdXCEzb5rDVfWCUs1YLrp31qQlzhzPMIPQMWX6_lFW1f3Cc4dJtDe70pDobI564Ggc4TymF05Tlabsh0EQIQihN03fad4-lB9AULJ9QoBwhSBQ941n-hwG1DJ4KJOAH3SbhnE3exrC4GrFhbGKs5obFyEwpc2ut4gd2FdU/s1534/Screenshot%202023-10-20%20at%204.04.31%E2%80%AFAM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1534" data-original-width="1020" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKVOCe5lbxEfkYNJxPkR7SrSdXCEzb5rDVfWCUs1YLrp31qQlzhzPMIPQMWX6_lFW1f3Cc4dJtDe70pDobI564Ggc4TymF05Tlabsh0EQIQihN03fad4-lB9AULJ9QoBwhSBQ941n-hwG1DJ4KJOAH3SbhnE3exrC4GrFhbGKs5obFyEwpc2ut4gd2FdU/w426-h640/Screenshot%202023-10-20%20at%204.04.31%E2%80%AFAM.png" width="426" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Poster for the Canadian release.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp3iIF91fR85V3cTmYjJ-LP5lHEZhHBtdFORo1PPIFOL-a_OQ7sD3c773idUL4dwah4htqGs0wkNgAL7KuG7oWHy91IPtYr4jQOVu2xTsVsjZbeYcMqPsonSxa81_Tc6KUB9PryoUdDr2z_TH2uVMbct354nHNqwty8OB_LZNvOHZ9jRahs1YhAn5YYXk/s640/shivers-770499l-0x640-h-667a8ded.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="415" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp3iIF91fR85V3cTmYjJ-LP5lHEZhHBtdFORo1PPIFOL-a_OQ7sD3c773idUL4dwah4htqGs0wkNgAL7KuG7oWHy91IPtYr4jQOVu2xTsVsjZbeYcMqPsonSxa81_Tc6KUB9PryoUdDr2z_TH2uVMbct354nHNqwty8OB_LZNvOHZ9jRahs1YhAn5YYXk/w416-h640/shivers-770499l-0x640-h-667a8ded.jpg" width="416" /></a></div><br />Poster for the U.S. release.</i><br /></div><p></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7415178.post-53769411300030905102023-10-22T00:00:00.001-04:002023-10-22T00:00:00.141-04:0031 DAYS OF HORROR 2023 -Day 22: LADY FRANKENSTEIN (1971)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZxCS7daHyxaK1DFbqqytowJjlu1_upgVg_HpF8tn1WOlM4VlOoEsjtT5J8C0AqJEB6j21_2gg7NmAiLz2kvLtgdqxn4CmC92OZaj75lLKwFrCux-kBFy9lSDkW_NsGPHJlAqR611zC9JQmtLXz2Bu7VfbrvlLlDmOFUyyjFSN1ZShNfvjhmODT8dBpg/s2292/Screenshot%202023-10-18%20at%205.53.08%E2%80%AFPM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="2292" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZxCS7daHyxaK1DFbqqytowJjlu1_upgVg_HpF8tn1WOlM4VlOoEsjtT5J8C0AqJEB6j21_2gg7NmAiLz2kvLtgdqxn4CmC92OZaj75lLKwFrCux-kBFy9lSDkW_NsGPHJlAqR611zC9JQmtLXz2Bu7VfbrvlLlDmOFUyyjFSN1ZShNfvjhmODT8dBpg/w640-h358/Screenshot%202023-10-18%20at%205.53.08%E2%80%AFPM.png" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>More laboratory shenanigans, this time from Italy.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;">Dr.
Frankenstein (Joseph Cotton) is up to his old tricks again, and the
creature he's assembled over three years finally nears completion.
Though facial burns and a dislodged eyeball render the creature hideous,
the real problem is that its brain is defective, but Frankenstein is
simply to gung ho to care. As this is going on, his daughter Tania
(Rosalba Neri) returns from medical college with a degree in surgery and
immediately twigs to what her dad is up to. The doctor does not want
her getting involved, in case something goes wrong and the authorities
become involved, but Tania will not be denied, and her enthusiasm is
supported by Frankenstein's assistant, Dr. Marshall (Paul Muller). While
continuing to hold his daughter at bay, Frankenstein completes the
creature (Ricardo Pizzuti), which kills Frankenstein and immediately
begins rampaging around the countryside. </p><p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVmyBAVtvjyUtjDC6FduKCSefK7cFZMgp29_riSZlwhY1tYv9dmgO9NONG7MzrtLOZO10bzfYC79SeIC2Ac99YNu-6r-dOXzkq6I3V7AfCM7pp1WAJoLK5tbpp9jfhFrgfUKpmJqBOQ9rH4OHAxL476mbY_zwDbWv0fQDN5Uo9U1o9A4KLZgV63ZWSnIs/s2314/Screenshot%202023-10-18%20at%205.52.35%E2%80%AFPM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1288" data-original-width="2314" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVmyBAVtvjyUtjDC6FduKCSefK7cFZMgp29_riSZlwhY1tYv9dmgO9NONG7MzrtLOZO10bzfYC79SeIC2Ac99YNu-6r-dOXzkq6I3V7AfCM7pp1WAJoLK5tbpp9jfhFrgfUKpmJqBOQ9rH4OHAxL476mbY_zwDbWv0fQDN5Uo9U1o9A4KLZgV63ZWSnIs/w640-h356/Screenshot%202023-10-18%20at%205.52.35%E2%80%AFPM.png" width="640" /></a> <br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Will this dumb motherfucker never learn?</i></p><p style="text-align: left;">As
the monster's body count grows, Tania seizes the opportunity and
convinces Marshall that the only thing that can stop the creature is
another man-made affront to nature, and she proposes transplanting
Marshall's brain into the younger, handsome, and fit body of mentally
disabled Thomas (Mariano Mase), her late father's servant. Marshall
stuck around with Frankenstein for years in hope that Tania would
someday return, as he has carried a torch for her for ages, so he agrees
to her plan with the understanding that she will love him back once
he's in Thomas's body. But as the monster keeps on killing, matters are
complicated for Tania as the avaricious graverobber who supplied her
father with corpses makes it clear that he wants to slip her a length in
exchange for his services, a detective investigates the monster's
killing spree and comes to suspect Tania knows more than she's letting
on, Thomas's sister shows up just as he's been missing for days (he was
seduced by Tania, then murdered by Marshall while Tania straddles poor
Thomas and achieves orgasm as the simple man expires), and the
villagers, fed up with the monster killing everybody, soon storm the
castle with torches and an aim to end the monster and Lady Frankenstein
once and for all. Once Marshall has inhabited Thomas's body, the need
for a monster to fight a monster is completely forgotten, though we do
get a rather feeble set-to between the pair, during which Lady
Frankenstein shoves a knife through the monster's back, killing him. As
the castle burns, the inspector and Thomas's sister burst into the lab,
where the see the monster dead on the floor, while Tania and
Marshall/Thomas inexplicably have sex amid the flames. Then, for no
apparent reason, Marshall/Thomas strangles Tania and the film abruptly
ends.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3HVaVtiN4PILygEVBxf4RhMBXUJwJtMO6L4vENBGdsjTX7OdzKUMLFEa_ZzQ6g40yaulYB8wfpB4BAezDd-46uCMsbK6By8WOYVHIjClFf5K5u3Wtt38tx8YX2HUNr3CjNg0lG3PPwruXbMpAJZKMUWwRRSwumj3pSWFJHuZYFHlo9P0C5EIxOySIxfE/s2214/Screenshot%202023-10-18%20at%205.52.00%E2%80%AFPM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1238" data-original-width="2214" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3HVaVtiN4PILygEVBxf4RhMBXUJwJtMO6L4vENBGdsjTX7OdzKUMLFEa_ZzQ6g40yaulYB8wfpB4BAezDd-46uCMsbK6By8WOYVHIjClFf5K5u3Wtt38tx8YX2HUNr3CjNg0lG3PPwruXbMpAJZKMUWwRRSwumj3pSWFJHuZYFHlo9P0C5EIxOySIxfE/w640-h358/Screenshot%202023-10-18%20at%205.52.00%E2%80%AFPM.png" width="640" /></a></div><p><i>Karloff
only got a little girl to chuck into the river. This putz gets a
full-grown nekkid lady. Ah, the joys of European cinema...</i></p><p>Basically
what would happen if Italy attempted to ape the look and tropes of
Hammer's Frankenstein series, only minus the resources and a compelling
story while skimping on the blood but upping the gratuitous nudity, LADY
FRANKENSTEIN is nothing but a pedestrian rehashing of nearly every
Frankenstein movie trope one can think of, with the promise of
titillation constantly looming. It's rather dull when there's no tits or
killing going on, and the monster is just a mindless brute, so there's
nothing there to care about or sympathize with. There is, however, a
memorable and unintentionally funny scene where the monster, rampaging
around the hills in broad daylight, encounters a pair of lovers in the
act, right next t a river. The monster attacks and while the man flees,
the monster picks up the nude woman and dumps her into the water, where
she just up and dies. At least in the 1931 classic version of
FRANKENSTEIN with Boris Karloff, the monster fatally chucking a little
girl into the drink is set up by the child and the monster innocently
playing a game where they toss flowers into the water to watch them
float. Karloff's monster throws the little girl into the water, not
understanding why the child ends up drowning. It's tragic as fuck and
bears hefty emotional weight, both in sadness for the little girl, but
also for the uncomprehending monster. This Italian take on the scenario
cares for nothing but fueling the sex and violence quota, making sure we
get to ogle the woman's naked body for all it's worth. (Though no
bushola, unfortunately.)</p><p>When all is said and done, you've seen
this movie before, countless times and done much, much better, so I
can't even recommend this for Frankenstein completists. it's just a
rote, disappointing Hammer knockoff that's directed by Mel Welles, the
actor who played the owner of the florist's shop in the original 1960
Roger Corman no-budget classic, THE LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS. If you must
waste your time on a bad Frankenstein movie, at least make it <a href="https://cinemiscreant.blogspot.com/2013/10/31-days-of-horror-2013-day-30.html"> FRANKENSTEIN ISLAND</a>. That movie has the common decency to be entertainingly stupid as well as cheap and awful.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaFq2Ync4zG4TB3yNGUvESh8KvnL3dDFYb9E0qXSKAXHyaLatC0d_HFtmobLfgEMCNJecWy6yX91miYChFbSrWJYYi3dTrE1vWrinGHzL5oPr8uVvlyO8fyfD5WQcs3WNjPNjLfJBVHtEXsOlOX4NbBjHRgpSUA_56_yLiGDjuSIwlO-Sy58Cvqkcq7k8/s1684/Screenshot%202023-10-18%20at%205.51.12%E2%80%AFPM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1684" data-original-width="1242" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaFq2Ync4zG4TB3yNGUvESh8KvnL3dDFYb9E0qXSKAXHyaLatC0d_HFtmobLfgEMCNJecWy6yX91miYChFbSrWJYYi3dTrE1vWrinGHzL5oPr8uVvlyO8fyfD5WQcs3WNjPNjLfJBVHtEXsOlOX4NbBjHRgpSUA_56_yLiGDjuSIwlO-Sy58Cvqkcq7k8/w472-h640/Screenshot%202023-10-18%20at%205.51.12%E2%80%AFPM.png" width="472" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Poster for the Italian release.</i><br /></div><p></p>Bunche (pop culture ronin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11831085937894725459noreply@blogger.com0