31 SAYS OF HORROR 2018-Introduction

Hey there, dear and loyal Cine-Miscreants!

October, the month that culminates in the most excellent day that is Halloween, is about to kick off, so you regulars know that means it's time once again for my annual month-long journey through the dark annals of horror cinema (and occasionally television).

Scary stories have been around as long as there have been storytellers, and a sizable segment of this planet's sentients eat up spine-chilling tales like a rapacious werewolf devours the tender flesh of an unlucky woodland wanderer, so it comes as no surprise that the horror genre has been a staple of global entertainment and has grown and thrived as the means to enthrall audiences with narratives that evolved along with us. Horror as a motion picture genre goes back to the dawn of the movies and it's been over a century since the first moving images silently flickered across the screen in the darkness as the public absorbed the wondrous diversions that unspooled. While comedies, dramas, romances, and adventure narratives held moviegoers riveted, darker, more sinister material also lurked in the indoor twilight and filmmakers were quick to realize that such chillers were a rich lode to be mined. From there the genre grew like Topsy and filled the silver screen with hordes of shambling revenants, thirsting nosferatu, eldritch demoniacal entities conjured through the wielding of forbidden rites, unrestful spectres, blasphemous man-made creatures, other-worldly wigglies that the mere sight of which drives the most stalwart of men to states of gibbering madness, medical nightmares in which our own bodies become our enemies or the healers who are supposed to grant us their aid turn their skills to dire pursuits, seemingly indestructible wielders of kitchen implements and power tools who stalk remote back-woods to prey upon randy youths, primordial throwbacks that defied extinction to terrorize swimwear-clad nubile young maidens, and even that most seemingly-mundane of threats, the unhinged murderer who walks among us and blends in while committing atrocities that would make veteran homicide detectives blanch and fall to their hands and knees while voiding the contents of their stomachs. All of those and more can be found in a richly-fetid cornucopia that often slyly reflects the needs and climate of the given era of production and examines areas of the human condition that may otherwise be un-broachable if not cloaked in shadow.

But enough of all that flowery film school yakkety-blah-blah-blah. If you've bothered to read this far, it's plain that you care about scary movies and are here to see what baleful chronicles of fright Yer Bunche will dredge up from the celluloid depths for the year of two-thousand and seventeen. As in previous years, there is no real rhyme or reason behind my choices, though there will be the occasional thematic overlap and comparison/contrast of certain sub-groups within the genre. I will also take pains to point out that stories that are ostensibly viewed as examples of other flavors — comedy, science-fiction, "thrillers," and non-supernatural drama — can quite easily be revealed as horror to the very core, and that horror can function equally well as art or junk food for the imagination. And this time around, I plan on detailing a good number of flicks that very much fall into the "monster movie" sub-category.

So sharpen your axe, dust off the Necronomicon, apply fresh lipstick to grandma's mummified corpse, and make sure your homemade shroud of supple human skin is properly secured to your febrile pate. 'Tis once again the month of All Hallows' Eve and we are nothing if not prepared...

TO ROBERT COUSLAND (and other loyal readers)

I swear to the gods I'm not dead! Honest!!!

(to be read while listening to "Waffle Stomp" by Joe Walsh)

Hey there, dear Vaulties!

Just dropping a quick note to state that those of you who have left comments on various posts of mine were not intentionally ignored. I have my comments section set up so that I can weed out the ads and other unwanted detritus from robots and other from whom I do not wish to hear. If you are one of the people who are kind enough to still bother reading my drivel after the unconscionably long stretches of time that sometimes occur between posts, your continued readership is greatly appreciated, as I do this simply for fun and/or to keep track of all the stuff rattling around in the vortex that my brain floats in.

In recent years there have been a number of major life setbacks that have derailed much of what I do, both personally and professionally, including ongoing health issues, my mother nearly being killed in a car accident and her subsequent struggle back to functionality with a months-long stay in a physical rehab facility while I shuttled back and forth to her home to handle her affairs while she was away, and a whole bunch of other crap, so you can see how I have been both distracted and mired in deep depression. That said, over the past year my health has finally been on the upswing and I'm once again getting out and properly tackling life as I should be, so my output here will likewise see an upswing. 

But the reason I'm bringing all of this up is that due to yet another kick in the head from life, specifically the unexpected demise of a dear friend and mentor, I remembered to check this blog's comments moderation section for the first time in a couple of years. In doing so I realized there were a lot of comments from several regular readers I did not even realize I had, as well as longstanding friends. One Robert Cousland stands out as a regular leaver of comments and I swear to god that I am sorry for not having either posted your comments or responded to them in any way, so, Robert, please accept my most humble of apologies for that unintentional lapse in courtesy. Same goes for the rest of you.

Anyway, stay tuned and I promise that more stuff is on the way. I'm currently working on this year's 31 DAYS OF HORROR essays, and there will also be looks at the 2018 NY Comic Con in a couple of weeks, followed by a photo safari of the Chiller Theatre convention at the end of the month.

So, once again, thank you for your support and apparently endless patience!

-sincerely,

Yer Bunche

ELEGY FOR S-MAN

Steve Swatt, circa 1986 in his office at Fine Arts 1 & 2.

It is with a heavy heart and mind that I eulogize Steve Swatt, a dear friend, former boss,  superb mentor, and  utterly kind and selfless soul whose presence as my only positive elder male role model was immeasurably appreciated during my turbulent and troubled teen years. 

Even though I  would report to work at the Fine Arts 1 & 2 movie showcase to work nearly seven days per week in order to avoid the dysfunction of my own home life during high school and later during college breaks, I was always relieved to show up because Steve fostered a work team and environment that was in every way a family, with himself as the kindest and most loving of big brother/father figures, which was exactly what this deeply unhappy youth needed at the time. He was always gracious, dryly hilarious, loved the movies, and instilled a sense of pride and professionalism in all of us who worked with him. You'll note that I say we worked "with" him, not "for him," as he was the rarest of the rare: a boss who never once lorded it over his employees, acting without a shred of power-tripping bullshit, rude histrionics, or a sense of entitlement. He led by example and in doing so he taught all of us how to be better human beings going forward. And though I loathed my hometown and avoided it like unshielded radium upon finally getting out of there, I always stopped by Fine Arts 1 & 2 to see Swatt and absorb some of his positivity while briefly in town. If I'd stayed in the area, he would have been a fixture at my home as often as possible.

Steve Swatt treated all of his employees as if we were his doted-upon children, spoiling us rotten when the opportunity arose, and in many cases becoming a beloved friend to us and to our families. My mother, not exactly a woman known for her general love of humanity, held him in the highest of regard, and during my years of working with him on the holidays, she insisted upon making him massive plates of Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners as a sign of appreciation for his treatment of me (she was very much aware of my affection and respect for the man and how important that was to me), for his treatment of her in our hostile town whenever she attended  a movie (which he always let her into for free), and as an acknowledgement of him simply being a rare person of genuine goodness and humble worth in a community rife with people  she would not have pissed on if they were on fire.

I could go on for days with hilarious and/or touching reminiscences about Steve Swatt but no amount of retelling can bring him back from his seat at the table in cinematic Valhalla to give us one of his quiet, squinty-eyed smiles just one more time, so I bid him the well-earned eternal rest that he so richly deserves. He was a much-beloved friend and humble hero to me, and I will never, ever forget him. This sorry world is that much poorer without him. 

Requiescat en pace, Steve Swatt. You were rarer than tits on a trout.

Circa 2001: The last time I saw Steve, with fellow Swatt friend/family/disciple Kevin Slater.

PALM JOB

I just went around the corner to the Associated supermarket for some paper towels, and I noticed a black guy speaking with a white girl, both seated in front of the garden's gate. About three feet from them was a very pretty Latina who approached and said "You have beautiful aura. You should get a palm reading," at which she gestured to indicate the guy speaking with the girl. I thanked her for the compliment to my aura but I proceeded on to the supermarket. 

As I made my way back here with my paper towels, she approached me again and said "You really should try a reading..." Seeing that she clearly was not taking a polite "no" for an answer, I thought fast, stopped, and addressed her directly with "Sorry, but my girlfriend is a bruja, so she would not be cool about me getting a reading anywhere else, and that's an ass-kicking I can do without!" The woman's eyes widened and she nodded fervently while backing away as if she had been hit full in the face with a Pyrex cup full of fluorosulfuric acid.

SEASON OF THE WITCH

I just went around the corner to the Associated for some paper towels, and I noticed a black guy speaking with a white girl, both seated in front of the garden's gate. About three feet from them was a very pretty Latina who approached and said "You have beautiful aura. You should get a palm reading," at which she gestured to indicate the guy speaking with the girl. I thanked her for the compliment to my aura but I proceeded on to the supermarket. 

As I made my way back here with my paper towels, she approached me again and said "You really should try a reading..." Seeing that she clearly was not taking a polite "no" for an answer, I thought fast, stopped, and addressed her directly with "Sorry, but my girlfriend is a bruja, so she would not be cool about me getting a reading anywhere else, and that's an ass-kicking I can do without!" The woman's eyes widened and she nodded fervently while backing away as if she had been hit full in the face with a Pyrex cup full of fluorosulfuric acid.

A REMEMBRANCE OF FUNGAL CORRUPTION

Ah, sweet memories of youth: While reading an article on the history of Channel 5's late, lamented DRIVE-IN MOVIE kung fu showcase, I went down the roster of the films they ran and I now have the exact date of when I first did mushrooms! The afternoon of January 25th, 1986, was when (NAME WITHHELD) and I were recovering from having spent the previous night wandering around the Lower East Side out of minds on mushrooms, quality weed, and several beers. Also on that night we saw THE TOXIC AVENGER in the theater, and we were in the perfect state of mind for it. Anyway, the Saturday afternoon kung fu flIck that got us through coming down from the 'shrooms was IRON FINGERS OF DEATH (aka THE SHAOLIN PRINCE and DEATH MASK OF THE NINJA).

"IN SENSURROUND SOUND IN A TWO-INCH WALL"

As seen above the urinal at Molly's Shebeen in Manhattan. If you're gonna graffiti the wall with Sex Pistols lyrics, at least do it right.

SHOWTIME ON THE BROOKLYN-BOUND Q TRAIN

(photo cribbed from the New York Times)

With the advent of summer, the subways once more become infested with "performers" who wander from crowded car to crowded car, subjecting innocent commuters to whatever acts they choose to foist upon us. Perhaps the most common and genuinely irritating of these born-too-late-for-THE GONG SHOW "entertainers" are the ones who fancy themselves acrobatic "street dancers" and crank ultra-loud (and usually awful) hip-hip out of cheap portable boom-boxes while they turn the available poles and other hand-holds into their personal jungle gym. They do back flips and twirl around the poles, their flailing limbs coming dangerously close to nailing their captive audience in the face — and sometimes they mis-time their moves and do indeed kick people in the head — and once their seemingly-interminable "act" is over, they demand money for their efforts, usually employing some sort of would-be-clever, poorly-rhymed come-on. Only those who are tourists or who have never been held hostage between train stops by these assholes find them even remotely entertaining, and there's an immediate air of resigned dread whenever they boisterously enter your car. When they are present, whatever modicum of mental peace or quality reading time you had achieved is dashed like an ice cream cone falling in fresh Rottweiler diarrhea on a filthy sidewalk.

Today's extra-special example of this obnoxious aspect of NYC living opened with a middle-aged homeless woman walking onto the packed Brooklyn-bound Q train at Union Square and loudly asking if anyone could spare her some change or something to eat or drink. Harmless enough, and she made her way down the car politely, so she engendered no ill will. Then the train stopped at Canal Street and two thugged-out B-boys in doo-rags boarded, bearing the dreaded boom-box. As they began to set up, a pretty young woman asked them, semi-jokingly, if she was about to get kicked in the head, to which one of those fine young men instantly responded with "YES!" Not being a fool, the woman immediately made her way to a far end of the car, after which the performers cranked their shitty music and launched into their uninspired routine. Less an example of choreography and more a display of grand mal seizure as pole-dancing, their moves of course came close to taking out a few of the passengers, but the one most offended by their efforts was the aforementioned homeless chick.

Annoyed at the two performers horning in on her panhandling action, the woman scathingly jeered at the young men, calling them every name in the book, noting that no one wanted to see "their weak-assed shit," and generally calling them out for being the unwanted disturbance that they were. Rather than just ignore her jibes, the lads instead chose to fire back at her, but they had not counted on encountering a rare homeless black woman who was lucid, witty, and vicious with her words. One of the men tried to save face by calling her out for "bringing negativity," but she shot back with a withering "what-EVUH" that registered like a hard punch to the mouth. The other, more thuggish of the pair got in her face with a torrent of profanity, calling her a "bitch" and a dumb-ass cunt," to which she shot back with some choice comments about his mother. 

The  thuggish performer rushed up to her and challenged her to say another word about his mother, threatening to "slap the fuck" out of the homeless chick. Showing not one iota of fear, the woman again talked smack about his mother, which prompted him to get close to her and lunge in that ages-old intimidation move, complete with upraised hand ready to deliver a backhand, hoping that she would crumble and flinch. All that his threat did was activate her "crazy angry black woman mode," and she hurled herself at him with a vengeance, cursing like a maniac while battering him with solid punches and knee strikes to the body. " I DARE YOU, MUTHAFUKKA!!! I FUCKIN' DARE YOU!!!" filled the air.

He absolutely was not expecting that response — more fool, he — and his raised backhand immediately morphed into a feeble, ineffective shield against her kicking of his ass. As the standing passengers moved out of the way — with no one offering to help the woman, as she clearly did not require assistance — the train pulled into the DeKalb Avenue station. When the doors opened, the thug under attack swiftly moved to leave the train, taking his partner with him and stating, with the last shred of his impotent bravado/dignity spiraling down the proverbial bowl, "Fuck you, bitch! I don't hit women!" (You may not hit women, but you sure as hell didn't hesitate to feign being ready to do so, you fucking pussy.) As they fled, the pair were followed out of the train by the woman, who was still in full-on attack mode.

Once the dust settled and the train once more got underway, the tension in the atmosphere dissipated and the passengers all exchanged glances as we tried not to laugh our asses off at the idiotic display we had just been privy to. And the saddest thing about this is that that was merely the first such incident of the summer, a season which technically has not even started yet...

WHEN THE WIND BLOWS

My neighborhood, just after the storm that briefly passed through a little less than an hour ago. (photos courtesy of the Wagnerian, my down-the-hall neighbor)

WHITE TRASH ON THE B63 BUS

I'd just had dinner over on Flatbush Avenue and boarded the B63 local bus to head home, as it conveniently drops me off right around the corner from my building. I took my seat and settled in for the short ride, but then a pair of white guys got on and made their way toward the bus' rear door, directly next to where I was seated.

The taller of the pair sported a baseball cap with the bill turned toward the back of his head, and his dark hair and beard lent him a resemblance to filmmaker Kevin Smith. His companion was a stocky guy with five o'clock shadow, a proudly-displayed Mets cap — a dead giveaway — and a thick, stereotypical "'ey-OH!!!" NY accent. They surveyed the bus, one of the recently-rolled-out new models, and checked out their fellow riders. The shorter one loudly proclaimed "WOW. Dis is NOICE. Dis definitely ain't a black people bus! It's nice an' quiet! Fuckin' black people never shut the fuck up!" His friend smiled and agreed, adding "Yeah! This ain't like when ya take a bus over on Church Avenue! Fuckin' 'blahblahblahblah blah...' So fuckin' annoyin'!" The short guy shot back with "I know! But DIS...DIS is a bus fit for white people!" They then made their way to the front of the bus, where they took seats and continued to expound on how happy they were to be on a bus not full of black people.

Bear in mind that they started this exchange while standing right next to me, a 5'10" big black dude who is pretty hard to miss, plus to say nothing of the handful of other people of color on the bus. The other dusky types, as well as several of the previously-seated white people, exchanged looks that fairly screamed "Can you believe these fucking guys?" but no one said anything. Seriously, what would have been the point. If people are going to be that stupid with such brazen openness, there's probably no way to have a rational, grownup discussion of their attitudes with them. And they were lucky they didn't say that shit on the bus when it was packed with more "highly-rhythmic individuals." They definitely would have ended up in the ER, but then again they may just have been left alone after receiving a profanity-laden dressing down from an irate black person who decided against outright murdering them because they looked like a couple of lowlife pussies.