WFMU's Beware of the Blog

Don Dohler Double Feature – The Alien Factor and Fiend

The Alien Factor (1978) is so archetypal of 70s ultra-low-budget sci-fi/horror that it almost seems like a SCTV parody of the genre. Loaded with awkward blocking and long snatches of blandly delivered expositional dialogue, its strength is in its simple charms: a few good ideas, some amusing characters, and enough money-shot visuals to inspire 100 great screen captures. These folks clearly worked hard on the monsters—one of which has anatomically built-in platform heels—and in general, your entertainment will come from the earnest and colorful visual effects and primitive, in-camera and stop-motion techniques. Make no mistake, The Alien Factor is eyeball-pleasin'; the title sequence alone should be canonized as some kind of holy representation of 70s goodness. If I seem to disparage The Alien Factor, it's only because Dohler's next feature goes straight to the heart of my aesthetic nerve centre. 

Everything that The Alien Factor may lack in sophistication is more than made up for by director Don Dohler's next movie, Fiend (aka Deadly Neighbor, 1980), a genuinely creepy, witty and highly original living-dead scenario. In the film, a mysterious alien force, an ethereal red-glowing flying thing, for reasons unknown to us, reanimates (or possesses) a buried corpse, and the combo adds up to one nasty character, an intense sadist named Mr. Longfellow. The trajectory is quite unpredictable, as our zombie pal takes over an empty house, opens a music school (!), and generally irritates his neighbors (whose somewhat banal interactions also provide their own amusing little subplot, especially as the length of the wife's hair keeps changing from scene to scene.) And oh yes, there's Longfellow's murder/sustenance rituals, which also consist of shouting and stabbing at photographs of his victims (and a lot of black candles.)

After Alien Factor, Dohler must have learned a lot about shot framing, suspenseful editing, and economy of dialogue, such that Fiend is elevated from being merely a visually charming, colorful oddity like its predecessor, to being an aggressively weird and disquieting horror tale. I'd also be remiss not to mention that both of these films feature a melodic, burbling synthesizer score (The Alien Factor by Kenneth Walker; Fiend by Paul Woznicki), so well done and so evocative of the time as to give me a super-warm fuzzy. See the My Castle of Quiet blog for a downloadable cinelogue audio excerpt from Fiend.

It's obvious that despite challenges of budget, Dohler and his crew worked hard to try and make good, entertaining movies, and, at least with Fiend, came pretty close to some metaphysical horror fan's ideal. Dohler is something of a legend, especially in his native Baltimore, and now I see why. Many thanks to James for the loan of the two-in-one DVD (released 2005), and for insisting that we give these bent pictures an eyeball.

Another Don Dohler film, Galaxy Invader, can be viewed or downloaded for free here via archive.org. There's also a well-reviewed and relatively new Dohler documentary, released on DVD earlier this year.

My Castle of Quiet Radio, Premiering Tonight

After a sabbatical of over ten years, where I was immersed in vital and dangerous field research, I'll be returning to WFMU's weekly airwaves tonight at 8 p.m.

I'm in search of ossuaries, graveyards, gothic cemetaries, horror-film festivals and vampire clubs interested in hosting live, remote broadcasts. 

Live playlist available here.

Morgue Story & The Dead Outside

Of the films I saw in the San Francisco Roxie Cinema's 6th annual Another Hole in the Head festival, two features stood out high above the lot: the Brazilian horror/comedy Morgue Story (Sangue, Baiacu e Quadrinhos), and the almost static, post-plague survival drama from Scotland, The Dead Outside (trailers viewable at those links.) These are two very different films, to be sure, but they share two significant common ingredients: an empowered, gutsy heroine, hell bent on survival (these chicks are neither skinny, nor do they shriek and fall down when running); and a visual and color palette that distinguishes the story immediately as its own universe. (Sadly, I left town the night the tantalizingly Mother's Day-esque Run! Bitch Run! premiered; anyone who's seen it should feel free to chime in with their thoughts.)

Morgue Story is a taut, clever and grisly horror comedy with an Evil Dead II-like dual sense of calamity and humor that leaves nothing off the, uh, slab. When Ana, a successful graphic novelist (who has nonetheless lost at love, and whose most famous character is a "living dead") ends up not-quite-dead in the morgue, she runs afoul of a sleazily efficient, God-fearing necrophiliac coroner. Also in the mix is a self-effacing cataleptic, who looks like Lux Interior's younger, paler brother and may just be an (albeit weak-willed) ally for our heroine. The three spar off verbally and physically as the English subs fly by, unpredictable shifts of power occur, and you find yourself reacting with equal measures of laughter and revulsion to the fairly graphic scenes of necrophilia. Everything is shot in grey, green and sepia tones, the washed-out institutional colors perfectly underscoring the essences of death, depravity and sickness. This is the only film I saw in the whole festival where the crowd immediately erupted in enthusiastic and unanimous applause at the conclusion. That tells me the world needs more necrophiliac comedies—or at least this one.

Come see The Dead Outside expecting buckets of blood and non-stop zombie action, and you will be disappointed. The Dead Outside is more the zombie-film equivalent of listening to your favorite Oval LP, which turns out to be not at all a bad thing. Moody and hovering, with an excellent soundtrack that veers from drony buzz into gentle piano melodies, The Dead Outside reads like a side tale to 28 Days Later if directed by Atom Egoyan. As with Morgue Story, the action here centers on an unconventionally attractive heroine, a hard-boiled, chip-toothed goth girl who's slaughtered her own family in order to survive, and is played with resonance by Sandra Louise Douglas (who seems destined to flash her violently blue eyes on bigger screens.) The danger in The Dead Outside is less in the infected that keep getting stuck in the barbed wire outside, than it is in the minds of the survivors who must live out the daily drudgery that is post-zombie-plague existence. Again, the expectations of horror purists may be let down here, and the film also loses minor points for dropping critical exposition to the lack of subtitles (it's been a long time since I saw Teenage Fanclub, and my Scots is rusty.) Though The Dead Outside does have a few scenes of seat-jumping zombie action, that won't be why you remember it. Its muted blues and greens, and matter-of-fact realism, tell a very atypical and understated horror tale.

P.S. - I'll be returning to weekly broadcasting on WFMU this summer, after a ten-year hiatus. Tune in for the premiere of My Castle of Quiet, Wednesday, June 24, at 8 p.m. ET.

Horndogs Rejoice! - Sexlab Cometh

Have you ever wanted to ask a WFMU radio personality about cunnilingus technique, clitoral stimulation, anal doucheing or "the helicopter"? Yeah, maybe not. But this Friday you'll have your chance anyway, when Sexlab hits the Web waves.

Conceived in a hailstorm of double entendres by our illustrious Queen of Friday Nights, Pseu "Honey Pot" Braun, and gestated in a dong-shaped space station by Pseu and her colleagues / co-researchers Mark "ASS9000" Allen and myself, Wm. "Money Shot" Berger, Sexlab is designed to hold your, um, "hand" and glide you into this new century of suckin' and fuckin'.

While Dave Mandl fills in for Pseu at our FM frequencies and on the regular Web stream, Sexlab will be streaming (with volume AND distance!) at an alternate Web feed accessible at wfmu.org. As Mark says, "online only, because in the Internet the FCC can't hear you curse."

And me? I started rubbing it to Morticia Addams when I was eight years old, and I haven't looked back since. I've been told more than once that I have an "enthusiasm," a certain bonus zeal for the sex act, so hopefully my life of gradual transition from hyper-libidinous man-slut to happily monogged married man will be of service to someone. And my colleagues, well they're unrepentantly horny bastards, too. Either way, Pseu, Mark and I can pretty much guarantee it will be funny (and hopefully genuinely informative as well.)

Sexlab will be live on the Web, this Friday, May 22, from 8-11 p.m. ET. We'll be taking your calls at (201) 209–9368 (for those prone to jump the gun, store that load in your third eye and call us then, not before.) If you'd like to submit a question or suggest a discussion topic in advance (or during the broadcast), we've set up a special email address: asksexlab@wfmu.org

Sexlab Facebook Page (for throbbing members only)

Even Dwarfs Started Small (1971)

After years of only marginal interest on my part (plus a few more years of the DVD kicking around in my Netflix queue) I finally got around to watching Werner Herzog's Even Dwarfs Started Small. I'm an enthusiastic Herzog fan and have seen many of his films and enjoyed them tremendously, but for some reason the notion of this one had never been terribly compelling to me. An "uncompromising allegory about the consequences of imprisonment and rebellion" and a "powerful statement about the repercussions of ostracism," as the Netflix sleeve tries to convince me? Perhaps. And perhaps my hero just wanted to show little people parading around with a live monkey tied to a cross. Los Olvidados shot from waist high. Visions of a "profound nightmare." Acknowledged, Herzog did take very good care of his actors.

In the commentary on the DVD, he says that he "fear(s) chickens because they are so stupid." The word "gloom" also comes up a lot, which, when he says it, sounds like "gluume." Herzog also says, "It's not that the midgets are monstrous, and that was a misunderstanding" ... "Some of the fiercest opposition ... was from the dogmatic left, which believed that this film depicted, was somehow, ridiculing and depicting the world revolution, which was failing, and was ending in destruction and catastrophes." Watching Even Dwarfs... with the director's commentary track rolling turned out to be the least ambivalence-producing experience for me, as it often happens that I find Herzog the lunatic, Herzog the creative force of nature, to be even more interesting than his films. Either way, Even Dwarfs... is filled with some arresting and beautifully photographed images. If you've visited my full-time Web home, My Castle of Quiet, you know that I appreciate a good DVD screen capture—so here are a few of my favorites from EDSS:

Better Living Through Bad Movies - Blood Sabbath (1972)

A walk into the woods is a primal human experience, like staring at the ocean. It re-connects us with the infinite and the subconscious. We feel fear, and irresistible expectation. Though real forests have finite borders, in the subjectivity of our psyches, anything can happen under the cover of the treetops—and that's part of what we love about the woods. It's a theme that's been explored by auteurs from Shakespeare to Sam Raimi, and in horror films from Equinox to The Blair Witch Project and beyond.

What might a stateless, flashback-ridden Vietnam vet find on a walk into the woods in 1972? That question is more than answered by the deliciously oddball American film Blood Sabbath, which despite its obvious lack of resources, comes off inventive, low-key, and generally well done—in contrast to the (nonetheless beloved by me) Euro-schlock horror/fantasy pictures of the same period. Blood Sabbath is also packed with top-shelf cult talent: David, the hapless young soldier, is played by Tony Geary, later to become Anthony Geary, and achieve global notoriety playing Luke on General Hospital (thankfully, Blood Sabbath is pre-perm); and Alotta, Queen of the Witches (yes—you read that right) is played by none other than Dyanne Thorne, world-renown for her tenure playing Ilsa in all the Ilsa movies.

Our hero David, for whatever reason, runs in terror from three aggressively playful, stark-naked hippie girls who ambush him early on in the film, yet moments later has no problem falling irreversibly and painfully in love with a mysterious lady of the lake who's wearing a very distracting wig. (As my wife put it, Yyalah, said lady of the lake, is "magical.") See what happens later in the story when David, now under Alotta's power, hungrily accepts a chalice of sacrificial blood—this clip of David's ritual-induced fever dream is most definitely not safe for work. View below or download in m4v format to have and hold.

Kustom Kompilation: War Pigs

In 1970, Black Sabbath created what I consider to be the ultimate anti-war song.  Far from a whiny, folksy, gently phrased call to resistance, "War Pigs" is an electric nightmare, heavily drenched in gloom, placing war in its deserved, real-life horror context, and re-casting our generals (and by extension, our statesmen) as "sorcerer(s) of death's construction." The song is a perennial rock anthem, and its riff-vocal-riff-vocal call/response pattern in the verses must be familiar to almost everyone in the world.

In 2003, swollen with frustration over the new Iraq war (which continues to rage on in idiocy), I was inspired to create a compilation of my favorite versions of the Sabbath classic, as well as render a deconstruction of my own (see track 5.) The compilation was purely subjective and is not intended to be comprehensive at all, hence the exclusion of versions by Rondellus, Gov't Mule, Sacred Reich and Hayseed Dixie. Since 2003, I have added a very worthy interpretation by Cake (complete with Latin brass.) Obviously, all these versions meet my standard, but I'm especially fond of the opener, by hardcore-techno-gabber freaks Doormouse.

War Pigs, by:

Doormouse | Faith No More | PIG | Slaves on Dope | Sinistre! | Cake

Download CD insert / artwork

If you have a Facebook login, you can join the Death and Hatred to Mankind FB Group—where our discourse on this great song can continue indefinitely....

On DVD: Three Rewarding, Ridiculous Horror Films

The Loreley's Grasp

In Amando de Ossorio's 1974 fantasy film, The Loreley's Grasp, half the characters seem to be making the best of it circa 1900, while at the nearby all-girls' boarding school, they're listening to 70s groove, and giggling around the pool in string bikinis.  I cannot explain this—and it doesn't matter—in this gothic/gore/swinger/monster movie from the creator of the Blind Dead series.  An ageless beauty menaces both the young lovelies at the school and the earnest townspeople indiscriminately, for she's actually a Rubbermaid®-glove-clad sea monster who must murder constantly to perpetuate her existence.  Not exactly a spoiler there.  I just watched this recently, and it's a mind-muncher—I have to see it again just to wrap my head around all the boobs, gore and ersatz-mosphere.

Dracula vs. Frankenstein

How could I not love my wife even more after she referred to Zandor Vorkov's awkward portrayal of the legendary Count as "the exposition vampire"?  Dracula vs. Frankenstein (1971) is not so much a horror movie, as it is a meta-charming, somewhat slightly self-aware B film, with crummy effects and loads of day-for-night hospitality.  An added bonus is a small appearance by late Famous Monsters of Filmland publisher Forrest J. Ackerman, whose attitude and magazine shaped my young mind immeasurably and irreversibly.  (Forry recently answered my Facebook friend request, so apparently he continues to snicker from beyond the grave!) Initially released on DVD in 2001 by Troma (there have been other editions since), Dracula vs. Frankenstein is also of note for being the last film appearance for both J. Carrol Naish and Lon Chaney Jr.  Ignore the low ratings out there for this one—DvF is a corker!

Vengeance of the Zombies

Hinduism, trendy spiritualism, full-body paint, the living dead and cheesy sex scenes all go together, right?  They do in this atmospheric romp from auteur Paul Naschy (aka the Spanish Lon Chaney) and director Leon Klimóvsky.  Klimóvsky, an Argentinean, was a Spanish exploitation-film legend, and directed some of Naschy's finest films, including Werewolf Shadow and Dr. Jekyll y el Hombre Lobo.  Vengeance... is an occult/living dead/revenge construct that's satisfying on every level—providing that your levels include lurid color, wooden acting, a crazily meandering plot, and semi-nude female zombies moving in perpetual slo-mo.  The film is also the most genuinely horrifying of the three titles mentioned here, with several brutal killings and creepy ideas in abundance.  An added bonus is Juan Carlos Calderón's wonderful score, reminiscent of Piero Umiliani at times, or a psych-rock Morricone circa Malamondo.  Here is a link to download the score (as one, long mp3 file) at my full-time Web home, My Castle of Quiet.

Me and Ian Curtis

The important question about Ian Curtis is not so much "why?" as "who?"  What bizarre concoction of humanity led to that pale glare through sad eyes, that earnest intensity, that rigor-mortis twist, those haunting, opaque lyrics? I didn't get the answer from Anton Corbijn's otherwise gorgeously filmed and serviceable 2007 bio-feature Control.  Samantha Morton, a wonderful actor to watch, played a full-blooded Deborah Curtis, complex, touchable and sympathetic. Conversely, Sam Riley's Ian Curtis is almost completely bloodless, empty—except for the fact that the actor perfectly animated Curtis' look and physicality as a masterful mimic.  Since the film was based on Deborah Curtis' book about her life with the singer, perhaps this hollowness is somehow to the point of the narrative.  Curtis may just have been a cracked actor, like the creation of his beloved Bowie.  I've got the spirit, but lose the feeling.  Feeling-feeling-feeling...feel-ing!

In my own ridiculous way, I have sought the soul of Ian Curtis, through contemplative hours of listening to Joy Division's music, the Warsaw tapes etc.  So when WFMU got the Factory flexi disc of "Incubation" (back in the middle 80s), I was inspired to allow my Curtis worship to take the form of parody, since "Incubation" is an instrumental that just begs for some lyrics, crying out for a treatment by way of the Closer LP.  Apologies in advance...

This is one piece from my archive that Daniel Blumin and I did not get around to playing during our broadcast for WFMU's radio greats weekend.  I know the track has made a lot of friends and listeners happy in years past.  I take you now to a clammy primary-school classroom...it's after hours, almost night, a janitor is mopping the hallway floor outside, mumbling to himself...little eggs are pulsating under yellow light....

Incubation

Bonus track: "Means to an End"  WFMU Marathon Promo

And before you mock, remember that I was about 23 when I did this, the same age Ian Curtis was when he hung himself.  We all make some unfortunate choices at that age.

If you enjoy my bi-weekly posts here on Beware of the Blog, you can also check in with me daily at My Castle of Quiet.

Vinyl Finds: Big Daddy's Twist Party (196?)

Typically, I leave the wacky, zany 50s/60s-style rock 'n' roll nostalgia to my colleagues on and off the air, but this LP, which originally belonged to my Mom, has had a substantial impact on my life and the lives of those I've shared it with.  Terry Folger in particular was obsessed with several songs from Big Daddy's Twist Party, most memorably "The Persians Twist"—probably my favorite of the collection, too, as it's über-catchy and mentions "Paramus, NJ" in the chorus.

Anyone who's done some garage-sale/record fair-type vinyl digging is familiar with the early-60s trend in Twist albums, many of them made by faceless artists, studio musicians and labels attempting to capitalize on the dance craze made world famous by Chubby Checker.  This is one such LP, but unlike many of the other Twist records I own or have heard, this one is truly exceptional.   The simple but effective sleeve layout is designed such that the word "TWIST" vibrates in front of your eyes as you listen to these songs, rendered by the hot, punchy band and Big Daddy's booming voice.

Who was Big Daddy?  I have never seen this record anywhere else, nor was I able to dig up any information about it online.  I've read a review of a 2006 retro/revivalist album also called Twist Party by one Big Daddy, which is not to be at all confused with this one.  This album also has no connection to the Rhino Records band Big Daddy, who were a big hit on WFMU in the 1980s, mostly for doing doo-wop covers of contemporary pop numbers (as well as being responsible for the obscure, tape-only piece "What're You Tryin' to Do?  Blackmail Me?".)

The LP liner notes are unusually well composed, and only serve to add to this odd record's charm and mystique.  From the back cover:  "Here he is, in person, zealous, zestful, zany BIG DADDY, the most torrid torso twister in town. ... BIG DADDY sings em and swings em, his gravel gutted voice gives vent to the driving enthusiasm he projects and you are soon under the spell of the excitement he generates. ... So, if you're planning a party and you want it to be gay and exciting, just put BIG DADDY on your record player and be assured of success.  Invite Mom & Dad, the neighbors next door – all the kids. ... REGENT RECORDS, Inc., Newark, New Jersey."

Yes Sir Thats My Baby | The Persians Twist | Twistin Bonnie | Twistery | Red White and Blue Twist | Twistin Rickshaw Boy | Twistin Cat From Kansas City | Twistix | The Twisters Ball | Happy Twistin Birthday | Twistin at the Pit | The Whistlers Twist

My favorites:  "The Persians Twist," "Twistin Rickshaw Boy," "The Twisters Ball" and "Twistin at the Pit."  (No punctuation per the liner notes and LP label.)

For those of you who enjoy reading my posts here at Beware of The Blog, you can now check in with me daily at My Castle of Quiet.

What's On My Portable mp3 Player? - All Black Metal Edition

More and more, Black Metal (and its many assorted sub-sub-genres) pushes my other musical interests out to the periphery—aggressive little fucker that it is.  As I get older, I get narrower, rather than more open-minded; you figure out what you like and you roll with it, I guess.  Will I be the oldest, grayest, most-droopy-eyed geezer at the Metal show?  Maybe.  Probably.  Still, a good, brisk run in the freezing cold, listening to Bone Awl, can be pretty life affirming.

Bone Awl/Meaningless Leaning Mess - Black Metal meets The Hospitals in your cluttered garage.  Every song is a short, deconstructivist burst of distorted Black-a-billy.  These Californians will most likely not be touring with slicked-up acts like Blut Aus Nord any time soon.  One guitar (He Who Gnashes Teeth) and one drummer (He Who Crushes Teeth) are all you need.  If you've heard one Bone Awl record, you've heard them all, though this one is particularly good.
Without Hesitation
Show Me

Paysage d'Hiver/Paysage d'Hiver - Paysage d'Hiver means Landscape of Winter, and it's the perfect soundtrack for this decrepit time of year.  Though this Swiss mystery man declined my offer of a blog interview, I'll still praise the work, as it's incredibly layered and artfully done (especially considering its home-studio fidelity.)  Dense atmospheres that range from pure blast-beat Black (though the drums could be cardboard boxes and couch cushions) to ambient scapes worthy of the Klaus Schulze "Berlin school."  Every Pd'H record (or "Demo" as per their page on Metal Archives) is an epic, and many are packaged as A5 digibooks with grim b&w artwork, sealed in black envelopes with black-on-black Gothic titles printed on the outside—the ultimate Black Metal fetish item.  Some titles available in the US from Aquarius and Mercenary Musik.
Welt aus Eis

Defuntos/A Negra Vastidão das Nossas Almas - This doomy Portuguese band sound like a two-man Beefheart's Magic Band at 16RPM, and The Captain, he's been squashed down to the size of an angry troll.  They must have recorded this bleak, scrappy record in a moldy concrete basement.
O Silêncio Das Cigarras, Um Adeus Distante

Corrupted/Vasana - Not a Black Metal band, but I snuck them in anyway, 'cause I'm such a rule breaker.  This ferocious Japanese outfit have been making monumental Doom sludge since 1994, and they just seem to get better and better.  Corrupted have a true sense of build and anticipation in their work, such that when the "hit" finally does come, it's devastating.  Many of their best pieces last the length of an entire CD; this shorter track is from a recent vinyl EP.
Vasana, Part 1

Krallice/Krallice - This adept NY quartet present a fresh take on the melodic, old-school, art-Black of bands like Emperor and Ulver, throwing in a little thrash as well.  Krallice also have plenty of intricate guitar squeedle for Dethklok fans and readers of guitar tech magazines.  Destined for greatness.
Timehusk

Mordheim/Depressive Tears ov Dementia - Similar in sound to Defuntos, but even bleaker and more twisted.  The singer makes a wail like he's throwing up at the beginning of almost every song.  It sounds as if the guitarist/singer dragged a drunk in off the street to play drums.  I knew I was going to love this record when I saw the cover:  a pencil-and-ink drawing of an imprisoned man with his face in the cell toilet.  Can't miss.
L'agonie du Dément

Go Swedish! - Let the Right One In

The ground is covered with a layer of snow, under that a slippery-thick layer of ice, and North Jersey looks about as much like the suburbs of Stockholm as it's ever going to.  When I think of Sweden, I think of thrashy, amphetamine-charged Death Metal, monumental acid rock, and Liv Ullmann and Bibi Andersson in Persona.  All good things—great things even.  Now Sweden has given us a highly original, for-the-ages horror film that embraces genre, while at the same time redefining and transcending it.  Let the Right One In (2008), by director Tomas Alfredson, is based on the bestselling novel of the same name, published in 2004 by author John Ajvide Lindqvist, who also wrote the screenplay.  Already, we have a Scandophile's dream production.

I finally got around to seeing Let the Right One In, after reading the enticing coverage and receiving several personal recommendations on it.  I'm sorry on the one hand that I waited so long, though the current grim surroundings make this a perfect time to embrace such a story, dressed as it is in blood, snow and bare trees.  And though the secret is well out about this film's greatness, I couldn't resist chiming in to heap yet more praise on this landmark picture, easily one of the best I've seen in the last ten years.

Lately some of my favorite horror films are those that truly address the human condition, using horror and its fantastical possibilities as a milieu to tell "real" stories.  I've never fallen in love with a vampire, spoken with the dead or been taken aboard a UFO, though I've often wished that I had, if only as a mantle of proof that something exists beyond yearning, love, loss and bills in the mail.  When I was a victimized, outcast, adolescent monster-movie nerd, obsessed with (and equally fearful of) the darkness, much like Oskar in Let the Right One In, I didn't have an adorable, tragic female vampire living next door to nurture my spirit and calm my confusion.  So Oskar, and this film, tell that story for me.

This is about as close as I get to fully embracing any kind of heartwarming entertainment—the most touching love story anyone could tell for my singular demographic. I prefer my reaffirmation of life's value served up with mayhem, dismemberment, and tears of blood. And perhaps that's why Let the Right One In is so tremendous, and so deserving of its critical acclaim: we all want to enjoy a good horror movie and get those grisly thrills, but when a film can fascinate us in that way, shock us, but also move us in a genuine and sophisticated manner, it momentarily lifts horror out of being kooky or dismissible (Rosemary's Baby had similar impact in its day.) So with apologies to my fellow "proud horror dorks" (thanks Clayton), this is one that's just so good we'll have to share it with mainstream filmgoers, who will most certainly fall for its many charms.

Let the Right One In is also beautifully photographed, director Alfredson having a Kubrickian eye for the living spaces of working-class Swedes: the flats, apartment blocks, courtyards, hospitals and woods.  And though the film already has an English-language remake in development (reportedly to be directed by Cloverfield director Matt Reeves), it's hard to imagine removing this story from its settings and achieving anywhere near the same level of cinematic excellence.  Let the Right One In debuted on US screens in late October, and is currently showing at the Angelika Film Center in lower Manhattan.  The film will receive its much-anticipated Region 1 DVD release on March 10.

Lifelover: Black Metal Circles Around, Rediscovers Rock, Manages Not to Kill Self

One would be hard pressed to think of a more contraindicated name for a Black Metal band than Lifelover.  This Swedish band, however, seem to have made very few decisions based on genre convention:  their logo is readable, their sleeve artwork conveys a thoughtful, artsy melancholy (without howling wolves or grim forests), and though their sound has one foot in the histrionic shrieks and decaying melody of Black Metal, the other stands firmly in the motorik, riff-laden, post-punk churning of bands like Joy Division and The Sisters of Mercy.  In fact, Lifelover are often downright catchy—at least compared to most of the shit that I listen to.  Questionable territory, to be sure, but the angst-ridden 19-year-old who lives inside of me is having a great time listening.  Their discography taken as a whole, Lifelover are just a great rock band, pulling in elements from everywhere.

Lifelover's 3 CDs, Pulver (2006), Erotik (2007) and Konkurs (2008) seem to be sold out everywhere, though Konkurs was released by Avantgarde Music, and is enjoying slightly better distribution, especially seeing as it's the latest release.  Last time I checked, Aquarius was awaiting restocks on the two more-recent albums, and was also plugging Konkurs as a highlight of the week.  You can stream some of the best Lifelover songs at their MySpace page; below are a few more tracks on mp3.

Shallow from Konkurs
Cancertid from Konkurs
Dödens Landsväg from Erotik
Välkommen Till Pulvercity from Erotik
Nackskott from Pulver
Vardagsnytt from Pulver

The Top Ten Horror Films I Watched This Year

(also see my music list below the fold)

Year-end top-ten lists can be so...contemporary.  We have over a half-century of television, nearly a century of film, and centuries of art and music to explore and discover.  When faced with the staggering maw of creative history, whatever jazzed you in the last year can quickly lose relevance.  In addition, items that resonated during the last several months of the year inevitably take precedence over things that emerged at year's beginning.  Still, people seem to love these list dealies, and after musing over the concept a while, I think I've come up with a way to deliver the goods without betraying my ingrown disdain for the practice.

None of the films in this list are new, as in NOW PLAYING, though a few are relatively recent releases on DVD:

Calvaire (2004) - By far the best of the French-language xenophobic "dread of the country folk" horror sub-subgenre (also see Frontière(s), Sheitan.)  An itinerant singer/performer gets caught in a web of delusion surrounding a group of psychotic farmers who haven't seen an outsider in, well, a long time.  Tight and precise, Belgian director Fabrice Du Welz's first feature has not a single shot wasted and remains visually engrossing and dramatically tense throughout.  Look for an early cameo by Jean Rollin prodigy/French porn star Brigitte Lahaie.  The high-end cast also includes Laurent Lucas, a veteran of French thrillers like Lemming and Harry un ami qui vous veut du bien, and Philippe Nahon, who you may recognize from Haute Tension, or as Gaspar Noé's Butcher.  One reason this film ends up on a 2008 list is that it nagged at my subconscious until I watched it a second time—only then did I fully appreciate its brilliance.  Du Welz' new film, Vinyan, also looks quite promising.

Cloverfield (2008) - Part of the reason this film won me over was its not-so-metaphorical depiction of Manhattan as a big, giant trap (all you people who are loathe to leave the island will want to get out right quick when a gigantic, powerful monster attacks.)  Though I'm typically not a fan of CGI, the method used here is spare and effective, and the viewer is never over-exposed to the totality of the monster in question.  The narrative flows fast and stays unpredictable throughout, with shocks aplenty.  Cloverfield is proof that a great monster movie can still be made, with a minimum of means at that.

The Signal (2007) - Three directors collaborated on this technophobic/survivalist nightmare, and just when you thought the concept of a deadly, mind-warping electronic transmission was finished as a horror-film premise, these guys have kept it fresh.  The Signal gets off to a rocking start immediately and never stops moving (always a joy for me, as I'm often seen in my living room, 30 minutes into a film, shouting "where are the zombies?!?")  The story is consistently surprising, with loads of unexpected humor and plenty of the red, red kroovy for the gorehounds.

Naboer (Next Door) (2005) - A young, Norwegian professional, after an acrimonious breakup with his live-in girlfriend, gets unwillingly submerged in the dark, sensual world of two odd sisters that live next door.  The sisters' seemingly endless flat is a masterwork of set design, with dozens of doors and creepy rooms that suggest past horrors.  The whole film is remarkably claustrophobic and dense, in an unsettling "windmills of my mind" sort of way.   Next Door is also notable for featuring one of the most unusual, violent, but undeniably hot sex scenes in recent film history.

The Nude Vampire/The Iron Rose - Two of director Jean Rollin's 1970s films recently made available (Autumn 2007) as part of the Salvation label's ongoing Rollin collection.  Though the director's work is often much maligned as being cheap and cheesy, the fact is that his films are consistently visionary and compelling, especially when one considers that they are some of the most inexpensive productions to come out of France.  It's my understanding that Rollin works each film outward from a set of pre-conceived imagery, filling in the sometimes spare narrative as he goes.  If you like beautiful, young Europeans in 70s-mod fashion, sexy female vampires, crumbling chateaus and moody beach scenes, Rollin's films will not disappoint.  The Iron Rose (1973) is a minimalist piece about a young couple trapped overnight in a cemetery, while The Nude Vampire (1970), Rollin's second feature, reads like a cross between one of his vampire dramas and a classic Trek episode.

Vinyl Finds: Thug - Electric Woolly Mammoth LP (1988)

Everyone that I've ever met from Sydney has been pretty badass.  They're tall, sturdy, a little bit streety, a little bit nuts, will party you under the table and fuck you 'til you're exhausted (as applicable.)  My old Australian girlfriend Nicole would never sniff drugs; she went straight for the needle, saying "that wud be a wayste of goood heero-in."  Lachlan McLeod, member of Thug and Lubricated Goat, once politely excused himself from a conversation we were having in front of CBGB's, walked to the curb, vomited, and came back, picking up the conversation right where we'd left off (with vomit on his shoes.)  All in a day's work for a hearty Oz.

With that in mind, I present one of my favorite LPs from the late 1980s, Thug's Electric Woolly Mammoth, a noisy Australian post-punk Faust Tapes if ever there was one.  This album, the band's second and final LP, is a collection of anarchic hilarity, fuzzy blasts of noise, inspired space-rock trips and the occasional sweet little instrumental, like early Cabaret Voltaire filtered through a devastating outback demolition derby.  Though there are two slightly longer, dronier tracks, most of the ideas don't last too long—just long enough to push you on to the next little bit of abuse, the sonic equivalent of that spinning scene from Guinea Pig: Devil's Experiment.  I consider this the more resonant twin to their also excellent first LP, Mechanical Ape/Proud Idiots Parade (1987); though both discs are similar, Mammoth's thrust seems a bit more fleshed, less a collection of lo-fi bits and pieces.

Thug were the three-way collaboration of Tex Perkins, a veteran of several notorious Sydney bands (The Cruel Sea, Beasts of Bourbon, Salamander Jim), the talented nut-job Peter Read (you can hear some of Peter's recent work as Chimp, Inc. here—it's very much in the Thug spirit) and the aforementioned Lachlan McLeod.  The album was released in 1988 on the Black Eye label, the more radical, experimental subdivision of the successful Australian indie Red Eye Records.

Intro | Penis/Idiot Bum Lout | Don't Inter-Fear | Childish Behaviour | Dickhead | Useless | Scratch | Bulb | Electric Woolly Mammoth | Guitar Solo in a Rainforest | Everyday Living | Abolero | Generator (Robot Dance) | Untitled Bastard | Dave's Back From Outer Space | Hair Lip

Now sing along with me:  "Paenis, paenis, paenis, bosom, bosom, asshowle..."

Final note:  For years, I had a meaning dissociation with the song "Dave's Back From Outer Space," the only "proper" song on the album.  I thought it was about Dave's back being from outer space, rather than Dave having simply returned from outer space.

Cassette Culture Revisited, Part XII - Mel Torment and Boopsie (Baby)

This is a tape created by my dear friends Mark Ashwill and Julie Spodek in the early 1990s.  The tracks were recorded in their Eckford Street loft in Greenpoint, a space loaded with Mark's sculptures, paintings, musical instruments and other creations, a sturdy loft bed and not much else.  No doubt some high-cost condominium housing stands there today, as artists without endowments or trust funds can no longer afford lofts in Brooklyn.  The cassette, as far as I know, was only dubbed for a few close friends, each copy with a unique handmade insert.

Mark was a drummer, sculptor and founding member in the legendary NYC noise/performance outfit Missing Foundation, whose global reputation and familiar upturned cocktail-glass symbol endure to this day.  Despite being a somewhat intense character, Mark was also a total sweetie who could always make me laugh, especially when things were at their most hopeless.  His cavalier humor is in high evidence on the Mel Torment cassette, especially in songs like "That Was the Last Cigaret" and "Mighty Fountains of Joy."

The opening piece, "Our Goodnight Song (Goodbye)," is the gem of the collection, a haunting lo-fi spirit procession.  Other favorites of mine include "Mighty Fountains..." (with its unsettling pause-button trickery), "What Goes In, Don't Nesecarily Have to Come Out" and the screechy jazz drone of "Shadow Shift."

Our Goodnight Song (Goodbye)  | That Was the Last Cigaret  | To Boopsie (Baby)  | While Your Asleep | Mighty Fountains of Joy | Angel | What Goes In, Don't Nesecarily Have to Come Out | I Don't Even Remember | Time Never Wasted Me | My Burning Eyes | Shadow Shift

After Missing Foundation (and after this tape) Mark achieved iconic status fronting The Spitters, a shifting band of Narcotics Anonymous buddies who, for a few chaotic years, rained Stooges-like mayhem on the Lower East Side.  Mark passed away in 2000 and is missed by many; writer Maggie Estep wrote a touching obituary for Mark, which you can read here.

Julie Spodek is a vocalist, a trapeze artist (she performed at my wedding party) and a wonderful woman of many talents.  In addition to cooking up the original core concept of The Spitters with Mark Ashwill, Julie was also a founding member of the band The Gamma Rays.

Go Flemish!, Part 2: Ex Drummer

I'd been waiting anxiously to see director Koen Mortier's Ex Drummer, ever since this tantalizing review appeared in the pages of Film Comment earlier this year.  The film is nothing short of an inescapable rush of insanity and brilliance, setting a new high bar for nasty, cutting-edge cinema.  Part Gummo, part Romper Stomper, part Trainspotting, with more than a hint of Gaspar Noé's influence, Ex Drummer brings to mind nothing so much as a contemporary, punk-rock Ubu Roi, where graphic brutality, absurd flights of comedic fantasy, and social criticism form a gruesomely entertaining triumvirate.  Blind rage, domestic horror, gross sex, punk energy and the class struggle all feature prominently in the whirling narrative.

The story centers on Dries, a former tough guy turned celebrity author, who is approached by three brutish, self-proclaimed "handicapped" lowlifes (nonetheless talented, vigorous musicians) who ask him to be the drummer for their fledgling garage band.  Dries decides to take the gig, mostly because he's fascinated by the three maniacs and imagines that somehow the experience will help him garner material for a new book (it does.)  Almost inevitably, Dries begins to act out reprehensibly, all the more power-mad because he's well aware of the one foot he still has in his comfortable existence with his posh flat and beautiful girlfriend; his bandmates lash out, destructively and self-destructively, simply because they're incurably fucked up and it's the only life they've ever known.

The film is also loaded with striking camera work and a wealth of postmodern trickery worthy of Michael Haneke or Danny Boyle.  Bicycles ride backward, scenes play in reverse, and one character is forced by some unseen, punishing gravity to live upside down on the ceiling of his flat. 

With the overwhelming bulk of my movie viewing coming up mediocre these days (cable series like Mad Men and The Wire having surpassed most films in my estimation), Ex Drummer is a much-needed, bloody head-butt of fresh air and enthralling creativity.  Ex Drummer has screened at Lincoln Center's Film Comment Selects and other festivals, but has yet to be slated for a region 1 DVD release.

Vinyl Finds: Halloween Special - Zacherle Singles!

During my father's term as Program Director for WPLJ-FM (1974–1988) I was privileged to spend time in the halls and studios of what for much of that time was New York's #1 album rock station.  It was a young music freak's fantasy:  I got promo LPs, attended concerts for free, and sat in on live broadcasts.  My favorite DJs to hang with were always Carol Miller and John Zacherle.

Zacherle (aka Zacherley) had been a TV horror-film host in ghoul makeup for most of the 1950s and early 60s (there are several clips on YouTube), and in the early days of FM's popularity he was an innovator of free-form radio, when WPLJ was called WABC-FM.  Though PLJ's programming was fairly structured by the late 1970s, the form was still much freer than the computerized formats seen on the commercial FM band today.

Every Halloween, WPLJ would let Zach become a ghoul again and program his own show (he would also occasionally don his makeup and entertain at staff parties.)  One year, I'm guessing '77 or '78, I sat in the cramped studio on Halloween watching Zacherle make radio magic.  My love of horror films and rock music reached critical mass that night.  At the age of 60, Zacherle was super cool and probably more up on things than many of his younger colleagues.  I remember that he played something from the Dead Boys' first LP and also held up a copy of Pink Floyd's Ummagumma and said, "Billy, have you heard this one?"

During that time, Zach also presented me with copies of his two 1960 novelty singles, "Dinner With Drac" and "Coolest Little Monster"—below are all four sides as mp3s.  (Except for the comic masterpiece "Hurry Bury Baby," these songs are available on CD and are presented here just for fun, in-browser listening.)

As the 70s became the 80s, radio formats tightened, mic styles became zippier and much of the old guard at WPLJ were being replaced or moving to less-commercial stations.  In the post-disco era, FM had become the dominant force of music delivery, with a narrower presentation.  I know that it was one of the saddest days of my Dad's life when he had to let John Zacherle go.  Zach, now 90, still does Halloween radio (most recently on WCBS-FM) and continues to be an inveterate hipster and a cool ghoul.

Dinner With Drac
Hurry Bury Baby
Coolest Little Monster
Ring-a-Ding Orangoutang

Buy Zach on CD!

Happy Halloween.  May you receive lipstick of arsenic and laprobes of earlobes.

Vinyl Finds: Pork Queen - Beautiful Vision LP, 1994

All hail the mighty Pork Queen!  First let me say that it's difficult to do an Internet search on the term "pork queen," as most of the results refer to either a bizarre Midwestern crowning ritual (which I'm sure Bronwyn C. could elaborate upon for us) or some Sarah Palin-related business about squandered infrastructure dollars, and the latter is just, well, soooooo pre-econocataclysm, so three weeks ago.  I mean who can get worked up about Sarah Fucking Palin and her bridge to nowhere anymore?  As Jello Biafra put it once, "We've Got a Bigger Problem Now". 

Pork Queen were the project of Vancouver-based Trackshun Industries records founder Justice Schanfarber et al., and in their day the "band" made some gloriously unpretentious improvised music, with at least 1/2 foot planted in something that vaguely resembled rock.  This LP was issued in an edition of 300 copies and packaged in old record sleeves repurposed by the band members.  Each player personally decorated 100 copies, and as you can see, my copy is "Justice 39/100"—the sleeve a tasteful assemblage of wallpaper samples and duct tape.

Nowadays, Justice Schanfarber is a Professional Coach and Relationship Mentor, applying the principles of something called "Gender Synergy," seemingly having left the glory days of the Vancouver noise scene far behind. At least he isn't flogging a dead horse like William Bennett.  It would be great to see a CD collection of Pork Queen's vinyl releases, as most of their finer moments were captured on 7" vinyl.  Ah, 90s noise—so much better than that crap the kids are listening to today.

Side 1 - See Cops Throw Rocks

Side 2 - If You're Taking a Hippie Bath, Please Consider the Time You Take and the Mess You Make

The Inevitable Sophomore Slump After My Last Post

What to write about?  My bi-weekly dilemma.  What's on my mind?  Unemployment, mostly my own.  One can only stretch the term "freelance" so thin before one is actually just dicking around on Facebook all day.  What else?  This whole Sarah Palin thing.  And believe me, I hate that her name should even appear in one of my blog posts, forever tainting it.  I would never wear one of those "Not My President" buttons, as that would put Bush's vacuous mug square on my lapel every day.  Still, it's more than a little disconcerting that a doncha-know hockey-mom with a wild stare (see right) who's a Pentecostal and supports teaching religious-based alternatives to evolution could easily be our President within the next few years.  "Hurricane Sarah" herself has taken to the phrasing "Palin-McCain" rather than "McCain-Palin."  All signs seem to point to "this is not a person fit to run the country, should the President be unable to fulfill their duties."  It's even more distressing that, as America continues its descent into our own Dark Ages, after eight years of declining everything, about half of us seem to desire more of the same.  There are many who, much to my astonishment, seek (whether they realize it or not) the perpetuation of this roller coaster ride into financial, social and literal Armageddon.  I suppose they imagine that it will be they who are airlifted to heaven when The Rapture they so doggedly pursued finally arrives.  We are not simply in a dialog about which side of the political fence has more "haters," this is not some figurative discussion like "my dog's better than your dog" - ”this is the next four years of our lives at a very, very shaky time in this country's history, and how anyone with even the most meager observational powers could be more afraid of Barack Obama than the McCain/Palin ticket is hard to fathom.

Am I pleased about anything?  Sure.  I need my escapist pabulum too.  The original American big city, the city of brotherly love, finally has a great, brutally funny TV show, and has for several years - though not enough of you have been paying attention.  (You know you can TiVo On the Record w/Greta and watch it later.)  The FX comedy series, It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia, returned to the air for its fourth season on September 18.  The show centers on five amoral screw-ups, viciously self-serving individuals, capable of great self-debasement, who together run a dive bar in Philly.  It's a fluid ensemble piece that's like Seinfeld without money.  Seinfeld with hard drugs, trannies and cannibalism.  In fact, most episodes of Sunny are like a flaming ball of comedic chaos rolling down a very steep hill.  How a show that uses the word "bang" in almost every episode (as in "which one of us would you like to take you in the back and bang you?") can come across as consistently fresh and clever boggles the mind, but their formula is on a mighty roll.  Watch some of the promo clips on YouTube, since that's where you spend your life anyway.  I'll be watching every Thursday at 10 (the show is also repeated several times throughout the week.)  And yes, I'm a hater.  I hate Sarah Palin.  And football on TV.  And twins.

Related:  Take the Palin PBS poll and see the results.