tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86908275606926288982024-03-20T06:16:30.175-07:00Living. Dead. Girl.Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comBlogger67125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-90331021528391430332017-10-27T17:04:00.002-07:002017-10-27T17:30:45.176-07:00Devils You Know.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKinq4nybiJfI1m4yzvIxHuJNerWv9K-KL81GZ8xB8UtrqtgTU8rF6qkbPaFVxXyGN3geEiuzSouf8C4ouvzlP9HD1laf5SWqxyYr8HqrPRR0qxk0dwY-gzJsyBMwJAgy_qUcn7VhWLc/s1600/PT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="391" data-original-width="695" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKinq4nybiJfI1m4yzvIxHuJNerWv9K-KL81GZ8xB8UtrqtgTU8rF6qkbPaFVxXyGN3geEiuzSouf8C4ouvzlP9HD1laf5SWqxyYr8HqrPRR0qxk0dwY-gzJsyBMwJAgy_qUcn7VhWLc/s320/PT.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was Rose McGowan just yesterday.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">My first actual post after a few months of not posting, and I actually didn’t intend to write about this, but what the hell. Sexual abuse in the film industry is obviously neither fun nor interesting to blog about, and we’ve pretty much heard it all at this point. But I want to talk about the complicity that allows this shit to happen. Now, I promise I won’t get all preachy because I’d be a goddamned hypocrite if I sat here and berated everyone for ever having knowingly or unknowingly cosigned on sexual abuse by supporting the industry with our wallets and purses. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Instead, my question is—well babies, what do we do now? I listened to Selma Blair’s account of her abuse by James Toback on the way to work this morning and wanted to hug her, then throw up. And I get super pissed every time I see Victor Salva’s name pop up in the horror press, followed by people who continue to say stupid shit like “he did his time,” “everyone needs to work,” blah blah blah. Number One: the victim is still doing <i>his</i> time, I don’t give a rat’s ass how long it’s been since <i>Clownhouse</i>; and Number Two: fine, well then Mr. Salva can go become a debt collector, build websites—whatever. He doesn’t have to make a fucking movie. He’s not going to starve if <i>Jeepers Creepers 3</i> doesn’t happen. Give. Me. A. Break. If he’s ever on the verge of starving, trust me—Francis Ford Coppola will buy him a lifetime Blue Apron subscription and send him boxes of his own wine. Outta here with that shit.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And then there’s Alfred Hitchcock and Roman Polanski. The former sexually abused Tippi Hedren (and God knows how many others); the latter sexually abused a girl barely into her teens. At Jack Nicholson’s house! If these three schmucks were <i>you</i> and <i>you</i> and the dude down the street, it would be all over the news, and even <i>you</i> would be looking at you on the news like, "goddamn, that’s one sick son of a bitch.” But we’re okay with Hitchcock sexually, physically and emotionally abusing Ms. Hedren because <i>Psycho</i> is a classic—which makes her a liar? What the hell kind of math is that? We really can’t go on thinking like this, can we? I love <i>Psycho</i>, and <i>Rope</i>, and <i>North by Northwest</i>, and just about everything Hitchcock has done on film, but I’m not going to put this long-deceased monster on a pedestal of absolution because of it. I’m also a massive Tippi Hedren fan, so I jumped on her audiobook at the first opportunity, and believe me, if you listen to her speak of the horrors that this man inflicted upon her—before he basically discarded her and ruined her career for good and all—you’d think that shit had happened to her yesterday. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Roman Polanski has also made wonderful films, and he’s a Holocaust survivor, AND his victim is now a middle-aged woman who no longer holds any grudges—but the song remains the same. We execute people in the US for doing unspeakable acts, despite their horrible childhoods. Remove what your idols have done on film from who they are in the real world, ask yourself if you would behave the same, and you will know what to do. While Hollywood is now busy (supposedly, hopefully) cleaning house by turning on the lights and exposing the roaches, we film lovers and consumers should also rethink our positions, and act accordingly. Jack Nicholson hitting on young women and enabling his friend’s own predatory behavior is creepy. Women like Meryl Streep and Donna Karan, who staunchly defend these abusers (Streep defending Polanski and Karan defending Harvey Weinstein), they’re also creepy—and bitches for victim shaming. Francis Ford Coppola continuing to bankroll Victor Salva’s film career is just unconscionable. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Calibri; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Calibri; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 17.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">We cannot force ourselves to stop admiring the films and careers cultivated by the people we’ve admired. That’s unrealistic, I know; I’ve loved Meryl Streep for my entire life, save the first few years I was in a nappy. But knowing what we know now, we cannot keep supporting these shitheads, or excusing their crimes, or holding them in high esteem, just because they made a film or two—or several—that we really, really like. </span></div>
Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-10458157594218363212017-10-18T13:18:00.000-07:002017-10-18T15:35:08.136-07:00Turn Ons.<div class="p1">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdkQQ5Xi2lwoOvadepIMFxcf4BHkdknLpSX8XwNv7_OffCxqxH38GukPcCb9rzNvFoJfd34aaVmoZiYUVDFHF3wB9UcQgOYmgFLW9wfwciL25Qvq-oubcibo7HO3kMOMZ0z8QaDP3tk-4/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-10-18+at+1.16.18+PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="264" data-original-width="587" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdkQQ5Xi2lwoOvadepIMFxcf4BHkdknLpSX8XwNv7_OffCxqxH38GukPcCb9rzNvFoJfd34aaVmoZiYUVDFHF3wB9UcQgOYmgFLW9wfwciL25Qvq-oubcibo7HO3kMOMZ0z8QaDP3tk-4/s320/Screen+Shot+2017-10-18+at+1.16.18+PM.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">If you’re reading this, thanks for coming back. And if you’re new to my blog, thanks—and welcome. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I switched off for a while to protect myself, but I’ve missed posting on here, and I’m getting ready to dive into another screenplay, so no better way to Brody back into the water than to get into the boat and save the island, right? Screw the sharks—and baby bubbas, they are out there. Believe me, they are … </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I will post a new entry this weekend, one that will (hopefully) be a little more fun and engaging, and help get this train back on its track. All I can say for now is, it’s Halloween season, I’m tired but I’m excited and in a fairly good mood, and it feels good to be back and free from the shit show. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Calibri; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Calibri; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 17.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">For now.</span></div>
Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-33329152144469732662017-04-09T14:48:00.002-07:002017-04-10T05:12:30.283-07:00Hausu Calls.Last week, when I was whining about <em>Suspiria</em> being remade, it dawned on me that another, (dare I say) even more awesome, visually striking and far-out film came out the same year: <em>Hausu</em>. Surely everybody and their <em>sobo</em> has seen this film by now, thanks to word of mouth, YouTube spirals and repeats on TCM. Janus reintroduced us to the film in the last decade, and through The Criterion Collection, graced us with the most current versions we have today on Blu-ray and DVD. When I last checked, it was also available on Hulu, but nothing lasts forever. Okay?<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/WQ_Yo06kIIA" width="480"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
Directed by Nobuhiko Obayashi, <em>Hausu</em> was supposed to be Japan's response to <em>Jaws</em>, but like anything a teenage girl gets her hands on, it turned out more like a Bay City Roller's wet dream after a post-gig sake bender in Tokyo. The teenage girl being, in this case, Nobuhiko-san's daughter—who, quite honestly—must've been some kind of a rock star herself to have dreamed up a stonker of an idea that gives the kids nearly 90 minutes of reefer madness. Hey, didn't Daria Nicolodi also sort of dream up <em>Suspiria</em>? Proof that I'm doing life all wrong when I should be spending most of it on Ambien. <br />
<br />
Now, I'm not going to give you a plot synopsis, and I'm not going to BFI or <em>New York Times</em> you to death about why <em>Hausu</em> is a classic. I'm just going to run down why I love it a tad over <em>Suspiria</em>. For one thing, the plot is a bit more linear. And I love <em>Suspiria</em>—I love it, alright? I love it—but you're going to see for yourself in the remake why we needed all the bells and whistles in the original. Because if you take all the goodies away, you are left to wonder about a few things. What does Suzy have to do with anything? She just basically crashes a murder party at a dance academy in Germany, but somehow she's integral to the plot because Pat says something about an <em>iris</em>? Why is Pat so special? Why an iris? Because they look lovely on wallpaper? Whaaa? And then you have a coven running the academy, but then they're killing off their own dancers? Witches be crazy. But I only see one person doing all the killing. Who's killing? Somebody help me. Then Udo Kier shows up, looking hot. We get a killer dog. We get maggots. And finally, Argento sets everything on fire, which apparently he loves doing since he does it again three years later and is like <em>fuck it, I love fire,</em> <em>I'm just going to call this Inferno. </em>And a <em>Suspiria</em> remake with a plot that supposedly will actually make a lot more sense is just an entirely different film altogether, but with the same name. So, not <em>Suspiria</em>.<br />
<br />
No one in Japan is going to remake <em>Hausu</em>. For one thing, the Japanese don't play that shit. They remade two films of ours, and neither one was a horror film (<em>Ghost</em> is not a horror film, unless you fear making clay pottery). And if we get our American hands on it and recast with chicks from the CW, the purists don't play that shit. Because this year's <em>Ghost in the Shell</em> turned out so well. Yeah, I don't care if technically, Motoko can be anything, i.e., not particularly Asian. Fine, she can be a white woman. She can be a slice of pizza. She can be a rock, an island. A can of Diet Tab. <em>Hausu</em> will never. be. remade. They'll remake <em>Battle Royale</em> first. Oh. <br />
<br />
Yes, <em>Ringu</em> was remade. Yes, <em>The Grudge</em> was remade. And <em>Pulse</em>, and <em>One Missed Call</em>, and ... fine, but <em>we</em> remade these films. Yes, in some cases the original people (in <em>The Grudge's</em> case, director Takashi Shimizu) were involved in the remakes. But Asia didn't ask for them, so Asia didn't remake them. I guess you could transfer those ideas to American aesthetics, but who in hell is going to remake a film about a group of young schoolgirls with nicknames that sound like a lineup out of Urban Decay cosmetics, who visit a hungry old aunt and all <em>jigoku</em> breaks loose? How do we include the white cat called Blanche, the delicious-looking watermelon, the rich dad whose film scores apparently beat the shit out of Morricone's? The dancing severed piano fingers? The Godiego? The nudity? The badassery that is the greatest film character of all time—Kung Fu? So much happens in <em>Hausu</em> that we can't explain, but at least we know what is going on. And all of it is untouchable.<br />
<br />Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-7141009569846881242017-04-02T14:21:00.003-07:002017-04-02T18:07:45.030-07:00Plastic Purge-ry. So, as I was saying ... <br />
<br />
A few days ago, I was filling up my tank when a dude in his 60s offered me $200 to show him my goods. This was the culmination of a seemingly pedestrian inquiry about how to get to Huntington Beach, which was nowhere near us, and even farther away from my boobs in terms of the question itself. But, money is money and the offer was extremely flattering, so I <strike>slowly peeled off my blouse</strike> kindly thanked the man (who was now begging), got in my car and laughed all the way to work. I stopped laughing when I got to work and relayed the incident to my friends, who all thought I should've been offered way more.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6xxslxWhBlvmQK0GV1Je1iNg2Ea9DwBC3NbkTE34TLB6dsLTvwRlqv-NbMVOHWfeS-rhRqKyYXiArWchR79BGB7V7Xyc0zFcbAuLpdAbYHkxXnFjEuAqhC6fGo0oR9ZhtY158M7eZKQc/s1600/15107449_10154048352302227_7188910033434311590_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6xxslxWhBlvmQK0GV1Je1iNg2Ea9DwBC3NbkTE34TLB6dsLTvwRlqv-NbMVOHWfeS-rhRqKyYXiArWchR79BGB7V7Xyc0zFcbAuLpdAbYHkxXnFjEuAqhC6fGo0oR9ZhtY158M7eZKQc/s320/15107449_10154048352302227_7188910033434311590_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He wasn't talking about <em>Phantasm</em>, you nard.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="border-image: none;">
Well shit, I replied, I'm over the hill; this is called depreciation. Is it any surprise that Oprah started preaching about gratitude on her stupid show after she turned 40? Because this is the point where we become the Lexus you lease instead of the Rolls that you buy. I'm just happy to be breathing and even happier that the sins of my previous decades didn't land me in prison or Cliffside Malibu. But who knows; maybe if I was 20, I would've still been offered that $200, except with a Frappuccino from the Starbucks across the street. This guy had just gotten off of a bus, after all.</div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
I promise all of this is getting to a point--point being, that no matter how much time passes, the value of everything, even things that supposedly carry exponential value, is subjective. We place such a high value on classic horror films, like <em>Halloween</em>, <em>Black Christmas</em> and <em>Friday the 13th</em>, and yet each film has been remade. Somewhere in the timeline, it was decided that the value of these films lay exclusively in their names and motifs. To say anything else would be dishonest; otherwise, why aren't we remaking <em>House of the Dead</em>? Why aren't we "reimagining" <em>Motel Hell</em>? Because not enough people know about the latter, and no one wants to admit to having seen the former. And let's not forget TV .. <em>The Exorcist</em> ... <em>Bates Motel</em> ... this is how the studios remake shit without the fanboys losing theirs. It's having your cake and eating it, too (a stupid phrase; wtf is cake for if not to eat it?). It's almost as dishonest as remaking <em>Star Wars</em> and calling it <em>The Force Awakens</em>. <br />
<br /></div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
And now we're remaking <em>It</em>. We're remaking <em>Suspiria</em>. The argument that the original <em>It</em> warrants a remake is fair, in defense of those who truly hate it and don't care that Tim Curry is the gatekeeper and the key master. But <em>Suspiria</em>. Without the color. Without the Goblin. Without the everything that makes it so classic, if not so great. Why do films even get remade in the first place? Because studios finally cotton on to a film being a lifer, worthy of their attention, hallelujah and blessed be the baby Jesus? We never needed their validation. Because directors finally have access to the technology they wish they had the first time around? So much for the legacies of Vercoutere, or Harryhausen, or Savini. Because a "fan" in a position of power decides they love a film so much, they want to distill it down to a name, with their ideas attached to it? We already have something for that; it's called fan fiction. <br />
<br /></div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<br />
Oh, and then you've got those who think we need these remakes. I'm going to guess most of them were likely not around for the originals and cannot comprehend their importance in the pop cultural landscape. They'll tell you to not get so "butt hurt" or "titty slapped" or "pussy pounded" or whatever other stupid insult they can wank out before moving on to the next thing. And they can say what they want. It's all bullshit. <em>Suspiria</em> is the beautiful girlfriend your parents introduce you to, but you ignore her to chase the hot stripper with the fake boobs at Spearmint Rhino, also named <em>Suspiria</em>. Of course, she'll take your money, but like every newer model, you won't get much else. Just be sure to put aside enough for the bus fare while you figure out a way to get back to Huntington Beach. </div>
<br />Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-54316677030860387262015-11-22T02:04:00.001-08:002015-11-22T02:22:22.569-08:00Review to a Kills. <div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQTId8hiwED3N1DSJxxVJoLNrwmbUH5eVFnhYrLrYwoHpOX3BGyqGms27QCtNzvRVjFJTA2MRPyxqCJ1qM8OBRBKtX0KVMheq1Gbg0AxIFwrUfXrakGVAxSGOTn_3JuDZME5bISUQkIZo/s1600/1233353_693110434050275_103595772_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQTId8hiwED3N1DSJxxVJoLNrwmbUH5eVFnhYrLrYwoHpOX3BGyqGms27QCtNzvRVjFJTA2MRPyxqCJ1qM8OBRBKtX0KVMheq1Gbg0AxIFwrUfXrakGVAxSGOTn_3JuDZME5bISUQkIZo/s320/1233353_693110434050275_103595772_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There comes a time in every woman’s life when she enters
middle age, assesses the paths in<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>her
life that brought her to the present, looks at her family, takes a deep breath,
and rates the Friday the 13<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th</sup> franchise from best to worst. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<o:p></o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My list is, of course, very subjective. I’ll just get right
to it. Life is short and I’m holding in a pee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<!--[endif]--><strong><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Friday the 13<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th</sup> (1980)<o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
This film rates first because it is
the purest in its intents and purposes. Camp counselors. Serial killer. Wooded
seclusion. Echoplex. It’s like cooking in that sometimes, the dish with the
least ingredients tastes the best. And I love the quiet, unpolished, even
snuff-like aesthetics of ‘70s horror films. While I don’t love that a poor
snake gave his life for this film (Sean Cunningham should be thankful that he
didn’t film in Italy), and while I don’t really care much for Alice (sorry),
the other characters are likeable and relatable, and the death of Annie—who I
just love, who advocated for children in that jeep and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">still</i> bought the farm at Pamela Voorhees’ hands—really gives you the
sense that this film could go anywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<strong>Jason Lives (1986)<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
This film gets the second spot because I
love it so much, and it has the most nostalgia attached to it. I was the same
age as those children at the camp, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
actually going to summer camp in the creepy woods of Pocatello, Idaho in the
summer of 1986, and while <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jason Lives</i>
was not technically the first of the series to feature children (sleeping
children can be glimpsed in the opener to the first film), it is the first to
make them integral to the plot. We fade out the Tommy subplot (which I have
always hated) and bring back Jason, and we get the coolest final girl since Amy
Steel. I couldn’t stand Jennifer Cooke in “V: The Series,” but I absolutely
love her here. Plus this film has the Alice Cooper song, the shish-kabob
motorcycle, paintball kills, the greatest score of the series, and Horschak.
What more do you want? Geez. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<strong>The Final Chapter (1984)<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
I am a huge Joseph Zito fan. I love <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Prowler</i>. He has an amazing “waste
nothing” approach to horror, and you definitely feel that in this one. The
Tommy subplot is introduced, but we don’t quite yet know that it’s going to be A
Thing, so okay, we get a kid who is into masks and FX and I’m way on board with
all of that, plus he has a really nice family, and even the horned-up kids in
the party house are nice, and it’s all nicety nice-nice. While progressive in
its direction, it retains the feel of an early Friday film, not yet fettered by
gimmicks and all the crapola that came later on. And Crispin Glover has some
great moments in it. I heart him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<strong>Part 2 (1981)<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
If you take away Amy Steel, this would
still be a good entry, but just not as good. It rips off at least three films
that I can think of, and I can see why Steve Daskawisz was brought in to
replace Warrington Gillette. But this film has its redeeming moments. First of
all, they don’t let the brotha or the Asian sista speak at all (well, not
beyond the brotha wrapping up a board game or laughing at a joke), but at least
they get to live along with Stu Charno, who is one of my favorite character
actors, ever. And even the physically challenged guy gets an equal-opportunity
kill, which amps up the terror factor and leaves you thinking that if Jason’s
going to off a dude in a wheelchair (who was about to get laid!), then who
knows what else he’s capable of? This film was also preceded by that beautiful “countdown
trailer,” my favorite of the series. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<strong>Part 3 (1982)<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
On paper, this should be my third favorite.
It’s got disco, it’s got the first appearance of The Mask, it’s got Shelley,
who I love, and it’s got Tracie Savage, who went on to anchor our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Channel 4 News</i>. Even better, it’s got
Tracie Savage getting “Bacon-ated” while reading a Fango. But it’s got one of
my least-favorite final girls, a terrible subplot featuring her first encounter
with Jason (blech), her dopey boyfriend, who looks like a narc dressed for
brunch, two inexplicable subplots—one involving a stoner couple (WTF are they
even ON THIS JOURNEY?!!), and another involving motorcycling Solid Gold dancers
in a barn—and an ending obviously tacked on after the producers watched <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Texas Chainsaw Massacre</i>. No. Just …
no. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<strong>Jason Takes Manhattan (1989)<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
I was just starting high school when this
came out, and it had me from the trailer. But that song. That glorious
boner-inducing song by Metropolis … THAT is why this film gets the #6 spot. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And there’s no wait you can fight, so show
some respect, and try to survive</i> … I know, right?!! @#$%!!! Anyway, this
film also features one of my favorite death scenes, in which Julian boxes
himself into total exhaustion before Jason takes him out of his misery with one
hell of an uppercut. Unfortunately, this film also features the scene I make
fun of the most out of any other in the franchise—when that SAME brotha gets a
massive chub over getting to New York City. He goobers himself up into such a
lather that he sounds like one of the Three Stooges. Yes, we get it, you’re in
New York City. Shaddup. And while we’re at stupid scenes (and there are many in
this film), how about Jason in the sewer morphing from the Toxic Avenger into a
child model? For real?! Did they never see the first <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Friday</i>? And why are we treating Rennie like she’s a special-needs
child? I feel like I’m watching pt. 7, just without the telekinesis. Fuhgeddaboudit.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<strong>Friday the 13<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th</sup>: The Series (1987)<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
Yes, I know. Jason was never in this. It
doesn’t count. But I’m gonna make it count anyway, because Frank Mancuso, Jr.
created it, and Paramount Television distributed it, and enough veterans of the
franchise took a pit stop in Vendredi’s Antiques that I might as well. Plus
Robey. Okay? Many of the series’ episodes were better and scarier than some of
the films in the franchise. And Jason wasn’t in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A New Beginning</i>, either, but we still see that one included in all
the TV marathons. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;">
<o:p><strong><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></strong></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
Jason X (2001)<o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
I may be the only one in the world who
likes this film (and its score). But I don’t give a damn, as it features my
favorite director of all time, two badass heroines in Rowan and Kay-Em, and a
nice package of innovative kills that you wouldn’t see anywhere else <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">but</i> in space. Yes, I thought the trend
of sending many of our horror heroes into space was lame (which is mostly why
this gets the 8<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th</sup> spot), but this one sort of worked. Kind of? Just
a little? Well, fine. Look at it this way: there could’ve been a
machete-wielding killing machine out there in the Mir space station. I mean, we
still kiss <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alien</i>’s ass, and when’s
the last time the news reported a creature killing all the passengers of a
cargo spaceship? Wait, where you going?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<strong>The New Blood (1988)<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
I just can’t get it up for this one. I know
so many people love it, and the director is a really nice guy who talked to my
husband for quite a while about filmmaking, plus there’s something really
exciting about giving Jason a true formidable match in the final girl. It’s
just not Tina. Tell me you can’t make a drinking game out of this one. Go
ahead, try not to tip it back every time Tina runs out of the room in
dramatics. She’s a pitiful character and the most tolerable in a film in which
no one is likeable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like, not even a
little bit. If you like Tina, it’s because you either feel sorry for her or you
wish you had her powers, or (like me) you really like the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actress</i> who plays her, Lar-Park Lincoln. But seriously? If I were
Tina, I would’ve wrapped that shit up in 30 minutes, Carrie White-style,
starting with her doctor. But then I guess we wouldn’t have a film. And that
would be bad <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how</i>? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<strong>A
New Beginning (1985)<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
I should love the hell out of this film. It
has Suicide and Spider from the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ROTLD</i>
films, Dudley from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Different Strokes</i>,
good kills, a Blue Mask (I love little variations like that), poppin’ and
lockin,’ great boobies and chocolate bars. And you know what? I don’t even
dislike this film because Jason’s not in it. I dislike this film because
Jason’s not in it—and neither is Tom Atkins, or homicidal Halloween masks, or a
catchy Silver Shamrock jingle, or all the other things that I love about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween 3: Season of the Witch</i> despite
Michael Myers not being in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> film.
This film looks as if the life has been sucked right out of it, and hearing
about what a miserable experience it was to make this film explains it all. I
have about as much fun watching it as I believe the cast and crew had making
it. And who kills a brotha on the toilet? It’s “no” time!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<strong>Jason
Goes to Hell (1993)<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
I saw this one just after I graduated from high
school, and I remember leaving the cinema looking and feeling as if I had just
sucked on a lemon for two hours waiting for it to turn into Country Time. Jason’s
got a sister? Whaa? Didn’t we already see this film oh wait this one is
different because metaphysics. But at least the Laurie Strode-as-Michael-Myers’-sister
twist was something you could buy, considering that in the first <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween</i>, Myers killed his older
sister, then spent the rest of the film clocking some chick called Laurie. Why?
Because she saves her babysitting money? Because she has access to hot friends?
Because she understands that fate is like a natural element, like earth, air,
fire and water? No, it’s because he needs to finish what he started with
Judith, duh. So when we find out that Laurie and Michael are related, we don’t automatically
think it’s caca. However, we’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nine
films in</i> when Jason intersects with half-sister Diana Kimble (yeah, we get
it. Dianadana Kimmeble.), so introducing a sibling at that point just seems stupid
and lazy. Just two years prior, Freddy was reconnecting with his long-lost daughter,
and I didn’t care for that reunion, either. But then, like Freddy, Jason starts
possessing people, which makes you wonder why he didn’t just use that ability
in part 5. Or in part 7. Or in all the other films. You know why Freddy pulled Jason’s
mask into the ground at the end of 9? Because bitch stole his look.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<strong>Freddy
Vs. Jason (2003)<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
Man, I hate this film so much. No Kane
Hodder (but to be fair, no Richard Brooker, no CJ Graham, or any other Jason
that I loved in the series) means no true matchup. You’ve just got one titan
(Freddy) versus Hodder’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Manhattan</i>
double, who really isn’t all that bad. He’s just not iconic. Yes, we wanted to
see this fight for so long, but you know we all really wanted to see Hodder
versus Englund. So fine, we don’t get what we wanted, but look at what we do
get in return: a recycled kill from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jason
Lives</i> (just with a mattress), Destiny’s Child and other annoying people I
really couldn’t give a puck about, and Jason and Freddy duking it out for
villain supremacy amidst elaborate sets and fi-yah! And then that ending. Is
Jason dragging along Freddy’s head like a trophy, or is he saving Freddy’s head
for regeneration? I mean, Freddy is winking in that ending. I don’t think it’s
because he’s happy he got his ass kicked. Or maybe he’s winking because he’s planning
to Lovecraft his way through the next installment? Who the hell knows? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, since it’s now 12 years later and no new
films, who the hell cares? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<strong>Friday
the 13<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th</sup> (2009)<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
What, they remade it? Oh sorry, I wasn’t
aware. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-26010000356904473962015-08-27T19:52:00.003-07:002015-08-28T16:02:04.396-07:00Nineteen Ninety-No.So here we are, back in the nostalgia again, this time the Nineties. Thanks to the Millennials, we get to revisit everything that made me take refuge in basement raves until the lights came on and I was forced out into the real world to get a job and start becoming the "fiscally conservative-socially liberal" no-fun butt boil I am today. Today I am Camie 4.0, Wife and Mother Edition, teetering on the edge of nostalgia wallow for the Nineties, with my ass sticking out into the 2010s, struggling to keep from falling into the trap. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxaWqh2lnIZsKtq9N1EBBnEdlJvOqavrOxLidjGdpBBZV2ngsXwCIiTBsTySf7DW8RihFwdJq0f3u47P5RfZ0KakJ3kOYzwJCTPtdwaSV7BO4OPEJM3YmAg5BIU2hT4z5dqi_sPCe9R3s/s1600/HS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxaWqh2lnIZsKtq9N1EBBnEdlJvOqavrOxLidjGdpBBZV2ngsXwCIiTBsTySf7DW8RihFwdJq0f3u47P5RfZ0KakJ3kOYzwJCTPtdwaSV7BO4OPEJM3YmAg5BIU2hT4z5dqi_sPCe9R3s/s320/HS.jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm gonna make it, world! Yeah!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After graduating from high school in the early 90s, I dove into my baby adulthood with zeal. Hanging out late into the night with my DJ friend at KUCI, the college radio station of my future alma mater, I dug into the crates for Shoegaze, challenged the FCC and heard crazy stories direct from some pretty big-deal rap artists of the time, who would stumble in at 3 a.m. to schlep around with whoever was in the station (mostly, us). When we weren't at the station, we were at the raves, hiding in the bathrooms pre-show until our hookups gave us the all-clear. A five-dollar cover was serious stuff for an 18-year-old at the time.<br />
<br />
<br />
My twenties were a mess, as they're meant to be. I spent most of my money on Depeche Mode, <em>Fangoria</em> and <em>Empire</em>, bourgeoisie crap at the mall, and brownie sundaes at Norms. And I was a major brat. I snuck into the orchestra section at <em>Phantom</em> and threw Cheerios at people. I snuck into U2's <em>Pop</em> tour with a camera between my legs and then less than 15 minutes later, chucked it into the crowd and loudly declared the concert a toilet of musical diarrhea, stomping back to the car with my equally shitty girlfriends to go drinking on Sunset before the band laid into their third horrible song. An accelerated student since first grade (GATE, honors, AP, etc.), I failed the first year of college because I was too busy playing <em>Mortal Kombat</em> in the cafeteria. Or sneaking into Magic Mountain with my friend Rami (Christ, did I ever pay for anything?). <br />
<br />
But mostly, I snuck into films. Problem was, there weren't any films worth sneaking into before <em>Scream</em> came out. And when it did, I lost my shit. I'm serious, I saw it at least 20 times from Christmas 1996 until they finally pulled it out of cinemas in late 1997. And like the fool I was, I thought everything after <em>Scream</em> would be just as rad. I went to all the shitegeist that followed: <em>The Faculty</em>. <em>Disturbing Behavior</em>. <em>I Know What You Did Last Summer</em>. <em>Urban Legend</em>. <em>Urban Outfitters</em>. I was hungry for that great <em>Scream</em> experience. I wouldn't get it again until <em>Halloween: H20</em> in 1998, the year I discovered Asian horror—and <em>Ringu</em>.<br />
<br />
I look back on <em>The Blair Witch Project</em>—which rounded out the decade and (for me) didn't come close to delivering on its promise—as the film that shut down the teen horror ensembles (or, as I like to call them, "Dawson's Shriek") and ushered in the two letters that, when paired with the most unlucky number, stir primal fear into the hearts of horror lovers everywhere: PG-13. But how can you say that—silly rabbit—when <em>Blair Witch</em> was an "R"? Well, because it was a big-ol' cussfest, duh. Samuel L. Jackson would've been proud of that script. <br />
<br />
Thanks to <em>Blair Witch</em>, the studios figured out that they could put even more asses (i.e., under-seventeens) in seats by making horror films that, well, <em>implied</em> horror. So we got <em>The Haunting</em>, a modest hit that got everyone raiding the coffers for more films to CGI I mean remake. Somehow, out of all of that, we got Dark Castle and the fun R-rated William Castle remakes, but the studio diverted from its original purpose two Castles and one Castle-ite film later (<em>Ghost Ship</em>, with that opening scene I heart), while the PG-13s survive and thrive. <br />
<br />
I have only ever truly loved ONE PG-13 film: <em>Drag Me to Hell</em> (2009). What about <em>Poltergeist</em> (1982)? PG. What about <em>The Watcher In the Woods</em> (1980)? PG. <em>Drag Me to Hell</em> is like that potato ice cream I had in Idaho in 1985: it's so good, but like, how?!! <br />
<br />
Obviously, Sam Raimi is how. But he can't make every PG-13 horror film. Otherwise, I'd beg him to go back and remake all the other films that assaulted our senses in the Nineties. Starting with <em>Urban Outfitters.</em> Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-44463225547553633832015-08-17T13:31:00.000-07:002015-08-17T13:31:00.423-07:00Cam's Labyrinth.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsQ9Xd4bD8JStWXymdsqR4673pXfiKyBqe6R3FP39dODsYM5T_-IJkIG3yx4nT_k4hLXy3OqoJdH77alZ3gEW-Nc15xgjb9zbefeLvxRN1oC8nsjb8CeLrg3bc-FLfaMFKcKChEl7MlE0/s1600/IMAG3569_1_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsQ9Xd4bD8JStWXymdsqR4673pXfiKyBqe6R3FP39dODsYM5T_-IJkIG3yx4nT_k4hLXy3OqoJdH77alZ3gEW-Nc15xgjb9zbefeLvxRN1oC8nsjb8CeLrg3bc-FLfaMFKcKChEl7MlE0/s320/IMAG3569_1_1.jpg" width="264" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me running out of shits to give in 1982.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In the Eighties, back when moms in good neighborhoods still marked their children's heights on the wall, kids measured their maturity in horror films. If they weren't chanting time-honored recess classics such as "I Know You Are But What Am I, Infinity" and discussing the latest glow-in-the-dark whatever, they were one-upping each other with stories of who saw what that weekend, and what was coming out in the next. <br />
<br />
Now, you'd think I would've won at least one of those contests, but no; when you're a kid, the currency lies in <em>what</em> you saw, <em>where</em>. I spent most of my weekends at home, so I saw a crapload of things, but in my bedroom, on my VCR.<br />
<br />
Sure, I was lucky enough to see some horror films during their original run: <em>Dawn of the Dead</em>, <em>Phantasm</em>, <em>Halloween</em> immediately come to mind. But I was a tiny child back then, we were at the drive-in, and my parents were stoned until at least 1981, so while I get a score of 420 on the Tommy Chong scale for effort, that scale means nothing on 1984 playgrounds. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaQYdk4bQ5Rf-oGoKkbHfeEP6LgNoJeqtYQ-YGwAgbjtad0x6PL-E9_i0qbgjnMaLnGgfttKph1kWhZHAqTLZy2HBMfpHO9SxBpj7jM8ocZ1D-FjJPPCG2V675v9DDUeU6c0JLNv8RwEs/s1600/IMAG9772_1_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaQYdk4bQ5Rf-oGoKkbHfeEP6LgNoJeqtYQ-YGwAgbjtad0x6PL-E9_i0qbgjnMaLnGgfttKph1kWhZHAqTLZy2HBMfpHO9SxBpj7jM8ocZ1D-FjJPPCG2V675v9DDUeU6c0JLNv8RwEs/s400/IMAG9772_1_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey you, last good film Romero made, how ya doin?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
What horror films <em>had</em> I seen in the cinema by that point? <em>Silent Scream</em> and <em>Children of the Corn</em>. The former was the last horror film my parents ever took me to, probably because they were sobering up by that point and realized their taste in horror was better when they were high. And I saw the latter with my cousins, who were older and could drive. <br />
<br />
By 1985, my parents had more little mouths to feed, and the days of horror at the drive-in gradually phased into Saturday afternoon matinee fantasy fare such as <em>ET</em>, <em>The Neverending Story</em>, <em>Annie</em>, and <em>Ghostbusters</em>. They would not allow me to watch <em>A Nightmare On Elm Street,</em> which was the big film everyone on the playground was still talking about a year after its release. What a total loser, huh? <br />
<br />
But what my parents didn't know, however, was that I had already seen it. When you have little ones tugging at your Chic jeans, you sure as hell can't keep tabs on the older ones as much as you'd like. I cradled my ANOES and other rentals like a baby as I walked home from the mom n' pop, picking up the pace as fast as I could without dropping the stack. I couldn't wait to get home. And just as I still do today, I prepared my viewing space with the steadfastness of a man preparing a good wank after the wife's left the house. Snacks, check. Pillows scattered all over my bedroom floor, check. Locked door, check. And then, I slid the tape into the VCR and waited for the magic. <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/J3rYL5_2RBY" width="420"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
That creepy WARNING message at the start, that gorgeous Media Home Entertainment intro leading into the dark and foreboding New Line ident. These features on the VHS are as much an integral part of watching ANOES as the film itself. I may be old, but no kid today is going to experience that kind of pleasure—the buildup—that only VHS can offer. Put in a DVD, and you might go straight to the good stuff, but chances are, you'll get a menu, and if you're like me, you go straight to the Special Features. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw6IxobJ7x6H6MImJ5QkT2zTjKOrcNtl1t3LnHmO_FiQ7ivk1U3Yn9dKojcEuUo7SzWHPYE_vT_OMMNCibJ-aaRH4xOtXtawUshaUIUl9T2iFDsO_tBGfJi4eXDagPtnaxDcTJvu8qhG4/s1600/Plain%252520Truth%2525201985%252520%2528Prelim%252520No%25252009%2529%252520Nov-Dec01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw6IxobJ7x6H6MImJ5QkT2zTjKOrcNtl1t3LnHmO_FiQ7ivk1U3Yn9dKojcEuUo7SzWHPYE_vT_OMMNCibJ-aaRH4xOtXtawUshaUIUl9T2iFDsO_tBGfJi4eXDagPtnaxDcTJvu8qhG4/s1600/Plain%252520Truth%2525201985%252520%2528Prelim%252520No%25252009%2529%252520Nov-Dec01.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Read Scare.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
What made these films so palatible to me as a child? Well, for a start, they were a lot less scarier than my reality. My dad was heavy into the <a href="http://www.batteredsheep.com/armstrongism.html" target="_blank">Worldwide Church of God</a> cult by 1985, and we were subsequently no longer allowed to observe holidays—which meant no more Halloween, aka my Christmas. From my last blog entry, you'll also remember that I was forced to go to church two times a week. My parents did not go; my dad probably figured that his subscription to <em>Plain Truth</em>, a publication of the Worldwide Church of God, was enough. <br />
<br />
Plus, Freddy Krueger was no match for the Night Stalker, who was killing people for real in Southern California that summer. Add to that me getting teased at school for everything we've suddenly decided is so cool now, and you can see that these films provided a wonderful escape for a kid who just wanted to get through the day with her soul intact. <br />
<br />
So while the other kids around me felt "grown up" just by watching horror films, I was using horror films to shield me from a life that was getting far too grown up by the day. Just seeing that YouTube clip takes me back to the most wonderful part of my childhood. The good feelings are stirred. The healing is once again fulfilled. Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-57530632116916946642015-08-11T20:06:00.003-07:002015-08-11T20:06:38.475-07:00Electric Dreams.I started developing at twelve. My best girlfriend at the time was six months older and still light as a feather, flat as a board, but she had a long, lean figure, clear olive skin and a gorgeous face, and I burned with envy every day as she scorched up the halls of 6th grade. I was the exact opposite: short, not flat, cursed with acne and glasses, and growing out a bad home Jheri curl that I had begged for (and miraculously gotten) in 1983 (thanks, <em>Thriller's</em> Ola Ray). My milkshake was not bringing the boys to the yard, which was fine in 1987; <em>Hellraiser</em> came out that year and I had better things to do. I didn't envy my friend because she was strikingly beautiful (well, perhaps I did a little), but rather, because she could still walk around and be twelve, while my boobs were practically busting (yep) me out of childhood and into a womanhood that I didn't need or want. By the end of the school year, she turned into a total tit (yep) and ditched the friendship for a better version of me: a short, curvy, pretty Latina Oreo with that Cybill Shepherd <em>Moonlighting</em> bob all the betches wanted. <br />
<br />
I spent a lot of time in my bedroom watching VHS. Had it been possible to spend 1987 to 1990 in that bedroom, I would've. My parents were in their <em>Thirtysomething</em> period, and my younger sisters and I were forced to go to church twice a week: Sunday morning for service, and Thursday nights for youth group. A van would pick us up, and presumably, my parents used these times to create more kids for me to look after. Sweet.<br />
<br />
The van was driven by a kindly old man, and his wife and two young grandsons were usually in tow. Also in the van were three young Mexican sisters, who I became friendly with, and who attended services as part of the church's charity outreach. I didn't mind church too much, mostly because I had a screaming crush (of course it was unrequited, duh) with a boy called Josh, who looked a lot like Doug from the '90s cartoon. He was very cute, a smartass with kind blue eyes and a strong sense of purpose. The leader of our youth fellowship was the pastor's daughter, a squat, bossy girl with glasses and a standard-issue Mary Lou Retton haircut. I got on her good side very early on, and we became good twice-a-week friends. My favorite book in the Bible was the Book of Revelation, for obvious reasons. It remains the scariest thing I've ever read to this day. <br />
<br />
I spent every weekend in the summer of 1987 in the Inland Empire, which was going through a Metal phase (just before Freestyle hit). This was a wonderful time for me. My cousin, another mulatta who had just moved there from Orange County, was right in the thick of it, wearing black and all the candy you see on a kid just playing with the Dark Side: spikes, gloves, dis, dat. Her look was more Metal Madonna than Jersey For Serious, but she was also developing, and it was in that hormonal intersection where we bonded. But, she had something else. She had cable. <br />
<br />
Now, for all you Millennials out there, not everyone had cable in 1987. I sure as hell didn't. My cousin and I would stay up late and wear out the remote, and one night, we stumbled upon the most glorious thing ever.<br />
<br />
Scrambled Playboy. <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/FjTLF1wn2xs" width="420"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
For the rest of the summer, my cousin and I took turns looking out for her parents while we worked the cable box like a Rubik's cube, trying to uncover the wonderful mysteries. The Playboy Channel was just fun back then, and whenever the stars aligned, we could get a great picture for up to 45 minutes at a time. I was fascinated by these beautiful women frolicking in the balmy sunshine, bodies baked golden by Bain Du Soleil and big frosted hair brought to you by Sun-In. They were nude and had the best '80s boobs, and they were deliriously happy about everything, and I wanted that feeling so hard. I think my cousin did, too, because we were freebasing boobs in no time. <em>Electric Blue</em>. <em>Emmanuelle</em>. Silly '80s entries such as <em>Hamburger: The Motion Picture</em>, and the like. <br />
<br />
By the time that summer ended and I was entering junior high, I was a little more comfortable with what was happening to me, but I couldn't reconcile my very-adult education with the twice-a-week Bible scene, and I began to question everything (notably, the delicious irony of forcing me to go to church, wrapped around a creamy hypocrisy center). <br />
<br />
When I started high school in 1989, I stopped going to church altogether. <br />
<br />
The 1990s rocked me in many ways. I graduated college, explored sexuality in every aspect, spent my paychecks on Depeche Mode concerts and craploads of movies, and got into all sorts of mayhem with my group of girlfriends. And my relationship with my parents, which is good now, began to rear its inevitable ugly head.<br />
<br />
The church I went to as a kid relocated from place to place, popping up like a parochial whack-a-mole until it ultimately shut down. My local newspaper told a wider, sadder story. That gentle van driver? He murdered his wife and grandsons a few years after I stopped going, shooting them in their heads as they slept before killing himself. Josh became a youth pastor and died the way he lived; caring for others. In 1995, a man he took in and was counseling ordered him into a bedroom and shot him there, execution style. I took the news of his death pretty hard. Evie joined a gang and got pregnant, her story of redemption making headlines in a popular magazine. And last I heard of the three Mexican sisters, one of them had been beaten to death by a live-in boyfriend. Another had been shot. I hope neither is true.<br />
<br />
Now before I close this on a downer, I want to go back to that scrambled Playboy. I think it saved me. I know, right? But look, those boobies introduced me to the Other. Another consideration. Option C. I can still love God and have lust, whether it comes in Carnal or Celluloid. Many of you don't believe; I do and we're all cool with each other, because our common denominator thrives on addition. And I was never good at dividing. Breast wishes.Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-33146978879075248302015-08-05T18:15:00.000-07:002015-08-06T00:57:11.336-07:00Event Horizon.<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0SvzsJ15dcwFT4TSbp3UMfTifX_mAQvFyo0AiRRneYMt0tb40u5Ib8NI-jUOyDcnnX5SBsMH07f_kA0QTzhTZQRaxLDu4D6P0V-XLOrlJCwSaju1Oy_yEusNAJxJ6HeWpd64pxFqvqDk/s1600/IMAG9550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0SvzsJ15dcwFT4TSbp3UMfTifX_mAQvFyo0AiRRneYMt0tb40u5Ib8NI-jUOyDcnnX5SBsMH07f_kA0QTzhTZQRaxLDu4D6P0V-XLOrlJCwSaju1Oy_yEusNAJxJ6HeWpd64pxFqvqDk/s320/IMAG9550.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm watching you read this. Btw, thanks.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The last horror film I went to that screamed "event" viewing was <i>The Blair Witch Project </i>(1999). For me, this film is less remarkable for its content and more memorable for the hype that preceded it months earlier. Although we were nearing the end of not only a decade but an entire century, the Internet was still an exciting mystery to most, a wild new frontier whose purpose in western society would be apparent in the future, though not so clearly defined in that moment.
<i>The Blair Witch Project</i> seized upon this vulnerability and exploited it to such success that GeoCitizens everywhere were convinced that the film's three actors, portraying campers, were actually missing people in real life. The fourth wall effectively toppled over, its levies irreparable ever since. <br />
<br />
While I was pretty confident that the three "missing" campers were probably safely serving coffee somewhere in Maryland, waiting for their big breaks to happen, I was admittedly swept up in the machine. I spent considerable time on the film's website, pouring over bios, reading up on their last whereabouts, poking through the evidence and replaying the infamous found footage. It didn't hurt that the names of the campers, and the actors who played them, were one in the same.
Today, I mostly remember hurling into a toilet at what was then AMC The Block at Orange—deeply disappointed, sick to my stomach and swearing that I would never, ever again see <i>The Blair Witch Project</i>. <br />
<br />
I did eventually see it again when it hit DVD, to see if the shaky camera scenes were any less debilitating at home (they weren't). And to show that I was dead serious about being finished with anything <em>Blair Witch</em>, I attended a sneak preview of <i>Blair Witch 2: Book of Shadows</i>, which Fangoria hosted in Pasadena immediately following their Weekend of Horrors. The only horrors at that showing, I presume, were the faces of the organizers when the audience (myself included) laughed. <br />
<br />
But it was at that aforementioned Weekend of Horrors where I met the director of another event movie—and, inarguably, one of the greatest films of all time—<i>The Exorcist</i>. Like the total nerd that I am, I based all of my questions to William Friedkin around the DVD commentary for the 25th Anniversary Edition, and spooged all over the (then) soon-to-be-released "Version You've Never Seen" DVD, and he was gracious and lovely and even charming in his responses, quite the opposite of the man I had prepared myself to meet, a composite of stories I'd read or heard of his mythos on set and elsewhere. <br />
<br />
I wasn't even a blip on the radar when <em>The Exorcist</em> came out, but one of my favorite anythings about this movie—or in cinema, really—is the spectacle that surrounded its release in 1973. I could watch the audience reactions for this film all day, any day, until the end of the Internets, and then I'd probably just pull out that anniversary edition and watch the BBC documentary <em>Fear of God</em>. Now, I'm about to make one of those "duh" statements; particularly, that the Internet was not around in 1973, but that's just the point. Back then, "www" was what the Volkswagen logo looked like on a Saturday night in the garage after a few Budweisers. If you wanted to know if a movie was worth seeing—if it was an event—you simply drove past your local walk-in to see the long queues, looked up the weekend Box Office takes in the newspaper, or turned on the TV to see if Brinkley or Cronkite were covering it. And when the cinemas unwrapped <em>The Exorcist</em> one day after Christmas in 1973, <em>everybody </em>was. <br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/AkIqFK3KoZ4" width="560"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
So, what's the next big event horror film? Your guess is as good as mine. I mean, the studios are either remaking the shit out of everything right now, or they're bastardizing films from other countries (you know that U.S. remake of <em>Dead Snow</em> is practically writing itself), or they're making sequels of films that they'll eventually remake in 20 years' time (how about a remake of <em>Sinister</em>? Anyone? Bueller?). We don't have anything as new and exciting as the Internet to get behind (sure, the commercial rise of the mobile phone brought us <em>One Missed Call </em>out of Japan, and later, the interactive <em>App</em> from the Netherlands). And even as <em>Ringu</em> was becoming event viewing for the Japanese in 1998, the DVD was beginning its descent on VHS, the format upon which the entire crux of Miike's film is based. Social media has now also made a dent with <em>Unfollowed</em>, but I didn't see anyone from the Neutrogena set forming a line outside my neighborhood cineplex to see it. <br />
<br />
I can say, without a doubt, that the next big event film (in general) will be the latest <em>Star Wars</em> installment. Which makes me think that perhaps our future Big Horror Event lies somewhere in our past. There's been talk of another <em>Halloween</em>, and (thankfully) not the Rob Zombie incarnation. But I'd much rather see a return to the <em>Friday</em> franchise—with Kane Hodder. Or another <em>Evil Dead </em>film (yes, I know about the STARZ thing), with Bruce Campbell. Sure, neither series carries the critical and theological weight of <em>The Exorcist</em>, but both have possessed the public in their own ways, and maybe when it comes to resurrecting the Big Horror Event, it's better the devil you know.Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-35495274427369585752015-07-28T13:25:00.002-07:002015-07-28T17:43:43.166-07:00Going Green. When it comes to remakes, I'm pretty much against them. Sure, there are the usual suspects that we give a pass to, like <em>The Fly</em>, <em>The Thing</em>, <em>The Schlemmylammadingdong</em>. My favorite remake is <em>Invasion of the Body Snatchers</em>. Oh my Godot, I love that film. Look, you put Donald Sutherland in just about anything and I'm going to love it. Plus Leonard Nimoy, plus two strong actresses I've always enjoyed watching (Brooke Adams from <em>Shock Waves</em> and <em>The Dead Zone</em>, Veronica Cartwright in <em>Everything Else</em>)<em>.</em> And my good gravy, a young Jeff Goldblum. So hot.<br />
<br />
But, speaking of so hot, what about films like Eli Roth's upcoming <em>The Green Inferno</em>? If The Remake is widely considered by purists to be the redheaded stepchild of horror cinema, what then do we think of its hip older sibling, the "Homage"? Now, this subgenre plays fast and loose with the rules. "We're not really a remake of anything; we're an <em>homage</em>." Yes, but you're surely capitalizing on what was before, and isn't that what remakes do? An homage can be even less dishonest than a remake if it isn't done right (Rob Zombie's <em>House of 1,000 Corpses</em> and Roth's original homage, <em>Cabin Fever, </em>were not my cuppas), but I can think of two, Zombie's <em>The Devil's Rejects</em> and Ti West's <em>The House of the Devil</em>, that were awesome. <em>Hobo With A Shotgun</em> didn't bore me entirely. <br />
<br />
Alrighty, so what have we got here? We've got the name itself, <em>The</em> <em>Green Inferno</em>, whose origins I won't bore you with, because <em>you already know</em>. We've got a jungle. We've got <em>Heart Of Darkness</em> meets<em> The Most Dangerous Game</em> meets <em>Eat Drink Man Woman</em>. All winding down to the inevitable movable feast. Okay. So, what is the point? <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_-cCBhvAIokwBTo0rB00JktnvK4-hJ1YLTTAxRIlaIcPt0DO_IF5XACRwQ8EkomM4_ZTecRUVtGa68-QrH0IS2R9QJNxgSP2B60o30CxS7cKlLZv9mZadP6fig7s1BCO7cuAdxtYNFo/s1600/The_Green_Inferno_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_-cCBhvAIokwBTo0rB00JktnvK4-hJ1YLTTAxRIlaIcPt0DO_IF5XACRwQ8EkomM4_ZTecRUVtGa68-QrH0IS2R9QJNxgSP2B60o30CxS7cKlLZv9mZadP6fig7s1BCO7cuAdxtYNFo/s320/The_Green_Inferno_.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Omigod indigenous peoples, I paid hells a lot for this hair.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Well, for me personally, I think the point is what we have now which we did not have before. For one thing? No found footage. And that would blow my mind if I wasn't already way over that motif to the point where I expect better these days. But what I'm really interested in is seeing how Roth interprets <em>Cannibal Holocaust</em> for a new generation entirely raised and reliant on technology, a demographic that operates in memes, speaks in texts and is generally considered to have a crippling sense of self-entitlement. The kids in <em>The</em> <em>Green Inferno</em> think they're doing alright outta sight, sitting in that little plane headed off to save the rainforests and the people dwelling within them. Reminds me of a constable whose search for a missing child in Summerisle became a one-man mission to save the entire island. Wonder what became of him.<br />
<br />
And I love this. I could argue that while we carry on about <em>The</em> <em>Green Inferno's</em> comparisons to <em>Cannibal Holocaust</em>, we could also point to films like <em>The Wicker Man</em> as inspiration. Or even <em>Straw Dogs</em> or <em>I Spit On Your Grave</em> in the sense that an idyllic retreat could prove to be anything but. Wherever you go, there you are. Add to that the arrogance of youth, which is not unlike that of religion when both are activated by a deep sense of well meaning. These kids in <em>The</em> <em>Green Inferno</em> think they're going into the rainforest to help, but A) the help is very one-sided, unsolicited and subjective; and B) they do help, just not in the way they expect or want. <br />
<br />
I had a chance to see <em>The</em> <em>Green Inferno</em> last year, but I was 39 and knocked up, and my doctor gave me the whole is-it-worth-your-baby spiel (which also kept me out of all the Halloween theme park mazes). No, it wasn't worth my baby, but I think it's sometimes worth revisiting the old familiar ideas and running them through a new filter; in this case, the 99 Percenters. Is this deliberate? I don't know; I'm really just speculating. Or maybe I am just projecting in the hope that the new guard of horror isn't simply disguising their homages as remakes, and then defending their timely relevance out of convenience. Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-2310434521625107632015-07-27T13:20:00.000-07:002015-07-27T16:28:07.799-07:00Subdivisions.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdBu5tYK9ibaMhPq1qBlYosEcUB8zurnQnt6FU7cNo8UNnaTIRFPZ1ExDrqMCCyFRRPPX_Y63vv_Cxx_qcRlk3bVLCMa56PfNrsn1K4BfGkVsaoqFA5SLHmJZd9jvLbbQsxj4Lf10vd30/s1600/screen-shot-2012-11-06-at-22-54-16.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdBu5tYK9ibaMhPq1qBlYosEcUB8zurnQnt6FU7cNo8UNnaTIRFPZ1ExDrqMCCyFRRPPX_Y63vv_Cxx_qcRlk3bVLCMa56PfNrsn1K4BfGkVsaoqFA5SLHmJZd9jvLbbQsxj4Lf10vd30/s320/screen-shot-2012-11-06-at-22-54-16.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Axe Naomie Harris if she wants to be defined by her color.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Every once in a while, a random Twitter username pops up in my "Suggests," or someone has retweeted something someone said, and I'll see it. "@BlackGirlGeek or @BrownSugarHorrorChick" or some other moniker that says, "hey everyone, I'm a novelty, a black girl who likes horror, but please don't define me because I'm not just about being a black girl who likes horror, which is what I am. Follow me!" <br />
<br />
And then like me, you take the bait. And if you're a woman like me (can I still be girl at 40? If I can, I'll take it), and black, and into horror, you get lumped into all these other bullshit tweets that generate into more and more "black girl horror fan / geek / nerd" types following you, or suggestions to follow more of the same. So, how to deal with that ... <br />
<br />
Well, you follow, and then you engage, and then you quickly figure out that these bitches are #1- not true horror fans but posers, #2- keeping tabs on their "competition" (i.e., you), #3- using horror to promote themselves as some sort of novelty act, and #4- as stupid as ants marching into Borax, and as unbearable as a silent fart in a crowded elevator. <br />
<br />
So, what started this rant (and I'm sorry, but I've had this shit on dock for ages)? An interaction with a Twit who I reached out to who could simply NOT TAKE THE GODDAMNED COMPLIMENT because she was either too stupid, or too full of herself. Uh, hello? I just gave you a #SO (shout-out) <em>and</em> likened you to one of the sexiest, iconic, most bad-assed sistas of horror in like EVER. I mean, how many have we fucking got? Um, Marsha Hunt, Pam Grier and Marki Bey. Boom. <br />
<br />
What followed was a lengthy exchange that left me emotionally and physically exhausted. Does this idiot even KNOW that I'm giving her props? Because she's sure branding herself as someone who knows many shits and gives them when it comes to horror films. And when I feel like I have to explain things to you, that's when I pull the plug and finish the goddamned bath. Bishbegone. <br />
<br />
Now, do I think I know everything? Well, yes. Yes I do. I'm kidding. No, I don't. But that's what I like about me, and that's what I seek in others. Authenticity. I'm not professing to be the queen of shit, and I sure as hell don't want to be defined by my COLOR. Not on any terms. Do I think other women in horror have the right to be the "queen" of this and that? Hell yeah. Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. Ivonna Cadaver, the Next Generation of Horror. Pam Grier, the queen who kept the lights on at AIP. Linnea Quigley, and so on and so forth. These women EARNED their titles, and no one's defining them by the color of their skin. Can you fucking imagine how stupid "Elvira, White Mistress of the Dark" would sound? Ugh, I just can't anymore. And yes, Pam Grier was in a film called <em>Black Mama, White Mama</em>, but she transcended Blaxploitation to become an award-nominated actress. That's the point. THE POINT. Rawr!<br />
<br />
And let me go back to point number 3. Now, this one is important, because when someone in horror (and, let me add, sci-fi, also trending at the mo) builds their entire social media identity around their skin color, it's for one thing and one thing only: to point out the "specialness" of their novelty and exploit the shit out of it for their own personal Twitter fame. I HATE THIS. I grew up in the Seventies and Eighties. Being black was for real real back then, kids. Not for play play. But this is 2015. We are allowed to be black, white, etc. and not have it be stamped on our foreheads like some badge of exception. The first thing people see when they see me is my color, so why would I have to trot it out every mother-effing day when I shart out a tweet? My mom is white and Mexican; should I make every horror tweet about that, too? And there's something particularly un-Christ-like about turning every tweet about blacks and horror into a victimization I am quite confident these ladies enjoy perpetuating. <br />
<br />
In conclusion, I just want eight hours of sleep. And for these idiots to leave me alone. Go forth and segregate, and get loads of followers based on your one act, and I'll just stay in my little corner of Twitter and lose friends and alienate people. This is how I feel. Which is more than the bullshit you're gonna get somewhere else. Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-78181675673334516972015-06-01T16:18:00.000-07:002015-06-01T16:21:44.513-07:00Killer Mommy. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitwKSrCf_JB3_kq3Hv7CGqPG4UfX2JZMRzr27qBHZweKzGdDUT2_APWIFP1HmvS9o3jVYmqS1Ck64wt0s3NTuE6YEREOQXQV-obPCnQSDisg22smfuwgOy6_2mnWoht23ZLxWZLpYLJt0/s1600/palmer1f-2-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitwKSrCf_JB3_kq3Hv7CGqPG4UfX2JZMRzr27qBHZweKzGdDUT2_APWIFP1HmvS9o3jVYmqS1Ck64wt0s3NTuE6YEREOQXQV-obPCnQSDisg22smfuwgOy6_2mnWoht23ZLxWZLpYLJt0/s320/palmer1f-2-web.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hot mama. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'll just get right to it. One of the reasons why I loved the late Betsy Palmer was because unlike other horror legends, or modern pretenders to the throne, she never acted as if she always loved being Mrs. Voorhees. I dig that kind of honesty, I do. Because she went on to embrace the character and the fans who came along with it, and you knew that shit was real by the time she passed. <br />
<br />
Many of her contemporaries not only like to carry on as if they always loved being so-and-so in blankety-blank; they're horror "geeks" who came out as "fans" of their films once they got the news that it was cool to do so, and they could profit at the conventions. <br />
<br />
Bleh. Give me Ms. Palmer any day of the week, the woman whose decision to play the original Serial Mom was apparently guided by the need for a new car; the feisty middle-aged broad who reminded me a lot like my dear Nana, another beautiful, feisty broad who passed away in 1992. Now, my Nana never killed anyone, but she could've, and she had a mouth on her like Betsy, and a bitchin' rattail and was never without a Corona in her hand. Those two ladies could be ki-ki-kickin' it in Heaven right now for all I know. Wouldn't that be rad?<br />
<br />
Anyway, Ms. Palmer had a blazing filmography before the Jason films, and I'm sure that by the time F13 rolled around she was probably wondering where the hell that all went. But you know what makes us horror nuts so great? The fact that we love our heroes so goddamned much that we acknowledge what came before, and we honor that as much as we honor what we call "the good stuff." Didn't she turn down <em>Freddy Vs. Jason</em> because she thought she wasn't getting paid enough? See? The woman knew her worth. You go, mama. And we all know that film sucked donkeys anyway. Maybe she was clairvoyant as well. <br />
<br />
So yeah, there you go. Not much of a tribute, I know, but it's how I feel. I'm so sad. I remember seeing <em>Friday the 13th</em> at the drive-in as a child, and she made a real impression. Who loved their son so much that they would track down and kill Annie the sweet, adorable camp cook even after she carried on about how much she loved kids? I mean, that's crazy love. But there you go. Like the inimitable Betsy Palmer, Mrs. Voorhees took her position early on, and when she died, we knew her devotion to us and the franchise was clear. Like crystal. Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-31652409836913785632015-03-06T18:19:00.000-08:002015-03-06T18:19:15.313-08:00America's Butt Munch.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0-vEkhC8-mzsgqECRCgwmyY9AgWKvkdqksZWiCJs88A9gXjD6MqVHRTaVl9qfZFyROPvn3rrOT9mQLLXDb-xSPZwNfJ0gALuViNANhGCNT4OaXqpz624GbqCTB1sfn9c428k8WSOkZE/s1600/IMAG6324_1-1693693064.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0-vEkhC8-mzsgqECRCgwmyY9AgWKvkdqksZWiCJs88A9gXjD6MqVHRTaVl9qfZFyROPvn3rrOT9mQLLXDb-xSPZwNfJ0gALuViNANhGCNT4OaXqpz624GbqCTB1sfn9c428k8WSOkZE/s1600/IMAG6324_1-1693693064.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>The S is for Suckage, and the U is for Up yours.</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
No, not me. The 405. Where am I? Sitting right in the middle of it. If you live in Southern California, you know I'm in hell right now. On one hand, you have the drivers. Everyone thinks their agenda is so much more goddamned important than yours. And isn't it? I mean, that Xbox 360 isn't going to play itself, <em>War Games</em>. On the other hand, you have the road itself, which naturally sucks, but then you throw in all the goodies from Caltrans: "Carmageddon," "Carpocalypse," whatever name the media conjures up to make what is essentially shitty road construction sound awesomely epic when it's so ... not. Next they'll stream Tiesto into all of our cars, funnel us into a Del Taco drive-thru, charge a convenience fee and call it "Carchella." Hashtag fun, vocal fry.<br />
<br />
So, it's been a while since I've written anything, mostly because the only free time I have is when I'm sitting in a car. The rest of my time is spent feeding a baby, changing a baby, soothing a baby and teaching him how to destroy my enemies when he grows up. Perpetually assholey barista at my local Starbucks, be warned. The enemy of my enemy is my son. <br />
<br />
As this is a horror blog, I should probably throw something horror-y in it. Well, as it happens, I am working on a new script, titled <em>She Swallows</em>, and it's based on my favorite guilty pleasure this side of an empty Pepperidge Farm cake box: the <em>Real Housewives</em> franchise. I love it. I love to watch it, talk about it, listen to (hilarious) <a href="https://soundcloud.com/watch-what-crappens" target="_blank">podcasts</a> that recap it, and so on and so forth. Why? Hell, I don't know, pregnancy hormones? Postpartum repression? Anyway, I'm going to make <em>my</em> housewives eat each other. Out. Kidding. Unless my script gets optioned by Vivid, and listen, I like that whole roof-over-my-head thing too much to judge. But really, what do you think? Cannibal housewives. I'm making "eat the rich" a real thing, y'all. Now, I know it's been said that we should "write what (we) know," but I never do what I'm told; otherwise, I'd be writing about green tea fraps and the lyrics to J.J. Fad's <em>Supersonic</em>. <br />
<br />
Or I could write about traffic. Coming soon, from the writer of <em>She Swallows</em> ... <em>It Blows</em>. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-7587215716020634542014-10-26T13:38:00.001-07:002014-10-26T13:38:21.113-07:00Pregnant Pause.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi58ya2po6Ayg_CX428WOR82SkorDE5UOY46CzG7tnMJ2J7wpHeBCvPtfSY-IUnOiwttxzQWuVr3o1zmIY9DqYfOL2VBOtlCicGotK_sT1sQZQ6u44FpiHAupd7uF93F-q-ZWrpt5JYuC0/s1600/IMAG4397_1_1_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi58ya2po6Ayg_CX428WOR82SkorDE5UOY46CzG7tnMJ2J7wpHeBCvPtfSY-IUnOiwttxzQWuVr3o1zmIY9DqYfOL2VBOtlCicGotK_sT1sQZQ6u44FpiHAupd7uF93F-q-ZWrpt5JYuC0/s1600/IMAG4397_1_1_1.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't hate me because I make my own cereal milk.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Goddamn, I hate people. Not you, oh lovely reader of this blog entry, but people in my everyday life who feel the need to make every moment of this pregnancy suck. Like how making potentially bitchin' R-rated horror motifs into PG-13 movies sucks *cough* <em>Ouija. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
I'll just get to the point. Hope you don't mind if I tuck it into all these random photos. <br />
<br />
<strong>Stupid-Ass Stupid Things Stupid-Ass Stupid Heads Do When You're Up the Stupid Duff</strong><br />
<br />
<em><strong>Ask if I'm feeling better after returning from a sick day.</strong></em><br />
<br />
I just smile and say, "I will eventually." But what I want to do is smash these people over the head with my keyboard. Which is wireless, so I could even throw it at them like a discus. It's pregnancy, you morons. Not the 24-Hour Slut Flu.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUuiQ8yQJUyUcB3hCMK_dr5SGPCLSHRvdAs-j_EGxOx0pIHALqWm6j0ndP2_8pSrbuncAobE8aZLStJYjUeRw6kxykJcluJhlXRK7RNllaP4kBFhlpnhDF69bmBPHyoDGwELROScj5Zoo/s1600/IMAG4401_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUuiQ8yQJUyUcB3hCMK_dr5SGPCLSHRvdAs-j_EGxOx0pIHALqWm6j0ndP2_8pSrbuncAobE8aZLStJYjUeRw6kxykJcluJhlXRK7RNllaP4kBFhlpnhDF69bmBPHyoDGwELROScj5Zoo/s1600/IMAG4401_1.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jason Vorhies? Clearly this version was made by The Asylum.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<strong><em>Poke my belly.</em></strong><br />
<br />
A co-worker asked me if he could poke my belly. I let that brain fart go and replied that uh, hells to the no, he couldn't. He did it anyway. I looked at him like he stole my Salonpas. But what I was really doing was trying to activate my David Keith <em>Firestarter</em> powers to fuck him up, life style. I promise you, those powers are there. They're dormant, but they're real. <br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Point and laugh at how tub-a-lard I am.</em></strong><br />
<br />
Yes, Virgina, this shit actually happened. HAPPENED. In a Ralphs. I was just minding my own bidness in the canned soup aisle when these two pretty blond dial tones in their early twenties passed the aisle I was in, returned, pointed at my stomach, exclaimed "oh my God," laughed and split. Like I assume their legs do after a free Big Mac after 9 p.m. Btw, is that deal still on? Hashtag Mickey Ds, hashtag die bitches. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqKDg_7xkQbxNt3vA-YUo-nR2FweozVAzmoX3W6Tqsg_IoMjNPemWP_KaTD19stF2cXhrxtaXCK4h6jAYWixCOu2StRu1hLp_7BNPTWEEZRAuJaSCmtWnqGYWWD3ihL76xwHkG_uKfCnU/s1600/IMAG4224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqKDg_7xkQbxNt3vA-YUo-nR2FweozVAzmoX3W6Tqsg_IoMjNPemWP_KaTD19stF2cXhrxtaXCK4h6jAYWixCOu2StRu1hLp_7BNPTWEEZRAuJaSCmtWnqGYWWD3ihL76xwHkG_uKfCnU/s1600/IMAG4224.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">40% off?! Holy crap, now you can be that sexy shopping cart you always dreamed of being.<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQ5wJxM5DJTmOfr0fudrvG5FK1e0DtaRVTN9SWOkBIfSI3RDYEzxsZ5zI4EjTrVqwi3QL2yY8x649LoWBg0pZ167FaKczulDRa6J3ncORue6N9MDesWpXVzcX7J_S6mULnYe3kDlTVc8/s1600/IMAG3949_1_2_1_1_1_1.jpg" height="320" width="258" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This hot British guy is giving me a boy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<strong><em>Block me from shit.</em></strong><br />
<br />
Dude, I know you're dying to get in the elevator so you can go back to playing ping pong I mean work, but can I exit first so I can go buy some goddamned lunch? It only took me ten years to waddle to the lobby. <br />
<br />
Also, if you could not stand in front of the loo-Starbucks-etc. with your iPhone like a douche statue when it's obvious that I can't enter otherwise, that would be great, mmeffingkay?<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Telling me I don't even look pregnant.</em></strong><br />
<br />
Really? I don't look pregnant. So, what you're telling me is that I always looked like Nell Carter. Give me a break and cut the bullshit.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOj26wLK-XEfw-Axmq1tt-pcURlKtHIGGcO2-OQgbajxXNRxZYuaL-cYoPzU_90i9Ps_9YW5rf21BHCJupi5G59MPtIeL87nVBgXpUYLruLgnjTyofvFKmgEfLOmQ0PYaOLUNlwYuVrws/s1600/IMAG4439_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOj26wLK-XEfw-Axmq1tt-pcURlKtHIGGcO2-OQgbajxXNRxZYuaL-cYoPzU_90i9Ps_9YW5rf21BHCJupi5G59MPtIeL87nVBgXpUYLruLgnjTyofvFKmgEfLOmQ0PYaOLUNlwYuVrws/s1600/IMAG4439_1.jpg" height="640" width="356" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robert Smith guarding our home while we watch <em>Suspiria</em>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<em><strong></strong></em><br />
<em><strong></strong></em><br />
<em><strong>Tell me to enjoy "it" now while I can. </strong></em><br />
<br />
Enjoy what, motherfuckers? Edema, carpal tunnel, Symphysis Pubic Dysfunction, a karate-chopping baby, chronic fatigue, endless urgency to pee, nausea, fainting, rudeness from family, friends and total strangers, other knocked-up assholes looking at you like you ruined their whole 'only pregnant woman at work' gig and ugly-ass maternity clothes? <br />
<em><strong></strong></em><br />
I can no longer feel my hands. I've developed skin tags all over my face and body. The baby doesn't let me sleep on my right side, and sleeping on my back is out. I can't even see my husband in bed anymore thanks to the Great Wall of Pillows. I average three hours of sleep per night before excruciating pain wakes me up. What exactly is this "it" I'm supposed to be enjoying? Piss off. <br />
<br />
<em><strong>Talking about how easy they had it in their pregnancy. </strong></em><br />
<em><strong></strong></em><br />
<em><strong>Talking about how hard they had it. </strong></em><br />
<em><strong></strong></em><br />
<em><strong>Or, if they're not pregnant, talking about how much it would, like, ruin their whole deal.</strong></em> <strong><em>And stuff.</em></strong><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIhn3t6XC3vJPqK5ng9IrE_PCIhgqRkmzQx-Dd4yAkYzWJvZ4vLWFv2_xRk58c8Go87Gr7MT0OPtIOFWV-EQLPEs021rff1viYz44foP7VMHCo1cZptWNWU_kZ5_PPNpFvq0F4IgAhhvM/s1600/IMAG4404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">O<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIhn3t6XC3vJPqK5ng9IrE_PCIhgqRkmzQx-Dd4yAkYzWJvZ4vLWFv2_xRk58c8Go87Gr7MT0OPtIOFWV-EQLPEs021rff1viYz44foP7VMHCo1cZptWNWU_kZ5_PPNpFvq0F4IgAhhvM/s1600/IMAG4404.jpg" height="320" width="176" /></a>s</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now I just need a big-ass bowl, a spoon and some <em>Dragon's Lair</em>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
You don't want to get fat? But you want to do it before you get old. Because 40 is too old for you. Yep, my co-workers a few rows back love to have loud conversations about how much pregnancy would just suck for them weight and age-wise. Plus, that epidural needle! They heard it's really a saber sword filled with boric acid. Fortunately for them, they already look fat and old, so they might as well go for it. <br />
<br />
I also love hearing how my mother gave birth to all of us without ever having had an epidural. Good. For.You. I'll bake you a cookie. With pot in it. Because I'm guessing that's how you got through most if not all of those deliveries. <br />
<br />
I want a brick thrown at my head, and then an epidural. Wake me up when my baby boy is resting on my Victoria's Secret-flat belly and my face and hair look like Iman's. <br />
<br />
Or, if I don't look like Iman, tell me I do, anyway. That's one stupid-ass thing I don't mind hearing.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-38529080500199109372014-07-15T14:29:00.000-07:002014-07-15T14:29:10.091-07:00Angry Birds.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuSzFtqLwWgb8L_2YoWL8V-g5kPw2tBj2wyagSFJyP1x4BWe6n9uksVxB1uKs5FnnpXTRvguZDoQVnHHPEOZ1tEKw7KXhN_qQxKEhILDpkrwk69tBf_GpvBxjpXTX9hV9xV97WMb7Lus/s1600/JF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuSzFtqLwWgb8L_2YoWL8V-g5kPw2tBj2wyagSFJyP1x4BWe6n9uksVxB1uKs5FnnpXTRvguZDoQVnHHPEOZ1tEKw7KXhN_qQxKEhILDpkrwk69tBf_GpvBxjpXTX9hV9xV97WMb7Lus/s1600/JF.jpg" height="320" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How "fucking lazy" of you, Paul Schrader.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Where do I even begin with this?<br />
<br />
I guess I should probably begin at the tweet that pissed me off. I retweeted it in order to set up my bitchy response in a separate subtweet, then un-retweeted it, wished the offender away into the cornfield, and leaped from my balcony in a spectacular swan dive, landing into a safety net held by the cast of <em>RuPaul's Drag Race</em>. Erica Kane would've been proud.<br />
<br />
Dramatic? Well duh. But I was angry. And pregnant. And I still am. To both. <br />
<br />
To paraphrase the pearl of wisdom that did trickle down my timeline like wee: making women prostitutes in a screenplay is "fucking lazy."<br />
<br />
OH NO SHE DI-INT. <br />
<br />
Um, yeah ... she actually, really, seriously did. And I was so fired up, I nearly fell back and blew my 23-week-old boy fetus out of my Special Purpose like a T-shirt cannon at a basketball game. My entire first script, <em>Street Life</em>, is about a prostitute. Why did I make her a prostitute, you (didn't) ask? Well, because it's always been my dream to fill 90 minutes with scantily-clad women doing nothing more than putting themselves in all sorts of situations in order to have sexy sexist sexual sex. Sex.<br />
<br />
Or, I set out to write a script that felt like one of my all-time favorite films, <em>The Warriors</em> (1979), with one differential—I wanted to remove the safety nets. My heroine, "Dollar," is woman at her most vulnerable, adrift on the streets of Hollywood, hiding from an killer bent on finding her. There's no Warriors. There's no perceived sanctuary in Coney Island. My heroine makes her living by selling sex, which makes her situation even more volatile. And the police are mostly unresponsive. <br />
<br />
But like the year in which <em>The Warriors </em>was released<em>,</em> <em>Street Life</em> is set in 1979—a pivotal year for women, reflected in the films of the time. <em>Alien</em>. <em>Norma Rae</em>. Hell, even <em>The Fog</em>. Women asserting themselves onscreen for better or for worse, with varying results. Off screen, women stood under glass ceilings, rocks in hand, poised for target practice. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ-ejtXFtogi_DGivPXlW8r0Y4y9uku0QCJ6xaK7ARQhSNzCKszhbN8-8b8KDWcirEwljrzPNvZwB99NMOdGG1Bg80zP-dCrx1KpZSMOfE73QN5Y8puTXveoXnovjVezqF0NUGG-5d604/s1600/Angel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ-ejtXFtogi_DGivPXlW8r0Y4y9uku0QCJ6xaK7ARQhSNzCKszhbN8-8b8KDWcirEwljrzPNvZwB99NMOdGG1Bg80zP-dCrx1KpZSMOfE73QN5Y8puTXveoXnovjVezqF0NUGG-5d604/s1600/Angel.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Showtime, Synergy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The prostitute in 1979 presented a unique, though disheartening writing challenge for yours truly: navigate a woman without options through a world where options are quickly becoming requisite. There is no upward career trajectory for a woman working the "world's oldest profession." Her success is defined by youth and beauty, two antiquated premiums that have no place in the new frontier of shoulder pads. Add to that a crippling lack of resources when the shit hits the fan. This is where we find Dollar. At 27, she is at a crossroads. She wants more, but does not know what that "more" is, or how to even obtain it. Obviously, she is stunted by the stigma of prostitution. She can't move in with one of her prostitute friends and <em>schlemiel-schlimazel</em> a job at Shotz Brewery. <br />
<br />
The last thing Dollar needs is a psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est? Anyway, I didn't feel "fucking lazy" writing <em>Street Life</em>, especially while doubled over with first-trimester nausea. I labored (pun intended) to make her very human. Relatable. Someone I'd like people to care about, cheer for. I've put her through a ridiculous set of trials and circumstances because I want to see how a 1979 prostitute without options can handle them. Because I think she can. Not because I just want a film full of delicious sexual situations. <br />
<br />
No, I'm saving those for my next horror script, <em>Spectacular VHS</em>, set in a video store in 1985. Those hookers are going to be bonking all over the place. Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-23840823055779458102014-07-09T13:37:00.000-07:002014-07-09T15:36:07.119-07:00Detachable Penis. "Do you already know the sex?"<br />
"No."<br />
"Would you like to?"<br />
<br />
Sure, doc. Tell me that you can't see the scrotum, like the technician at the previous ultrasound. Tell me that you are 90 percent sure that it's a girl. Tell me that you see the "three lines" that indicate girl, and I'll laugh and do a little woot and go skipping out of your office hand in hand with my husband to search the Internet for a baby Elvira dress and wig. Let's get it on like <em>Tron</em> and Donkey Kong 'til the break of Rae Dawn Chong. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiURJ6ZNAwWfKW3lRB9cVYq6wx98j__BIJIIiijyVzscN2lHfnko2LnDi-pUzh-_cv8L_F33e6nJ1OwjwjQTCDA2CwtiVnhA6IRR4mb7GvuEPUZ93nsPZueztDjaEp49IVCo9XYBvEeyG8/s1600/Onesie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiURJ6ZNAwWfKW3lRB9cVYq6wx98j__BIJIIiijyVzscN2lHfnko2LnDi-pUzh-_cv8L_F33e6nJ1OwjwjQTCDA2CwtiVnhA6IRR4mb7GvuEPUZ93nsPZueztDjaEp49IVCo9XYBvEeyG8/s1600/Onesie.JPG" height="193" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm ready for Eddie.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"See? See there? There it is! That's a boy!"<br />
<br />
Damn you, genes of British steel, the ones that survived the Blitz and public transport queues, and came up with bitchin' ideas like the World Wide Web and a sturdy pie filled with meat that you can eat with your hands like a Viking. Damn you, prominent British penis, wagging your majesty at me like a royal middle finger. Damn the Chance legacy, which bleeds testosterone. <br />
<br />
In the words of Dame Florida Evans of <em>Good Times</em>, "damn, damn, damn."<br />
<br />
I had actually seen this coming from the moment I knew I was prego. I mean, duh. My mother-in-law brought up two sturdy English boys. My brother-in-law is a wicked writer who worked as a bouncer, and could lay a dude down just by looking at him. My husband is basically MacGyver. And—little known fact—like Sir Christopher Lee, he shed the blood of four thousand Saxon men. To this day, he has a sexy scar just under his eye, which emerges when I get him hot (or bothered). The other guy, who dared make a disparaging remark about John's sainted mum, fared much worse. <br />
<br />
But I had wanted a girl, and I had expected a girl. I already had the name picked out: Cassandra Linnea, after two women who have been my heroes since before I had boobs. John wouldn't go with Cassandra Linnea Adrienne Pam Wonder Woman Donuts Depeche Chance, which was what I originally wanted to call her. <em>Her</em>. My little baby girl. Now, my little baby boy. <br />
<br />
So, what do I do? <br />
<br />
Well, to be honest, the exact same shit I was going to do. I was pretty much already taking my child to horror conventions, to concerts, to the Halloween haunts, to Comic Book Day, etc. I was going to bring my child up on <em>Transformers</em> and <em>The Goonies</em>, and dance with them to Chic and Wire and Gang of Four. We were already going to discuss the genius of Mike Patton, and watch old slashers ad infinitum, and build a Lego Death Star with daddy. And you know what the stupid-hilarious thing about this is? All of these things are (traditionally, if we have to label here) <em>boy</em> things. Yes, I won't be able to dress my child up as "Baby Elvira: Mistress of the Park," but if this child turns out to be gay later on? Elvira impersonator! Yes, I'm doing jazz hands.<br />
<br />
I think the biggest reason why I was so bummed at our OB's office was because my relationship with my brother (who was born when I was 16) is so crap now. Out of all the values I ever tried to instill in him since he was a baby, the only thing that stuck was music. The Police. Dead Kennedys. Tool. Seventies soul. His taste in music is flawless. You're welcome. But he'll steal your shit and sell it to buy weed in a hot minute. Yep, I'll give that "you're welcome" back now. <br />
<br />
My little brother—who I diapered and held, and introduced to music, and sat with through countless hours of homework—now hates me. What did it? Well, my parents had the nerve to want to go to a wedding in Portland a few weeks ago without their house being trashed, and they asked me to keep an eye on it. My brother, on the other hand, had other plans, which apparently were to turn the house into Coachella. But like, the new shitty Coachella that closes with Beyonce and Tupac holograms (look out, Kurt Cobain: you're next). <br />
<br />
Long story short, I've "got a bowling ball in my stomach" and a "desert in my mouth" (love Tori Amos), and I wasn't about to put up with a 23-year-old manchild who I can only describe as Ted Bundy before the van. This kid thought he had it all over me. Everything I said was stupid. For example, when I said, "mom and dad don't want anyone in this house while they're gone"? Totally stupid, I know! But he? Oh, he was like the second coming of Koresh. Talking over me, under me, through me, as if I was the lamest person on earth. Inviting all his equally-brilliant friends to Occupy Backyard night after mother-effing night. He actually creeped me out. I prayed for telekinetic prom powers that, unlike with Carrie White, never kicked in. Finally, the boy ran his mouth a bit too much, the power of Christ compelled me, and I unleashed like a level-5 tornado of unawesome in front of everyone before John and I packed our things and split. My parents returned a day later. No cookie for you, Cam. <br />
<br />
So, this episode rocked my world a bit. I questioned my ability to raise a boy. The delicious bowl of batter I helped raise turned out to be the shitey first pancake somewhere between 2008 and now. But you know what? I've thought about it, and I didn't ruin this kid. I was a kid myself when he was born, a sophomore in high school, and from his first day on earth, I had given him nothing but love, and guidance, and boundless amounts of patience. Certain things have happened to my brother through the years, very terrible things (when my brother was in high school, his two best friends, who he was supposed to meet, were trapped when the van they were smoking in caught alight; they were both burned alive). None of them had anything to do with me. <br />
<br />
Plus, parenting-wise, my little brother had it far easier than I did growing up. It wasn't all cherries on the slot machine (by the Nineties, my dad had become a staunch conspiracist), but at least my brother had a father who was engaged. I will just say that the father I had for three decades was carrying some hard demons that played out in a series of self-finding missions in which I had suffered greatly. I love my father very much, and we get on now. But you reap what you sow. I took root into a strong, inspiring, lovingly interconnected foundation of Horror. My brother simply grasped aimlessly at false anchors until he grew out of the hard patriarchal ground like a ragweed. The former might dictate how our son will turn out. The latter will certainly not. <br />
<br />
I have been a horror fan for my entire cognizant life. It was a refuge for me when real life was far scarier. Horror never hurt me for leaving my toys at the park. It never rejected me for being mixed race, or wanted to beat me up after school. It never insulted me at the dinner table, or took away Halloween because the cult said so. Horror was pure in its intentions, transparent in its actions, and consistent. Freddy does not exist in real life (I know, I know), because if he did, the Fresh Prince or the Fat Boys would never have recorded rap albums with him. They would have been running for their goddamned lives, as we all would. Dokken knew better. They recorded far away from Freddy, in an underground bunker on Tatooine. But the idea of Freddy is delicious, isn't it? And Jason. And Pinhead. And the Tall Man. And even Chucky, which (let's be honest) is just Talky Tina with mad potential (although I was never really a fan). <br />
<br />
I'm digressing. Anyway, I graduated from a great school (go UCI Anteaters), work gainfully as a writer and editor, married the most perfect man on the planet, and never robbed graves, or slashed a lovable chubby loser's throat for his hockey mask, or killed anyone with finger knives for being beautiful and bad. This little boy growing and kicking around inside me will be just fine. He may disappoint us all and become a doctor or a lawyer instead of the next Mike Patton or David Cronenberg. But I don't need a heart scan to know that I am 100 percent sure that I already love him more than life itself. <br />
<br />
<br />Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-29663068968435140652014-05-17T17:04:00.001-07:002014-05-17T17:05:34.374-07:00Reality Bites.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG9r_4S0dRh59877bMbRePViCquhdmdj3CKphOM9Zb5SkVztQzamZe3y8uarYNSl7e9VeE-DmFYJQ6LTDaOi9fOGRLRG5x3FMmH3fqE3fPyOe1z1jNzUn4rHcFgpWUW1MlYlSOGu-kse8/s1600/91952963DT002_Kim_Kardashian_deniseTruscello-799x10242.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG9r_4S0dRh59877bMbRePViCquhdmdj3CKphOM9Zb5SkVztQzamZe3y8uarYNSl7e9VeE-DmFYJQ6LTDaOi9fOGRLRG5x3FMmH3fqE3fPyOe1z1jNzUn4rHcFgpWUW1MlYlSOGu-kse8/s1600/91952963DT002_Kim_Kardashian_deniseTruscello-799x10242.jpg" height="320" width="249" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">T-Mobile only sends me a bill. But is she happy?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When I started my script, an ode to good ol' Seventies Grindhouse and 'Sploitation titled <em>Street Life</em>, I had no idea that I was already knocked up. In fact, I was preparing to fly to England to visit my in-laws and friends for a month, and it was easy to knock out a few pages in the glow of excitement. I had also just finished my stint as a contract copywriter, and the freedom from being Princess Leia chained to my Jabba the Hut of an employer gave me the extra gusto to dig into the process of creating that Great American Screenplay (albeit with blood and guts and balls and boobs). <br />
<br />
And then England happened. And then two pink stripes on the pee stick happened. And before I knew it, my script was not happening. <br />
<br />
If you've never been pregnant, or if you're thinking about getting pregnant, or if you're a random dude who will never have any idea of what being pregnant is like, I will tell you. It's not just those happy-ass viral videos you see on the news or <em>Inside Edition</em>, where Grandma-to-be sits on the settee all a-wonder as she stares at the camera like a deer on Valium before her daughter and son-in-law reveal their pregnancy with all the charm of a father-daughter breakdance at a wedding reception. <br />
<br />
Here's what it's really like: you crave, you eat, you puke, you sleep. You wake, you pee, you hurt, you weep. You crave, you eat, you puke, you sleep. Rinse and repeat. Somewhere in there, you make it to the OB/Gyn, where you get confirmation that a baby's still in there, and then you weep some more because you're reminded of why you bother with any of it. And you're always hot, but not in a sexy way. You're hot in a <em>Golden Girls</em> way, except Blanche was sexy. And you're so not. <br />
<br />
So, what did I do when I wasn't working on my script? I read drivel. Pure crapola, courtesy of the <em>Daily Mail</em> app on my husband's phone. I read about the daily goings-on of WAGs and British TV presenters. I learned that Dubai had become the new Ibiza. I discovered that Rihanna has a mental condition that compels her to be naked everywhere she goes. And I read about Kim Kardashian.<br />
<br />
Let's focus on that bit for a mo. I read. About. Kim. Kardashian. The adorable baby she's hardly seen with. The nutbar of a delusional fiance. The unromantic baseball stadium engagement that makes me glad I was proposed to outside a coffee kiosk at Heathrow. The life struggle to find a hardworking pair of jeans. The tacky wedding plans in France that turned into tackier wedding plans in Italy. But reading about everything Kim K. did something unexpected for me. Well, besides making me feel better about my own simple little life, if not my inferior finances. <br />
<br />
Reading about Kim Kardashian made me resume writing. <br />
<br />
Say whuuut? Now look, the older I get, the less I crave that deep-down body thirst for Haterade. I'm at the end of my Thirties. I'm housing a growing entity currently the size of a tangerine. I don't have it in me anymore to loathe anyone I don't know. Well, that's a bit bullshit. I still get that stomach wretch when Gwyneth Paltrow promotes $100 plain white T-shirts on her goopy blog, or when Beyonce stands there like a Stepford wife while her sister beats on Jay-Z in an elevator for sucking so hard. But Kim Kardashian? She never did anything to me except be everygoddamnwhere on the Internets. Sure, Siri is smarter by a good mile, but let's be honest—Kim Kardashian, like her fame-hungry mother Kris Jenner—is only still around because she works it. <br />
<br />
Now, notice I didn't say works hard. A garbage man works hard. You over there—you work hard. Kim? She <em>works it</em>. The opening of an envelope? She's there. Someone unveiling a new vodka bra in London? She'll wear it, and give you a suckle for an extra hundred grand. I saw an episode of <em>Keeping</em> <em>Up</em> <em>with</em> <em>the</em> <em>Kardashians</em> a few years back, and in it, Kim K. had just arrived in Vegas without sleep after making an overnight appearance somewhere else just a few hours prior. And—First-World Problem alert—she had another appearance to make not long after landing. So what did sistagirl do? She passed out on the sofa for 30 minutes, then got up and did the Vegas appearance, fake smile and big, bouncy booty intact. If the girl worked at a strip joint, she'd make it rain so much, Al Roker would show up to do <em>Today Show</em> weather remotes. <br />
<br />
While it would be easier for me to sit at home and grind my teeth over the knowledge that no one will ever pay me a kabillion bucks to sip their drink poolside at Mandalay Bay, I'd rather take the lesson here, which is to <em>keep going</em>. If I don't finish my script, I'm always going to be the stupid bitch who sits home on her ass dreaming about writing that Great American Script while Kim Kardashian gets paid every time her phone's autocorrect doesn't add an "e" to <em>Absolut</em> in a tweet. Yes, Kim Kardashian is famous for doing nothing, but she does nothing like a goddamned pro. I don't wish to be famous, but I want to write the film that could be. And because I kept going—through every crave, eat, puke and sleep of my first trimester—I'm happy to announce that my script is now nearly complete.<br />
<br />
So thanks, Kim. You keep getting everywhere doing nothing. You're like the Highlander of Hos, and there can only be one. For the rest of us, doing nothing will get us nowhere.Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-42773008613329084742014-04-24T10:04:00.001-07:002014-04-24T10:04:34.643-07:00Never Sleep Again. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xo6rVVccOAXe3X7YXQhzi65j6C3ImI9QE4Ygz45Y53CDGqy1LtJCerPnAet5KMTxgEZkOunD8AOKb6npwuV5X0G8qC0J2EjC1GD9KzptDg5xP6FQYL6SgP7DLl1JWI1xKWfTP5XLOOQ/s1600/IMAG3431_1_1_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; height: 115px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 200px;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xo6rVVccOAXe3X7YXQhzi65j6C3ImI9QE4Ygz45Y53CDGqy1LtJCerPnAet5KMTxgEZkOunD8AOKb6npwuV5X0G8qC0J2EjC1GD9KzptDg5xP6FQYL6SgP7DLl1JWI1xKWfTP5XLOOQ/s1600/IMAG3431_1_1_1.jpg" height="122" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two negatives equal a positive.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
From the moment the thought of coffee made me want to hurl, I should've known.<br />
<br />
I had just returned from a month in England, and had chalked up my horrible feelings to extreme jet lag. So of course, I wasn't clued in by the huge box of Del Taco burritos I inhaled upon landing at LAX, or how I nearly passed out while buying groceries (I just thought it was the prices), or how my boobs felt like two angry water balloons filled with aquavit, or how I started to fall asleep in the middle of my sentences, or how everything smelled like sugar-coated shit—finally nailing the scent that Sara noticed in the taxi on the way to the library in <em>Inferno</em>. <br />
<br />
One pee test—and then another— confirmed it: the culprit wasn't jet lag, or Mater Tenebrarum. <br />
<br />
It was <em>Mater Fahker, I'm knocked up</em>. As in, the rabbit died. As in yes, we have no more bananas. As in, there was this duff, and I got up it. With some help, of course. This is actual natural sound from the moment when I saw the two lines on the home pregnancy test:
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/5CsyGe4F8CQ" width="560"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
What followed was me in total shock, followed by (I'm sorry, I'm not going to lie) thoughts of pure selfishness: our bed becoming covered in dust and cobwebs from disuse, the lights dimming on my beloved Vegas Strip, another beautiful lazy stoner summer at Cinespia going up in smoke, and the sympathetic looks of street monsters at Knott's Halloween Haunt and Universal Horror Nights carefully dodging my waddling 8-months-pregnant frame in order to scare the crapola out of younger women with flat tummies and tiny asses and not a care in the world. <br />
<br />
My second thoughts were of my worst nightmares coming true, worse than anything Freddy could conjure up. Having a perpetually "metal" baby who would keep me, John and our neighbors up at all hours with his/her best Dio howl. Hanging out with other moms. Play dates. Parties. Gross. By the time I took mental inventory of every stupid thing I'd now have to do with a child, I was actually lying on the ground, kicking and screaming like one. <br />
<br />
My third thoughts? Those came after John and I saw the baby's heartbeat. At that moment—as we looked at each other as if we couldn't believe that we had actually made something a) other than a sandwich, and b) with a beating heart—I thought that my own heart would surely stop beating if I couldn't carry it to term. <br />
<br />
I will be 39 in June. I wasn't thinking about a child. But now, this child is all I think about. Well, that's not true. I think about how some of the coolest horror people I know (<a href="https://twitter.com/greencapt" target="_blank">@greencapt</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/twistedcentral" target="_blank">@twistedcentral</a>) are parents. I think about buying cool DOTD onesies, and Googling the appropriate ages to take a child to their first concert, or horror film, or Halloween Haunt. Can I take a child to Cinespia? Can I smuggle a baby in my handbag while I play the penny slots at Excalibur? Obviously, the last one is a joke (or ... is it?), but yes, I really, truly, absolutely do want this baby to happen, and can't wait to introduce the little one to the rad life I share with his/her dad. <br />
<br />
I'm due at the end of November, so maybe I'll start while they're in the womb. Practicing my waddle now.Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-77000007501763579012013-11-14T13:50:00.000-08:002013-11-14T13:50:38.775-08:00Block Cocked. <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, the mighty Goliath of the brick-and-mortar video stores fell this week, and I'll admit I was a bit sad, but not because consumers no longer wanted to make it a Blockbuster night (or day, for that matter). For me, the closure marked the absolute end of one of the most sublime rituals dating from childhood—the video rental experience.</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1WeOYmRFyFn-kAcoONfOlcccvvU8yayWhjHQDrkVuFMGHyiLJ3l3tM7KhavUr-xFJqJdE6kU8jT5rg7B-FT7JSaUHkc2Dgbhml4uI9_cWwRBU8kIaDW6ugMQxl_faADWegAdyWYU_4Dw/s1600/Blockbuster.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1WeOYmRFyFn-kAcoONfOlcccvvU8yayWhjHQDrkVuFMGHyiLJ3l3tM7KhavUr-xFJqJdE6kU8jT5rg7B-FT7JSaUHkc2Dgbhml4uI9_cWwRBU8kIaDW6ugMQxl_faADWegAdyWYU_4Dw/s320/Blockbuster.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the bright side, we can expect another Halloween Express.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This ritual began every Friday in the "mom n' pop" tucked into my town's local strip mall, my gangly little body entering the shop with a pocket full of quarters and exiting with spindly arms straining under stacks of random horror and comedy titles, each one cherrypicked for nudity, gore and Pippi Longstocking. My loot was easy to slip past my parents, who were perpetually baking like pies until the timer went off around 1985, the same year Blockbuster opened. The kind, middle-aged couple that ran the video store became like surrogate parents to me. They eventually knew what types of films I liked, and held back some of the new releases every Friday so that I could get first crack at films like <em>Sleepaway Camp</em>. They also saved me from being kidnapped in the parking lot on one trip. A car full of men was no match for the Vietnam veteran who ran out of his shop, swooped me up, and carried me to safety—and VHS nirvana. Shelves of new tapes swept over the trauma of the event like a tidal wave of possibilities. I recovered with an alacrity that I now consider astonishing, if not alarming.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Unfortunately, with childhood resilience comes adolescent changeability in equal measure. As supermarket chains began adding in-store video rentals, I was all over them with the loyalty of a Benedict Arnold, or an Alexis Carrington. Colby. Cougar. Mellencamp. Anyway, a supermarket became just one more place to rent lovely stacks of lovely films, so when Blockbuster hit, I was no more partisan than a career polititian at election time. A superstore with supershelves of superfilms was right on time to add something new to the excess that defined the 1980s, but it never dawned on me back then that as Blockbuster ate up the real estate, it was swallowing the mom n' pops along with it. I look back now and I'm ashamed at how easy that meal went down.</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Fast-forwarding to the present, it's sobering to see pretty much the same thing play out again, except this time, Blockbuster is the bill of fare. Why go out and rent a video when we can tub-o-lard at home on our sofas, settees, couches, beds and box springs, with remotes in our hands and Netflix at the ready. Fine, we'll rent a movie for a buck, but we'd better be able to bring it back when we damn well please. Otherwise, give us our Hulu, our Roku, our Apple TV and our Internet. And haven't we earned it? Well, yes. We logged a lot of miles in those VHS days. And we were too poor to own Laserdisc, but we balked at the dawning of DVD and now Blu-ray beckons our bucks like pixelated predators. I will be had, over and over again. But there was something so delicious about renting a video, and later, a DVD. Just to peruse the aisles and weigh the options, to play Siskel-and-Ebert with whoever was with us. All of that is gone now—for the most part. My husband and I enjoy shopping for films at our new favorite record store, Second Spin, but we look back at the bones of our beloved DVD Planet—which itself transitioned from a brick-and-mortar store to an online presence a few years back—and we know that our days in the aisles are numbered. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I bid adieu to Blockbuster, and give it props for lasting as long as it did, and for putting up a hell of a fight by trying to play the Netflix game. In the end, the company that aligned itself with VHS and DVDs couldn't even shake the associations and rebrand itself in the unrelenting marketplace of streaming media. And now it's gone and we'll get over it. There's just too many other, better choices to turn us on. But I wonder if we are better off.</span> </span>Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-10865316596511509012013-09-23T17:13:00.000-07:002013-09-23T17:37:32.684-07:00The Match Game.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPcikRB8Jw_wRwNO-9b_Hp-Vh2407rTfGEslrBtyAEYg0vsWwLoEMIhkED8VCsrT8NQ-LjH8oN_9mHRD8zuS90q-hyOHlkR7lyl6dQSbqbj-JgtaKZR5yxZwQlDSnC6TpT4zoAy7TvxQc/s320/FvJ.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Wait a goddamned minute, I thought Jason had blue eyes."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Until a few weeks ago, it had been a long time since the
last time I was sucked into a round of one of my favorite blood sports: <em>Fanboy
Fighting</em> (<em>Timeshare Dodging at Excalibur Las Vegas</em> is the other one). I love
when people try to test me on my horror shit. It’s great fun, and I almost
always collect new friends from the spoils.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Now, I don’t proclaim to know
anything—in fact, I can confirm that I know 100 percent of nothing 50 percent
of the time)—but I do know how I feel about certain aspects in horror. I know that
I generally loathe remaking any horror film (even the bad ones). I know that horror
is now mostly about money and no longer about ideas (you can tell which films
are truly about ideas by their ratio of practical effects-to-CGI). And I know
that you cannot have a <em>Freddy Vs.
Jason</em> without Kane Hodder as Jason. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">And this is where the fight found me. My Twitter opponent
gave all he had, coming back at me for why it wasn’t necessary to have Kane
Hodder when we had Robert Englund (and to that end, a <em>Freddy Vs. Jason</em> with Hodder and no Englund would be just as c-c-c-rap-rap-rap).
Eventually, my opponent caved, I conceded that despite no Hodder, the folding
bed death scene was awesome, and we shook virtual hands and returned to our
feeds. I was basically repeating a universal opinion, so much like the time I
received an Easy Bake Oven for Christmas without any cake mix, I didn’t really
win anything. Plus, let’s just be real</span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">—pitting
Freddy against Jason was a horrible idea. But the spirit of the fight and the film in general made me think about some horror matchups that actually do carry the potential to be pretty killer.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-language: HE;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Freddy Vs. Ash</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span> <br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I’ll admit I have an affinity for the strong, silent Freddy—you know, back when he was quietly trying to knock off Nancy and all of her friends? But there’s something to be said for Primetime Bitch Freddy up against a Grrroovy Ash. Imagine all the classic one-liners. And if you took away the lip service, you’d still have two proven titans who seem unstoppable in their respective films. The finger knives versus the chainsaw? Now we’re playing with power.</span></span><br />
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-language: HE;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-language: HE;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Tall Man Vs. Pinhead</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, if anything, these two villains are conservationists. One hates a waste of good suffering, and the other repurposes the dead into the horror equivalent of Sand People. Not bad, right? Plus, what girl doesn’t appreciate a Tall Man with a commanding presence? In this film, you’d get two. This is a matchup with class, accompanied by a kick-ass prog score. Wouldn’t it be a trip to watch these two get inside each other’s heads to compete for souls?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Jason Voorhees Vs. Michael Myers</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes. This feels good to me. When I was growing up in the 1980s, Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees cut <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the two most imposing figures in horror. They were the best kind of silent but deadly, and they achieved their body counts with razor-sharp precision and unyielding terror. Unfortunately, a film with this kind of matchup leaves all the dialogue to today’s teenagers, and not a Kevin Bacon among them. But if one thing defines these two villains, it’s their mastery of the POV kill, so why not let their stalking do the talking? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Just make sure that when casting Jason, the right man is behind the mask.</span> </span></div>
</span></span><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span>Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-9704890658130907882013-08-20T16:22:00.001-07:002013-08-20T16:22:47.000-07:00Exorcistialism.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLYmQCsDhwQFSYEQx4RC1ZlxZDhBwkc67lNUflOX2iUp47epNN5kDaVOvQ0ePr_BOCbYRVbNKmYNJ4Zt7cEpitfZHMGXOGUyO4L66y7uBPGo-LRWUjvs4qBgcNhi509ASVpEasjmBpyDg/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLYmQCsDhwQFSYEQx4RC1ZlxZDhBwkc67lNUflOX2iUp47epNN5kDaVOvQ0ePr_BOCbYRVbNKmYNJ4Zt7cEpitfZHMGXOGUyO4L66y7uBPGo-LRWUjvs4qBgcNhi509ASVpEasjmBpyDg/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now, where have I seen this before? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think we’re taken by demonic possession in the same way
that we’re consumed by zombies. Beneath the initial Viking-like churlishness we
exhibit at every snarl and flesh-bargaining mastication lies the rub that we
are basically watching ourselves. And that scares the hell into us.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Inherently, we can be demons. Yes, we can be heroes, but on
the shit end of the stick, we can be zombies. Naturally, both transformations demand
a lot of us—and by a lot, I mean nothing less than our total selves. I’ve never
been a) possessed or b) a zombie, but I think it’s safe to assume that with the
former, your body, mind and spirit are occupied by malevolent forces, while with
the latter, everything that comprises your individuality—that essence that made
you shove peas up your nose as a child and sleep with total strangers as an
adult—is sieved into a primordial void. One might argue that adolescence gives
us a sneak preview of each.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, what’s my point? That teenagers are bat-shit crazy? That
we can be Vikings, heroes, zombies and demons? That Medieval Times should add
zombie jousting to their dinner tournaments? Yes to all of these, but mainly,
my point is that there comes a time when genre fans must acknowledge that the
same circle of horror filmmakers are reheating the veal and serving it up as
steak. I mentioned on Twitter that I was going to review <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Conjuring</i> on my blog, so I suppose this is the crux of it. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Conjuring</i> is a good film, but only
because the actors in it elevate the material. I mean, Lilli Taylor? Vera Farmiga?
That’s anti-suckage insurance right there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish all horror directors would invest in the
premium. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But if you took the actors out of this film, you’d essentially
just have what is tantamount to a TV movie on the level of 1977’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Possessed</i>. Of course, the market
saturation began in the Seventies, thanks to a film about a little girl who
just wanted to play some Ouija and buy a horse (sidebar—Ellen Burstyn trying to
sell Sunday as a great day for a birthday is probably the one terrible bit of
acting she has ever done). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That film
became a hit, and then suddenly, everyone was possessed with possession. Producers
catered to it then for the same reasons why they throw their support at it now:
because it’s easy money. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same thing happened
with the zombie subgenre, to the extent of Fulci having to slip some undead
into <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Beyond</i> just to appease his
investors. And I think that’s the worst of it—when <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>artistic integrity is forced to take a backseat
to studio self indulgence. It’s much more of an offense to me than simply
tacking “of the Dead” to your protagonist and calling it a film—which is, by
the way, a whole other Oprah. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having said all of this, I don’t go to the cinema to have my
life changed. I realize that we could transfer this argument to any other
horror subgenre, such as the slasher. My problem with rehashing the same old ideas
is that it’s being done to the exclusion of new ones. There are writers and
directors out there waiting for an opportunity to get their stories out , and
they’re being ignored in favor of their “more proven” counterparts. If you’re a
fledgling filmmaker, you quickly find that social media only works if your
community supports you (and good luck with that), or if you are successful in
lighting your farts on camera without cauterizing your anus. One of the
wonderful things about horror in the Eighties is that while the market was exhausted
with bad demonic possession, zombie and slasher films, it also offered up a wellspring
of work for everyone—especially first-time directors and women—so that everyone
could put their slant on the genre. And they did. But when it comes to seeing
anything<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>original for our money today, I
guess we can all just go to hell.</span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-23612726341469127792013-07-16T14:44:00.001-07:002013-08-20T16:31:51.759-07:00Fangasm.<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Horror occupies but a tiny corner of the Internets—which can
be a blessing or a curse, depending on who you are. If you are a high-profile horror
writer caught with your hands in the copy jar, then you are grateful to have
chosen an industry that is already so marginalized that even your relationship
with a famous director fails to elevate your “bad” to a blind news item.</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1Gf-RNoP4ZpX2AOJTOWcjFf-q3PwpZaCYfYh3s6j1ryTrWSzRqGAGmuZtz_a90zPq4g900dPevT6WPqfVSUS0E_IjepQMmNdV-kyV6cYB87m7M9zK8Kzv7p4gM53LICL-JVPBNZ13so/s1600/the+brood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1Gf-RNoP4ZpX2AOJTOWcjFf-q3PwpZaCYfYh3s6j1ryTrWSzRqGAGmuZtz_a90zPq4g900dPevT6WPqfVSUS0E_IjepQMmNdV-kyV6cYB87m7M9zK8Kzv7p4gM53LICL-JVPBNZ13so/s320/the+brood.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No, you can't come in, I'm being fabulous.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And therein lies my point. A notable horror journalist has committed
intellectual theft—really, one of the worst things you can do in any
industry—and no one outside of horror is giving a crap, much less donating a fart.
The fire is pretty much 100 percent contained. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus begging the question: if no one outside
of horror cares, then why has everyone in horror become so delusional? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can’t really say everyone. For every icon who is an ass to
his fans, there’s a Bruce Campbell, or a Lloyd Kaufman, or insert the name of
any horror icon you dared reach out to online who not
only surprised you by responding—but damn near gave you a heart attack by being
gracious (for me—Anne Rice, who I will always love for her emails). And to be fair, some icons are correct to keep a (loving) distance on
social media in order to protect themselves and their families from the Crazies.
But you still get that they appreciate their</span> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">fans and care if they die.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No, this one goes out to the stewards of horror: the
writers. The icons who gave us the novels that became the films. The
journalists who made names for themselves with their sharp observations or
gallows humor. The former creates horror, and the latter shapes it, and neither
can exist without the other. But both are becoming compromised by social media,
which has cultivated the very un-horror need for One of Us to become Better Than
You. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The writer I once respected has turned into a silly, conceited
old wannabe rock star desperately chasing outrageousness. The journalist I
mentioned on Twitter as an influence—who responded by saturating my feed with retweets
of media reports praising her Oscar gown—has become a lesson for those who
prefer their parables to be pretty. Now while these two have become some of the
worst offenders in my world, there are others. The obnoxious child of a
legendary author who fancies himself the gatekeeper of a horror dynasty and forgets that his father holds the keys. The film critics who got the memo on their genius and have moved on
to being clever. Don’t bother tweeting to them, they can’t be fucked. But be
sure to listen to their podcasts. Devil horns.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Where would these people who are Better Than You be without One
of Us? Answer: they’d be working a goddamned day job while pursuing their real
passion over the white noise of Cronenberg. Like I do. Like you do. We are
supposed to be in this for the love, not for the lucre. When I was growing up,
there wasn’t anyone in my life from 1980 to 1993 who loved horror films, short
of my fifth-grade best friend, and even then it ranked third in her life behind
unicorns and Val Kilmer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So now we’ve
got a caste system? Bullshit. Really, who in hell do people think they are? They’d
better have an idea, because for the most part, the rest of the world doesn’t
have a clue. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I prefer horror over
mysteries.</span>Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-91768122725357317732013-07-12T12:24:00.000-07:002013-07-13T00:08:00.507-07:00Reel Genius.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKlfNAFsJPsSjUyq3BF8FKAUTRrWFSguhxgGrlLNEvWKdZ2tSANgBiytue3ZbNiYCnZt-CEdu1iO7spo05sXbQ0cKerBeqy-c8I8LDPp52IrXf-DGinXPDUesyVITCWS0gL2CmcMZ2bT0/s1600/Blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKlfNAFsJPsSjUyq3BF8FKAUTRrWFSguhxgGrlLNEvWKdZ2tSANgBiytue3ZbNiYCnZt-CEdu1iO7spo05sXbQ0cKerBeqy-c8I8LDPp52IrXf-DGinXPDUesyVITCWS0gL2CmcMZ2bT0/s320/Blog.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can I survive any horror film? I survived <em>House of the Dead</em>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have this theory that I could survive some of my favorite horror films. But then I also theorized that I could shield my car from the rain at work the other day by parking it under a tree—and I was right, except my car was covered in bird shit by lunchtime. <br />
<br />
And with that, I present you with a sampling of favorites (no order):<br />
<br />
<strong>Dawn of the Dead (1978)</strong><br />
The original DOTD came out when malls were just beginning to flourish, and my world consisted solely of Zwieback cookies and New Zoo Revue. If an actual zombie apocalypse had occurred at that time, I think I would've been all set had my stoner parents sought shelter in a Kinderfoto. Plus, they were baked all the time anyway and could've easily passed themselves off as zombies. Perfect. <br />
<br />
But today? There was a point in my life when I never met a mall I didn't like, but now, you'll hardly ever find me or anyone else in one. Which probably still makes the mall the best place to hide. I'm comfortable with eating gigantic pretzels for the remainder of my days. The key to surviving the mall during a ZA is to find a White House | Black Market and hide there. WHBM is, without question, the most pointless shop in any mall. Honestly, WTF do they sell there, segregated chinos? If the theory holds true that zombies revisit the places they used to go when they were living, then it's guaranteed that you'll be pretty much left alone in a WHBM. Grab a plasma TV from Sears. Get an Orange Julius or Mrs. Field's cookies from the outskirts of the food court. No one will be in those places, either. You're welcome. <br />
<br />
<strong>Shivers (1975)</strong><br />
I love this film. It came out the year I was born, which is just so apropos. Now, this one puts me at a crossroads. I love to make out, I love the Seventies and I'm a fan of pools and parties, so can I resist a good Seventies makeout pool party? I think I can, I think I can. Mostly because I don't love a big, gnarly slug entering my body that I'm not legally contracted to love, honor and cherish. So, time to assess the situation at hand. It's 1975, I'm in Canada, and Canadians are nice—so nice that we just assume that our neighbors to the North will take us in as we're running from a ZA in the States (cough, <em>Land of the Dead</em>). The only thing that would probably make them <em>not</em> be nice is a murderous, horny parasite. <br />
<br />
The key to surviving this one? Eliminate the sexy places and go hide on Degrassi street, where they've got enough to worry about, like teen pregnancy and class elections. I can while away my days listening to Rush and eating poutine. Most teenagers on TV today are played by 38-year-olds, anyway. I'm packing my bags as we speak. <br />
<br />
<strong>The Beyond (1981)</strong><br />
What? Some poor bastard was accused of witchcraft and savagely murdered in this hotel I just purchased—and it encompasses the seven doors of death, one of which is now open to scores of the living dead? Alrighty, I'm off to the Motel 6. They're leaving the light on for me.<br />
<br />
<strong>The Fog (1980)</strong><br />
I figure nothing will confuse evil fishermen more than seeing nice fishermen on a box of breaded fillets—so I'll be loading up on some Gorton's. After all, we're supposed to trust the Gorton's fisherman, and to that end I'll be pelting them with frozen boxes featuring his likeness from atop my bitchin' lighthouse radio station. You didn't actually think I was going to eat those things, did you? I'm married to an Englishman. I've tasted the good stuff.<br />
<br />
What—you expected me to have an actual strategy? I'm in a lighthouse! When I'm that high up, the only thing I'll need to do is decide what records to play.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking the Zombies.Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-38674741560206173992013-07-06T16:53:00.001-07:002013-07-06T17:17:36.333-07:00Idle Worship.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Picture it: Sicily, 1932. Except Sicily is Irvine, and let's just say 1932 is 1997. I was in my seat at a Rage Against the Machine gig at the former Irvine Meadows (now Verizon Wireless) Amphitheatre, waiting for my then-best friend George and her sloppy-drunk friend, a pretty blonde skidmark named Mary, to bring me back a $5 margarita. Minutes turned into an hour, an hour turned into an hour and a half, and by the time all the pre-Occupiers were setting fire to the bleacher seats (no joke), I had begun to wonder if these bitches had actually driven the two hours through San Diego County into Mexico for my drink. Eventually, the show was over, and I was not only without a drink, I was without a ride home. <br />
<br />
Fortunately, Irvine Meadows was fairly close to my house, so I dialed a friend and he made the short drive over to the venue parking lot to pick me up. Well, one day and a half-assed apology later, George explained—tail between her teeth—that while she and Mary were walking to the queue for drinks, they slipped and fell and rolled all the way down to the pit, where they were scooped up by security, burped and diapered and whisked off to the backstage area—where they met Rage. <br />
<br />
Yep. My at-the-time favorite band. So anyway, to keep a long story from getting longer, George presented me with a photo she took of my at-the-time rock n' roll fantasy, Zack de la Rocha, who posed for it after she told him what a shart she had been for leaving her best friend back up in the hosebleed section. Wonderful end to a crappy story, right? Yep, except two things: one, Zack's reply to George's story was, "tell your friend it's just a concert," and two, in the photo that was MEANT for yours truly, Zack de la Rocha—beautiful, soulful, lyrical enemy of the Man and my personal idol—was flipping me off. The bird was the word. And that middle finger was straight up, now tell me. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVaXeBLYJwhj7twLk8-c6-cLS3MeAW0DZVIMNqS2eK0dzWlq3hAila-Eoj31BUiTVdDogM_83BNWtumfpWgaqh5JwruZwSLqQwzxZ-5o0S05ubvizY-UEJdpPYFxgtRbLG91hUS3k664/s1600/BK4F17bCIAIUseO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVaXeBLYJwhj7twLk8-c6-cLS3MeAW0DZVIMNqS2eK0dzWlq3hAila-Eoj31BUiTVdDogM_83BNWtumfpWgaqh5JwruZwSLqQwzxZ-5o0S05ubvizY-UEJdpPYFxgtRbLG91hUS3k664/s320/BK4F17bCIAIUseO.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I heard her boogers can turn back the aging process.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So, what the hell is it all about, Alfie? Well, fast-forward to just a few days ago. My RATM days are dust in the wind, I wear sensible shoes and read Suze Orman, and for the most part, I only really listen to the 24-hour news channel or my old Steely Dan or Roxy Music CDs in my car. Anyway, I was on the old Twitter, twatting away to a genre director who I have loved since I was a small child. I asked him for some words of encouragement for my husband, who is currently shopping his script to producers. I didn't ask this man to read the script, nor did I attach my husband's <a href="http://t.co/x0ibWKCOzv" target="_blank">promotional trailer</a> to the tweet. I simply—and very politely and respectfully—asked this man to offer up some advice. I waited one day. Two days. Three days. And finally, I checked this director's Twitter and noticed that he had replied to other tweets—just not my tweet. And suddenly, I was getting the memo. I knew that this man read everyone's tweets, and had undoubtedly read mine. He was just not going to reply to it. Not now, not ever. Good morning, good afternoon and goodnight.<br />
<br />
I felt like a fool, a bit like how I had felt back in 1997. I don't just reach out every day to people I look up to on Twitter. It may be easy for some to take advantage, but not for me, and for the most part, I keep a very respectful distance. It wasn't easy to send that tweet, and by deleting it, I was hoping that I could pretend it never, ever happened. Except it had. I had opened myself up to a genre director who I held close to my horror heart and had supported for over 30 years, and he was basically telling me no quarter. <br />
<br />
And I sort of get it. Celebrities probably get that kind of request tweeted to them every day by minions like myself. But goddamn, would it have killed him to reply back? It could've just been a two-word reply, like "stay strong," or "rock on," or ... obviously, we're learning here that if I were a celebrity, I'd be shit at the two-word reply. But you get me. And yes, I'm 100% positive that some of you may be thinking that this guy doesn't owe me anything, and yes, I'm 100,000% positive that others may be thinking that this guy's catalogue of genius pretty much part and parcel gives him the right to do whatever he wants. So, let's apply these two thoughts to the real-world benchmark:<br />
<br />
<strong>Horror Director Legend doesn't owe me anything.</strong><br />
Alrighty, he made a movie. I watched it and loved it. The transaction is complete, so by all accounts, you're right, he doesn't owe me anything. But then HDL makes another version of said movie. Then another. With a VHS here, DVD there, here a cut, there a cut, everywhere a cut cut—until one shelf of my home is entirely reserved for this one effing film. A film that, by the way, I also saw at the cinema every time it was tucked and pulled and squeezed into a limited-release revival. You're telling me HDL can't reply back with two words of support to a loyal fan and fellow independent filmmaker in return? <br />
<br />
<strong>Horror Director Legend can do whatever he wants. </strong><br />
Fine. Let's apply this logic. Can he perform my annual Pap smear and pelvic exam if he wants? Can he fill up all the potholes on the Hollywood freeway if he wants? Can he make the Kardashians go away if he wants? Can he keep Starbucks from raising the price of my grande iced chai tea latte if he wants? No, he fucking can't. He's just a man. But what he can do is reply back to a tweet. I reply back to tweets. Even if someone isn't following me, I reply back. It's just polite. And yes, I haven't even directed one film. But I can tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue, and that's some spectacular shit. <br />
<br />
But this is how most celebrities behave on Twitter. They want you to follow them and buy their crap, but they'll never follow you back or reply to your tweets. And I think that sucks. But the one equalizer is that everyone—Zack de la Rocha and his finger penis included—is on this earth for a limited time only. Beyonce will probably be laid into a lifesize Barbie box first, but we're all going down into the ground. And good luck getting anyone to follow you there. Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8690827560692628898.post-6832328516094721882012-12-10T21:01:00.000-08:002012-12-11T08:28:21.672-08:00Diminishing Returns.The economy is a harsh mistress. Just the other day, I read an article ranking the most overpaid actors in Hollywood. If anyone ever needed a measure to gauge how far we've come from the salad days of $20 million-dollar paychecks, it's an article in which the takeaway isn't what we're reading on the page; it's what we aren't reading between the lines—that Hollywood is counting what's left in the swear jar and finding that it's empty due to years of no one giving a shit. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRi56mtpFWT7PmCy3mFOFV8iJSbtB1CO0ChH-oFndXkwC4bQQ3ah85woD04kX7jBFgOuNwan9TA_nbuxfsBCpcwBMaUO-OKcfSazxDrXsU0xp09ksKuk14EZBcy1L5qkblVzLNLNUaGC8/s1600/flintstones_ribs2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRi56mtpFWT7PmCy3mFOFV8iJSbtB1CO0ChH-oFndXkwC4bQQ3ah85woD04kX7jBFgOuNwan9TA_nbuxfsBCpcwBMaUO-OKcfSazxDrXsU0xp09ksKuk14EZBcy1L5qkblVzLNLNUaGC8/s320/flintstones_ribs2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who has money for the cinema anymore? I yabba-dabba don't.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So good for you, Suits—we're all skint, except I'm guessing that for you, it means you'll have to move your mistresses into apartment homes and buy your wives' jewelry from Jared. For the rest of us—and I'm talking about horror fans specifically—this means we can't just ease on down the road to the local cineplex and splash out on a small, watered-down $5 Coke and an equally sized and priced bag of burnt popcorn just to sit through 20 minutes of mediocre trailers and a 90-minute stinker that was previously a mediocre trailer. <br />
<br />
Subsequently, I haven't been to the cinema in ages. There really hasn't been any reason to do so when I can just wait a few months more to watch the same mediocre film on my own big screen, with better food and no obnoxious children kicking my couch. I can also do things on my couch during a mediocre film that I can't do at the cinema without getting arrested. Or uploaded on YouTube. <br />
<br />
And so it was with a bit more excitement than usual that my husband and I settled in last night for Ti West's 2011 outing, <em>The</em> <em>Innkeepers</em>. Now, while I don't actively set out to slate a film (I subscribe to the "those who can't do" philosophy and leave the filmmaking to my husband and others), I have to be honest. I didn't like it. I really, really wanted to, because I loved its predecessor, <em>The House of the Devil</em> (2009). I think Ti West is the best of the new horror guard, because his output reflects a purity of purpose, a true love for the genre that is homegrown and authentic, and not ever poseurish and packaged for social media and hipster pandering. <br />
<br />
Having said that, we've got two hipster poseurs in a homegrown haunted house tale that is authentic, yet has no purpose. I won't say more because this isn't a review of the film so much as it's an example that underscores (for me, at least) how economy transcends actors' paychecks and infiltrates right down to the film itself. Everything in a film must have intrinsic value. You cannot have red herrings and jump starts and this and that without any of it meaning something. Even the dumbest tittyfest can be economical if its purpose is: a) to be dumb, and b) to be a fest of titties. You have those things, and you've fulfilled the film's obligations wholly. Good intentions are the IOU of film; ultimately, some kind of currency must be offered up to complete the transaction. <br />
<br />
I'll use another film as an example: <em>Cabin Fever</em> (2002). Just about everyone thinks that film is genius. I think about 75 percent of it is a good departure from the last vestiges of the <em>Scream</em>-esque ensemble bullshit that had been passing for horror since the mid-1990s. But the end completely kills any goodwill I have for that 75 percent, because it simply has no point to it. Okay, so the seemingly-racist convenience store owner is really a wanksta? Whaa? The faa? Dude, what does this have to do with anything? It's just so stupid. Either that, or I'm just not with it, and in that case, I'm happy to stay here on the fringe and listen to Bread. <br />
<br />
Alrighty then, so will I see <em>V/H/S</em> (2012)? I'm sure I'll get around to it. I still really like Ti West, I'm a fan of anthologies, and a few of my friends on Twitter have given the film good notices. We're not bound to ever see another Cronenberg again in this lifetime, so I might as well scooch down and get comfortable. <br />
<br />
David Cronenberg is my favorite director of all time. He is the master of economy in film. George Romero (director of my favorite film, <em>Dawn of the Dead</em>) is a master of interpreting the times (and with zombies!), but Cronenberg is second to none in creating films in which everything—right down to the Howard Shore collabo—is deliberate. Just watch any of his films, and you can see that nothing is wasted. You probably already know this.<br />
<br />
In time, I think the cream will rise to the top, and to the occasion, and we'll see films that are not just vanity projects, but thoughtful messengers that carry the agenda through to the final scare. I just can't quite put my money on it yet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Camiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965245279374068687noreply@blogger.com