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IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! The Wolfman

Logo courtesy Netflix.  No logos were harmed in the creation of this banner.

{No audio this week on account of my own lycanthropic rampage.}

There was a time when movie studios didn’t mind being associated with the unusual and the macabre. For years, Universal Studios seemed rather proud of its men becoming monsters. Bela Legosi inhabited the castle and cloak of Count Dracula, Boris Karloff took a couple bolts to the neck to bring audiences the creature of Doctor Frankenstein, and Lon Cheney inspired generations of furries to come by sprouting hair in odd places as The Wolfman. Oscar-winner and character actor staple Benicio Del Toro is a huge fan of Cheney (the actor, not the Dick) and helped bring a new version of this creature feature to movie theatres in 2010. If the production behind the scenes had kept its act together, it might have gone over better.

Courtesy Universal Pictures

It’s 1890, and our hero is Lawrence Talbot, an actor who spends half his time on stage and the other half looking for the hidden treasure at the bottom of a bottle of scotch. He gets word that his brother was savagely murdered near his ancestral home outside the sleepy English country hamlet called Blackmoor. Given his emotional connection to his brother and the heartfelt pleas of his would-be sister-in-law, he sets out to uncover what happened, even if that means putting up with his eccentric and possibly violently sociopathic father. During his investigation he gets jumped and bitten by a brutal and enigmatic creature. While the wound mysteriously heals, the process takes the better part of a month, and before you know it, the moon is full again againd Lawrence is growing hair in some very odd places, to say nothing of different bone configurations, more dense muscles and claws that can tear a man’s head clean from his body.

When we see the transformation take hold of our hero, it’s a decent blend of prosthetics, CGI and del Toro giving the role his all. Good sound design makes the cracking of knuckles and sprouting of teeth wince-inducing, playing into the overarching themes of horror and monstrosity. In a similar vein, while you may go into a movie about a wolfman expecting some blood, be aware that this one is full of gore, from gruesome dismemberments to the titular Wolfman chowing down on a hapless victim without the benefit of an after-dinner mint. The movie isn’t all that interested in taking prisoners or pandering to the squeamish, which is a point in its favor.

Courtesy Universal Pictures
They have some good chemistry.

The other thing The Wolfman has going for it is some pretty fine casting. Del Toro is a force to be reckoned with on his own, but Sir Anthony Hopkins very nearly steals the show as Talbot’s father. Instead of going full-on Hannibal Lecter from the start, his growth into the affable madness for which he’s become famous is a slow one, the climax all the more satisfying for the build-up. Emily Blunt and Hugo Weaving, as the love interest and the driven Scotland Yard inspector respectively, also slowly become more interesting as the film proceeds after somewhat placid introductions. Ms Blunt’s character in particular seems to defy the ‘damsel in distress’ thing many monster movies like to invoke, and I enjoyed seeing a woman act in a brave and determined manner without it feeling forced or contrived. It made sense, which is unfortunately more than I can say for the narrative structure of the film.

Unfortunately for the actors and special effects crew, the plot and script of the movie are kind of all over the place. It never really comes entirely off the rails in a bad way, but some story points happen too soon, some elements are a little out of place or awkwardly spliced into the flow of the story or some characters are too incidental to justify their screen time. The overall effect leaves one feeling the movie was cobbled together, but as the story isn’t incoherent, it’s more disconcerting than disappointing. I never quite felt like The Wolfman let me down, but I also felt it never truly lived up to its potential. Granted, when breathing new life into a classic you don’t necessarily want to reinvent the silver bullet. But being a troubled production with changes in directors and musicians and whatnot, it certainly could have turned out a lot worse, and when it’s firing on all cylinders it works very well indeed.

Courtesy Universal Pictures
“Hello, Lawrence.”

I was immediately reminded of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, the 1992 Francis Ford Coppola movie that did for classic vampires what this one does for classic werewolves. There as well as here, we have lurid romantic drama juxtaposed with gruesome violence and shameless bloodletting, and while The Wolfman didn’t have Dracula‘s pervasive sexuality, it also wasn’t saddled with a wooden Keanu Reeves. And come to think of it, Anthony Hopkins starred in both pictures, and a venerable character actor brought the eponymous creature to life. So if you enjoyed Bram Stoker’s Dracula, The Wolfman is right up your alley. They’re both a little over the top, and both suffer from some flaws in terms of production, pacing and overall presentation, but they are both a bloody good time.

Josh Loomis can’t always make it to the local megaplex, and thus must turn to alternative forms of cinematic entertainment. There might not be overpriced soda pop & over-buttered popcorn, and it’s unclear if this week’s film came in the mail or was delivered via the dark & mysterious tubes of the Internet. Only one thing is certain… IT CAME FROM NETFLIX.

Book Review: Double Dead

Courtesy Abaddon Books

Ever wake up on the wrong side of the bed? It’s terrible. You’re bleary-eyed, groggy, sore from where your spouse has been elbowing you in the ribs all night to stop your snoring… and you’re starving. It’s that stomach-gnawing hunger you just can’t shake until you’ve devoured half the pantry. If that sounds familiar, you’ll immediately relate to the protagonist of Chuck Wendig’s debut novel Double Dead. Excepting of course that Coburn’s a bloodsucking fiend.

That’s not hyperbole. When we meet Coburn, there’s no question that he’s a monster. Vampirism has not turned him into an upper-class snob or a glittery mewling fangless stalker; Coburn the vampire’s an asshole. He knows it. He revels in it. It was what made his nights so much fun until he woke up in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. He hooks up with an RV full of humans heading to the West Coast and, being no fool, volunteers to protect them in exchange for the occasional nibble. Better than getting torn limb from limb and your brains eaten, right?

On the surface, Double Dead is deceptively simple. It’s the sort of premise fans of the horror genre and zombie fiction will find immediately appealing. Diving into it, though, we quickly find these dark waters run very deep. Sure, there are a couple characters who get picked off here and there because it’s the end of the world and everything, but many of them have enough dimension and living, breathing presence that its clear there’s more going on than a simple monster mash-up.

I can’t say it’s for everybody, though. The squeamish will want to avoid it, and be forewarned that Chuck is his usual (and in my opinion, delightfully) profane self. But chances are, being a novel about zombies with a vampire as its driving force, you know already if Double Dead is interesting to you or not. I challenge you, though, to find another zombie apocalypse yarn with a Wal*Mart cult of cannibals, wilderness fortifications manned by juggalos and the scariest thing in a pink bathrobe you’ll ever encounter.

Fedora Felon

Courtesy HBO
You are not, nor will you ever be, Don Draper. Stop it.

Guys, listen. It’s time we talked.

Before there’s any misunderstandings, I must confess: I love my fedora. I’m on my second one since discovering I can look half-decent in one. My first traveled to all sorts of places on my head, across oceans and up mountains. The second part of my confession is that I’ve also worn it in entirely the wrong way.

It’s a dark hat, and I’ve worn it with light colors. I’ve put it on my head without wearing a collared shirt. Hell, I’ve even had the idiotic temerity to wear it with shorts.

I’ve done my best to curb these atrocities against good taste, and I encourage anybody reading this to do the same.

You may think that wearing a fedora makes you classy no matter what you’re wearing. This is a lie. The fedora only makes you look classy if you were in classic wear to begin with. A blazer & slacks, button-down and tie, even a long coat that’s well taken care of contributes to an overall better look provided the rest of you is put together as well. And believe it or not, under most circumstances, it’s rude to keep it on once you’re indoors.

Yeah, guys. I’m saying it. If you want to wear the damn hat, at least try to be a little conscious of what you’re topping off with it. Basic fashion sense is not rocket science.

As I said, I’ve been guilty of this before, and I’m trying to change that. I’m sick of this fine item of classic gentleman’s wear getting besmirched by ignorant douches who think slapping a fedora on top of their product-filled Cullen-wannabe hairdo while wearing cargo shorts, sandals and a t-shirt with the words “The Man” and an arrow pointing up with “The Legend” with a downward arrow underneath is cool.

It’s not cool, bro. You look like a tool.

Go with a baseball cap for your favorite sports team or other affiliated mascot. It’ll be cheaper, you’ll be easier to identify and the poor fedora will be spared one more sneer or look of disgust. Don’t let the hat suffer for your sins. It really isn’t fair. What has the hat ever done to you?

Think about it. Think of the hats. Please stop their suffering and the suffering of others. Before it’s too late.

Write What You Want

Bard by BlueInkAlchemist, on Flickr

Let’s keep it simple.

Should you finish what you start? Yes.

If you’re braining yourself on a wall, should you continue? No.

Let’s say you’re me and you’re trying to stay on top of this whole writing thing while about a bazillion other things are going on. Dayjob, domicile maintenance, restocking pantries, getting fresh booze. If writing isn’t your primary vocation, you’ll have even less of this elusive thing called ‘free time’ from which to carve out the precious moments in which you make words appear from nothingness. You should spend it writing, not agonizing over whether or not you want to cause yourself pain through writing.

You see, you’re not always going to love what you write. In fact, there are times when you’re going to hate it. Maybe you’re just sick of a work in general, or perhaps you’re kicking yourself in the gonads for a particular aspect of it. The opening may slog, the characters may feel uninteresting, there’s no tension, the action has no bite to it, so on and so forth. Whatever the reason, opening that file or notebook now fills you with a profound sense of dread and/or nausea.

Yes, writing is work and work means not always doing what you want but rather what you must. But be honest with yourself. It may be time to put your project aside and strike up another. There may be a fundamental flaw that, given your proximity to the work, you’re simply not seeing.

The important thing is that you don’t stop writing. And while scribbling on cocktail napkins or rambling in a blog is all well & good, you need to keep up with your primary area of focus, be it speculative fiction or mouth-watering recipes. Write what you want when you can, and just like you shouldn’t be afraid to try something new, you also shouldn’t be afraid to put something aside that just isn’t working. You can always come back to it later. And who knows? Maybe those old ideas can be pulled into something new, provided they don’t turn into a lead weight that drags the whole thing down into the depths of the Stygian pit.

More on that later.

Flash Fiction Challenge: Three Random Photos

Even psychopath’s have emotions if you dig deep enough    :implants and extentions!small valley

Courtesy Ye Olde Terribleminds Prompte


He’d first caught a glimpse of her true form after two years in the lock-up.

They couldn’t fool him. Words like ‘hospital’ and ‘mental ward’ were kindly terms for ‘prison’. He was a prisoner. He couldn’t remember why they kept him here, feeding him chunks of dog food in sewage gravy, denying him his shoelaces and talking to him like he was five years old. But he hated it. He hated every second of it.

Every once in a while, there had been peace; moments that blended together into a meaningless lump of dulled senses, vague lukewarm sentiment and pithy reinforcement from the Beamer-drivers in charge. He remembered week or month-long stretches of time in which he felt calm but not himself, like he was always wearing earmuffs and a thick, gauzy veil. They would call it ‘happy’ but he considered that too strong a word; no strong emotion applied at all when he felt that way. ‘Normal’ was an even more bogus term they tossed around. It never lasted. They kept trying to put him back there, though, with upped dosages and increased voltage and longer group therapy sessions.

And then he saw her.

It had just been out of the corner of his eye, at first. A glimmer, a phantasm, a touch of whispered laughter. As time went on he’d see another wisp, get a longer view of what may have been smoke, hear her voice over his shoulder more clearly. At first he told himself he was hallucinating, that it was the drugs or something. But she became harder and harder to ignore. She’d touch his shoulders in group, brush past him in the hall, even visit him in bed at night only to leave him alone in the morning with sweat and sticky sheets. By that point nobody could convince him that she was fake. How could the only good thing left in his life be imaginary?

Her presence brought things into focus. The drugs stopped working. The shock therapy became a distant thing, pushed aside by her presence. He’d burst out laughing in group because she whispered something funny in his ear. He wanted to be with her so much it hurt, but it was something they’d never allow. So even before she told him how to do it, he was thinking of escaping.

When he threw a chair at the small, old-fashioned television, people were surprised. The tube tossed sparks in a really impressive fashion, and once they died out he saw what he needed on the floor. Orderlies came running in, a couple with syringes and one with a taser. He wasn’t going to let them stop him. He scooped up the biggest shard of glass from the floor, and when the stun-gun guy came at him, he opened up a long bloody hole in the orderly’s scrubs. There were screams and more blood and before he knew it he had one of the nurses by the throat, screaming for the door to open as he held the glass to her pulse. The weak men obeyed and he was free.

He ran through the corridors to find the stairs. He wasn’t sure where to go at first, then he saw her beckoning him upwards. He took the stairs two at a time and when the door opened, sunlight washed over him. Blinded for a moment, he held up his bloody hand as his eyes adjusted. Apparently they had lied to him. He wasn’t in a hospital downtown.

He was on the mountain trail where he’d met his wife.

The memory flooded back with razor-sharp clarity. The view was gorgeous, spreading out below him like a green and brown carpet. He’d been hiking the trail and found her sitting off to the side with a sprained ankle and a busted bike. He’d let her lean on him as he carried them both down the mountain. They visited the mountain many times before and after they were married.

Things were good for a while. Before the miscarriage, the booze, the fights and the tears. Before she’d get angry at him for so much as looking at another woman. Before he started having trouble holding a job. Before he’d come home to find her in the tub with a glass of wine, a bottle of pills and wrists slashed open.

He’d never understood why she’d left him alone like that. Didn’t everybody have trouble with relationships? Weren’t all marriages rocky at times? He’d told her they could work it out. Why didn’t she believe him? He’d wept for her, wrapped her in their wedding-gift bedsheets, carried her outside and set the house on fire. The judge had ruled ‘not guilty due to mental defect’ and that was how he’d been in that hospital.

Only she hadn’t left him alone. She had been there, smiling at him, laying with him, reminding him of the good times they’d lost but could have again. And now she toyed with him, laughing a little, beckoning him closer. He took uncertain steps, the gravel beneath his feet not the familiar gravel of the mountain trail. Not anymore. The trees were replaced by air conditioning units and TV arials. The valley was no longer full of forests but now full of cars and, directly beneath him, started gawking people. Cars with flashing lights would arrive.

And there she was, somehow floating off the edge of the hospital. Her smile was radiant. He could see her clearly, now, when before it had been just a glimmer. She held out her arms. Her wrists were whole. He wanted to badly to lose himself in her embrace, forget all the darkness, be her husband again. He stepped towards her.

“Be with me,” she whispered.

His feet touched air. His body tilted forward. He was still reaching for her. Maybe she was really still waiting for him. He smiled on the way down.

Be it heaven or hell, he’d find her.