The fading days of summer have just turned out to be an absolute Tentacle-palooza. First, we had the announcement of the DVD release of the Lovecraftian “Closet Space”, Then there was the blockbuster announcement of Guillermo Del Toro and James Cameron teaming up to do “At the Mountains of Madness”. Now, we have news that October will also see the release of Kaare Andrews’ What-The-Hell-Is-That-In-The-Clouds “Altitude”.
Back when I was too young to drive myself anywhere but old enough to ride my bike places, I would, on most any summer day, trek on down to the old Hampton-Illinois library. You could usually find me in one of a couple of places: either somewhere in with the science-fiction books or in the religion section. Religion might sound like a curious section for a boy barely in double digit years to be poking around in, but there was one book that constantly held my fascination. Up on one of the higher shelve – high enough for me to need a step stool to get to – was a small red and black book, barely bigger than a paperback.
Its title, one simple word: Demonology.
Maybe there was just something about my Roman Catholic upbringing that drew me into that mysterious world of candlelit rituals and spiritual warfare. Maybe I’ve always been attracted to the darker elements of life. Whatever the reason, it makes me excited about movies like “the Last Exorcism”.
There is probably no other movie franchise out there today in more dire need of parody than the Twilight series. From the tops of its sparkly vampire head to the tips of its sullen Mary-Sue toes, everything about the series screams, “RIDICULE ME!” So, it was to my great delight when I found out that someone was going to do just that. There was much joy in Mudville for more than a few of my genre cronies and myself at the news. OK, so it was being made by the same soulless bastards who squeezed out such cinematic rectal prolapses like “Epic Movie”… and “Date Movie”… and “Disaster Movie” ands gods help us all, “Meet the Spartans”. As I’ve said before – and have sometimes have to be reminded – you can’t always judge a movie by the director’s previous work.
Just look at Uwe Boll… O.K., bad example.
M. Night Shamaylan.
More than a few months ago, I was discussing with the dearly departed (for the greener pastures of cable TV) Devin Pike an idea for a screenplay. We went through most of the beats for it, skipped a few but generally went through the whole of it over hot wings and beer. It would be a hard sci-fi actioner that could easily branch out into sequels. Nine to five would be a thing of the past for us.
Where’s that movie now?
With the exception of a couple of scenes, I tend to think it’s dragging it’s way through the tenebrous passages of my brain, one foot chewed off and with a really bad shoulder cramp, lost on its way to my fingers. They say that in Hollywood everybody has a script. In Dallas, there are at least two people. Do we have a movie? No. That gives the filmmakers behind “Lethal Obsession” a leg up on the rest of us.
If you’re like me and have lived in Texas for any length of time – or even a state or an area that has lots of country music on the radio – you’ve probably heard David Allan Coe’s “You Never Even Called Me By My Name.” Good chance you heard it before and didn’t even know it. It’s that song with the monologue in the middle about what makes the perfect country and western song (in no particular order: trains, mama, rain, pick-up trucks and getting drunk). Well, for me I could do a little monologue about what makes the perfect horror movie. Sure, you could have blood and gore and boobs and dread and whatnot, but there’s still one thing missing from that formula, one thing that keeps it from being perfect.