Movie Showdown #2: The Dead Zone (1983) vs. Arachnophobia (1990)

The Dead Zone is one of those movies that I have been meaning to see for a while. I'd be going about my internet travels and would keep hearing about it, encountering the film's poster featuring young Christopher Walken's eyes staring frighteningly out into nothing, on movie websites and the like. It is, of course, based on the Stephen King novel of the same name, which I read in high-school, and the concept has always intrigued me.

On the other hand, I remember seeing Arachnophobia as a kid and being absolutely terrified of it. Mainly because the spiders that they used in the movie, whilst foreign to American audiences, are actually very common in Australia-- the dreadful huntsman that spins no web but moves with frightening speed.

So here goes nothing, round-two of the genre movie showdown.

The Dead Zone (1983):

David Cronenberg directed this so I was expecting quite a lot. His version of The Fly was horrifying and fun, and who could forget the head exploding scene in Scanners? It saddens me to say that The Dead Zone was actually pretty crappy. Cronenberg doesn't get to use much of his cool 80s special effects (save for a scene involving suicide via pair of barber scissors), and Walken is terribly miscast as American everyman, Johnny Smith.

About the only element worth sticking around for is Martin Sheen as the sociopathic Senatorial candidate, Greg Stillson. One scene, a psychic flash-forward (something Walken experiences whenever he touches someone), is particularly memorable. In it, Sheen (now President of the United States), forces the Secretary of Defence to help him launch nukes at Iran with the nuclear football. When the Vice President protests, telling everyone in the room that they don't need to resort to warfare but can find a diplomatic solution, Sheen says "It's too late, Mr. Vice President, the nukes are already flying. Hallelujah!", and it's a piece of maniacal brilliance that contrasts brilliants with Sheen's turn as the fatherly President Bartlett in The West Wing.

Also, I like the musical stings that shriek on the soundtrack whenever Walken has one of his psychic future visions.

Despite such positive traits, The Dead Zone was slow moving and moments in the movie's logic are actually quite silly if you think about them.

Arachnophobia (1990):

A lot of people may take umbrage with me saying this, but Arachnophobia is just about the perfect creature feature as far as I'm concerned. It could just be that I'm terrified of spiders and therefore the whole thing has a kinetic, anxious energy that only arachnophobes experience, but in the realm of subjectivity (where movie reviews live) that doesn't make it any less good, does it?

The best moments are when the spiders (all real for the most part-- this was before the days of CGI) creep into houses of the well-meaning country folk and hide in horrible places: a tub of buttery popcorn, inside a fluffy slipper, on top of a shower-head, etc. The fun is in not knowing when the spider will strike and there are many moments where you think it will, only to be denied. It's similar to the Paranormal Activity movies in that respect, you spend the whole movie waiting for the scare that doesn't come until the final act, and by that time you're so fraught with anxiety that the thought of having to turn off the light to go to sleep later on is unbearable.

There are also lots of clever scenes in Arachnophobia. At one point in the beginning of the movie, the big mean General spider gets picked up by a bird that flies off with it clasped in its claws. A long-shot shows the bird soaring across the country town, but when it reaches the middle of the frame, the bird stops and falls as if it has hit an invisible wall (or dome if you are so inclined), dead from spider bite.

And there is a line at the end of the film that is just hilarious. Jeff Daniels, having had a really bad time living out in the country, moves back to the city with his family and says something along the lines of how much he hates the country. This was back in the time when production companies weren't so worried about pissing off sections of the audience, and so instead of our city-boy protagonist learning the value of simple-living, we have him fleeing and essentially saying "Fuck the country, and fuck country folk! But most of all, fuck spiders!"

You should watch:

Arachnophobia.

Adventures in writing #1: Leaving Bag-End.

I've decided that if I'm going to take this writing thing seriously, I need to have a more active voice out in the cyber community. I need to talk about my writing, which I was hesitant to do because I'm an amateur and don't know what I could possibly have to say on the subject. So this post is me strapping on my back-pack, grabbing a long wooden walking staff and having one last seed cake before opening a door to a scary and exciting new world.

Expect more updates in this section of Genre Equality...Expect a lot more.

First off, I have successfully written two short-stories. The first one, titled Coming Around, is about a retired and almost elderly undercover cop whose pride leads to his disastrous downfall, which comes in the form of an encounter with someone from his undercover life, someone utterly unexpected.

 The second story is Mr. Skittles, which opens with a girl lying in her bed, terrified by a local urban legend floating around her schoolyard-- the sinister tale of Mr. Skittles, an ice-cream man who drowned in the lake, now back from the dead and hungry, hungry for little children. Although it has all the trappings of a ghostie story, the ending is something you might not expect.

Good prose is a psychic connection between composer and reader that transcends time and location. Writing is a muscle that needs to be worked-out if you ever expect to be any good. It seems embarrassing to admit this, but whilst writing Coming Around, I thought that I was punching out prose like the best of them (Dickens, King, Harris etc), but upon reading through it in the editing phase, I was shocked at just how clunky it was. My girlfriend's first comment upon reading it was 'It's good, but it just seems so...scripted...'

That's the thing about art, when you are engaging in creating it, it's so fresh in your mind, and you think that you're hot-shit, you think you are getting all your awesomely unique ideas down on the page.

 But, here's the thing, you don't ever record all of those good ideas-- shit you're lucky if you even get fifty percent. It's not until you let the idea fade out of your consciousness, let the core of it become but a distant memory, and then go back to what you have written, that you realise that maybe you're not in the same ballpark as King or Dickens, shit you're not even in the same continent!

Mr. Skittles is better written than Coming Around-- we humans are good at learning from mistakes-- and I'm actually pretty satisfied with the finished product. However, there are still little niggling things that I would love to change, little ticks of writing that I have since incorporated into my latest story, which I will only talk about when the first draft is finished.

Between writing, doing my last university assignments, teaching my last days of a practicum placement, and researching Autism Spectrum Disorder for a job that I really hope I might be able to get, I've also been reading a lot about the world of self-publishing through Amazon Kindle. I submitted Coming Around to an Australian horror magazine, Midnight Echo, and haven't heard back (and rightly so), and I'm thinking that self-publishing might be good way to go with fiction. I'm not convinced just yet, but I will keep you all informed.

Also, if you are a writer and you have had your work published (on a blog, on the kindle store, or otherwise), please let me know. I would love to read it, and I'll give you honest feedback. We writers have gotta stick together you know, I heard there are things much fouler than orcs out there.

- Adam.

Movie Showdown #1: Gravity vs. White House Down

Gravity vs. White House Down

   So I'm reading A Storm of Swords now and it's taking a bit longer than I anticipated. I've decided to create a new segment wherein I compare two genre movies that I have seen recently and declare a winner, just to give you guys something to read in the meantime. I saw Gravity in 3D with a friend of mine, and then we decided to sneak into the late session of White House Down, by the guy who made Independence Day. Not going to bother with plot synopses, you can use Wikipedia for that shiz. 

 Only one movie can walk away victorious, so here goes:

Gravity (2013)

   Australian film critic, David Stratton, called this the best science-fiction movie since 2001: A Space Odyssey. I don't know about that, but fuck me, Gravity was amazing.

 I got into a semi-argument with someone on Facebook over the merits of this movie, which started because I suggested to a person, who didn't like it, that they should have seen it in 3D. The reply was along the lines of 'If a movie needs 3D to be good, it's not a good movie', which sort of reeks of pretentiousness to me, but hey, it takes all kinds to run the world.

 The point I was trying to make is that Gravity is all about the spectacle. The visual effects are amazing-- it actually feels like you are in space. Sure there is some clunky dialogue, and critics are taking some supreme umbrage with the whole 'getting over loss' subplot (which isn't as bad as they make out), but you can't win them all, and I had a great time.

Gravity is a gorgeous and intense movie. The tension sort of grips you and just keeps on running for ninety minutes. 

 Oh and Bullock is actually kind of sublime in this. I'm not usually a fan, but in Gravity she has this amazing sort of presence that feels real when it needs to be and angelic when it needs to be. Clooney is good too, but I'm harbouring a little man-crush on him, so I think he's good in everything (especially movies that contain the words, 'From', 'Dusk', and 'Dawn', in the title).

White House Down (2013)

    This is the latest from Roland Emmerich who you can tell jizzes in his pants over Destruction Caught On Tape television shows. This really is a ridiculous movie, but it's one that is so ridiculous that it's fun. Expect gunfights, explosions and so-bad-its-good writing.

 One thing that really stands out is a motif of the saying 'The pen is mightier than the sword', whereby the nicotine gum chewing President (played by Jamie Foxx) believes that political change can be achieved by the pen, and the antagonist believes that power and violence (the sword) is actually the only thing that leads to significant change. The two engage in debate about this throughout the movie, and to give you an idea of just how ridiculous White House Down gets, at one point the President of the United States stabs the antagonist with a pen whilst shouting "I choose the pen!" I'm not sure whether Emmerich realises the irony in this statement and is playfully satirising the American action-movie, or whether it's supposed to be genuine, but it's all part of the charm.

 White House Down is American action-movie crap, but it's entertaining and it's rather conventionally shot (no shaky cam or quick zooms), which is refreshing.

You Should Go And See...

Gravity.

   Gravity is the hands-down winner here. There is just no way you can beat the visual effects in this film, or the unbelievable tension created by such a simple idea, magnificently executed.

            

Doctor Sleep

Doctor Sleep by Stephen King

     I've read two books by Stephen King that have genuinely frightened me. Pet Semetary was one ("sometimes dead is bettah"), and The Shining is the other. Imagine my delight when, after two decidedly un-horrific novels, Under the Dome and 11/22/64, King announced Doctor Sleep, a sequel to The Shining and a self-proclaimed return to 'balls-to-the-wall horror'.

     When he was a much younger man, King's prose was tight and filled with two things that made him hot literary shit: bubbling suspense and a unique voice that set him apart from the Grishams and the Koontzs. He was the master of the slow build. Characters meticulously constructed over hundreds of pages, were dumped into utterly horrific situations and the results were immensely satisfying. There’s an episode of Friends where Rachel has to sleep with her copy of The Shining in the freezer because it’s just too terrifying to keep on her bedside table.

One night, in the middle of Pet Sematary, I was dropping my girlfriend off at her house and my headlights illuminated a strange cat, eyes-a-glow, on her fence rail. I audibly gasped, much to my girlfriend’s amusement. At his best, King has a way of sinking under your skin and gently prodding you with long skeletal fingers.

     A lot of critics say that he has lost his edge, and it really does pain me to have to agree with them. Doctor Sleep is no way near the same calibre as The Shining. I suspect that King, like George Lucas and Steven Spielberg, has softened with age. He no longer seems to believe in ending on a down-note. Doctor Sleep is no exception, though the upbeat ending works quite well this time (compared to Under the Dome whereby the mysterious dome was lifted by some simple begging on behalf of the protagonist).

     Okay, I’ve ranted enough about the supposed decline of King’s career. It’s time to get into the meat of Doctor Sleep. The beginning is very good. An opening bathroom scene is particularly terrifying: 
  

The woman from Room 217 was there, as he had known she would be. She was sitting naked on the toilet with her legs spread and her pallid thighs bulging. Her greenish breasts hung down like deflated balloons. The patch of hair below her stomach was gray. Her eyes were also gray, like steel mirrors. She saw him, and her lips stretched back in a grin.

     
        The middle slows right down and actually becomes tedious. There were a lot of chummy, average-American ‘jinkies-how-are-we-gonna-solve-this-mystery?’ scenes that sort of made me cringe to read. The only exception being a particularly moving scene where Dan Torrance tenderly aids an elderly nursing-home patient in dying.

     The ending was actually really good. Very, very, good, in-fact. I won’t give anything away, except to say that it’s quite dramatic, quite moving and shows a maturity on the subject of alcoholism that only a legitimate alcoholic could really muster with any authenticity. This pushes Doctor Sleep into literature territory, and genuinely so. I recommend reading this book, just don’t go in with ‘shining’ expectations. 

A note on Breaking Bad

A few disclaimers:

1. Here be SPOILERS

and

2. Looooooonnnnnnggggggg post. Too long if you ask me. If you get bored and distracted by a 'Justin Beiber doing shitty things to the people who made him famous' video, I wouldn't blame you.

_________________________________________________________________

    

    This blog is primarily concerned with prose genre fiction, but occasionally (and hopefully rarely), I may feel the need to comment on genre fiction in other mediums. Breaking Bad is a classic example of the kind of genre fiction that gets this writer's heart a-racin' (or a-ricin, as it were).

     A Western first and foremost that oozes blood and violence, but also drips with clever dialogue and general badassery ("I am the one who knocks!"), Breaking Bad also has something to say about the human condition and that shadowy, strangely malleable, but universal part of it, morality. The reader (or viewer in this case) was presented with several significant questions along Walt's journey. Is Walt a sympathetic character or a villain? Can he be redeemed for his actions? Is his death necessary for such redemption?

     Not even a week ago, we were presented with Breaking Bad's coup de grace in the form of the anagramily titled episode Felina. An episode that many shivered to watch, both in anticipation for much needed closure to a half-decade long narrative, and in dread that such a staple in the 'good television' diet was going to disappear forever. Forget a movie version, or a reunion show-- Vince Gilligan explicitly stated in several interviews that Breaking Bad, unlike countless other television shows, was a closed story.

     I have conflicted thoughts on the finale. My initial reaction to it was disappointment. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be some literary hipster, proudly proclaiming that I was into Breaking Bad before it was cool (I wasn't). Nor are my views set in concrete. I'm sure that my opinion of the finale could potentially (and almost certainly will) change on a repeat viewing.

     The first issue I had related to closure. Again, don't get me wrong, closure was achieved between most of the characters for me (though at times it felt a little rushed). Walt and Skyler? There was a tenderness and finality to their last meeting that was gut-wrenchingly satisfying ("I did it for me. I liked it. I was good at it. And I was really-- I was alive.")   Walt and Jesse? I would have liked a bit more, but ultimately we get the sense that things have been righted between these two.

     But Walt and Walt Jr? Oh dear! Don't you feel like you need more on this? I mean what we get is Walt watching his son come home from school through a glass window. That's it. Will Walt Jr. ever forgive his father? Does he know how much his father loves him? I just don't feel like I know at this point, and I also feel that I deserve an answer, damn-it! I feel like there could have been one more episode dealing with the aftermath of the whole shebang.

     My next issue is with Walt's redemption. A recurring motif throughout fiction (to the point where it is almost an honest to goodness cliche) is that anti-heroes can only achieve redemption if they die. I'm reminded of a scene in The Cider House Rules where the father of a young woman, who just happens to be continually raping her, achieves redemption for his actions by sincerely apologising and then promptly dying. When this character apologised during the movie, I thought to myself 'That's all well and good, pops, but you're an incestual rapist! You're not gonna get out of this alive.'

     I felt the same way about Walter White. He confessed the truth to Skyler, and by doing so, achieved a satisfying level of self-realisation. He even blew Todd's Nazi Uncle's head-off at the mere mention of the missing millions in cash. Walt has realised the error of his ways, but he has committed too many sins, he has shed too much blood, and, as a result, he still has to die. It was an unwritten contract that formed around the time he let Jane choke on her own vomit, or maybe the time he poisoned Brock.

     I'm not in the habit of justifying wrongful deeds. What I will suggest though is that it could very well be possible for a human being-- who has done terrible things-- to achieve redemption without dying. I'd like to see this explored in genre fiction at some point.

     Of course, I can't really complain too much. There are too many complainers out there-- people who decry artists for perceived disappointment despite not contributing artistically to anything themselves. It's my sincere belief that unless you're willing to put your own work up there for the world to see, you should probably shut-the-fuck-up about the work of other people.    

     Breaking Bad was one hell of a ride. It should be praised because it achieved one thing above all else. It got regular people (people who-- god love them-- don't know the difference between the terms literacy and literature), talking about morality. I've actually had conversations with the most unlikely of people about whether or not Walter White is evil or a victim of unfortunate and tragic circumstance. Such conversations between regular people and those that spent too much time and money on a liberal arts education are a good thing. A profoundly good thing, indeed.