Crimson Peak by Nancy Holder

A confession: during my first viewing of Crimson Peak in a theater I was, at the time, subtly deflated. Guillermo del Toro, such a creative artistic behemoth, had co-written and directed a Gothic romance with shades of unmistakable horror. And yet the experience for me (and for others) felt somewhat tepid.

I stress this was only my first viewing, riding coattails with weighted expectations.

In the time elapsed since then, my appreciation of Crimson Peak didn’t just grow, but began to haunt me in the same way our protagonist is haunted: the color, tone, and imagery all conspiring to make the journey a thing for the ages. Not intended to terrify, Crimson Peak instead invokes both an aching nostalgia and emotional frisson … responses seldom generated in the modern film-making epoch.

Nancy Holder’s adaptation in novel form encapsulates the film flawlessly. There’s a graceful sweep of syntax, a haunting melancholy to proceedings that arouses Fernando Velazquez’s poignant score. Here, the author manages to nail each scene with enough restrained nuance it’s like experiencing the tale in a more intimate (and blackly adorned) Gothic setting. A perfect parenthesis to the source material from which it sprung.

 

Hollow House by Greg Chapman.

The author under the spotlight here needs no introduction. Greg Chapman has worked for years now to shed light on the many mediums of horror, both through his own work (novellas, illustrations, and design work), and the work of others; being a vocal mouthpiece for the literary achievements of friends and colleagues and helping to establish horror as a serious genre both in his native Australia and abroad. Earlier this year, Omnium Gatherum saw fit to publish Greg’s first stab at novel length fiction. Already, Hollow House has picked up some favorable reviews. 

Without delving too deeply into plot territory (the bare bones of this can found both in the novel’s description and the many assessments floating around), let’s examine instead both the positives and pitfalls. In Hollow House, the scene is set with an archetypal haunted house at the center of the maelstrom: Kemper House on Willow Street. Surrounding the house, numerous players (the immediate neighbors) are drawn into a spiraling web of death, possession, and desires made manifest. In effect, Greg is taking the inhuman aspect (the house), and using it as a springboard to see how his character's behave and interact. If I could compare this formula to other works, we can see a similar method explored in novels such as Richard Bachman’s The Regulators, and the darker fantasy of both Bloch and Bradbury.

The positive aspects of this novel derive from the human element; Greg has sketched out numerous damaged characters that are a real-life echo one would find on any suburban street: angst ridden teenagers, a retired Army Vet, and the conventional large family. Witnessing how they cope with a house of horrors is an entertaining testament to Greg’s burgeoning storytelling prowess. However, there are pitfalls, and this is often the generic make-up of certain gambits. For instance, opening up proceedings with something as arbitrary as a dead body. In addition to this, having a reporter on the prowl to uncoil layers of information has its DNA firmly entrenched in dozens of horror films.

Small drawbacks aside, this is a novel showcasing genuine heart with some adequate turns of phrase. Above all, it’s a competent signpost of what to expect. With Hollow House, Greg Chapman is merely laying down the load-bearing foundations of a universe of horror to come.  

      

Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon

A small declaration: the film adaptation of Wonder Boys is one of my all-time cherished film experiences. And I suspect you will probably hear the same thing from many writers, both of the prolific and broad ilk, in addition to the hermetic and oblique. Belonging to a sub-tribe of people who spend a lot of time in the shadows can promote a feeling of loneliness or longing. Fortuitously, along comes a major motion picture with major star power where that sub-tribe is put on show for all the world to see: their intellects and foibles; their addictions and over-abundant capacity to love. Although I don’t know for sure, I'll wager there were wordsmiths all over the world celebrating Wonder Boys. A writers time in the spotlight is brief, and any air-time at all, no matter how momentary, is a brief salve to that ever-present loneliness.

So why did it take such a long time to come around to Michael Chabon’s original novel? Primarily, the man dabbles in genres I seldom haunt. Which is a pithy excuse. Though I think it bears mentioning the author seldom writes about subjects that interest me: (topics such as Judaism, spiritual heritage, among other things). However, something I do know as a certain truth: one's storytelling aptitude can eclipse any theme on show. Or, put more bluntly: an elegant turn of insightful phrase can be the sole reason I plow through a novel, plot be damned. In any case, I am an undergraduate of Michael Chabon’s prose, but foresee steaming ahead with his entire resume.

For those yet to read the novelization, Wonder Boys (for the most part) adheres to all the clever comedy and drama up there in Curtis Hanson’s interpretation. Writer and teacher Grady Tripp is a likable protagonist because he’s all too human. Whether we as a species like to admit it or not, a huge number of us are entirely prone to making mistakes and dabbling in narcissism. And Grady Tripp, over the course of a weekend, frequently does both. But he does so in way that is endearing because we, the observers of his headspace, are given an intimate glimpse into private thought processes; the entire lynchpin of the novel medium itself. (And the reason many books feel like marriages, whereas movies can feel like one-night-stands; but that’s a whole different editorial). Complimenting Grady Tripp in his downfall from literary lion to underdog are characters every bit as flawed: James Leer, Hannah Green, and Terry Crabtree. Except for minor deviations in hair color and attire, what you experience on the page is every bit as nuanced as the laid back performances given by Michael Douglas, Katie Holmes, and Robert Downey Jr, respectively. Filtered through the ringer of Chabon’s quirky prose, I would go so far as to say these individuals are even more entertaining. I’ve known creatives like these; I’ve broken bread with them and gotten blind drunk. (Although I’ve never shot a dog or carried a tuba).

One thing needs to be said: halfway through this novel is an extended dinner scene, and it was during this interlude where I almost abandoned the novel altogether. Let it be known I loathe dinner scenes in any book. And this one, featuring an immersion into Jewish ritual, is the granddaddy of them all. If you can overcome such hurdles (and I have no doubt some out there will actually find the scene hilarious), then keep on trucking. Regarding the novels third act and climax - Grady Tripp’s epiphany and subsequent redemption - some of the film scenes were altered dramatically … although this is the nature of any adaptation. Cinema is a different language, and translations need to take place.

Wonder Boys as a novel is witty, and it’s absorbent. Sure, the grand appeal here might be a writer writing about writers. But as the old saying goes, somebody has to do it.

Where The Dead Go To Die by Aaron Dries and Mark Allan Gunnels.

After being involved in a community of horror aficionado’s for over a decade, it’s always a treat to come across new voices in the genre – those you can ascertain (without any great prodding) have an instinctual and genuine love for the medium. As all of us working in the field know intimately, purveying the landscape of horror in its written form is a lifelong pursuit, one that begins prematurely and is never entirely abandoned. Although Where The Dead Go To Die is my first introduction to both authors on show, I foresee a permanent relationship forming.

As hinted by the title, this is a novel that tackles a zombie apocalypse – but of type seldom encountered. Here, the carnage is like background music to a greater whole: a whole that sheds a spotlight on the domestic aspect of relationships. Primarily, the novel is a dissection and foreshadowing of how these units respond to an enigmatic infection … and how bonds are forged and weakened by a threat that (although for the most part contained), still looms visceral and menacing in everyday life.

Emily Samuels is a single mother working as a nurse in a hospice interred with the infected. A latent disease, almost a year can transpire before the septic succumb to the labels of Smiler or Bone Eater. During this incubation period, it falls to staff like Emily to ensure this slow transition is tempered with just enough humanity to keep relatives and the populace happy. For in this realm, even the word zombie has been regulated to the shadows; books and movies dealing with the theme subjected to censorship. Of course, there are those who oppose such flagrant liberalism – who frequently picket the hospice and demand the soon-to be-dead have no right to existence. It’s a heady concoction; a deft social commentary echoing Romero’s penchant for the same formula.

Within, the authors have painted a strong protagonist. But overall it’s the supporting characters who steal the more memorable scenes. There’s Emily’s daughter Lucette, a young girl forced to bear intimate witness to her own father’s sluggish demise. There’s Mama Metcalf, a durable member of the staff who briefly takes on the mantle of surrogate mother and grandmother. Inside the hospice, new arrivals are a constant … including young Robbie, a boy whose baptism into the undead is as taboo as it is heartbreaking. Against the backdrop of a snow-laden Chicago Christmas, all the players converge in a showdown of wiles, death, and prejudices.

To give more away here would be an injustice to what lies in store. Though rest assured this is also a novel containing enough graceful and (at times) poetic prose that it reads much like the origami motif the authors have chosen interweave. In essence, a flat piece of paper has been sculpted into a beautiful yet horrific work of art.

Where The Dead Go To Die also contains many lush illustrations by the author.            

Unveiling a cover ...

Severance

This is the second film from British director Christopher Smith I’m putting under the microscope (the first being CREEP only two short reviews ago). A film following immediately after that title in the director’s pantheon, this is Christopher shifting gear from ‘the denizens of the underground tube-world’ to a more sophisticated outdoors romp with comedic stylings. That’s not to say blood isn’t on the menu (on the contrary, it’s delivered in buckets); but Severance is black comedy territory interspersed with some truly unnerving horror in the film’s final stages.  

In the forests of Hungary, the sales division for a military arms corporation are travelling on a bus through twisting mountainous terrain. Boarded by a motley crew of disparate English workers (and one American), their destination is a luxury retreat in the wilds to participate in team building exercises. Right off the cuff, we know we’re in comedy country by the cast alone. There’s Gordon (mildly overweight and bumbling, reminiscent of Nick Frost’s character from Shaun of the Dead); there’s Steve (a young everyman who has a penchant for magic mushrooms); beautiful Maggie (the American), Jill (full of punch lines); and rounding off the ensemble are Billy Harris and Richard the Manager. When their bus encounters a tree blocking access to the road, the driver soon abandons ship, leaving the group completely isolated and in charge of locating the retreat solo ... which they soon do.

The Lodge (old and decrepit), contains documents alluding to its past history: a mental asylum – or perhaps a re-education center for Russian war criminals. Though the true history is never agreed upon, one thing is for certain ... a fresh pie found in the kitchen containing a human tooth is evidence enough they are not alone. When Jill spots a sinister intruder loitering in the bushes later that night, all agree abandoning the Lodge would be a wise course of action ... though not before a game of paintball to ensure at least some team-building activity takes place. What soon follows is carnage, and lots of it, as the group is slowly picked off one at a time by a cabal of bloodthirsty maniacs.

Despite a somewhat meandering middle-act, this is an intelligent romp that balances the precarious juggling act of suspense and humor perfectly. Though Severance is certainly a vehicle for the ‘slasher’ sub-genre, there are just enough amiable twists involved for that particular title to seem somewhat ill-fitting. While gore-hounds will get their subtle fill (decapitations, bear-traps, and torture sequences), there is also a modicum of ‘heart’ facilitated by a gifted cast who seldom put a foot wrong. Also noteworthy are the practical special effects, producing a gritty and stylish element to proceedings complementing the European locale.

Still relatively unknown in some horror circles, Severance is a ride that without question deserves to be mentioned in the same breath as Dog Soldiers, Shaun of the Dead, and The Descent.

Hoffman's Creeper and other Disturbing Tales

For a few years now I’ve been watching Australia’s Cameron Trost – from humble beginnings publishing with Midnight Echo, to his shorter novel Letterbox, and finally acting as midwife and editor-in-chief to Black Beacon Books, an independent publishing venture specializing in mystery, suspense, psychological horror, and the just plain weird. In short, all the niches we’re here to promote. Though still in a stage of infancy, the small press is already showing professional hallmarks by working with a gifted team that includes Greg Chapman (whom I’m sure some of you met at the recent WHC), David Schembri, and Sandra Fowke. With Hoffman’s Creeper, Cameron gives us all the stories that have led him to this point – an imaginative chart showcasing broader influences while at the same time giving rise to his own unique voice.  Here is a snippet of some:

The Ritual.

One of the collections openers is probably its strongest, the tale of a small cadre of female school students who - in order to gain power - turn to thaumaturgy and establish a coven. It’s one containing an amiable twist, with a side of perversion. Foremost, it establishes Trost’s style: a fair heaping of dialogue with subtle mystery in the background like far-off radio noise.

Kangaroo Point.

A kind of reverse-coin approach to mental-illness. Eric Sanderson, while taking the walk home along the path past Kangaroo Point, encounters another man in the act of suicide meditation. With nicely crafted characterization, this is somewhat evocative of King’s tale The Last Rung On the Ladder. Here Cameron weaves the human into horror.

Hoffman’s Creeper

The title tale is also one of the more memorable ... the story of Professor Samuel Hoffman – a professional botanist whose adoration of the plant realm will see him adopt some eccentric (and macabre), practices. Though one could call this a more staid take on Little Shop of Horrors, I found something more here: a perspective of the world that views other species (in this case plant life), humanity’s equal if not better. In the real world it’s a science we are only now beginning to penetrate – just how conscious is the green world surrounding us?

So ... what can we take away from the collection? As a working whole, the stories presented are 'light' dark fiction (some bordering on YA). Though Cameron knows how to construct a clean sentence, the subtle horror provoked – at times - a casual response. A positive method Cameron employs is a kind of fail-safe twist (usually within the closing paragraphs) designed to rock reader's perceptions of what came before. It’s a token technique – one that other writers aspire to but which Trost seems to have mastered.

With any debut collection there will be drawbacks (novice things like show, don’t tell), but for the most part Trost has laid down solid groundwork for future endeavors.


 

The Babadook

Earlier this year, South Australian author Sean Williams posted the trailer to an up-and-coming independent horror excursion called The Babadook. To say my interest piqued immediately was an understatement (not only because filming locations were local), but because the trailer displayed something genuinely unique: a dark, domestic outing rooted in suburbia and spliced with an almost cavalcade feel. Within the first few moments I was under the impression The Babadook might be a ‘footage’ film – if only because what I saw on screen felt so genuine and raw. Several moments later I realized the error, having been momentarily fooled because I was observing real, stylized performances that cut to the bone. Cobble this with an effective score (and a storyline somewhat evocative of literary dark fiction), and you have a film showcasing potential success.

But The Babadook is more than just a success; it’s a triumph of independent film-making.

Shot in Adelaide, Amelia is a widow and single parent raising Samuel – an eccentric, somewhat hyperactive child who’s inability to fit in at school (as well as acclimatize to his own family), is making simple day to day living a chore. Losing her husband in a car accident – a calamity taking place on the drive to give birth to Samuel – has given rise to an existence of alienation and despair. Especially on Samuel’s birthday. Though it’s a challenging relationship, the two still share a close affinity, and Amelia’s attempts to pacify her son’s worsening dreams lead to a nightly story hour of classic fiction: fables from old where the monster is always banished. These are fears that have trickled into the day, and Samuel has taken to designing makeshift wooden weapons in a personal battle with the unseen. Among the books at Amelia’s disposal is one she cannot remember purchasing ... The Babadook – a macabre, beautifully illustrated fairy-tale featuring gaudy pop-ups and sinister rhymes. Once read aloud, the cadence acts as a summons to something beyond the veil.

What shines in The Babadook is not so much the story; it’s not even the more frightening moments. No, what works here are the subtle things employed: the sepia-toned suburbia, the stark performances. Child actor Noah Wiseman is a revelation, displaying sympathy and aversion in equal measure. Our mother and child relationship is rife with magnetism and feels completely genuine. Small, memorable cameo’s appear (most notably Daniel Hershall who played John Bunting in Snowtown), whose presence is concrete despite the brevity of screen time. And lurking behind it all is the domestic component: an absent father looming over proceedings like the dark spirit of the Babadook itself.

Make no mistake, though: this is a film intended to disturb, and those key scenes designed for this (even for individuals schooled in the genre), can be genuinely unnerving. An original creation at times cartoonish, and at times malign, the Babadook reaches from beyond the fabric of another reality to slowly engulf and possess. To get the message across, writer and director Jennifer Kent has employed slick camera work and effective compositing to create an atmosphere where our fears – in this case the dread of a family torn asunder – are duly amplified in a process that goes far beyond the limits of resources at hand. Touching, gritty, and starkly relevant, The Babadook is slow burn horror at its absolute finest.

CREEP

For those familiar with what I look for in the dark cinematic excursion, appraising Creep should come as no surprise. Independent and off the cuff, with a soupcon of sophistication; the kind of film dalliance where passion and ingenuity often takes over from budget constraints or any noticeable studio interference. Released a decade ago and with little fanfare, Creep showcases the talent of then-burgeoning UK director Christopher Smith: the man behind such accomplished efforts as Triangle (2009) and Black Death (2010).   

Through a small epilogue involving sewer-workers, Smith kindly introduces the territory: the London underground ... a dank tunnel-world of labyrinthine train tubes, the human homeless, and sewer cesspools. In short, the perfect stage for calamity. Soon after, we attend a party with young German Kate (Franka Potente – Run Lola Run), who has it on good authority that George Clooney is at a popular club nearby. Though planning to attend with a friend, Kate abandons the party solo ... and subsequently falls asleep en route on a London train platform. Waking up alone – and now imprisoned – Kate is slowly initiated to the denizens of the tube-world and must stay alive until morning.

From first impressions of the poster, one might get the notion this is similar in vein to The Midnight Meat Train ... but this is a different, somewhat domestic animal compared to that romp. The antagonist, when it presents itself, is not quite the monster you expect – and for key moments during the build-up you’ll be trying to decide whether this is slasher territory or if Kate is running the gauntlet of the fantastique. After the human threats are dispatched, a killer finally steps into the limelight, a species of human troglophile cannibalistic in nature. Temporarily captured, Kate is put ‘on ice’ until her deformed attacker decides to return ... and it’s here she teams up with another victim to be granted small insights into a genuinely creepy hermit who has a history all of his own. 

Though this review more or less falls under the auspices of ‘Retrospective’ Creep still stands up today as an effective gore-fest with some original content for its time. While it lacks a cohesive plot (and features a heroine that will jangle your nerves with unrealistic dialogue), the director has made the main focus here claustrophobic tension with an aside of unforgettable splatter. Most of all, you are witnessing the early stages of a gifted filmmaker honing his skills in a distinctive setting that’s ideal for the genre.  

Devil's Due

Everywhere we look nowadays a ‘footage’ film is being churned out somewhere. Whether you love or hate this distinct sub-genre (shaky camera work and naturalistic acting) – it matters little in today’s climate, because they are certainly here to stay. Not only are such films inexpensive, they consistently make a truck load of money. While some skate the fringes of accomplished viewing (REC), others fall so far below the paradigm of what constitutes effective film-making they should be regulated to the annals of direct-to-video cannon in perpetuity. When it was announced a while back that a ‘found footage take’ on Rosemary’s Baby and The Omen was in the offing (and that director's from a segment of the film VHS had been acquired for helming duties), one could almost envision the end result without viewing a single frame.

Recently married young Americans Samantha and Zach McCall are going on a honeymoon. Their destination: the Dominican Republic. One night, after getting waylaid returning back to their motel, an assertive cab driver seduces them into trying out an underground bar ... one presumably not located on any map. After experiencing this somewhat taboo club, the footage then shifts to jerky scenes evocative of dark worship; the chanting and supplications of a cult satanic in nature. The next morning (and with no memory of the jaunt back), both Samantha and Zach fly home to the United States. Not long after – despite being religious about birth control - Samantha falls pregnant. And thus begins a lackluster and derivative premise.

What follows is everything you would expect when giving birth to Satan: Samantha experiences nosebleeds, fugue states, and a burgeoning disdain for her new hubby. Previously a vegetarian, raw meat is abruptly on the agenda. (Even the variety consumed in public supermarkets). On the street outside the McCall’s home, sinister and shady character's make a habit of loitering about. Though the territory here is well mapped, there are (of course) small and quiet moments of merit. In this found footage era, jump scares are ubiquitous, and the viewer will find an occasional one that works. What doesn’t work is mining the techniques of others, even going so far as to mimic recent outings like Chronicle. In this regard, the makers have turned homage into a banal science.  

Other virtues? There aren’t many ... though our lead actor (Allison Miller) does a more than competent job with what’s on offer, eliciting creepy stares spliced with her genuine girl-next-door persona. Another positive would be the film’s overall modernity: mainstream releases in 2014 are all going to have a polished sheen, regardless of budget constraints. And, toward the climax, there are more than a few effective effects. 

But sadly these aren’t enough to atone for Devil’s Due overall blandness: eight-nine minutes of home video that is (at times) insipid viewing for all.