Horror lurking in unexpected places is when horror horrors the hardest. I did not expect to find it in Season Two, Episode Seven of Rings of Power, grabbing me by the throat and dragging me face-first into some of my deepest fears and traumas, but. Well. Here we are.
For those not watching, The Rings of Power is a fantasy series set in Tolkien’s Middle-earth, way before Frodo and his merry band set off to toss a ring into a volcano. This, at least to my way of thinking, is not exactly prime real estate for personal horror. And yet, there I was, one moment watching pretty people with pointy ears and enjoying my takeout sushi, and the next feeling brutally emotionally sideswiped and wanting to throw up my spicy tuna roll.
Sauron disguised as Annatar, Lord of Gifts and emissary of the Valar, has been insidiously and methodically dismantling the elven smith Celebrimbor’s grip on reality for the past few episodes. The sinister manipulation and devious gaslighting were off the charts. Annatar’s nefarious playbook is straight out of Abusers 101. He slyly isolates Celebrimbor, cutting him off from his support system by deceptively convincing others that the elf-lord is unstable. A classic, underhanded move. He love-bombs Celebrimbor with calculated praise and hollow promises of greatness, then swiftly and cruelly pulls the rug out, leaving him constantly off-balance and vulnerable. I squirmed in my seat, horrified at the way he maliciously twists Celebrimbor’s words, using them against him…it’s the slow, poisonous erosion of self-trust, that loss of all control because someone has craftily convinced you that they know better…it’s like watching someone being mercilessly filleted alive, their sense of self peeled away layer by excruciating layer, and they’re perversely thanking the sadistic butcher for the privilege.
Watching Annatar crush Celebrimbor’s spirit was like seeing a star collapse into a black hole – a once-brilliant light being inexorably consumed by darkness, with devastating consequences for everything in its orbit. This wasn’t just about one person’s mind being twisted – it was the unraveling of an entire community. Celebrimbor, the prince of his people, trusted and loved, reduced to a shadow of himself. His reputation in tatters, his life’s work corrupted, and the lives of those who depended on him left in ruins. The collateral damage was almost too much to bear, seeing trust turn to suspicion, love to fear, as Annatar’s web of deceit spread through Eregion. I felt sick, angry, helpless – all too familiar feelings bubbling up as I watched this fantasy world crumble in ways that felt all too real.
And Sauron? Annatar? That smooth-talking, gaslighting piece of shit? Every time he appeared, it was like every version of myself being violently punched in the gut twice over, leaving me winded and reeling. My body remembered before my mind could catch up – heart thundering like an explosion in my chest, breath so shallow and ragged I was certain I was suffocating. Annatar wasn’t just channeling an abuser – he was channeling mine, and the realization crashed over me in a suffocating wave of shame, fury, and helplessness. The world narrowed to a pinpoint, and I was drowning in a sea of remembered trauma, helplessly pulled under again and again by the relentless undertow of manipulation and fear.
I was beyond physically ill. It wasn’t just costumed actors anymore (and wow, these costumes are awful) – it had somehow turned into my own personal theatre of horror. My brain was violently regurgitating years of suppressed memories, moments when I’d been convinced I was worthless, unlovable except by the very person systematically destroying me. I couldn’t even muster the strength to turn it off. I just sat there, convulsing with silent sobs, as the credits rolled, feeling as if I’d been eviscerated and left to die on my own couch. This is the kind of horror that doesn’t politely bow out when the episode ends. It lingers like a toxic miasma, it festers in the deepest recesses of your mind, it echoes in every quiet moment, threatening to drown out all else.
Echoing. It’s funny how that word keeps popping up in these reviews. From the literal Stir of Echoes to the psychological labyrinth of Broadcast Signal Intrusion, and now this sucker punch from a fantasy show in my comfort genre (LOtR is a whole genre as far as I am concerned.) And maybe that’s the real horror – not the initial shock, but the way it bounces around in your head long after, impossible to shake off, leaving you wondering what else is hiding in the shadows of your mind, waiting to be triggered by a random elf in a bad wig on TV.
P.S. I know this post was a huge freaking bummer and also probably a bit triggering for some people. I am truly very sorry. There was one thing that occurred to me about a character unrelated to this post that made me laugh, though!
Day Five of 31 Days Of Horror in years past: 2023 // 2022 // 2021
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Be Very Afraidassaults your senses with an acrid, bitter burst that leaves the impression of scorching the back of your throat – not the actual sensation, but what that might smell like if it were a scent. It’s reminiscent of a blast of canned air and clingy plastic on cold metal, with an undercurrent of something inexplicably familiar yet eerily alien. Scorched rubber morphs into singed leather as ozone crackles on deranged wavelengths and electricity arcs through your fingertips. It evokes a storm cloud wearing a leather mask, or a tuft of cotton candy spun from TV static – a harbinger of the chimeric evolution to come.
Within seconds, it shifts and softens, mutating radically. The initial character lingers, but it’s altered into a much gentler thing. That leather storm deconstructs into a whisper of quantum foam infused with dermal matrix nanofibers; bioengineered herbs emerge with a faint electric hum, while tendrils of ionized spectral vapors delicately intertwine with a moss-derived floral musk pulsing softly in a miniature supercollider of scent. On the skin, it continues to evolve, the original identity fragmenting and recombining as that once confrontational and unsettling opening transforms into something unnervingly inviting, now floating just at the edge of awareness.
The scent’s newly fleshed final form is a metamorphosis complete – subtly strange and softly electric, yet no longer unsettling. The dry-down reveals a sophisticated, green, barely-there tingle in a woody-mossy framework that feels both molecularly aseptic and ingeniously verdant. This enigmatic synthesis evokes an angel gently resequenced in a lab, emerging from a whisper-quiet decontamination chamber – a seamless fusion of the otherworldly and the synthetic. What began as something exceptionally weird has settled into an infinitely wearable fragrance that still carries ethereal echoes of its uncanny origins.
31 Days of Horror Day Four in years past: 2023 // 2022 // 2021
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Watching Broadcast Signal Intrusion on a whim, I was struck by an eerie synchronicity – like A Stir of Echoes, which I’d just watched, this film is set in Chicago, 1999. It’s a strange coincidence that has me experiencing yet another slice of late ’90s Windy City life, a world I’ve only glimpsed through the lens of pop culture. This neo-noir feels like a funhouse mirror version of that other film, reflecting a tech-obsessed underbelly of the same city at the same time.
The movie follows James, our protagonist, as he stumbles upon bizarre pirate broadcasts that hijack regular programming. Picture masked figures popping up on screen, looking like they crawled out of a glitchy nightmare. It’s the kind of urban myth I would’ve read about online years later, marveling at the strangeness of it all from the safety of my bedroom.
James, still reeling from the mysterious disappearance of his wife Hannah two years ago, dives into this rabbit hole headfirst, and as he delves deeper, he uncovers a conspiracy theory on message boards linking these broadcasts to missing girls, adding layers of intrigue and unease to his search. Harry Shum Jr. plays James with an intense, slightly unhinged energy that had me completely invested, and the supporting cast is full of eccentrics who feel like they’ve stepped out of those weird, late-night cable shows I’ve heard so much about but never actually stayed up to watch.
Sometimes, the film gets a bit hazy on the details, prioritizing mood over a clear-cut narrative. But that haziness works for me. It’s like trying to piece together a story from forum posts and second-hand accounts – the details might be fuzzy, but the atmosphere lingers. Broadcast Signal Intrusion left me with that uneasy feeling I get after reading about real-life mysteries late at night, jumping at shadows and wondering about the strange possibilities that all the crazy internet posters with names like pacorabanneswiener have put into my head.
For anyone who’s ever been intrigued by stories of strange, obsessive technology or urban legends, this film will resonate. It’s a deep dive into retro-tinted unease and watching it now, so soon after A Stir of Echoes, it feels like I’ve stumbled into a hidden chapter of 1999 Chicago – a city apparently rife with psychic phenomena and sinister broadcasts.
If you’re a fan of films and books like Berberian Sound Studio, Censor, Archive 81, Experimental Film, Universal Harvester, Silver Nitrate, or Schrader’s Chord, you’ll likely dig this film. They all tap into that uneasy space where technology, media, and human perception intersect, creating a sense of paranoia that seeps through the screen or off the page. It’s a feeling of reality being slightly off-kilter, where the familiar suddenly becomes alien and threatening. There’s a shared fascination with the act of looking – really looking – at the world around us, and the terror that can come from seeing too much. These stories all seem to ask: What if the glitches, the interruptions, the things we usually ignore, are actually trying to tell us something? They share a quality of leaving you feeling slightly altered after experiencing them, as if you’ve been initiated into some cryptic understanding of the world that you can’t quite pin down but can never fully shake off.
31 Days of Horror Day Three in years past: 2023 // 2022 // 2021
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Watching A Stir of Echoes for the first time now, nearly twenty-five years after its release, feels like stepping into someone else’s memory of the ’90s. It’s a strange experience because I lived through that time–I was in my early 20s in 1999 when this film came out and usually went to the movies with a friend every Friday night–but I never saw A Stir of Echoes then. This slice of Chicago life feels very foreign to me, someone who had just pretty much lived in the FL suburbs for most until I moved to a cappy beachside apartment, right around the time this film was released.
Anyway, Kevin Bacon’s there in this tight-knit Chicago neighborhood, looking like every guy I knew who worked construction or drove a delivery truck. He’s chugging beers, jamming to dad rock, living in one of those neighborhoods where you can smell someone’s dinner cooking three houses down, all the neighbors know each other, and there’s a random block party every other weekend. We soon learn, though, that it’s a place where everyone knows your name, but no one knows your secrets.
Bacon plays Tom Witzky, a blue-collar everyman possessing an abundance of clichéd tough-guy skepticism. His world turns upside down when his sister-in-law Lisa (Illeana Douglas) awakens his latent psychic abilities through casual party trick hypnosis. Lisa, armed with the dubious authority of a few psychology classes, unwittingly opens a door Tom can’t close. Suddenly, he sees ghosts and digs up his backyard like a man possessed, all while trying to solve the mystery of a missing girl. The film balances supernatural chills with the gritty, mundane horrors of financial struggle and marital strain, as Tom’s obsession tests his relationship with his wife, Maggie, and adds an unsettling dimension to their young son’s own psychic gifts.
I’m struck by the late ’90s fashion details – Lisa’s baby tees, chokers, and barrettes are like artifacts from a time capsule. Speaking of Lisa, her character got under my skin in an unexpected way. I usually love these snarky, Daria/Janeane Garofalo-esque characters, but something about her felt grating. In every scene, it seemed like she was teetering on the edge of taking her sarcastic schtick too far. It’s made me wonder if maybe I’m reacting to something I recognize in myself – that tendency to lean too hard into snark as a defense mechanism. This self-reflection added an extra layer to my viewing experience, making me pay closer attention to the nuances in each performance. It’s funny how watching older films can do that – make you scrutinize not just the characters, but your reactions to them. This heightened awareness led me to another unexpected pleasure: spotting actors before they became familiar faces. I may have quietly squeed at both a future House and future Gilmore Girls cast members’ appearance!
The film left me with a strange ache, not quite nostalgia, more like a glimpse into a parallel ’90s I never experienced. It’s made me curious about the Richard Matheson book it’s based on, wondering how much of this gritty, supernatural slice of life came from the page and how much from the screen. Watching A Stir of Echoes now feels like catching up on a conversation I missed years ago, piecing together the context from collective echoes, little more than whispers, the remnant scraps of tee shirts that will never fit you again but that you remember ever so fondly.
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Here we are again! I told Yvan I didn’t think I wanted to do 31 Days of Horror this year, and he asked me why not. I guess the answer is because maybe I just want to watch a thing or two without thinking about 1. how to write about it and 2. how to write about it in a way that doesn’t make me sound like an idiot! It’s the eternal struggle!
But this IS my October ritual, dangit! I look forward to it, I’ve got to do it! Don’t I?
The truth is, there’s something comforting about this yearly tradition. Even when I’m dragging my feet at the start, I know I’ll end up enjoying most of it. It’s a way to mark the changing of the seasons, a personal ritual that ushers in the darker half of the year. There’s a certain magic in dedicating an entire month to exploring the shadows, whether through film, literature, or other forms of art.
It’s a challenge, no doubt. Even working from home, balancing work deadlines, household chores, and the general chaos of life with a daily horror commitment is no small feat. Some nights, I’m squinting at a book or screen way past my bedtime, knowing full well I’ll be regretting it during tomorrow’s video catch-up call at work. Other days, I’m sneaking in a horror podcast while I am folding socks and dish towels. And this year? Hoo boy. All of Yvan’s brothers are in town for a month full of birthdays. All those dinners, gatherings, and celebrations are definitely going to cut into my precious horror time. I can already see myself trying to speed-read a spooky novel under the table during Sunday dinner or sneaking off to the bathroom to finish a short horror film on my phone while I have a quick wee.
Despite the challenges, by the end of the month, I’m always glad I did it. This tradition has become a sort of cinematic harvest for me. Throughout the year, I find myself setting aside films, almost hoarding them for this occasion, like I’m curating my own personal horror film festival, saving up the most intriguing, bizarre, or promising titles for October. There’s a special thrill in finally watching something I’ve been eyeing for months (or even years–seeing as how some films get passed over year after year and never get crossed off the list until several Octobers later!) This concentrated dose of horror allows me to look for trends in the genre, compare different directorial styles, and notice how themes evolve over time. It’s become a way to connect with other horror enthusiasts, too, sharing recommendations and dissecting our favorite scares. Ultimately, I think there’s something satisfying about immersing myself in horror for a full month, seeing the myriad ways different creators approach fear and unease. And yeah, I know there are always those people who are like, “Pfft…31 days? That’s amateur hour, baby. Me, I am all-horror, all the time.” Well ok that’s great, you’re really special.
But for me, this annual tradition is about concentrated immersion. It’s a horror binge, if you will. Sure, it’s a huge quantity in a short time, but that’s part of the appeal. It’s about carving out a specific time to focus intensely on a genre I love, pushing myself to consume more horror in a month than I might in the rest of the year combined. It’s about the anticipation, the careful selection, and yes, even the challenge of fitting it all in alongside real life. These 31 days are a whirlwind tour through the landscape of horror, from classic haunts to new nightmares. It’s intense, it’s exhausting, and it’s exhilarating
Logistically, planning a month’s worth of frights is an interesting exercise. If you’re curious, you can see a screenshot of my annually updated Notion pagein the featured image of this post – it’s kind of like an aspirational horror mood board. It’s also the only time I ever use Notion, ha! Anyway, the list is a mix of newish releases like The First Omen and Immaculate, alongside some older cult classics like Messiah of Evil and Vampire and the Ballerina. There’s also a handful of extremely very recent titles that I desperately intrigued by and dying to check out: Cuckoo, Strange Darling, and Longlegs, to name a few.
But the thing about this list is that it’s more of a suggestion to myself than a strict plan. I’m a reader at heart, and getting myself to sit down and watch a movie – any movie, horror or otherwise – requires a certain mood. Some days, I might be up for cosmic horror, others for a classic slasher, and some days, I might not be able to face a screen at all and opt for a creepy novel instead.
There’s a bit of a push and pull with this approach. The list represents my commitment to this annual tradition, a promise I’ve made to myself to dive deep into the horror genre for a full month. It’s not about broadening horizons – I’d like to think I’m pretty open-minded when it comes to horror already. It’s more about intentionally over-indulging in something I love, while also challenging myself to stick to a daily practice that isn’t always my go-to medium. It’s like I’ve laid out this horror buffet menu for myself, and while I’m excited to sample from it, I also know that some days I might crave the comfort of a horror novel instead of a film.
Whether I end up following this list or completely veering off course, the goal is to immerse myself in horror, honor this personal tradition, and hopefully discover some new favorites along the way – be they on screen, page, or even through other senses. After all, why should our eyes and ears have all the fun? There might be a spooky knit or a horror-themed perfume in the mix too.
So, what’s on the menu for Day One? Well, we’re starting with Oddity…but I have a confession to make. I actually watched this one a few weeks ago. Author Gemma Files mentioned it on Facebook, and my curiosity got the better of me. So much for all my talk of commitment and tradition, right? But when one of your favorite horror authors dangles a promising film in front of you, sometimes you just have to bend your own rules a bit.
Oddity centers on Darcy, a blind medium who arrives at a remote Irish country house a year after her twin sister Dani’s murder. Darcy is convinced there’s more to her sister’s death than the official story of an escaped mental patient. Darcy has the coolest job ever, running a little occult/antique/oddities shop, and on this visit, she brings with her a little something she has ostensibly picked up in her line of work: an exceedingly strange and creepy life-sized screaming wooden mannequin. The house is now occupied by Dani’s widower, Ted, and his new girlfriend, Yana, and neither was expecting company in the form of Darcy or her terrifying companion. Ted must leave for his work that evening at the local mental hospital and leaves Yana alone in the home with Darcy, and it’s all just very uncomfortable. The longer Darcy sticks around, the more tense and dreadful the atmosphere grows, with the wooden mannequin taking on an unsettling presence of its own.
The mounting dread in Oddity is palpable and permeates the whole film. McCarthy uses the isolated setting and that eerie wooden figure to great effect, ratcheting up the tension with each scene. Carolyn Bracken really shines in her dual role as Darcy and Dani. She brings such distinct personalities to each twin that you almost forget it’s the same actress. The story unfolds at a steady clip, peeling back layers of the mystery bit by bit. As the truth behind Dani’s death and Darcy’s investigation comes to light, there are plot reveals that are both heartbreaking and infuriating. Without giving too much away, the revelation of betrayal and the cost of seeking the truth left me gut-punched and emotionally drained.
…and excited for more, because that was an excellent film and a solid start to 31 Days of Horror!
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For this final day of October and in wrapping up our 31 Days of Horror here at Unquiet Things, we are going out in style! With reviews of twenty fragrances from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Autumn/Halloween collection!
…and also a giveaway! For one bottle of their Junji Ito-inspired Tomie perfume! If you want to read my full review of the fragrance, you can find that here.
If you would like the opportunity to win this perfume AND you live in the US, leave a comment on this blog post to be entered into the giveaway! Tell me about your favorite Halloween tradition, favorite scary movie, favorite autumnal scent–whatever you like! One winner —please note, you must be in the US to win— will be selected on Tuesday November 7th! [GIVEAWAY IS CLOSED! CONGRATS JILLIAN!]
I am sorry, but shipping outside the US is too onerous, so please, please note this giveaway is for folks who live in the US only! (I’m sorry I have to sound so desperate about it, but why does no one ever read that part? Please read it!)
Anyway, let’s get to the reviews!
A Timid Twinkling Golden Star (tuberose and sweet amber) A dusty, honeyed wistful, sepia-tinted floral; the olfactory representation of the concept of “dés-vu”, or the awareness that this moment will become a memory.
A Little Silver Scimitar (foamy orris and ambergris accord pierced by a sliver of white fir needle, moonflower, and cypress) This smells …”incisive” is the word that comes to mind. It knows something, visions of silver, fruit, blood. I picture less a scimitar and more a little letter opener, sharp-edged glinting, used to liberate clever missives, mince sour slivers of plum, impale inconstant hearts.
Witch’s Currant Cake (red currant and rosewater gooseberry cake with a sugar-dusted gingerbread crumble topping) Whenever I see the word “gooseberry” I think of the time I spent listening to Eddie Izzard’s memoir and how his British pronunciation (“guuzbury”) always makes me smile. As a matter of fact, this sweet/sour, tart/tangy scent blanketed with a molassey-gingery cozy streusel, could even be the cake he’s talking about in his “Cake or death?” clip from his Dressed To Kill special. Let’s just make it canon. Our beloved, wicked Eddie Izzard circa 1999 smells like a guuzbury gâteau, a witch’s currant cake.
Ghost Milk (goat’s milk, marshmallow, vanilla cashmere, honey dust, and white chocolate) There’s nothing fruity listed in here but this perfume is fruity, cereal-miky, and fuzzy, like slurping a bowl of Frankenberries from the pocket of your softest, pinkest, plushest hoodie. A hoodie that definitely hoodies. I watch too much TikTok.
Mummy Milk (condensed milk wrapped in coconut shavings and tea-stained linen with a hint of bitumen, myrrh, and embalming resins) Wild grains and rustic incense, something roasting over a fire until it pops and frills, and carried over the fields on the dry wind of a warm September daydream.
Snooty Bat (sugared patchouli, nag champa, black leather, and clove) and Snootier Bat (all the sugared incense you can shake a wing at with double the leather and a dollop of thick, inky black musk) These two fragrances initially reminds me of how my sisters and I might gaze at each other in abject befuddlement and say something like “That is such a bizarre thing to do–how are we even related??” Snooty with a leather that’s almost midnight-stormy sky-ozonic at the onset, and Snootier opens all gloomy musk and plummy treacle. After a moment though, it becomes apparent that they are siblings, an iron-rich vein of incense connecting them. As they wear, they grow apart and drift away from each other, Snooty becoming darker and more unrepentantly patchoulified by the hour, and Snootier, half sick of shadows, transforms into a soft, cozy creamy thing.
Batty Lace (dry flowers, aged linens, and the faint breath of long-faded perfumes with well-worn leather and caramel musk) “A leathered up, musky interpretation of BPAL’s Antique Lace.” The caramel aspect of this blend is what I notice most, a buttery-milky brown sugar caramel that wants to ooze over vanilla ice cream rather than firm up into fudgy squares. Shifting beneath the caramel are those faint, faded attic-trunk florals and creamy cobwebby linens I recall from Antique Lace and a cracked leather buckle so ghostly and elusive I’m not sure if it was actually ever there at all.
Batty Cathedral (leathery wings flapping through billows of incense smoke) I was writing this review and Ývan walked into the room, saw the label art up on the screen, and exclaimed, “Say, that bat’s wearing a fez!” So it is! Anyway. The leather in this blend is an airy, floral leather, conjuring visions of a little bat snoot dootling deep in trellis vining, moon-luminous night-blooming flowers. The incense is cool and crystalline, frost on stone, smoky winter mists high on a mountain while a witch sits in silence, tracing runes in the snow. Like a Wardruna video. With more bats and flowers and witches.
Dead Leaves, Paper, and Smoke This one has a spectral and musty quality, like shed snake skins and brittle, broken bird’s nests, but also oddly evokes spring leaves, damp and dewy and almost jittery green, teeming with chlorophyll. It culminates in a fragrance that you might attribute to an altar deep kept in the wood, obeisance to a thing so old it doesn’t even have a name, with offerings of shoots and stems, bones and claws, trinkets both living and dead.
Dead Leaves, Balsam, and Green Musk The greenest stickiest resins, tree gum, and sap, tingly with a frisson of spearminty-pennyroyal cool-electric-crispness.
Dead Leaves, Shortbread, and Crystallized GingerThe softly decaying dead leaves component of this perfume is so fleeting, almost as if leaf litter and loam were used as padding for a parcel of treats, but the parcel was delivered and the packaging was tossed willy nilly, and what we are left with is the sugar-crusted delight of candied ginger-flecked buttery shortbread with crisp, caramelized edges.
Skelemingo (pink grapefruit and black licorice) it’s the most bonederful time of the year! Wherein even things that do not have bony skeletons inside their skins get treated to cheap plastic skeletons and sold for $5.99 at Michaels and Party City. Worm, you get a skeleton! Octopus, you get a skeleton! And so on! The flamingo does in fact have a skeleton and as scientists know, its aroma is that of the most delicious bitter grapefruit Haribo candy cross-bred with salty Icelandic lakkrís, spliced with white chocolate.When I talk about my profound love for things that inspire a sense of demented glee, a fragrance like this is exactly what I am thinking of.
Hand-Knitted Witch Gloves(raw wool, sweet oakmoss, and cranberry brandy) I don’t talk about fragrances in terms of whether they are masculine or feminine–that’s dumb and limiting!–but I will say that this scent is initially, and surprisingly, quite “handsome.” An aroma that at first evokes some sort of rare, centuries-old cognac and things being aged in French oak barrels, but then because you have no use for stodgy tradition, you eschew drinking it neat and instead concoct a cranberry Manhattan with bitters and vermouth, garnished with a wooly frizzle of earthen moss because you are actually just three gnomes in a trench coat.
Things Are Fine (white sandalwood smoke, hinoki, white tea, and falling leaves) Washing your hair with a fragrant aromatherapeutic “spa-like” shampoo and then immediately running outdoors on a crisp October afternoon and rolling around in a pile of loamy leaves and moss, like a great shaggy golden retriever after a bath. This is stunning. STUNNING.
A Melancholy of Goths (clove smoke, champaca incense, plum velvet, and hairspray) Can you think of anything more goth than a marble gargoyle in a mourning veil perched atop a crumbling gravestone wearing perfume of honeyed funereal florals & infernal incense ash? That is exactly what this smells like. It also smells like what I imagine Anna Falchi in Cemetery Man smells like.
Pumpkin Spice Dark-n-Stormy(extra spicy rum fizzed up with ginger beer and garnished with a lime) Utterly incandescent. Crystalline radium glass lime, the sticky bite of ginger syrup + a dry dram of allspice’s mince pie charm.
Make A Face (yellow bergamot, white pomegranate rind, lemon peel, and white musk) This smells like a thick, nourishing lemon salve that you aren’t supposed to eat but holy jeez you are definitely tempted to eat it. Ývan says he thinks it smells like luxurious lemon peel soap, to which I countered “But do you want to eat it?” And he was like like “Well, I mean yes.” This is one of those simple scents that somehow doesn’t seem like there’s much to it, and yet is more than the sum of its parts and is weirdly definitely habit-forming.
Halloween Cat (cacao and coconut husk dusted on shining black fur, illuminated by electric green mandarin and raw amber) I wouldn’t typically use the words “chocolatey” and “fresh” together in the same sentence and I don’t know that’s what I am doing here either–but I don’t know that I am not? Halloween cat smells a bit like huffing dry brownie mix; absent the sweetness and gooeyness, there’s a bracing, savory aspect to the cocoa. A pale nimbus of citrus hovers, a timorous, shimmering aurora haloing the arid chocolate.
Witch in the Woods (blackthorn, mandrake root, and myrrh scratching through cypress boughs, blackberry resin, and incense smoke) A tangled orchard, a forest-jam tart, a sharpened blade kissed-thrice, batwings circling an autumn moonrise–all of these trapped in a waxen candy wrapper curse.
Need more ‘Weenies? Have a peep at my ‘Weenie reviews from the autumns of yesteryear 2022 // 2021 // 2020 // 2019 // 2018 // 2017 // 2016
And PSSSST! Did you know I have collected all of my BPAL reviews into one spot? Here you will find 88 pages of my thoughts and rambles on various limited-edition scents from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab over the years: BPAL REVIEWS BY S. ELIZABETH (PDF download)
Are you new to one of our very favorite indie perfumers, Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab? See my three-part primer here, here, and here.
Terrifier wasn’t originally on my radar, but after reading Bryan’s thoughts on it a few years ago, it lodged itself in my brain as something I was low-key intrigued by in a low-stakes kind of way. Meaning I had zero expectations, but at the same time I was semi-looking forward to watching it at some point. But it was also one of those films so far down on my list that I never even remembered I wanted to see it, even when I was wracking my brain for something new to watch.
Last night I finally remembered.
We open to a scene a year or so after the events of the film have taken place. A horrifically disfigured woman is being grilled by an interviewer who is asking some insensitive and invasive questions about the woman’s brutal attack and how she feels about her appearance after the fact, etc. The fact that these questions are couched in a phone-baloney nicey-nice facade, coming out of the mouth of a woman we would consider to be traditionally attractive makes the entire scene even more awful. After the interview, the anchorwoman is on a phone call with her partner, in the process of wrapping up for the night and ranting about how disgusting it was even having to look at the woman she was earlier interviewing…and then that woman emerges from the shadows to viciously attack her.
Halloween, a year earlier. Two drunk friends are stumbling back to their car after an evening of hitting the bars. The more sensible one convinces her even drunker friend to hand over the keys, but then realizes that she herself needs to sober up a little first, so they head into a pizza place for a slice. During this interaction they spy a strange sight from across the street: an unsettling fellow in a black and white clown suit, with an unwieldy trash bag slung over his shoulder. Sensible gets a weird vibe from him right away, but Drunky hollers and antagonizes him. He eventually follows them into the restaurant and after some creepy behavior on the clown’s part, the ladies are freaked out and take their pizza to go, that’s where the carnage begins.
They get back to the car, one of the tires has been sliced or stabbed or vandalized in some way, and while waiting for a ride from Sensible’s sister, they split up. Sensible has to pee and charms her way into a nearby building to use the facilities, and Drunky waits in the car. The building in question is being treated for rats and vermin that evening, it was the late-night pest control guy who lets her in. Although I’m not sure why anyone’s even bothering, the entire place is way past actively falling apart, it’s a monument to rot and decay, and I can’t even tell what sort of building it might have been. Commerical? Residential? The bottom seems a bit like a garage, but also a basement, and also weirdly labyrinthine, but the upper stories look like offices? And at some point, there seems to be a sort of security room, with a phone and a computer? I don’t know!
I realize I’m giving a literal, boring play-by-play, so I’ll stop right there. Art the Clown gets started in earnest and you learn what’s in the trash bag and it’s that it’s all sharp and pointy and deadly and that his loose plan, as far as I can tell, is to kill everyone he encounters in increasingly brutal and deranged ways. He never actually says a single word, but you get the jist real quick. You never really learn what this guy is all about; other than being utterly silent and dead-eyed, there’s a strange, eerie, almost otherworldy glee in his movements and expressions that’s really menacing and gut-twisting in ways I can’t explain. I’m not afraid of clowns, I don’t really have feelings about them one way or the other–but this guy gives me the heebie-jeebies.
So a whole bunch of nasty, gruesome stuff happens, and in the end, Terrifier was not a movie with a lot of plot happening, nor many (or any?) characters that we really cared about. And yet, I think I really liked it. For a 2016 film, it had a sort of gritty, grainy quality that took me back to watching late-night Saturday horror as a teenager, circa 1992. It had that surreal energy of “wtf is even happening, and why, and where are we, and who are these people?”…like, it makes just enough sense so that you are not literally confused, but it also gives you the feeling that you might have blinked and dozed off for a second and wait a second, who’s this homeless woman and her weird porcelain babydoll and has she been living in the squalor of this decrepit apartment-office-storage building this whole time? And if so, why does her hair look so great?
Another thing I found a little confusing was that many reviews talk about Art the Clown like this isn’t his first rodeo. But this is the first film in the Terrifier franchise, right? I did a little reading and it turns out this guy has been in development for over a decade in various roles as a background character while they futzed around with the character to see what worked. Huh! I think I’m intrigued enough to have a bit of an Art the Clown marathon, but I think we’ll wait til next year for that.
Wishmaster was, I thought, one of those 80’s films that I should seen by now. It was recommended to me last week, and I’ve been wracking my brains as to why it’s never really been on my radar. As it turns out, the answer is pretty simple. Centering on an ancient, evil djinn who collects souls by granting wishes that come with terrible, twisted consequences, all monkey’s paw-like, Wishmaster’s got Wes Craven’s name on it (though I don’t think he’s as involved as the movie posters would have us believe), a writer from the Hellraiser sequels, a who’s-who cast of horror gems, and, as it turns out… is actually a film from 1997.
This explains everything about why I never saw it. I was a few years out of high school by that time, and trying to figure out what to do with my life, and I don’t think I was doing much in the way of reading or movie-watching. I was doing a lot of anxious avoidance of everything, including and especially the things I loved–like horror. I had just seen Scream the year previously and that’s really the only film I recall watching during that time period. Last night while watching Wishmaster and trying to figure out the year it was made by observing the clothing and hairstyles and such (instead of the easier thing to do, looking it up on IMDB) I began comparing it to Scream for some reason, and came away with the impression that Scream just felt much more contemporary to me, whereas Wishmaster really did seem like an 80s relic. Imagine my surprise when I looked it up and realized that Wishmaster was actually released a year later than Scream!
Well, considering that Wishmaster had a bunch of ridiculously gory practical effects–some of them pretty great, actually, like the skeleton busting out of someone’s skin in the film’s opening–and Scream was a hip update of the slasher genre, I guess in comparison, Wishmaster would seem a bit retro?
There was a lot to love about this film! It begins with a Persian sorcerer trapping the malevolent djinn in a jewel, and then we fast forward to the present day, or rather, 1997. Some sort of relic is being delivered to a collector (Robert Englund!) and in a careless accident, a crane drops the box containing it, and Englund’s assistant (Ted Raimi!) is squashed and killed. A glowing red jewel is revealed in the broken statue and a construction worker pockets it and sells it to a pawnbroker, who then takes it to an auction house. This is how it ends up in the hands of Alex, who in examining the stone–which she annoyingly keeps referring to as an “opal”, but come on, it’s bright red!–somehow activates the djinn.
In the beginning, the narrator (Angus Scrimm!) explains that “God breathed life into the universe…the light gave birth to Angels…the earth gave birth to man…the fire gave birth to the djinn, creatures condemned to dwell in the void between the worlds.” And that the person who wakes a djinn will receive three wishes, but the third wish will free legions of djinn on Earth. So these are the stakes here, but no one’s ever going to follow a trail of carnage and immediately think “Ah, methinks this is the work of a djinn!” so I think it’s forgivable that it takes Alex a while to figure out what’s going on.
The djinn is played by a deliciously magnetic Andrew Divoff to gravelly-voiced devilish perfection…I don’t know that I know this actor from anything else but MAN he was creepy in this. There is a kooky, sassy professor of folklore (you can tell she’s kooky and sassy because of the statement necklaces) who is a hoot, and oh yeah–Tony Todd shows up as a doomed doorman, Reggie Bannister is a nasty pharmacist who meets a nasty end, Tom Savini plays a bit part and there’s even the husband of someone I know through Instagram who has a tiny part in this film!
And while the dialogue was just whatever, there were a few instances when the professor was talking about the lore and history of the djinn, for example, or when the djinn himself was describing the destruction and chaos he going to delight in bringing forth–I thought those parts were delightfully dark and poetic and well-written. This is coming from someone who likes a bit of purple prose, so take that with a grain of salt, I guess.
Do I want to watch the probably very silly and bad sequels? I think that I do!
When I polled my Facebook friends the other day for some fun movie ideas, it was with the caveat that Renfield was very much already on my radar–I just couldn’t watch it that particular night because it was already promised viewing. But I finally got around to it last night when we watched it with Ývan’s brother, after his birthday dinner (it was the brother’s birthday, not Ývan’s–I would never marry a Scorpio!)
I have no notes. It was everything I ever wanted in a silly comedy about Dracula’s beleaguered familiar recognizing his dysfunctional, co-dependent relationship with the infamous monster, and realizing he wants something more for himself. Sure, it got a little sidetracked with the taking down of a mob familiar and its buddy-cop shenanigans, but listen–I think Awkwafina is a goddess, and if she’s getting paid to show up in a movie and play a cop in a movie where cops are a completely dumb and useless idea, whatever! I’ll take it! Anyhow, I don’t have a critical eye or incredibly high standards when it comes to cinema (Was it pretty? Did it make me laugh? Those are the two important boxes to tick) so I thought Renfield was a bloody hoot.
Book cover art by James Jirat Patradoon for ‘The Dead Take The A Train’ by Cassandra Khaw and Richard Kadrey
Despite the fact that my reading has been on the back burner this month, I did manage to finish a few things in the almost-final-days of October…
The Dead Take A Train by Cassandra Khaw and Richard Kadrey I’d found the previous title from Cassandra Khaw that I’d read (Nothing But Blackened Teeth) a bit off-putting. In that story, five friends convene to have some pre-wedding adventures at a purported haunted castle– but I have never in my years of reading been subjected to a group of friends who hated each other more. The Dead Take A Train, for all its bombastic horror and gore, ruthless demons and repulsive gods…is actually a tale of love and friendship? I liked that. I found the writing lush and disgusting and completely over the top –which is very much my thing!– and the story itself, that of self-destructive demon hunter/supernatural-squasher Julie attempting to prevent a cosmic-horror-end-of-the-world scenario and save her friends in the middle of New York’s gritty, magical underbelly–was an absolute hoot. It reminded me a bit of the post-apocalyptic demon-punk romp of Simon Drax’s A Very Fast Descent Into Hell!
The Keeper by Tananarive Due When it comes to a Tananarive Due story, I know I’m always in for a treat that’s going to tug at my heartstrings before straight up ripping my heart out of my chest –and The Keeper with its proliferation of childhood fears and trauma does just that. Aisha’s parents are killed in a car crash and shortly after moving in with her elderly grandmother, the ailing woman’s health takes a rapid decline. Before dying, she calls forth a dark spirit to protect her granddaughter…or is this entity actually an ancient curse?
Out There Screaming: An Anthology of New Black Horror by Jordan Peele Exploring “not only the terror of the supernatural but the chilling reality of injustice that haunts our nation,” this was an outstanding collection wherein almost every story was so good that I wish it could have been expanded on for a full-novel experience. What I find interesting in these gatherings of tales across cultures, is seeing what it is that scares me (the end-of-the-world ones are particularly freaky) as opposed to something that while perhaps fascinating, doesn’t seem all that frightening–because it comes from a part of the world so wholly different from what I know. Even as I am writing those words, I realize that is some privileged white lady shit. I am not unaware. Three exceptionally memorable ones in that sort of personally-scary-for-me apocalyptic vein are Invasion of the Baby Snatchers, which is as outlandish and otherworldly as you might imagine, and both “Flicker” and “Pressure,” which begin as mundane little tales but are –absolutely– not.
Godzilla: The Half-Century War by James Stokoe Ývan surprised me with a copy of this Godzilla story about a soldier who spends the entirety of his career tangled in kaiju conflict, up to and including the very last seconds of his life. Bold, exciting, and unexpectedly poignant, I sped through this excellent graphic novel in an afternoon.
Where Monsters Lie by Kyle Starks and Piotr Kowalski (Illustrator) If you’ve ever wondered where slashers shack up between murder sprees, well, you probably would not have envisioned them as a coterie of killers relaxing in a gated community–complete with an HOA and monthly meetings. This short, vicious collection of issues 1-4 comprises those dysfunctional group dynamics, the story of a kid who can’t seem to escape them despite his best attempts, and the agent that’s been training to hunt them since the slaughter of his own family when he was a child. Be forewarned–this experience really does put the “graphic” in graphic novel, but it was SO much good(bad/awful/murderous) fun!
