I didn’t really want to get into sharing all over my social media accounts, because I wasn’t trying to be dramatic about it, but I think a little less screen time would be immensely helpful for me. I had posted this to my Patreon, but it occurred to me that friends might worry if they don’t see me online for a while, so I might want to make an update on my blog here as well. It may look like I’m disappearing for some amount of time, so before I let too much time go by I thought it might be wise to check in with you all and share where my head and heart is at right now.
We’re living in weird, sad, awful times on a global scale. Personally, we’re all going through our own shit. It’s a lot. But it’s not even that.
I’m burnt out, I’m experiencing some health-related strangeness, all of this is true. But it’s not that, either. There is the internet. Telling me I’m not productive enough, pretty enough, popular enough, that I don’t care enough, that I don’t want to save the world enough. It’s too much for any person. It’s too much for me.
Back in 1999, a friend helped me set up an AOL account. He jokingly said, “Are you ready to be queen of the internet?” I didn’t know what that could possibly mean or what that might look like. Not soon thereafter I signed up for my Live Journal account, where I realized that I could write my thoughts online and that anyone in the world might read them. I started an eBay account where i sold my sister’s old collectible Barbies (we made a killing) and then moved to sourcing and curating a little vintage clothing shop. I worked for my stepfather’s mail-order occult book business at the time, and with the HTML I had taught myself from tarting up my LJ profile page, I built us a website and moved the business to the internet. I had my own little website on Geocities and once I had a pirated copy of Dreamweaver in my mitts, I built my own little web-log. Web-blog! We used to call them that!
I have been very online from the moment that I realized it was a place to play and connect…two things I am terrible at in real life. I realized that on the internet, I could be the version of me that I always wanted to be, smarter, funnier, more eloquent, and articulate. With the buffer of cyberspace between me and another human being–I was all of those things.
The years went on, and with the exception of a period of time during the MySpace era when I was in a shitty relationship where my internet usage and every keystroke was monitored, I continued to live a very online life. With every new social media account, I found a new place to try and be my “best me.” I’ve never stopped. I’m still trying, in my stunted, weird little introverted way, to somehow become queen of the internet.
The problem with nebulous goals is that you have no parameters or criteria, you don’t even know what the endgame is. And whatever you do, no matter how much you’ve done or how far you’ve gotten, it’s never, ever enough.
I can’t satisfy that void within me that answered the internet’s call so many years ago. It’s a hole that will never be filled. Though I’ve not become a flashy influencer, I’ve been consistent and dependable. And over the years I think that’s built me a reputation and a small following–which has led to some really cool opportunities. I’ve written three books. I was on NPR. I was featured in my favorite magazine in the world! And some of my favorite podcasts! My favorite perfume company collaborated with me to create a series of perfumes! What more do I want?
It’s everything. I want everything. And it’s exhausting to want so much and know that no matter how hard I work, create, or produce, at the end of the day, I’m still the person behind the screen who in reality is fairly unremarkable.
What does that unremarkable person do when no one is watching? When she’s not writing up a moment in her head even as it is still happening so that she can share it on Instagram with a heavily filtered photo later? What is she writing, smelling, reading, or cooking, when she’s the only one who will ever know about it?
This is all very-in-my-head, navel-gazey stuff. It’s embarrassing. I feel like at my age I should have better stuff to worry about, and don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of worries and anxieties. But this one. It’s a constant. A sort of “who are you and why should anyone care?” demon on my shoulder for as long as I have had a sense of self.
So! –I say as I pick up my phone and go to check TikTok for the tenth time this morning even though I have temporarily deleted all of those apps from my devices– So! Here’s where I am. For the next two weeks, I’m deleting social media apps from my phone and logging out from all of that junk on my other devices. The stretch goal is a month, but I’m officially telling myself “two weeks.” If you need to get ahold of me for any reason, feel free to email me at mlleghoul AT gmail dot com, and of course if you’ve got my number, feel free to text. But don’t call me, for god’s sake!
As I write this here I am already one day in, and guess what–it didn’t kill me. There may be hope for me yet.
Friends who give the marvelous gift of books for the holidays! I have a handful of signed copies left of The Art of The Occult, The Art of Darkness, and The Art of Fantasy. I may be biased but I think those are all excellent treats for your mystically, macabre, and fantastically minded friends!
I will not be restocking before the new year, so if you’ve been thinking about grabbing one, or both, or all three—now’s the time!
Here is the link to purchase and please note that I’m only shipping within the U.S. at this time. If you wish to place an order for more than one book, I’m not actually set up to do that through PayPal, but email me at crustyoldmummy AT gmail dot com and we will work it out.
I wouldn’t necessarily say that cemeteries have always fascinated me. I think it might be more truthful to say that I never really gave cemeteries or graveyards all that much thought as a kid, except as something that occasionally showed up in cartoons with rattling skeletons dancing a crazy jig. Death itself was an abstract concept, and I certainly didn’t spend any time thinking about where we kept our dead.
What I did spend a great deal of time thinking about between the age of 6-9 was how to weasel out of my weekly Brownie meetings. My mother was on a mission to socialize shy little Sarah and had signed me up for everything from gymnastics to ballet– and as none of them stuck, we’d reached Brownies as a last resort. I hated it. It was just like the agonies of a school day– where girls separated into cliques, everyone had their own friends, and no one was friends with me– except to add insult to injury, the meetings took place after school, in what was supposed to be my free time. It was lonely, awkward, and miserable. Most of our gatherings occurred in the troupe leader’s basement where we did little crafts, ate snacks, and probably did something to earn badges, but I couldn’t begin to tell you what those things were. I was mostly in my own head, pretending I was somewhere else.
One afternoon we were shuttled over to a local cemetery. I don’t think I realized that’s where we were–again, zoned out and daydreaming when I should have been paying attention–but when we arrived and I saw the shadowy tree-lined paths winding past weathered gravestones, I recall feeling a vague sense of trepidation. After all, wasn’t the graveyard where all the spooky bad guys from Scooby Doo lived? It turned out that we were tasked with wandering around on our own, looking at nature, and making grave rubbings. When I learned what was expected of us, I couldn’t have been more thrilled; even at that age, I’d take alone time over group activities, any day!
That afternoon was one of the most peaceful I’d ever spent in my young life. I chose a crumbling grave marker with a garland of flowers carved into it, and as I rubbed with my grey chalk on tracing paper, I didn’t even get myself worked up, as I often did, dithering and fretting, worrying as to whether I was “doing it right” (a concern that plagued me constantly.) It was enough to be in solitude, lost in thought on a late autumn day while chipmunks chattered and acorns dropped at my feet, and my companions’ voices grew fainter and disappeared, the further everyone roamed. It was as if I had drifted into another world. I’d carry those feelings with me into adulthood and in the past several decades, I’ve often found myself seeking out the silence and stillness of a local cemetery when life feels overwhelming.
I realize that to those who know me through my writing or internet presence, my fondness for graveyard sojourns might seem to be connected to my inclination toward darkness and the macabre– but it’s not that at all. I don’t have a morbid obsession with death, it’s not some sort of goth predilection…it’s more like…as an introvert’s introvert, I know in my heart that the cemetery is probably the one place on earth I don’t have to feel anxious about talking to people! The quiet and solitude is such a balm for the soul and cemeteries themselves feel like a place outside of time, so the overall experience of spending time in a cemetery is not haunted or full of horrors at all, but rather a hushed, halcyon dream.
I thought of that formative afternoon as I began reading Death’s Garden, Revisited, a poignant, sweeping collection of personal essays accompanied by evocative, full-color photos, about the myriad, complex ways that people connect with cemeteries and graveyards.
I’ll confess, I felt a terrible sense of guilt and shame as I initially thumbed through these pages;Loren Rhoads, the creator of this project, had generously sent me a copy sometime late last spring, and it has taken me a very long time to read it. My vision has been deteriorating so badly–and at an essay a day, all my eyeballs can handle, that makes for slow reading. Not long into the book, though, I stopped feeling bad about myself, and, much like my experiences with cemeteries themselves, I totally lost myself in the worlds of emotions that these wonderful writings evoked.
I should also mention that being contacted by Loren or even being on her radar at all, was a bit of a dream come true. I’ve been low-key obsessed with this author, editor, and lecturer ever since Rue Morgue Magazine featured a brief review of Loren’s book Morbid Curiosity Sings the Blues all the way back in 2009!
Death’s Garden, Revisited is a gathering of tapophilic musings from all walks of life. Over the course of these pages, genealogists and geocachers, travelers and tour guides, academics and amateur sleuths explore, examine, and excavate the culture, zeitgeist, landscape, philosophy, and history of cemeteries, as well as the stories of the people, both infamous and obscure, buried there. Told from the perspectives of a thrillingly diverse group of voices from around the globe, these writings adeptly illustrate one of the included author’s observations that “once we escape from the bony grip of mortality, we find common ground.”
We read stories of joy and mirth: first dates, weddings, reunions, ghost tours! We also read of sadness and rage and things vile and unconscionable: vandalism, descration, racism, revolutions, murders. We read over and over, of the peace to be found at the end of all things. That despite their eerie and unsettling associations with ghosts and the supernatural, despite often being thought of as bleak, gloomy places, the taboo nature of their existence…well, as one writer declares, “That’s not scary, it’s family.”
Places of both beauty and sorrow, where the living and the dead come together, cemeteries offer glimpses into the past, and teach us about the history of a community. These are spaces that remind us of the enduring power of love and memory, and nudge us to reckon with our own mortality, reminding us of our own fragility and the brevity of life.
Though out of necessity I read this book at a snail’s pace, I think that might be the best way to take in these stories. As lovely and thought-provoking as each author’s contribution might be, reading about death is, after all, a pretty intense and heavy experience. “Grave” subject matter, if you’ll pardon the pun. I found myself either delicately weepy or hiccuping with unexpected sobs after sitting with quite a few of them. It’s a profoundly affecting, powerfully beautiful collection.
My life in the past few years, however, has not been moving at a snail’s pace. I myself have written three books. I’ve moved house, and gotten married. The elders in my family have died one after the other–my mother and all her siblings, both sets of my grandparents, and just a few months ago, my father. They have all been cremated; none of these folks are buried in a cemetery, and I have no one to visit there.
I’m not visiting these silent, sacred spaces for them, though, am I? As the song goes, “Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again.” Life has been overwhelming and a bit bonkers in recent years. It’s time to visit a soft, silent, sacred space where I’ll have more solitude than I can shake a stick at, and no matter how much talking I do into the metaphorical darkness… I won’t hear a peep in return.
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!
As you might surmise from the title, Slotherhouse is about a killer sloth on the loose in a sorority house. You don’t need to know anything more than that. Except yes, the featured image from this post is that of a sloth driving a car. She uses GPS, too!
Yesterday I implored my friends on social media to help me pick a film, which is how Slotherhouse ended up on the docket. I was in desperate need of something FUN. I have noped out of so many viewings this October, either because of the squick factor (ie Day 20’s Dead Ringers) or because they triggered massive anxiety (ie Day 25’s Speak No Evil.) Life is too short to watch things that make you feel miserable!
I asked them “What is the most fun you’ve had watching a horror movie, and what was it? It doesn’t have to be funny or satire or a parody (for example, I think Hellraiser is fun!) but whenever you watch it you’re just super jazzed, thinking, now THIS is why I’m a horror fan!”
You can read all of the resulting answers here, just in case you need something fun as a palate cleanser before the month is out! I also asked friends over on threads the same question, and you can find those responses here.
“Uncomfortable” is a word I throw around a lot. I have a very, very low tolerance when it comes to uncomfortable, awkward, or embarrassing situations.
Speak No Evil is relentlessly, brutally uncomfortable. I think if I had read the synopsis or watched the trailer beforehand, I probably would have given this one a pass. It was recommended to me later in the day yesterday, and trusting the horror-guru implicitly, I went for it.
…and then noped out at the 45-minute mark.
Two families on vacation in Tuscany – one Danish, one Dutch – meet and become friendly. Months later, the outgoing Dutch family invites the more conservative Danes to spend a weekend at their cabin. However, it doesn’t take long before things become tense and awkward as either cultural misunderstandings or the miscommunications of people who don’t know each other very well become egregiously apparent. Too well-mannered to confront their hosts’ increasingly erratic and rude behavior, the Danes politely stick it out, until something so unsettling happens that they actually sneak out in the wee hours of the morning while their bizarre hosts are asleep.
As we were only a third of the way through the film, I knew this was too good to be true. And of course, I was right! They hadn’t driven very far before their daughter starts to panic and cry, realizing she’d left her stuffed rabbit toy behind. You can see the anxiety in her father’s eyes as he is debating their options and then, sickeningly, he turns the car around.
At that point, I shouted NOPE! Jumped out of my chair so fast that it tipped over, and ran out of the room. My heart was racing and I was shaking so hard I imagined I could taste the bitter, metallic adrenaline in my mouth. Even though I didn’t KNOW-know where this was headed, I had a solid enough idea that it was ratcheting up to something awful, and I just couldn’t subject myself to the plight of a family who was going to get themselves killed because their accommodating natures overrode their sense of self-preservation.
Honestly, it felt too relatable. Up to the point I stopped watching, nothing bad had even happened, really, it was all so innocuous. But see, that’s where I, too, have been conditioned to be obliging and understanding! Because even as I am watching and thinking “well making your guests pay for a meal you had promised to treat them to isn’t exactly a crime” I know in my gut, it’s really tacky! And while practically forcing your vegetarian guest to sample a bite of your roast pork isn’t evil, it’s outrageously disrespectful. I would certainly never do that to anyone. I know better. That’s the thing. Even if on some level it doesn’t seem all that bad, the heart of who I am, it KNOWS. But would I trust what I know to be true enough to leave that situation? I don’t know!
This October I’m finding more than a few instances where I’ve had enough and I am quick to call it. I know I say this all the time lately, but I don’t know how much time I have left on this earth and I don’t want to spend it making myself miserable, even if the thing I’m experiencing or engaging with is a purported masterpiece. That’s fine. I gave it a shot, and it wasn’t for me. Afterward, I read the entire synopsis on Wikipedia, and now, knowing what I know …I think (??) I might have been able to watch it.
Not knowing where things were heading was factoring into my anxiety, so being armed with the plot–spoilers and all–might have helped. Would I have enjoyed seeing it through? I most assuredly would not have. All in all, it reminded me of Funny Games (I think many reviewers felt the same) and if you did not love that one, you probably won’t want to watch Speak No Evil.
Instead, I watched more Deadloch. I cannot stress this enough. If you are too freaked out by what you are watching this spooky season, you need to take a little break and tune into this show!
–A. I appreciate this recommendation and any time you want to share suggestions with me! Speak No Evil wasn’t my cuppa but I love that you shared it and my ears are always open for your recommendations. Also when I went to look it up, I momentarily forgot the title and almost started the 2006 See No Evil with KANE, ha!
