Sleaze Feature: 'Carnosaur' (1984)

 

Going through more of my own personal stash of Paperbacks From Hell.

Read it as a wee one circa 1985-ish, and thought I'd give it another gander.

(Y'all know by now I loves me some dinosaurs, so will spare the usual navel-gazish rambling.  And OF COURSE y'all are aware Jurassic Park hit the stands in 1990.)

—

Like Thomas Hobbes' "State Of Nature" and Billy Barty on a bender, Carnosaur is nasty, brutish, and short.  It's a lean 214 pages, and the exploitative pulp is exploitatively pulpy enough (despite a nigh-dinosaur-less middle slog).

Starts promisingly, as a "scythe-like middle claw opened up [him] from neck to groin before he even realized what was happening" by Page 4.  (The him in question is an unpleasant, misogynistic farmer who catches a critter in his chicken coop.)

On Page 5, his aggrieved wife sees "something out of a nightmare.  It was all teeth and claws and it was eating him... the monster pushed its snout into her husband's open stomach and tore out a length of intestine."  She dies via heart attack.

Later on Page 5, there's some backseat statutory rape; by Pages 7-8, there's a headless, unpleasant lothario and an unpleasant head-crashed-into-a-tree jailbait.

Whew!  And that mayhem was all inflicted by the same beastie!

—

Flip the page, and we meet the ostensible protagonist, one David Pascal: an unpleasant, misogynistic reporter yearning for His One Big Break to escape the sleepy English hamlet of Warchester, England.

He gets to investigatin' the mysterious deaths, presumably caused by a rogue tiger from unpleasant local aristocrat-slash-captain of industry-slash big game hunter Sir Darren Penward's manor menagerie.

Cue some stuffy politics and corrupt-ish law enforcement, which is blessedly interrupted by more mysterious monster mayhem on Pages 31-33:  a dead little girl ("[She] died instantly, her skull completely crushed."), a dead pony, and a dead mom ("The cruel, razor-sharp middle claw slashed through [her] neck and deep into her chest.  She was already dead by the time her body fell backwards onto the blood-soaked hay.")

Again, all the same critter!  Thang gets around.

Now onto the slog.

There's more politicking.

There's Jenny, Pascal's fetching ex who is both a better journalist and, unpleasantly, a doormat for his nonsense.

There's a scummy plan for Our Hero to seduce Lady Jane (Penward's unpleasant, nymphomaniacal-in-a-judgy-way wife) to gain access to the menagerie.  The graphic fellatio makes it more unseemly.

There's Pascal's break-in to the compound zoo.

And finally, on Page 94, action resumes.  Those are a lonnnnngggg dinosaur-less sixty-something pages.

—

Pascal gets captured.

Penward, a lifelong dino-fanatic, monologues on Pages 109-110 about his demented Master Plan that involves cloning dinos via extracted-from-fossils-DNA merged with chicken embryos.

Crichton Knew A Good Idea When He Heard It...

Going to put it here in its entirety, because it's GLORIOUS.

"I intend to re-establish the dinosaur on earth, Mr Pascal.  I intend to release dinosaurs into the wild in [remote properties in Africa, Australia, Canada, New Zealand].  I am giving the greatest animals that ever lived a second chance.  And then we will see who is the rightful victor in the struggle between mammals and dinosaurs."

[insert Pascal's protestations here]

"People don't interest me, Mr Pascal.  There are too many of them on this planet as it is.  They... are like some awful vermin that has spread out over the world leaving filth and pollution everywhere.  As far as I'm concerned, they are one of nature's failed experiments.  It is time they went."

[insert Pascal's confidence that Man's technology, like "cannons and guided missiles", will defeat dinos here]

"Man's technology is about to run amok, Mr Pascal.  I predict an atomic war, either by accident or design, within a few years.  It is inevitable.  And when the pieces settle, my dinosaurs, by then well established in the remote areas of the world, will be free to thrive and multiply.  What remains of the human race will be helpless against them."

—

By Page 125, the book turns into pretty much into the second half of Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom.

Yes, Penward Manor Even Has A Fossil Museum!

The jilted Lady Jane releases all the dinos and they rampage throughout the mansion and into the countryside.

The Dilophosaurus and Deinonychus eat unpleasant security guards and butlers.

The Tarbosaurus wrecks a vacant shopping mall.

The Megalosaurus [which I need to mention suffers from madness-inducing horniness] fights an eighteen-wheeler, ultimately losing but taking out an unpleasant, rapey trucker in the process.

The Scolosaurus demolishes an army tank.  (It's off-handedly described as carnivorous early on, and then detailed to be herbivorous later.)

Add That Editorial Goof To A Few Typos And
An Annoying Mis-Count Of The Actual Number Of Dinos In The Book

The Plesiosaur eats a bunch of unpleasant party-boaters, fishermen, and navymen.

The Altispinax eats a cow.

The baby Brachiosaurus gets adopted by a kid.

The military ultimately wraps everything up.  The book's in the final pages...

...but then out pounces the secret double-Deinonychus that devours Jenny's family and baby sister!

Pascal pitchforks it.

And then the extra-secret ending happens, where two Tyrannosaurus rex hatchlings eat Lady Jane and the already-dead-from-bloodloss Sir Penward.

The end.

—

I feel the need to reiterate how much David Pascal sucks.

He's a mopey sad-sack that, at the onset, broke things off with Jenny outta both professional jealousy and she'll-just-hold-me-back-and-keep-me-stuck-here-in-Shitburgh-itis.

He later walks in on Jenny having secret office sexytimes with her new beau and has the gall to make her a villain, using that incident as fuel for his seduction of Lady Jane.

But Lady Jane is both a codependent and a fragile abuse victim, and Pascal grossly exploits her by manipulating her affections.  Like so:

"It is true!  If only i could prove [my love] to you!  I promise!  I promise I'll stay with you forever!" — p. 114

Then, mere pages later, Jenny has launched her own covert attempt to rescue Pascal from the compound.  Cue this exchange:

"I love you!  Of course I do.  I finally realized how much this afternoon when I was locked up downstairs.  I knew I only had hours to live... and the most painful thing was the thought I'd never see you again." — p. 128

It's not long before Lady Jane realizes his deception and true feelings for Jenny, so she unleashes dinosaur hell...

Substitute 'Heiress' For 'Barbarian'

...leading Pascal to confess his scumbaggitude:

"Jenny, I knew she was mentally unstable, but what I did to her tonight has pushed her over the edge.  Don't you see?  She was pinning all her hopes on me--she saw me as her last chance--and I more or less kicked her in the teeth!" — p. 140

Later, after some dumb (in the "this is terrible timing" sense) office sex, Pascal and Jenny encounter the mall-crawling Tarbosaurus.  Because she's competent, she daringly tries to get photos of it for a big news scoop.

Pascal's reaction:

"You stupid bitch!  Don't ever do that again!" — p. 193

Romance lives, eh?

—

Despite being chock full o' unpleasant, awful people, Carnosaur goes by quickly and has, in the style of the time, plenty of satisfying British creature carnage.

Also deserves points for using atypical dinosaurs.  I mean, John Q Civilian had never heard of a Scolosaurus or an Altispinax before, and the pint-sized T-rexes aren't even a plot point until the end.

Carnosaur also definitely deserves credit for throwing the pass that Jurassic Park turned into a touchdown.  [Editor's Note:  That's the only sports analogy Yours Truly has made in his life.  Hope I did it right!]

And it got a Roger Corman flick outta the deal (with some some primo blog-fodder, too!), so can't be all terrible.

—

RPG Relevance:  "Doomsday dinosaurs bio-engineered to become dominant post-apocalyptic lifeforms" is a ready-made campaign.  Just pick yer game engine and let 'er rip!

—

Final Review Score:  Three Dinosaurs Attack! Wax Packs Outta Five

SLEAZE FEATURE: 'BATS‘ (1993)

  

Haven't done one of these in a while, and as I'm clearing out the shelves, figgered what the hell.

—

Bats is terrible.  And gets worse the more ya think about it.

The novel doesn't deserve further explanation.

—

Sighhh, fine.

In the swampy wilds of Podunk, Louisiana, our ostensible hero–one Johnny McBride [not his real name, because he's a retired super-spook who "worked for ASA, CIA, DIA, NSA, and a dozen other intelligence-gathering organizations all over the world" and in hiding from All The Planet's Bad Guys]–hears the titular bats on Page 2, and finds desiccated, bloodless livestock less than ten pages later.

Potentially interesting, as the hero knows about the furry threat from the get-go; usually, with these Animals Amok™ books, the beastie menaces lurk on the periphery until rampaging about two-thirds through the story.  But, nope!  Vampire bats are namechecked in the last sentence of the first chapter.

About Johnny McBride:  He's hunky.  He's wealthy.  He drives a cool car.  He built a bayou Wayne Manor equipped with secret hatches and an arsenal that puts militaries to shame.  Best of all, he's COMPETENT, with the sort of calm, cool, collected, confident, always-right mojo that makes all Good Government Officials kowtow in reverence and all Bad Government Officials scoff to their inevitable exsanguinary comeuppance.

Now Crank That Sentiment To 11

Chapter Two introduces us to Dr. Blair Perkins, the female McBride (gorgeous; financially sound; armed; COMPETENT) who, upon investigating the aforementioned livestock, intones, "We're in trouble.  I think we're in a lot of trouble."

Spoiler:  He Does.

Chapter Three has the leads capture footage of the bats, discovering they are enormous (four-foot wingspans!), active 24/7 (being diurnal, nocturnal, crepuscular, and everything in between), number in the tens-of-thousands, slobberily rabid, and intelligent enough to circumvent electric fences and detect / bypass boobytraps.

"'Well, I'll be goddamned!' Johnny said.  'The bastards can think and reason!'" (p. 38)

Thanks to our heroes and the discovery of some draculized human corpses, by the end of Chapter Four, anybody and everybody knows about the bats.  Knows they're smart.  Knows they're carnivorous.  Knows they're Deadly-with-a-capital-D.  Knows they probably number in the millions.  Knows that potentially apocalyptic events are about to transpire.

Oh, what further genre-bending thrills-n-chills await us over the remaining three-hundred pages?!!!

And, whoa!  Chapter Six amps up the weirdness!

Some rando mentions decades-old, unsolved vampiric murders where everyone involved moved away, was sworn to silence, and / or deceasified (killed or suicided), introducing the threat might be supernatural!  Ooh, a twist!

A mysterious NSA Agent, one "Mr. Smith"–yes, really–shows up, alluding to secret government experiments and bioweapons and Top Secret toxic waste dumps causing mutations.  Ooh, another twist!

There's also a cult of 1970s-Satanist-voodoo-hippies-as-written-by-a-1990s-Dittohead who love drugs, orgies, and the blackest of masses.  Ooh, a third twist!

THIS IS GONNA BE AWESOME!!!1111!!!!!

"No, no it's not."

—

That's about as far as the book goes in the first fifty pages before turning into a joyless, repetitive slog [before that, it was just a slog-adjacent].  The text is perfunctory and boring, making humdrum scenes agonizing and the (theoretically rollicking) setpieces perfunctory text blocks, and the next two-hundred-fifty pages play out essentially the same.

McBride fortifies his home / base of operations.

McB issues grave warnings to all the surrounding city and county governments about The Bats (with frequent author's-true-feelings, Dale Gribblean lamentations about liberal judges, liberal newsmedia, liberal gun-control activists, liberal welfare recipients, and all the other liberal soft folks Who Can't Do What He Does™).

Perkins agrees.

Everyone scoffs, and goes barhopping / mall-crawling / Friday Night Light-ing without care.

The Bats attack, blinding, eating, and / or infecting everyone.  (There are sooooooo many mentions of plucked eyeballs and ripped-out tongues and throats, but they're just... there.)  And the winged menaces intentionally leave power / phone lines undamaged (yes, they could destroy 'em if wanted) to lure in more victims.

There Are Indeed Passages About
The Bats' Thought Processes... EVIL Thought Processes!

Rabies-zombies [the devil-hippies got bitten on purpose, and spread the contagion] attack the uneaten civilians.

Law enforcement kills the rabies-zombies but dies via The Bats.

Medical personnel rush in to save law enforcement but die via The Bats.

So heroic duo re-fortifies their homes / bases of operation.

Then warn the next batch of towns.

Repeat ad nauseum.

—

Everything above should create a bonkers, gonzo, crazy-go-nuts blood-romp, but it's so tragically, brutally boring.  Absolutely no panache nor suspense.  Even all the nausuems are dry and flavorless.

Remember all the weirdness introduced in Chapters Five and Six?  It's all pointless and useless.

Mr. Smith is never seen or mentioned again.

Total.  Waste.

Speaking of waste, the other NPCs (mostly police) are all but identical and interchangeable, with only told-not-shown one-line quirks to distinguish them (like, the sheriff resenting a deputy because the latter "eats too much on meal tabs" and the deputy resenting the sheriff because "it was only one instance of eating too much on a meal tab".  Every time the two are on the same page at the same time (which is blessedly rare), they bicker about the food incident.

Says It All

(McB and P also adopt some bat-induced orphans, and only mentioned because it's perhaps the most hand-wavingly preposterous part of the book.)

Regarding those unsolved vampire-murders?  Turns out the Satanist leader did 'em.  Just a throwaway line about it, too.

Oh!  Same about The Bats being atomic mutants.  Again, in one line, it's revealed that they're not hybrids resulting from Forbidden Science / Mother Earth Seeking Revenge, but seeeeecret bats that have been around since The Dawn Of Time and show up every century or so to cause mayhem.

All of the above are reasons to loathe Bats, but it's the unmitigatedly galling idiocy that really gets me.

Let me count The Dumb.

1)  The Bats, about halfway through the book, get even more dangerous by figuring out how to open any and all doors–residential knobs, shopping center push / pull handles, and even car door latches–so there's no way to escape 'em.

But that info is conveyed exactly like this:  "The Bats learned to open doors."

There's no discussion of the physiology involved, nor the reasoning process.  Just—BOOM!—they can.

2)  Turns out The Bats have intentionally picked their civilian targets (which now encompass almost all of The South, all the way up to Washington, DC and out to Texas and Florida) to create, when connected on a map, a goofy picture because–I kid you not–THEY HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR.

I'm Not Even Joking

3) And then there's the last fifty pages.  Krishna H. Vishnu, the ending.

A wizened, mysterious, inscrutable South American professor–who happens to be The World's Foremost Chiroptera Expert–flies to Louisiana to join our heroes.  He has some theories, see, that will save Humanity if he's right or doom it if he's wrong.

What are his theories, you ask?  Don't bother–he won't tell, because he doesn't want to offer false hope!

"Helpful, I Am Not.  Useless, I Am."

And he really doesn't have to say a word, because the solution becomes apparent in the literal last ten pages of the novel when MILLIONS OF REGULAR, GARDEN VARIETY BATS OF ALL SPECIES FLY IN OUTTA NOWHERE TO CHOMP HOLES IN THE SWARMING BATS' WINGS, CAUSING THE BAD BATS TO CRASH INTO THE EARTH AND DIE.

Yes, that's the ending.  Deus Ex Flappina saves the planet.  This ritual, too, has seemingly been going on since The Dawn Of Time, so the heroes ultimately do jack and squat to stop the bat invasion.

And, as the genre demands, some last-page Evil Bats escape to breed again....

In conclusion, Bats fucking sucks.

—

RPG Relevance:  Doesn't get much more Dungeons And / Or Dragons than giant, diseased bats slavering for the blood of the living, but making them cunning geniuses definitely amps the threat.

—

Final Review Score:  One-and-a-half Jerry Dandriges outta five.

SLEAZE FEATURE: 'MANSTOPPER‘ (1988)

Ahhhhh, ‘80s “Animals Amok” paperbacks—how I adore thee!

Thing is, almost all involve swarms, flocks, and / or schools... and usually mutations.  Overwhelming numbers are how these critters inflict mayhem.  So how can four regular ol' murder-mutts possibly appeal to this jaded viewer?

I'll tell ya:  novelty and grue!

—

Yeah, yeah--readers have seen the environs (dying rural town--check!), cast (elderly fishermen, crusty newsmen, reluctant lovebirds, bumpkin farmers, weary cops--check!), and set-up before (critters escape confinement and attract Big White Hunter--check!) in every other story of Manstopper's ilk, but the pieces are assembled in atypical fashion.

Cases in point:

) The dogs--dobermans Mr. Dobbs, Cleo, and Razor, and German shepherd Bigfoot--get separated early on, so there's more solo savagery than not.  And like their respective victims, each gets picked off one by one, so there's a weird slasher / reverse-slasher flick vibe underscoring the narrative.

) The vagrant serial killer(!) who unleashes the hounds in the first place never runs afoul of 'em, which simply isn't done.  Where's the comeuppance?!!!  And it dawns on me that trend is seen through the entire work, as all the "most deserving of dog-demolition" bit players survive.  All of 'em.  Not sure I've ever encountered that before.

) There's also no real protagonist.  The Crusading Reporters don't do diddly.  The Fuzz is ineffective.  And the robust, wealthy, dapper, handsome, crafty ammosexual (also a Holocaust survivor!) who ultimately defeats the orneriest, fastest, canniest, ruthless-est, bloodthirstiest beast is also the same who trained it to be the orneriest, fastest, canniest, ruthless-est, bloodthirstiest beast in the first place.  And the dogs, while ostensibly the villains, are only doing what they were made to do.  Never got the feeling I was supposed to root for anybody (beyond some menaced kids, natch) when all was said and done.

Other Interesting-ish Bits:

) The scale of the tale is not only teeny-tiny, but also "The Past Is A Foreign Country"-ful.  Once the dogs are loose, li'l Sea Cove, New Jersey spends four days in panicked, cop-mandated lockdown.  That's news, yo.  But only a two-person journo-crew is dispatched to the scene... and they get immediately eaten, which isn't even noticed for a day or two.  Insane by modern sensibilities.  Even more so?  Nary a single survivor nor bureaucrat comes at Big White Hunter-Breeder with threats of lawsuits; the only outrage arises from a Traumatized Mother slapping BWH-B in vintage TV-movie style.  [As I type this, the setting ultimately feels like a cheapo video game from the dawn of The Console Era where one runs through vacant grids of amorphous brown buildings and gray roadways interrupted by the occasional pixelated car or street sign.  Robust living and breathing world, it ain't.]  The only interesting bit o' setting involves a shuttered-for-the-season midway spookhouse, and the ensuing stalkin' sequence would look snazzy on film.

) There's lotsa Jaws-ness in Razor's chunks of the book, as they're all POV and he only cares about killin' and eatin' and killin' some more.  The comparison goes full-bore, though, when Razor chases the aforementioned newscrew into the sea and slaughters 'em in deep water.  The sequence is so bonkers, I legit thought a shark was going to come in and finish off at least one of the hemhorraging victims... and I was legit sad when none did.

) There's a quasi-surprising bit where Obligatory Hot Assistant-To-BWH-B (who's barely in the book as it is) has a kinda-sorta Final Girl moment.  Didn't see that one coming.

) The stinger denouement is totally predictable (SPOILER:  PUPPIES, Y'ALL), but more "Huh, okay" than horror.

Razor was dead.  But part of him lived on.  What that fact meant for the future--if it meant anything at all--was a matter only time would resolve.

Ambivalence holds sway.

—

But what about dat blood?

Manstopper has some grody sequences infused with punchiness and suspense that generate genuine dread instead of only cheap, exploitative thrills (and I loooooves me some cheap, exploitative thrills).

"The hair, which might have been silver-gray once but was now blood-soaked to a muddy red, hung down in thick, gooey, vertical streaks, dripping like melting icicles."

Thats good stuff.

And, boy howdy, The Radio Station Setpiece™ ranks amongst the gnarliest I've encountered.  Enjoy a slice of pizza delivery gone awry!

"Razor pawed furiously at the widening gap in the Man's gut, till the stomach sac itself ruptured and its contents spilled out..., the half-digested remnants of breakfast, lunch, dinner, second helpings of each and snacks in between, all foaming into a milky puddle on the floor....

An olive rolled into one gouged eye socket."

There's sooooo much more, and it's sooooo much worse.  It's crazy-go-nuts.

—

RPG Relevance:  There's a reason wolves are staple tabletop baddies, and intelligent (well, at least in Razor's case) hounds that live only to kill certainly fit the bill.  I'd add broadcast telepathy to enhance group tactics and better antagonize / terrorize the PCs.

—

Final Review Score:  Not your usual same-ol', been-there beast-book.  A solid three encrusted Cujos out of Five.

SLEAZE FEATURE: 'A GIRL'S GUIDE TO GUNS AND MONSTERS' (2010)

 

Bought this upon publication back in 2010 and promptly shelved it.  Just about the most Planet Motherfucker-y title a collection could have, but was it worth the wait?

--

AGGTGAM is a spiritual (and, in one instance, literal) sequel to the craptacular Zombie Raccoons & Killer Bunnies.  The cover's better than most paranormal romances, even without obligatory tattoos, straps, and cleavage.  Tales span chronologically from The Past to The Future.

) Jane Linskold starts off strong with "The Drifter", a western with monster-huntin' gunslanger Prudence Bledsoe(!) and some skinwalkers.  It's predictable, but inoffensively so, and offers a real sense of place with the descriptions.

) Prolific Buffy-verse contributor Nancy Holder provides "Our Lady Of The Vampires", a Depression-era tale about bloodsuckers both figurative and literal sprinkled with Holy Terror and orphanages.  Evocative and disturbing.

) Still chuggin' along comes Lilith Saintcrow's grimy ode to teenage sleuths, bad stepdads (and the shitty moms that love 'em), blossoming lesbianism, and more lowercase draculas.  Major Carmilla / Ginger Snaps vibes.

I'll Take Any Excuse To Rep This Poster

) "Elizabeth And Anna's Big Adventure", by Jeanne C. Stein, falls firmly in cute territory, but suffers from more bloodsuckin'; too many undeadlies in a row, like a mixtape with multiple songs by the same band, Editor.  At least they switch to human villains (WHICH WE KNOW ARE THE SCARIEST OF ALL!!!111!11!!!!1!).  The anthology starts to falter.

) Anton Strout's "Lupercalia" is goofy.  There's a Be-Bulleted Boss Babe of the most cliched, her hapless sidekick, and a metamorphic Olympian were-cherub out to restore divine mojo via Valentine's shenanigans who reveals to be ALL of B-BBB's dozen-plus exes.

I think?  That sounds right, maybe.  Wholly unclear whats and whys on first pass, and I couldn't muster enough interest for a re-read.  Embarrassed for the author, yo.

) "Murder, She Workshopped" is Kristine Kathryn Rusch's tale of a Papal assassin on a writer's retreat as cover to whack a dragon.  Again, firmly cute, even with the "writer as secret hero" trope.  Have no clue what the lead's name is, though, as I think it was only mentioned second-hand.

) Jim C. Hines' "Heart Of Ash" is, as The Kids say today, "wiggedy-wack".  An ancient Greek nymph (who uncontrollably shapeshifts into her partner's physical ideal, and harnesses lust into Monster-Slaughterin' Might) hunts incestuous-by-implication werejaguars in Arizona culverts.  But dryad's mojo fades because her relationship's Fiery Passion is transitioning to Solid-N-Secure-N-Stable Lesbian Domesticity, and she almost dies...

...until levelling-up by seducing her celibate priest handler and alters into a Lethal Latina that wastes weres and ghosts girlfriends in equal measure.

"THE ARISTOCRATS!!!"

The implications are gross and wrong and awful.  Pains me I kinda dug it.

) Elizabeth A. Vaughan's "Jiang Shi" is the even more infuriatingly in medias res-y sequel to her marsupialicious story from ZR&KB.  It's a confounding whirlwind of Ancient Chinese Secrets and Master Splinter-itis and hopping vampires and confused bikers and teleporting virgins and The Chosen Nameless Frump in the middle of the mayhem.  I would've been lost--even more, I mean--without those vague six-year memories of the prior work.  (Why do authors put random chapters of random novels in random collections?  It's a lousy sales tactic.)

Now, With More Possums!

) OG Urban-Fantasy-Before-It-Was-Even-A-Thang writer Tanya Huff offers a day in the life of her vampire PI from The Blood Books in "No Matter Where You Go".  Some goober goths trifle with Forces Beyond Mortal Ken, requiring a dracula to save 'em and ending with Rod Serling-grade pith.  Workmanlike from start to finish.

) "Signed In Blood" is P.R. Frost's eyerolling slice-o'-life story about a writer protagonist (named Tess, I think?--lots of entries gloss over intros) clearly from novels The Reader is supposed to know but I clearly don't.  There's imps and blood-ink pens and psychic, vampiric pookahs [spelled like that] with cartoon accents and grandiose titles ["I'm a Warrior of the Celestial Blade..." is supposed to be taken SERIOUSLY, y'all] and worldbuilding gobbledygook that sounds like D&D dorks flexing in a LARP-off.

Insufferable.

) "Broch De Shlang" is, quite simply, fucked up.

I thought it was gonna be another Gaelic nightmare like from ZR&KB--hah, I wish!  Thanks to multiple Google searches that weren't all that helpful, I gathered "BDS" is Yiddish for "serpent / penis curse"... which is verified when the *protagonist* ultimately Googles the same way I did, down to the search description.

And what a curse.  The women in Protagonist's lineage apparently die via snaky trauma.  Which is definitely bad enough, but Protagonist is a single mom with a severely disabled Eldest (Trisomy 13 / Patau's Syndrome... leaving the vegetative child so toneless and limp she... slithers... out of wheelchairs unless restrained) and a perfect Youngest, and she's alone because the saintly dad (ugh) bailed but still shows up above and beyond standard custody to smother Youngest with attention while wholly ignoring even basic humanitarian care for Eldest.

Oh!  The only way to break The Curse is for The Curse's Host and The Snake to die at the same instant…

...which leads to a beautiful resolution where Youngest breaks The Curse and saves Protagonist from The Snake by annihilating both The Snake and Eldest--who is drooling in blissful slumber in a giant crib, natch--with a Mossberg.

Sniff.  So.  Touching.

Dad is gonna come back, too, to a now-perfect family.  Cue inspirational sunrise.

"Broch De Shlang" is gonna haunt me, y'all.

) Part of me hates Alexander B. Potter's "The Wooly Mountains" on principle, because it takes The Mos Eisley Approach to monsterizin'.

A Wretched Hive, Yadda-Yadda.

There's our spunky, backwoods lesbian with more-trouble-than-worth, oh-so-hilarious cowardly sidekick (BUT GAY!!!) in a whirl of werewolves, dragons, satyrs, shamans, *and* 'squatches.  The world is plagued by Troubles With Supernaturals That Came Out In A Big Event But The Beleaguered Humans Are The REAL Terrors that we've all seen before.  The plot is simple and obvious.

But part of me begrudgingly--BEGRUDGINGLY, yo!--liked it.  The yetis had Big Boggy Creek Energy, which always delights.  And all of Vermont becoming a cryptid wildlife preserve that is also full of gung-ho human secessionists makes me laugh.

) The collection ends with Nina Kiriki Hoffman's sci-fi "Invasive Species".  Imagine if Ellen Ripley and Newt were space-exterminators on a space-liner dealing with space-snatchers... -body, that is.

"Draw Me Like One Of Your Brain-Enslaved Girls"

TV episode plotting aside, it's an innocuous palate-cleanser.

--

AGGTGAM offers some neat stories, some adequate ones, and a smattering of duds, with too many vampires and--worse--too many "Trying Too Hard" beasties.

But, as with all collections, there's discarded extra-crispy nuggets in the greasetrap.  A reluctant three Ellens Ripley outta five, but going to the used bookstore with a vengeance.

SLEAZE FEATURE: 'HALLOWEEN KILLS' (2021)

 

[From my FB in 2021]

Halloween Kills is not a good movie.

Hell, it’s not even a movie, except in the technical sense.

It’s instead a series of linked vignettes, like Halloween: The Series: The Webisodes: The Movie.  And based on the themes addressed—and that’s me being charitable to presume there’s actually deeper meaning(s) at play, as the whole work may ultimately be one big middle finger—a weekly Criminal Minds: Haddonfield would’ve been the right path.

The flick starts with a new ending to OG Halloween (1978), thereby bridging the gap between that and now-the-only-canonical-entry Halloween (2018) (ugh—these naming conventions!) and revealing how the lethal lummox got incarcerated.  Flashbacks aplenty (“authentic” and “new retcon” alike… yay, CGI’d dead actors!) fill the runtime (which takes place in the few hours immediately after H2018), and serve to fill in the backstories of lotsa Haddonfield locals.

Lotsa, lotsa locals, including many pulled from H1978, like menaced kiddos all grown up and nurses and old-timer lawmen.

Soooooo many locals that Jamie Lee Curtis is a guest star in her own damned franchise.  I hope you don’t care much about Laurie Strode, because she’s barely in the picture.  Yep, just as in 1981’s awful and altogether pointless (when it was topical, and even more so now) Halloween II, Laurie Strode spends all her time in a hospital; unlike in 1981, Strode and The Shape never interact.  At all.   (The cineaste in me thinks this is meta-commentary on Halloween II itself and sequels in general, but again, that may be giving credit where none is deserved.)

The bat gets more celluloid than Strode.

And, say, about those locals?  The various Halloween Kills trailers made it seem like all of Haddonfield’s residents band together to eradicate the monster in their midst.  That’s a fantastic take for a slasher flick, and one that’s barely been scratched in the genre; the only examples of which I’m aware are Halloween IV: The Return Of Michael Myers (1988) (which bungled the idea entirely due to budgets, the MPAA, and gross ineptitude) and Victor Crowley (2017) (aka Hatchet IV, where waves of competent first-responders are gloriously rendered into slurry).  But the promise of the previews—which, frankly, portray a better movie about collective trauma and the effects thereof than the final product—doesn’t pay off, because like all mobs with torches and pitchforks (literally—yep, there’s Chekhov’s pitchfork… siiiiiighhhhh), thangs go awry.  But stupider than usually so, which may be another thematic point.

Or not.

(As I said, the folks behind the camera may be straight-up trolling the fanbase, which is a wholly new supposition for your beloved cultural critic.  I always presume artists bring their best intentions even if fiascos ensue… but in this case, some choices *have* to be purposeful Bronx cheers.

The only other explanation is cocaine, which, in nose candy’s defense, is how we got OG Halloween II in the first place.  Points for more symmetry, I guess.)

The plethora of extras leaves equally too many and zero characters to care about.  Almost everyone is introduced only to be murdered, with the “when” and “how” being the only variables.

There's Not Even Enough Left Of The Gays To Bury

And, boy howdy, those hows. This is the most sadistic, brutal, and gory of the twelve(!) Halloween movies, and none of those terms are complements (and y’all know my gruehound bonafides).  Historically, the majority of Michael’s worst kills were seen only in aftermath; there’d be a mangled body here or a strung-up corpse there or some dismembered bits over yonder.  But this time… this time, you see Michael eviscerate and exsanguinate and stabbalize and impalify, and even worse, he makes a bombastic show of bloodshed to torment onlookers.  (It’s always been implied that The Shape feeds on terror, what with some of his more “puckish” stunts involving bedsheets and tombstones and props ensuring maximum freak-out-osity, but here “implied” gives way to “jackhammered to the brainpan”.)

The overall effect makes Halloween Kills a carny geekshow instead a slow-burning fairy tale of menace.  That didn’t work when Rob Zombie took the series reins, and it doesn’t work now.

Other tidbits from the copious notes taken during the film (which is the truest indicator of my disengagement):

) If you took a shot every time someone bellows, “EVIL DIES TONIGHT!!!” you’d be wheeled out on a gurney.

) H2018 gave us glimpses of maskless-Michael, making him old and haggard.  We get even more askance peeps here, effectively making him look like Dr. Loomis.  Maybe that’s why hologram-Donald Pleasence was so blatant…?  Another (altogether clumsy) attempt at the Ahab metaphor…?

"Ahhhh.  The old 'hunted has become the hunter' trick, eh?"

) The soundtrack has some great spins on the original score. It also has some mockably maudlin tracks straight from daytime soap operas. The tonal shifts would be hysterical if they weren’t so maddening.

) At least Chekhov’s pitchfork had a twist.  Still, siiiiiighhhhhh.

) The climactic sequence makes zero sense, and I can’t discern if it’s shoddy editing, blasé stupidity, or another pointed fuck-you.  There’s a bloodbath in the street—with gunfire!!!—that cuts back and forth to bystanders *right there* getting medical attention.  Yet not a single person on the sidelines acknowledges the scrum nor copious screams, and then A Very Specific Bystander sees a ghost(!) and wanders off to meet doom with still no one noticing.  The setpiece is contradictory and nonsensical, making the last five minutes a lesser David Lynch joint.

) The SWEET MERCIFUL CRAP Award: Turns out the only reason The Shape went after Laurie and her brood four decades on is because …is because… oh, I cannot believe this is real… is because HE GOT ACCIDENTALLY DROPPED OFF AT HER PROPERTY.

) Rob Zombie’s entries look better and better by comparison.   Truly, we are living in The Darkest Timeline.

Time For A Rewatch, I Reckon

) Like many mid-‘80s horror flicks, there’s a power metal jam over the closing credits.  I legit brayed like a donkey.  Can’t wait to hear “The Myers Rap” in next year’s Halloween Ends!!!

) My honest, for-real, hand-to-Satan last scribbling in my phone, quoted verbatim, typo and all: “prettty sure this was dog shit”

Probably should’ve led with that.

Final Score:  Half a rotting jack-o'-lantern outta five.

SLEAZE FEATURE: 'THE FINAL GIRLS SUPPORT GROUP' (2021)

Haven’t consumed an entire novel in one sitting since before I became a dad. Oof, 4am bedtimes huuuurt in my dotage.

The new hotness in horror circles is Grady Hendrix’s latest, having been scooped up by HBO Max days after publication. Though this is the first of his fiction I’ve read, Hendrix earned my eternal adoration with 2017’s Paperbacks From Hell, a retrospective of ‘70s-‘80s terror-tomes of the kind B. Dalton stashed on waist-high wire racks at the backs of their stores out of embarrassment. As a weenie kid who gawked at all the garish covers (soooooo many skeletons!) and furtively scanned the back synopses while Ma browsed romances aisles away, Hendrix gets me. He’s got The Goods, y’all—follow his blog!

I Ate 'Em Up
(And They Rotted My Mind)

The Final Girl Support Group's concept is equally elegant and sublime: assorted holiday slaughters, power tool massacres, tree-street nightmares, and campground bloodbaths actually transpired, and the resulting Hollywood adaptations made the femmes finál starlet sensations and tabloid flotsam. The masked murderers (who, Scooby-Doo-style, are just loons instead of supernatural entities) have rabid fanbases, too, and those devotees are often worse than their idols.

The Final Girls, each in different life places (in all senses of the concept), meet monthly in secret for therapy and frenemyship. But someone finds out they’re regularly in the same room at the same time, and soon the body count climbs again….

Being told in first-person present-tense, TFGSG is a rocket of a read perfect for airports and beaches. The narrator is sympathetic and deep, yet just the perfect amount of irritating (due to her horrific trauma—seriously, it’s grodtastic) that, in keeping with the cinematic groove, you wanna yell at her from the audience. Her fellow gals are unique and distinct while still capturing traditional FG essence. The grue-dunnit mystery is captivating with plenty of twists and turns that equally lean into tropes *and* subvert them.

But the novel is more—far, far more—than a slavish paean to slasher flicks. It’s a meditation on franchises / sequels; on toxic fandom; on the True Crime phenom; on mass media; on exploitation (as a practice and an artistic style); on incels and MRAs and masculinity; on the assorted -isms ingrained in Horror itself. It’s a deconstruction and reconfiguring in the same fashion as Behind The Mask: The Rise Of Leslie Vernon. Great stuff.

There's A Comic Book Se- / Prequel, Too!

Easter eggs abound for the Fangoria set, but don’t detract. Insufferable Ready Player One jackoffery, there ain’t.

"You Mean DEADY SLAYER ONE!!!
YEEHEEHEEHAAHAAHAW!!!"

If I have one complaint, it’s that there is serious tonal rollercoastering. But I can’t decide if a) it’s intentional, again in keeping with genre, b) a bug or a feature, and / or c) simply the consequence of a bleary reader gobbling it all in one sitting like too many Raisinets®️ at a midnight movie marathon. (Oh! If I have a minuscule quasi-complaint, it’s that I kinda-sorta immediately figured out the villain—I got the right answer, but via the wrong path—yet there blessedly was way more behind the machinations than surmised. And, truly, it’s ultimately my fault for consuming so much box office bloodshed.)

Recommended for those that like a thrilling yarn, but extra-mega-turbo recommended… IN 3-D!!! for horror dorks and cinephiles. There’s a legit something for every reader, no matter yer druthers.

Final Score:  Four-point-five racks o' antlers outta five.