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Issue 19, FALL 2011 $8.99 U.S./$10.99 CAN 1
FALL 2011
Issue Number 19
www.DarkDiscoveries.com
Publisher/Editor-in-Chief James R. Beach Managing Editor/Art Director Jason V Brock Design, Web and Layout JaSunni Productions, LLC (www.JaSunni.com) ------------------------------
Contributors
James R. Beach Jason V Brock Sunni K Brock (+Web Mistress) John Everson Michael Furlong J. F. Gonzalez Richard Laymon Edward Lee William F. Nolan John Skipp Scott Aaron Stine Cyrus Wraith Walker Wrath James White
Contributing Artists/Photographers
Jason V Brock (Cover, Interiors) Beth Gwinn (Photo, pg. 56) Jun Hayami & Jason V Brock (Interiors)
Special Thanks
Chris Alexander Leslie Barany Jeff Burk Bruce Campbell H. R. Giger Del Howison Gravestone Entertainment Adrienne King Joe Parrington PETA
In Memoriam
The Victims of Religious Violence, from Pre-history to 9/11/01 and Beyond; The Animals of the World Suffering from Human Cruelty -You Are Not Forgotten.
Printing
Gorham Printing (with veg-based inks) _____________________
DARK DISCOVERIES
(ISSN 1548-6842) is published irregularly (Qtrly) by James R. Beach and Dark Discoveries Publications, 142 Woodside Drive, Longview, WA 98632 Copyright Š2004 and beyond by Dark Discoveries Publications, and where specified elsewhere in the issue. All rights revert to the authors/artists upon publication. All design elements (including the overall layout and the distictive DD logo) are copyright 2009 and beyond by JaSunni Productions, LLC, retroactively. Nothing shown can be reproduced without obtaining written permission from the creators. All book/magazine cover images and author photos remain the copyrighted property of their respective owners. Direct all inquiries, address changes, submission queries,subscription orders and changes, etc. to: James R. Beach Dark Discoveries Publications 142 Woodside Drive Longview, WA 98632 U.S.A. e-mail: info@darkdiscoveries.com Please make check or money order payable to: James R. Beach or Dark Discoveries Publications. Advertising rates available. Discounts for bulk and standing retail orders.
f i c t i o n The Table (Vintage Reprint) by Edward Lee
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Whatever You Want by John Everson
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Mabel's Recipes by J. F. Gonzalez
22
The Mirror by Richard Laymon
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Big Ernie's Tattoo Shop by Wrath James White
37
P.O.V. [Three Views of an Incident] by Jason V Brock
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i n t e r v i e w s Cult Horror Fiction: Jeff Burk & Deadite Press by James R. Beach Bruce Campbell: Evil Dead and Beyond by Jason V Brock Fangoria's Chris Alexander: Cinephilia, Music and All the Rest of It by Jason V Brock
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n o n - f i c t i o n How Lumpy the Turd Boy Wound Up in the House of Horror (Revisited) by John Skipp A Darker Shade of Yellow: An Overview of Giallo Cinema (Part 1 of 2) by Scott Aaron Stine Dark Matters - Splatter Me Not! by William F. Nolan "There Are No Limits...": The Roots of Splatterpunk and Extreme Horror by J. F. Gonzalez
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“In Their Own Words..." Adrienne King
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"Post-Crypts" - Like Water for Quarks; Kin; Shock Value; more... (DD Reviews) by DD Staff
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Whatever You Want
I
By John Everson
t was the shiny metal of her belt that first drew my eye. They say it’s women who are entranced by things that glitter, but don’t fool yourself. Guys have eyes too. And the silver jiggle of her hips as she walked back and forth in front of me all night served as a homing beacon. I couldn’t not look. I couldn’t not see the delicate tendrils of the tattoo that rose in a sensual tease from beneath the back of her skirt. I couldn’t not see the black shadow around her eyes that pronounced her a "dark soul" and I couldn’t not see the way her black t-shirt crept up above her hips as she walked, sometimes showing just the faintest hint of winter white skin and other times fully revealing the dark pit of a bellybutton. I stayed at the bar a long time; I took a lot in. And no matter what I asked for, she only smiled, her eyes creasing almost closed as she answered, "Whatever you want." I knew she was curious about me before midnight; she came to my table more than those of any of her other customers, and her eyes glinted white as she laughed at my painful jokes and made a point to stare at me deeply, attentively, slavishly. Sometime around my fourth or fifth beer I asked her to sit down. "Whatever you want," she said, and slid into the booth with me. I put my arm around her thin shoulders and asked, "You won’t get into trouble with your boss will you?" I could feel her shrug. "I was just taking care of a customer," she said innocently. "Makes me wish there was more on the menu," I said. "You can order off-menu," she answered. She turned her head towards mine, clearly inclining for a kiss. I bent to give her one, and she licked her tongue across my lips like a cat and pulled back before I could meet her. "May I take your order, sir?" "I’ll take the public handjob with a French kiss," I laughed. She didn’t. A cool palm slipped against my belly and down below my belt. Warm lips brushed across my ear moving to my mouth as her voice promised everything. "Whatever you want," she said.
I took her home when she got off work. I don’t even think we said a word to each other after I shut the door to my apartment before she had completely shed her clothes on my living room floor. "I’m not sure I tipped well enough for this," I murmured as her lips slid from my nipples to my groin. Her hands worked my belt loose and then freed the rest. The warmth of her lust engulfed me and I moaned. "What would you like, baby?" she asked. Her voice sounded too young for her actions. "I’d like to bend you over the daybed," I gasped, " and take you from behind." "Whatever you want," she promised again, and stood up. In moments, I was treated to an easy study of the ornate batlike tendrils of that tattoo above her ass, and my fingers roamed freely across the cool naked skin of her backside. I could feel every hair on her body, every pore. And more surprisingly, every scar. Her back was a mess of them. Faint, most were, but as I pressed myself tight against her, cleaving to her, I could see a lattice of her past. A violent past, from the look of it. I had a vision of her tied against basement walls, a leatherclad man with a whip poised behind her. With every lash he created new scars. They made me inexplicably excited and my intensity increased. It wasn’t long before we had both collapsed atop each other on the daybed. I slid my fingers through the tangled black hair over her ear and whispered, "Stay here with me tonight?" In the morning, she still looked good. But now the romantic shadows that had hid the intensity of her scars was gone. She slept next to me, still nude, the curve of her ass slipped out of the sheets as I shifted, and I studied the crisscross of jagged white lines that led from above her shoulder blades down past her waist to twist like barbed wire around the globes of her warm and very willing ass. I slipped a hand across her chest to feel the warmth of a breast, and she answered with a faint groan, rolling back towards me, delivering herself into my touch. The roadmap of scars continued across her middle, and now I saw that some of them were deeper below the lines of her nipples. Her belly remained mostly unmarked, but her ribs might have had fishhooks pulled across them at one time. "What happened?" I asked, trailing a finger across the faint indentation of one deep scar. "He loved me," she said. I didn’t know what to say to that. So I didn’t say anything.
Her name was Kerstin. I didn’t know that until I went to drive her home. But I got to know the sound of it a lot better over the next few weeks. She spent a lot of time at my place, and after her Friday night shift, she even spent the rest of the weekends. It was probably our third full weekend together when my neighbor decided to make good on his threat to build a bookcase for his living room wall. The hammering woke me up, but it was the high-pitched whir of the circular saw that made Kerstin’s eyes go wide. I thought she was frightened of the sound at first, and then her lips were covering mine. The saw next door oscillated
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The Mirror "O
By Richard Laymon
h, my God!" Sylvia's eyes widened. "What?" I nodded toward the man who had just walked past our table. Sylvia turned her head for a look at him, then faced me and asked. "What about him?" "It's Gordon LaRue." "Who?" "Gordon LaRue," I enunciated, raising my voice even though I was fairly sure that Sylvia had heard me. "Gordon LaRue?" she asked, shaking her head. "The artist! kina confused, Sylvia shook her head some more. Then she said, "Oh, him. Right. I didn't recognize the name at first. Great artist. A real genius." "I'll say. But what's he doing here? Why's he out?" "I'm sure I have no idea," Sylvia said. She took a sip of white wine, then looked down at the script. "As I was saying, I think it's exactly what…" "God, I wonder if he escaped." "Escaped?" "From wherever they sent him. I don't know… there was talk about the death penalty but I think they ended up sending him to a mental institution. Do you remember?" "Just… I have a vague recollection, but… he murdered his wife?" "No, it wasn't his wife. Let me think a minute." While I sipped my tequila -- which I take on the rocks with a dash of Triple Sec -- Sylvia twisted around for another look at Gordon LaRue. She wore a black dress with a low-cut back. Her back was smooth and nicely tanned and strapless. Not only was Sylvia one of the most successful directors in Hollywood and one of the rare breed of female directors, but she was quite beautiful… from any angle. Her strapless back confirmed what I suspected about her front. "He looks like a normal guy, doesn't he?" I said. Sylvia's head moved up and down as she continued to watch the man. He sat alone at a table in a far corner of the restaurant. About fifty, somewhat overweight and wearing glasses, he was dressed in khaki trousers and a blue chambray shirt with its sleeves rolled partway up his forearms. He might've been a doctor, a barber, a writer. He certainly didn't look like a homicidal psycho. Sylvia faced me again. "You say it wasn't his wife he killed?" "That's right. Though the murder certainly had to do with his wife." "Ah, of course… the jealous rage." "No. No, that wasn't it. The painting was a portrait of her. She was an absolutely gorgeous young woman. You've probably seen some of LaRue's paintings of her. They're in the Metropolitan, the Getty…" Sylvia pursed her thin red lips, frowned and nodded. "You must've seen Girl in Grass." "Oh, yes. It's fabulous. And that's his wife? The woman who modeled for Girl in Grass?" "Right. Her name was Chantelle." "Right." "Anyway, it was another painting of Chantelle that caused the trouble. It was the last painting he ever did of her… perhaps his last painting, period. It was called The Mirror. It showed a woman standing in front of a mirror…" "Hence the title," Sylvia added. "Exactly. We see her from behind, standing in front of a full-length mirror in her bedroom, brushing her hair. She's a very beautiful young woman. We can see that from the mirror. The reflection shows her front." "Is she nude?" Sylvia asked, seeming to perk up at the prospect. "No, she's clothed, but only in a white nightgown. It's wispy, almost transparent. It seems to float around her like a mist." "That's a brilliant image, Rolly. 'Floats around her like a mist.' Gorgeous. I can visualize it so clearly…" "I probably read it somewhere." "Oh, don't be modest. That's a Rolly O'Connor metaphor if I've ever heard one. Or read one, which I have. Brilliant script, by the way."
(Continued on Page 30)
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A Darker Shade of Yel low: A Summation of the Giallo Thriller and Its Influence
By Scott Aaron Stine October 2010 saw the US DVD release of Giallo (2009), the seventeenth theatrical feature from director Dario Argento. Although this cult filmmaker usually needs no introduction when discussed amongst horror fans, having already accrued a tremendous cult following during the first half of his forty-year career, his name resonates little with mainstream audiences. Similarly, the genre for which this latest film of his was named — a genre which he himself helped to pioneer — remains an obscure cinematic niche, at least as far as mainstream American filmgoers are concerned. The fact that modern horror and detective fare has been irrevocably influenced by this Italian import undoubtedly escapes most of them as well. In Italy, the term giallo ("yellow") has long since been equated with the detective novel, and has been used in the last fifty years to describe a distinct brand of filmmaking. In 1929, the Milan-based Arnoldo Mondadori Editore (1909-present) began translating and reprinting American and English murder mysteries, which quickly caught on with the Italian reader. Mondadori's line of cheaplyproduced novels devoted to detective fiction, Il Giallo Mondadori, all bore cover art with yellow backgrounds, creating an association between the color and the content. As the genre took off in Italy, other publishers kept with this tradition, cementing "giallo" as a cultural idiom for "mystery." Giallo: The First Cycle (1963-1969) It wasn't until the 1960s, though, that the giallo carved out it's own niche in Italian cinema. Although overlooked for many years by many film historians, La Ragazza che Sapeva Troppo [The Girl Who Knew Too Much](1963) aka The Evil Eye is now occasionally cited as the first official giallo film. Directed by painterturned-filmmaker Mario Bava (1914-1980), this modern murder mystery served as a stepping stone, as it displayed several — but not all — of the hallmarks now associated with giallo cinema. In this Hitchcock-like thriller, Nora Davis, a young American visiting Italy to be at the bedside of her ailing aunt, witnesses a brutal stabbing that may be linked to the killing of several young women ten years earlier. Although no one believes her claims, she fears she may be the next in line; the curious fact that the surnames of the previous victims began with A, B and C, respectively, does little to put Miss Davis’ mind at ease. In most respects, La Ragazza che Sapeva Troppo did not stray far from a path well tread by previous murder mysteries; the film is most notable for its clever script and masterful camerawork. In spite of that film’s contributions, it was the director’s next outing, Sei Donne per l’Assassino [Six Women for the Killer] aka Blood and Black Lace (1964), that would firmly establish the formula that separated giallo from its literary predecessors. The film opens with the brutal murder of a young model on the grounds of a haute couture fashion salon by a masked assailant; when the diary of the deceased surfaces then mysteriously disappears, the killer begins cutting a swath through the living mannequins in a desperate attempt to retrieve it and whatever dark secrets it contains. Harkening back to the tradition of Le Théâtre du Grand-Guignol, a Parisian theatre that had become both infamous and widely popular for its distinct brand of morality plays showcasing extremely graphic scenes of staged carnage, Bava's films rarely shied away from the violence that was often presented
bloodless and after-the-fact. (Having first opened its doors in 1897, the theatre eventually closed them in 1962, unable to compete with the waning control of censorship in cinema.) Although tame by today's standards — as well as that of later giallo fare — Bava's watershed thriller laid the groundwork when it came to the genre's growing depiction of unadulterated violence. Another keynote would prove to be the killer him or herself. Firstly, the murderer's identity was always obscured, whether by shadow or by mask, until the final reel. Granted, this device had already been employed for decades, but — like its cinematic predecessor, the German "krimi" [crime] film and the Edgar Wallace novels which inspired them — the giallo placed a greater emphasis on the antagonist's enigmatic façade. This often exalted the killer to an almost iconic stature, not unlike the masked super-villains of the weird menace33 pulps. Secondly, giallo shifted the focus of the
criminal's motives; no longer entirely spurred by financial gain, the modern bogeyman as seen through the eyes of Italian filmmakers were ultimately fueled by their deviant, psycho-sexual make-up. The act of violence was no longer just a means to the end, unless it was to cover up previous crimes against society. But it is not just content that makes Bava's film and most of its progeny unique, it is also presentation. As displayed in Sei Donne per l'Assassino, Bava's stylish cinematography, choreography and orchestration proved to be integral to the proceedings. (When giallo reached its peak in the mid-1970s, such artistic "flourishes" had become de rigueur of the genre.) As this film attests, color played an essential role in the genre from the beginning, an intense palette (further exacerbated by the Technicolor process) replacing the chiaroscuro shades already exploited to its fullest by film noir. It was as if the lurid subject matter demanded an equally lurid presentation. Despite the immense popularity of Bava's first (but not last) foray into the genre, the remainder of the 1960s proved sparse for giallo fare. It would be another four years before other filmmakers decided to exploit Bava's template, whilst pursuing the cinematic displays of sex and violence that giallo conveniently accommodated, to varying degrees of success. Romolo Guerrieri's Il Dolce Corpo di Deborah [The Sweet Body of Deborah] (1968) is a reasonably bromidic affair that is best remembered for featuring Carroll Baker (1931-present), whose notoriety was cemented when she starred as the titular Baby Doll (1956) in Elia Kazan's steamy melodrama. (Baker would continue to lend her talents to the occasional Italian production throughout the 1960s and 1970s.) Prolific exploitation filmmaker Antonio Margheriti (1930-2002) made his first contribution to the genre with Nude… Si Muore [Naked… You Die] (1968) which upped the titillation factor by having the anticipated string of murders play out within the walls of an all girls' boarding school. (Suffice it to say, this particular backdrop — with its ample opportunities to expose acres of nubile flesh in a "natural" environment — became a popular place for gialli to revisit in years to come.) This film also boasts a theme a little too reminiscent of Neil Hefti's music for the Batman television series, which at this time had just wrapped up its third and final season. Probably the most obscure giallo film of the decade, Vittorio Sindoni's L'Assassino Ha le Mani Pulite [The Murderer Has Clean Hands] (1968) follows a series of murders corollary to three dispossessed sisters when their late father's inheritance is bequeathed in toto to their adopted, mentally deficient brother. Although the inheritance plot was predictably hackneyed by this point in time, the filmmakers made up for it with unadulterated verve; it is difficult to find faults with the script when one finds themselves wallowing in the film's gratuitous excesses of sex and gore, the lurid proceedings punctuated by Stefano Torossi's frenetic, fuzzed-out score. In the late 1960s, filmmaker Umberto Lenzi (1931-present) began testing the waters with his own brand of sexually-charged thrillers. Three of his films — Orgasmo [Orgasm] (1968) and Così Dolce… Così Perversa [So Sweet… So Perverse] (1969) and Paranoia (1970) aka A Quiet Place to Kill — are often cited as gialli, yet all lack some of the genre's most crucial elements, in particular, a masked psychopath whose identity is revealed just prior to the end credits.
"There Are No Limits…" Exploring the Roots of Splatterpunk and Extreme Horror By J. F. Gonzalez
Dateline: March 1, 1991
The scene: the first World Horror Convention, Nashville, TN. As co-guest of honor, David J. Schow personalizes a hardcover copy of his second novel, The Shaft, to Charles L. Grant in the middle of a busy dealer’s room, David idly tells him about his latest novel-inprogress. Charlie listens with great interest, commenting that he can’t wait for David to finish it so he could read it. I sit back from my table in the dealer’s room, marveling at this scene. Only three short years before, Charlie was one of the loudest and most voracious of the so-called proponents of "Quiet Horror" who, through interviews and columns, took swipes at a new group of writers who had dubbed themselves "Splatterpunks", giving many readers and fans the impression there was an all-out war between the two camps. If you were involved in the scene in any way as a reader/fan, or as a publisher/editor/writer, you were likely aware that horror fiction back then was split between two seemingly divided camps — writers like Charlie, William F. Nolan, Dennis Etchison, and Dean Koontz who championed the quiet, more traditional end of horror fiction and routinely demeaned the work of a newer crop of writers emerging in the field that had come up with a splashy name for themselves — Splatterpunks. The core writers (sometimes referred to as the "Splat Pack") in the Splatterpunk movement consisted of David J. Schow, the writing team of John Skipp and Craig Spector, and Richard Christian Matheson; other then-new writers like Joe R. Lansdale, Ray Garton, and Clive Barker also came under the Splatterpunk umbrella. What set their work apart from what was currently being published in the field was not only the depiction of graphic violence and sex, but a rock-and-roll vibrancy in their prose, characters who seemed more vibrant and real to the sea of twenty-somethings who were reading them, and themes that often addressed social topics and taboo subjects head-on. As for happy endings, forget about it. It didn’t always happen. The movement gained a lot of attention and won thousands of fans over. Not everybody was impressed. The chief arguments against Splatterpunk were the usual tired old chestnuts: "gore for gore’s sake," "style over substance," "characters most people wouldn’t care about". Readers quickly took sides, and the battle raged in letters published in genre publications like Locus and Horrorstruck, during panels at conventions like World Fantasy and NECON, and became gossip fodder. However, the general audience for horror fiction was largely unaware of the movement until 1988, when two key essays examining Splatterpunk were published — one in Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Magazine, the other in Midnight Graffiti. As a young fan and "wanna-be" writer myself during that period, I immediately identified with the key PR actioners of Splatterpunk. I was familiar with their work already; seeing their photographs in the magazines was like seeing an alternate image of my friends and me. We shared the same cultural heritage. What wasn’t there to like? I was fortunate enough to meet them in August of 1988, at a book signing in Pasadena, California. After the signing, we invited them to a party and we sat up all night, talking and drinking beer and generally having a good time. Despite my youthful embrace of Splatterpunk, I was also a fan and great admirer of writers like Charles L. Grant, Dennis Etchison, Stephen King, and Ramsey Campbell — the so-called "Old Guard." When my friend Buddy Martinez and I got involved in publishing, we knew we wanted to publish the kind of fiction we loved to read — horror fiction, in all its various sub-genres and styles. We didn’t see what the fuss was in all the sniping and personal attacks being parried back and forth. So we decided to create a vehicle that would be a showcase for all forms of dark fiction. Thankfully, the Splatterpunk guys were onboard with our plans. So were other writers. In fact, our most powerful supporters came from the more "quiet" side of the camp. When I originally met Charlie Grant at the 1989 World Fantasy Convention, I was expecting derision at my mention that I was publishing a brand-new novella by Schow in the debut issue of Iniquities. Buddy and I resembled musicians in a metal band rather than magazine editors. In fact, we looked more like those Splatterpunk guys than any NY editor. I thought Charlie would dismiss us with an air of snobbery. That wasn’t the case at all: Charlie was funny, warm, sincere, caring, and very interested in our project. Best of all, despite his stature in the field, I detected the fan deep within him. Charlie’s paraphrased response: "It’s important for a dark fiction magazine to represent all forms of horror fiction. Splatterpunk is an important part of the genre. It should be represented." I was initially surprised by Charlie’s comment. That surprise quickly turned to gratitude. It was a response that was quickly echoed by William F. Nolan and others of the Old Guard. Likewise, in the months that followed, as Buddy and I prepared the debut issue of our magazine, Splatterpunk’s key members echoed these sentiments to us during private conversations. As a young neophyte editor-publisher just getting a foothold in the field, I was expecting more of the derision and bickering I’d only read about when I was an outsider. Now that I was an active participant, I was seeing an entirely different view; I was witnessing mutual respect 51 from the two camps for each other’s work.
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"Post-Crypts": Dark Reviews Shock of Your Life Shock Value By Jason Zinoman Penguin Press, 2011 ISBN: 978-1-59420-302-2 $25.95
much of Brian De Palma's output. It would have been interesting to see Zinoman's in-depth thoughts on Cronenberg, and even John Landis (An American Werewolf in London, Twilight Zone: The Movie). If you love the genre, grab this book; many of these anecdotes are covered in (very) old issues of Fangoria and Cinefantastique, but having them put together and ruminated upon is indeed a refreshing experience. It is also a bit sad to realize how great these filmmakers were, and that they were really interested in covering new ground, especially when contrasted with the "remake virus" infecting Hollywood these days.
From Shirley's Temple In Extremis: The Most Extreme Short Stories of John Shirley John Shirley Underland Press, 2011 ISBN: 978-0-9826639-4-3 $14.95
Shock Value: Recommended.
Shock Value: How a Few Eccentric Outsiders Gave Us Nightmares, Conquered Hollywood and Invented Modern Horror by Jason Zinoman is a new book which attempts to examine the cultural foundation of modern horror films. Zinoman, a theatre critic for The New York Times, acquits himself nicely in this slender volume, and his knowledge and obvious passion about his topic is on display in each chapter of the book. As stated, the book is rather small (less than 280 pages) given the complexity and sprawl of the topic (tracing the roots of modern horror tropes by way of analysis and interviews with genrecinema stalwarts such as the late, lamented Dan O'Bannon [Alien, Return of the Living Dead], John Carpenter [Halloween, They Live], Tobe Hooper [The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Poltergeist] and several other key figures). Therein lies its chief strength and its greatest demerit: with a lean style and even hand, Zinoman leads the reader through several interesting ideas and insights (from himself and others), but some of these notions do not get enough detail. Another (key) issue with the book is that there is not really enough time spent delving into the brilliant careers of David Cronenberg (Videodrome, Eastern Promises) or George A. Romero (Martin, Dawn of the Dead), and perhaps a bit too much time spent on the oeuvres of Wes Craven (A Nightmare on Elm Street, Scream) and William Friedkin (The Exorcist, Cruising). Full disclosure: I know and like Jason, and I feel that he does an outstanding job covering the O'Bannon/Carpenter axis, as well as the various behind-the-scenes exploits surrounding Texas Chainsaw, The Exorcist and
On a side note, another few books that may interest those regarding this subject are the excellent early analysis (provided one can find it) of Cronenberg's works, The Shape of Rage edited by Piers Handling (New York Zoetrope, 1983; ISBN 978-0773611375); the outstanding new mega-tome anthology Butcher Knives & Body Counts: Essays on the Formula, Frights, and Fun of the Slasher Film edited by Vince Liaguno (Dark Scribe Press, 2011; ISBN 978-0981863221; $19.99); Paul R. Gagne's incredible The Zombies That Ate Pittsburgh: The Films of George A. Romero (Dodd, Mead & Company, 1987; ISBN 978-0396085201) and the tour-de-force The Complete History of the Return of the Living Dead by Christian Sellers and Gary Smart (Plexus Publishing, 2011; ISBN 978-0859654609; $24.95). These are all great books for reference, and make nice additions to any cinema aficionado's home library; there are many others, but this is a good start -- highly recommended. -- Jason V Brock
If you have any interest in the work of John Shirley, and you fancy yourself as a punk rock, DIY, iconoclastic misfit who hates being told what to do, then I’m not going to tell you to read this book. In fact, I’m going to tell why you shouldn’t read it: 1. You are easily offended. 2.
You don’t want to know what goes on in the sick and disturbed mind of one of your favorite authors.
3.
You hate stories that would qualify for every warning label on premium cable.
4.
You don’t support the small press.
5.
You dislike gritty reality and body horror, especially when combined with social commentary.
6.
Peer pressure: your friends hate it, too.
7.
You have no desire to read some of John Shirley’s best recent stories.
8.
You spent so much money at the Borders going-out-of-business sale on the Twilight series that you can’t possible afford another book right now.
9.
You think: “John Shirley’s stories freak me out, man.”
10. You’ll have to hide it from Mom. 11. There are too many good horror movies out and you don’t have time to read a book. 12. You’re scared because you can’t “unread” it. 13. You’ve read about enough decapitated hooker heads stuck to a guy’s junk that you get the idea. I rest my case.
-- Sunni K Brock