Goodbye to My Horror Hero: James Herbert

Back in 1976, my cousin gave me the paperback novel that would change my life.  It was titled The Survivor.  On the cover was an illustration of a broken doll's head with glaring eyes.  The picture alone creeped me out.  I read the book in a matter of a few days (yeah, slow reader), and I was blown away.  I'd never read anything like it.  I was only 14 years old, but I'd already read a number of "grown up" novels.  I had skipped over the YA book scene (I didn't get into them until I was an adult), virtually jumping from chapter books to the novels that stuffed my Dad's upstairs bookshelf.  I would find a corner in the library, with a pile of books off the paperback racks, mostly TV or movie tie-ins, or anything with a cool cover. But Survivor was different.  Herbert's smooth speech and masterful storytelling spoke to me.  I was drawn in by how he, not only, told the story of the protagonist, but also made the victims of the ghastly killings come to life, with a full chapter dedicated to their (sometimes cruel, sometimes heartbreaking) backstory... and death.

I wasn't in to authors, yet -- except for Charles Dickens, of whom I was keenly aware.  But after I put down The Survivor, I noted the name of the author: James Herbert, and immediately sought out more of his books. Lucky for me,  I found one at my middle school library book sale.  A copy of The Rats, with the cover torn off.  I devoured that one right up.  Finding no Herbert books on the local library shelves, I took to the back pages of the paperback, where they had an order form for his other books at Signet.  I scraped up some of my snow shoveling money and sent off for a copy of The Fog.

Holy shit!  I was hooked.  The Survivor and The Rats were both eloquent and frightening, and they made me an instant fan of Herbert's.  But, The Fog...  truly disturbing and profound, and as creepy as anything I have ever read.  Hands down my favorite of all his books.

I became a regular at the mall bookstore, heading straight to the Horror section, looking for, and awaiting the next of his books.  The first "new" paperback I was treated to was Fluke, a definite change of pace from the mind bending horror of flesh eating rats, killer fog and torturous ghosts.  Fluke, instead, was a murder mystery involving a man who reincarnates in to a dog.  I was undaunted by the change.  This was Jame Herbert, afterall, so it's got to be good.  And it was.  Just as page turning as the previous books.

Every year after that, like clockwork, I was treated to another of Herbert's mind-whirling horror novels.  Some were mildly tedious (The Dark, Moon), others brilliant (the continuing Rat series), but all were welcomed.  And not only was I on the lookout for Herbert novels, I quickly became a fan of his (American) publisher, Signet.  When there wasn't a new Herbert paperback to chew on, I found that most of the other Signet horror novels would do to fill in the gaps.  Books like The Cats, New Blood, Rooftops, Phone Call, Savage Snow.  And authors like, David Lippencott, Nick Sharman, and Guy N. Smith.

The late 70s and early 80s were really such a great time to be a horror reader.  This is when King ruled, and he did good by it.  But, I've always been a James Herbert fan.  He drew me in before I'd even heard of Stephen King -- and he soon became known as the British Stephen King -- but, my heart goes to Herbert... My pulsating, bloody, quivering, lusty heart.

Goodbye James. Thanks for the wonderful nightmares.

BadRonald Peephole Review: Twins of Evil

Hammer Films Sexes It Up!

Hammer Horror had always been filled with as much T&A as there was crimson blood.  But, as the 70s came, the British studio, which was the previous go-to for great horror thrills, found themselves struggling to keep up.  Horror was slowly becoming less about monsters and ghosts, and more about creepy realism, with chainsaws and butcher knives and domestic demonic possessions.

Hammer's response was to do away with the T&A teasing, and offered up some nekkid flesh.  And lesbian nekkid flesh, at that.  The Vampire Lovers (1970) and Lust for a Vampire (1971) were the first two films in the Karnstein Trliogy, inspired by J. Sheridan Le Fanu's Gothic novella Carmilla, a story of a female vampire that predates Bram Stoker's more famous novel Dracula.

In this third installment, Hammer tames down the lesbian love-making (only one scene, boo-hoo), but doubles the fun by casting Playboy's centerfold sensations, the Collinson Twins (Mary and Madeline) as the film's heroines.

Having been sent to stay with their puritanical uncle Gustav Weil (Peter Cushing), twins Maria and Freida (Mary and Madeline respectively) serve up the classic struggle between good and evil.  Sweet Maria falls for the local teacher Anton (David Warbck), while lusty Freida gets horny for the local Satan worshiper Count Karstein (Damien Thomas).  Naturally, Uncle Gustav has a little something to say about all of this, and gets all "I'm gonna start another witch-burning fire stack" on everyone.

Peter Cushing is always great, and rarely ever does better in his villainy suit than when he's playing Baron Frankenstein, but as Gustav Weil, Cushing hit's new levels of evil.  As the creator of monstrous life in previous Hammer flicks, the Baron often felt misunderstood and villainized.  His madness was a result of his being outlawed.  In Twins, however, he plays a man on the side of God, who righteously strikes down anyone he and his "brotherhood" has determined to be evil (usually women of wanton ways).  What is so catching about his Cushing's performance is not just the twisted zealousness, but the almost gleeful smirk he places on his power.  He seems to be having as much fun playing the character as Gustav has in lighting young women on fire.

And big kudos got to Synapse Films -- for picking up the ball that Anchor Bay tossed up a few moons back.  Synapse's DVD/Blu ray pack is packed with some great extras, including an 84 minute documentary on Hammer's Karstein Trilogy, a featurette on Hammer props, a deleted scene, originals trailers, and more.

Dear God No! -- BadRonald Sez F&#k Yes!

So long ago I caught the red band trailer for Dear God No! plastered all over FaceBook and various genre blogs.  It started out a little something about "sissies and individuals with heart conditions should not watch..."  Um... press play, goddamit!!

What followed was an onslaught of retro 70s grindhouse mayhem: bikers posing with the backdrop of a drive-in screen and explosions, limbs ripped in two, Bigfoot attacks on Frenken-nazis (whaaaat!) -- but, wait.... they had me at gun-totting dancers with Nixon masks.   Dear.  God.  Yes.

Dear God No! director James Bickert did me an awful kindness by sending out an advanced screener of his crazy-ass mash up of genres.  Holy shit did I have a good time watching this acid freakout!  There have been countless films that flash the grindhouse badge, but rarely none have the actual credentials.  Even the Tarantino/Rodriguez headlined titular ode -- with all its "lost" reels and roughed up negative antics and CG replicated old skool FX -- failed to really captured the essence of real grindhouse fare.  That studio stuff was a little too tongue in cheek, and self gratifying.  Where Bickert succeeded was not just in the look of the old grindhousers -- shooting on 16mm Fuji film stock, and using hands on FX -- but also with the mood and feel of the 60s and 70s experimental weirdo flicks. 

DGN! wastes no time on pleasantries, fouling the minds of the viewer with the opening scene.  An eagle swoops majestically in the clear blue skies, over an open field where the notorious biker gang The Impalers rustle themselves awake after a night of debauchery.  Strewn amongst them are bodies of the nuns they've violated and left for dead.  Holy shitniks!  We're not in your average smiley Hollywood grindhouse rip-off anymore!!!  This is the real deal Neal Sedaka!  This film does exactly what the narrator of the red band trailer says The Impalers do -- "ravishes and rapes and destroys everything that's decent." 

Meanwhile, back at the house in the woods... Nutty scientist and weirdly awkward daughter conduct secret experiments and monstrous studies.  When the Impalers come roaring in for a night of raping and pillaging... well, as the movie trailer warns "What happens in this house will freak you out."

Dear God No! hits the grindhouse on the head.  It works as a hot blooded ode to the trash flicks of 42nd Street, without wallowing in fanboy worship, as well as as a legit piece of drive-in exploitation.  There's even a sappy hippie Last House on the Left song in the closing credits!  So, what more can you ask for?  You've got nun-violatin', kid-slayin' bikers, rampaging Bigfoots, stiched up Franken-nazis, Trcky-Dick strippers with machine-guns, and Manson Family style abortions.  Seriously, Dear God No! rips the heads off all the other grindhouse wannabes, and shits down their puny necks.  It's pure bloody rock and roll trash gold!   Dear God No! -- fuck yes!





Check out my interview with director James Bickert here.