Posts from — October 2007

It’s the eve of the eve, and the Halloween Happenings continue.

Tonight, the cautionary tale of a man whose wife was actually a - no, I won’t steal Sims’s joke.

Instead, let me tell you about the time I visited New Orleans.

It was 2000 - Katrina was still an undreamt-of eventuality and I’d just graduated college. My parents sent the future Mrs. Axe and I to New Orleans as a graduation gift, and we spent a week in the French Quarter drinking, shopping, drinking and drinking. We had to drink: New Orleans had a bit of a drought that summer, and it was always muggy and stiflingly hot. Most of the heat in the city gets bled off by the near-daily rain, but there wasn’t one drop of precipitation during our stay.

Anyway, one night we decide to take a walking ghost tour of the Quarter, from the cathedral to the cemetery where Marie Laveau is buried and everywhere in between. The worst stories of the tour was by far the macabre affair of the Lalaurie house, and the creepiest may be the tiny vampire nuns of the Ursuline Convent*, the thing that scared the hell out of me occurred at the cathedral. As we walked up the alley alongside the church, I was overcome with chills - so bad that I broke out in goosebumps. Remember, it’s stiflingly hot, and there wasn’t even the hint of a breeze. My girlfriend hand her arm hooked in mine, and she noticed immediately, worried that I might be getting ill. I’m fine, I told her - just cold. She looks at me, puzzled, her brow a bit sweaty, and two other people mutter, “I’m cold, too.”

As skeptical as I get about this stuff, I have a hard time explaining that one away.

*not really vampires, just rumored to be. Though our guide did claim the attic is sealed with blessed nails.**

** Can I buy these at a Lowe’s or Home Depot?

It’s coming up on Halloween, which is like Christmas for a horror buff, so I’m going to relate some real-life creepy moments for the next few days. I call them…

And I even made a logo.

When my wife and I were dating, we lived about an hour apart. We’d see each other on weekends mainly, and we’d alternate - one weekend she’d come down to the city, and on the other, I’d trek out to the middle of nowhere to stay at her parents’ farm. The room they put me in was nice: it had a big comfortable bed and was always clean and well decorated. It was always cold, but I like the cold, especially when I sleep. Let me tell you: I have never had a worse night’s sleep than I did in that room. Something was just kind of off-kilter about it, and for the longest time, I blamed the dolls. My mother-in-law collects porcelain dolls, and she kept a huge glass case of them in that room, their glassy eyes staring right into my sleeping back. Dolls are creepy - that’s a staple of horror - so I just kind of shrugged it off, and didn’t even mention how badly I slept in there the first few times I stayed. The feeling of being watched was easily attributed to the menagerie of porcelain creepiness, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself by making an issue of it.

After a few months, though, I mention offhand that I have just not been sleeping well in that room and Mrs. Axe says to me, “There aren’t any ghosts in this house; we’re Catholic.” Which is an odd thing to say on just about every level.

As I continued to stay in the room, the creepy being-watched feeling never abated, and I found myself mentioning it to other friends of ours who had spent the night up there, usually in the guise of some noncommittal “Man, I did not sleep well this weekend,” thing. Almost universally I’d get asked, “Did you stay in the doll room?” I confessed that I did and got a knowing nod in return. One of our friends told me, “I won’t stay there anymore.”

Fast forward a few years to Thanksgiving. My wife’s prodigal sister from L.A. flew in and the whole family was together for the first time in just about forever. The house was overflowing and room was scarce and I came out of the kitchen one evening to hear my left-coast sister-in-law complaining that she was staying in “Aunt Catherine’s Room,” complete with the sententious capital R. I’m curious, but I don’t want to shoehorn myself into this. Luckily, I get corralled into it by my wife, who says, “Jeff stays in that room all the time and nothing bad ever happens to him.” Aunt Catherine’s Room is The Doll Room. Now I need to know the secret history. I confirm that the room is creepy as hell, and then sis drops the bomb - Aunt Catherine died in that room when the girls were kids.

I never stayed in that room again. I’m as skeptical as they come about the supernatural, even though the subculture amuses the hell out of me. So I’m going to stop just short of saying that the room is haunted by their dead aunt. That said, it’s just one of those isolated spots where things are off.

Have a similar eerie tale? Share in the comments

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Listening to: Tegan and Sara - Relief Next to Me

A slasher film based on ‘The Scottish Play’ has amazing potential. Who’s our slasher? Is it an analogue for Macbeth or for Macduff? The Wyrd Sisters material could play so well off of the inexorability of the villain’s killing spree. Above all else, though, a high school/college Theater department is a perfect installed clique for the slasher to tear into, and one full of killable stereotypes. Yes, there’s the urban legend about the play being cursed, too, and that’s a nice way to add a touch of mythos to the monster. Macbeth is also a play that nearly everyone in the audience knows, so it’s a good touchstone the filmmakers could use to create some verisimilitude.
All of these are compelling arguments, I think. I only have one argument against such a movie, and that’s the daunting physical evidence of The Final Curtain’s (aka Acts of Death) abject failure to be frightening or interesting.

I didn’t know Curtain was Jeff Burton-helmed until the indiehorror.com logo popped up, and I almost considered stopping it right then and there. Dead End Road was a powerful lesson that Burton has negative talent, one I didn’t feel needed repeating.

Let’s see you make a movie, Mr. Critic. Jeff Burton’s out there living his dream and you’re nearly 30, wasting away teaching writing to a few dozen athletes and stoners.

That’s all true, Fictitious Heckler. I have not written or produced a film outside of the Blair Witch parody I shot back in college, and I know full well that it was poorly made - hell, it was poorly made on purpose to mimic The Blair Witch Project. The whole ‘if you haven’t done it, you can’t be critical’ thing is asinine, and it creates a false dichotomy that praises people who take action - even when the action they take is kind of atrocious - over people who think critically. Making one’s dreams happen is nice, but I’m a cynic - I have no dreams left.

The Final Curtain deals with a familiar college scenario - what to do when your rape victim is accidentally killed. Wisely, the theater kids the film poses this question to dispose of the body, but when other, newer bodies start to appear, how well the first one was disposed of is called into question. Curtain is really just kind of stupid, from the contrived twist of the killers’ identities to the ludicrous plot twist of making all of the theater’s windows electrified with enough voltage to kill a rhino - a security feature that all public buildings have currently, all the way to the terminally lame and unsexy ’secret party’ the drama clique has at the start of the movie.

To its credit, Curtain is miles better than Dead End Road, which is one of the hellish trifecta frozen in agony at the heart of this blog (the other two movies being Nail Gun Massacre and Ulli Lommel’s Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven). The distinction is purely academic, though, like saying that being stabbed in the gut is better than being shot in the face. One thing The Final Curtain does have in its favor is that two of the pervy wannabe actors that populate the movie get co-impaled with a spear while getting busy. Fatal coitus interruptus isn’t new, but since watching Nail Gun Massacre, I’ve been waiting to see a couple get stapled together in death. It’s not perfect - the teens aren’t nailgunned together and then left with a horrid pun, like “You got screwed…oh wait!” or “I’m totally going to nail you tonight!” but I can live with it. Honestly, that’s the best thing about the movie, and I’m only excited about it as marginally as I am because I’m deeply disturbed.

I can’t recommend that you don’t watch The Final Curtain strongly enough. There are so many better b-movies for you to waste your time on with Halloween in the air.

As a big, oafish guy, I’ve always had a soft spot for Ben Grimm, just on a self-identification level. I mean, I’m not made of rock, but the other stuff. Not knowing my own strength sometimes, and consequently being amazingly gentle, more than I have to be. Being judged based solely on my appearance to be a hulking brute. That sort of thing. My favorite Thing moments are the quiet ones he has with Alicia, the ones where he achieves something like normalcy, for just that reason.

This is Nelson’s, from Marvel Comics Presents #1. It’s not my favorite story in the issue (that would have to be the Immonens’ Patsy Walker story) but it’s a close second and it’s absolutely precious. The way he draws Ben is absolutely perfect, and it may be my favorite outside of Wieringo’s.

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Listening to: The Bens - Bruised

Human nature compels people to look for a scapegoat when something they love turns unacceptably bad. When we ask ourselves what’s gone wrong with comics in the past ten years, we can point to Joe Quesada and Dan Didio and it makes us feel better, even though it’s a gross oversimplification of the issue. But in the decade before this one - the one where everything went bad - there’s only one person who stands out as the goat, the figure on whom all of the blame can be heaped:

That’s right - Cable.

Not only is Cable a gruff anti-hero with massive nonsensical guns, he’s also a time traveler and an artifact of continuity porn. Any of these things on their own might be palatable depending on how they’re handled, but in the artist-driven culture of 90s comics, the most popular way for writers to handle things was ‘poorly’, with ‘lazily’ a close second.

Cable debuted in 1990 in an issue of New Mutants and he remains to this day the intentional flaw in the Persian rug that is Louise Simonson’s work on the X-books. He had no past and no future, only guns. In his mysterious badass incarnation, he was simply Wolverine-That-Shoots, very one-note but tolerable and sometimes even cool in an action movie sort of way. New Mutants evolved into X-Force, which was, excepting Jeph Loeb’s stint on the title, a plot-driven mess of bravado and horrible Leifeldian excess. As should be expected, it was a sales juggernaut for Marvel.

Cable #1 hit stands in 1993 at a point in time when Cable was supposed to be dead following X-Cutioner’s Song, and much of the issue deals with Garrison Kane and the Clan Chosen reminiscing about Cable’s past and wondering listlessly about his whereabouts. In the meantime, Kane attracts some unwanted attention from all of his digging into Cable’s past and gets ambushed by future-hooligans. Things look bleak for Kane, but fortunately, his cyborg butt’s gotten some upgrades:

The second half of the issue follows the same formula that these pages establish - a revealing flashback to some point in Cable’s past, some idiotic-looking thugs showing up to ambush Garrison Kane, and the good guys winning. The only thing that separates this from the exact same thing we’ve already seen in this exact same issue is that Cable comes back, ready to bust some heads:

Note the inexplicable haircut - the sort of mullet wayward sci-fi authors might have imagined we’d be wearing in 2005 - and the beard. Not only does the beard make Cable look like a very angry Santa Claus, it also makes him rugged.

When the dust settles, big C reveals to the Chosen that he’s here to find a time nexus which can send Kane back to the present, where he can eventually die needlessly after being subverted by Madison ‘Box’ Jeffries. More importantly, Cable wants to blow the nexus up to prevent the Neo-Canaanite government from going back in time and totally messing things up. The plan seems plausible until Cable reveals that the time nexus is actually a waterfall!

That’s right: to save the past, Nathan Summers has to thrown down on Niagra Falls itself.

Really, this is crackerjack material.

Cable #1 is almost a bad comic, but there are a few factors that push it over the edge and make it a full-blown terrible one.

1. I don’t know any of these characters, and nobody stops to introduce me. That I read X-Force and the Cable: Blood and Metal miniseries is a hugely faulty assumption in terms of a new book launch, and the narrative doesn’t slow down for one hot second to explain who the living hell any of these people are. Beyond Cable and Kane, there’s Black Girl, Old Guy, Redhead Girl, Robot and Other Robot. I guess they have names, but honestly, between the rushed plot, the hyperactive panel layout, and dialogue itself, I can’t be sure.

2. The dialogue. In the future, I can accept that people speak differently than we do today, but embracing the slang and - more egregiously - Dawnsilk’s annoying brain-damaged proto-1337speek does nothing to bring readers into the issue. Instead, it does the absolute opposite and creates a huge barrier to entry.

Worse still is the regular dialogue, which is damn near unbearable in spots. Look:

Not to mention Garrison Kane’s “Get-into-the-groove!” from earlier in the issue.

3. It begins in media res and that’s not necessarily a horrible thing, but couple with the first two points, it really makes for some confusing reading. Especially since nobody bothers to bring the reader up to speed with helpful exposition.

Since Cable launched in the wake of the Great Image Exodus, Liefeld isn’t present to oversee the proceedings. Instead, Fabian Nicieza - who frequently scripted The Rob’s plots - handles the writing chores. Though I think that Fabe has grown a lot as a writer between the 90s and today, and I have genuinely liked some of his work some of the time, it really isn’t a surprise that this issue just isn’t well-executed. Art Thibert’s pencils are evocative of Liefeld’s style, and are therefore atrocious.

One of the best things to do with this issue is see if you can spot every instance of Cable’s massive gun being posed suggestively.

As much as I’m mocking Cable #1 now, when I was 15 years old, it was practically a religious experience for me. I recognize that and I feel a little ashamed about it. There’s a story there, though:

In 1989, my parents banned me from reading comics. They said the hobby was affecting my school work (an argument that was not borne out by my high grades) and they unceremoniously dispatched of my long boxes, leaving me an empty, lonely shell of a geek.

In 1993, a comic/sport card shop opened its doors a few short blocks away from my grandmother’s house. I had friends who lived near her, so I frequently stayed there on weekends to facilitate the inevitable hanging out and playing video games that defined that period of my life. While walking to a friend’s house, I discovered the comic shop, went in, and saw Cable #1 on the new release rack. Being away from comics since before Cable was even introduced, I had no idea who he was and was completely fascinated by his rampant masculinity. And with all of the word balloons on the cover telling me what a big deal the issue was, I needed to have it. Cable #1 began my career as a guerilla comic reader in an age before the internet made finding whatever you wanted as easy as knowing how to type. I’d buy a few comics a week and hide them in my grandmother’s closet. Gram was silently complicit in my private geek war, of course.

I didn’t buy any of the following issues, because the first one completely confused me, but the spur Cable #1 provided was vital to my hobby. I hate the thing, but kind of love it, too.

In preparing for the onrushing Cable #1 extravaganza, I did a bit of research on Garrison Kane. Like most 90s characters, I know extremely little about the guy beyond his membership in the Six Pack. All you need to know is this:

Garrison Kane’s robot fists will shoot you.

Bahlactus is no fascist neo-Canaanite.

So, I’ve been thinking about it.

A lot has been made out of the kitchen, and I wonder if maybe that character’s acquiescence to domesticity is what marks her for death in this particular instance. It’s the fairy tale/slasher paradigm in play, maybe - stepping outside of accepted guidelines equals doom - and it would certainly be fitting based on the title of the series. Let me clarify. While I have no problem accepting Scott and Barda as a loving, married and happy couple, I do have a hard time envisioning her in any kind of Donna Reed role.

Not that I don’t see this being undone by the time issue #8 rolls around anyway. I’m a cynic that way.

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Listening to: The Wallflowers - Sleepwalker

Ladies and gentlebeings of the Republic, tonight’s title card - Mace Windu vs. Quinlan Vos.

Windu’s distinct advantage is that he’s a complete badass, but Vos is no slouch in the tough guy department, either. And of course Vos dabbles just a teensy bit in the Dark Side of the Force from time to time.

Since power corrupts, I think we have to give this one to Mace. What do you think of those apples, Quin?

Bahlactus is a master of Juyo, Form VII of lightsaber combat - also called Vaapad.

Ah, good evening, friends. I didn’t see you there, in the doorway of my lushly appointed study. I was reading one of my many expensive leather-bound first editions of classic works. You’re a fan of Emerson, of course. Who isn’t? Ralph Waldo Emerson is far and away the greatest intellect of his day, and perchance of ours as well, the preeminent Transcendental thinker and poet.

Enough about Emerson, though. I’d like to speak with you about Friday Night Fights. And about Frank Castle, the ubiquitous Punisher, who figures largely in this evening’s bout. Emerson once said that “a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,” and that might appear germane to the display of fisticuffs you are about to witness, but I must assure you that this is not a hobgoblin at all, but a troll. Mr. Castle, however, remains the very picture of foolish consistency at an almost suicidal level.

Though the tale I’m about to relate seems insane, almost otherworldly, I can assure you that Mssrs. Dixon and Barreto have not embellished this grisly account - that it is, ordnance for ordnance, a full telling of the truth.

Years ago, back before Thor died, Ulik the rock troll and his minions attempted to destroy New York City in an attempt to recover the Ragnahorn. Mr. Castle, conscientious as ever, assembled a team of adventurers* to defeat the trolls before any severe damage could be caused. Ever one to lead from the front, Castle takes on Ulik singlehandedly.

Castle’s time-tested dispatch method - explosions - will surely be successful, no?

What deviltry is this? A larger explosion still has no effect!

Against all odds, continuing to shoot the rock troll continues to not harm him. Be careful, Frank!

Really, Mr. Dixon, my credulity is beginning to strain. This many bullets fired by the Punisher at a supernatural and invulnerable giant without a confirmed kill? Are you sure Ulik’s name isn’t really Mary Sue?

Not even a knife can pierce is trolly hide. Mr. Castle, I pray for your safety.

Okay, this is absolutely going to work. I can feel it.

Unfortunately, we’ll never know if the grenade would have bested Ulik. Daredevil shows up and gives him the Ragnahorn, and the troll army - or what’s left of it after Black Widow, Shang Chi, and Dagger thinned their numbers considerably - depart. A full accounting of this epic confrontation can be found in Marvel Knights v.1 #3.

Bahlactus commands violence, and the Axe delivers!

*Really, Daredevil puts the Marvel Knights team together to bring the Punisher to justice, but let’s not split hairs. It’s Frank’s team.