Coincidentally

Given the pleasure of watching "The Cabin in the Woods", I should mention that I'm reading Lovecraft's "The Case of Charles Dexter Ward" at the moment. It's the one major work by Lovecraft I haven't yet read (though of course I am familiar with the story and have seen both Corman's "The Haunted Palace" and O'Bannon's "The Resurrected"). It is a frustrating piece of work. Even more than usual, Lovecraft's insistence on not describing what he describes as indescribable is just plain annoying. The plain thrust of things is pretty clear, yet to make his 'big reveal' late in the novel, he feels the need to obscure things early, so of the raid on Curwen's farm we get small hints and glimpses from people uninvolved in the action. You see it is terrifying just how close-lipped everyone actually involved subsequently became! I feel like throwing the rubbish away, but my dedication to the genre necessitates some hard work. It shall soon be over, thank Yog-Sothoth!

The Mist

The Mist
After 'The Shawshank Redemption' and 'The Green Mile', writer/director Frank Darabont returns to Stephen King territory with 'The Mist'. After a mysterious mist descends on small town, Castle Rock, bringing with it a multitude of strange man-eating creatures, shoppers find themselves trapped in the local foodstore. Soon, as in the Twilight Zone episode 'The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street', they find that they have as much to fear from the monsters lurking inside than the CGI ones stalking the car park.
I won't begin to spotcheck the variety of sources this movie, or rather the novella it is based on, references; it doesn't really matter. King's strength has never been his originality, but how he uses common genre tropes to achieve contemporary, socially relevant ends. (I will note, however, that there is an interesting contrast between this film and Romero's 'Dawn of the Dead'; one has a small number of people in a huge mall, while the other, representing small town America and all its prejudices, sees a large group of people trapped in a relatively small store.)Despite a little too much talk, this is a fascinating, and brave, horror. Indeed given that the norm in contemporary horror is to sacrifice character in the service of plot, it is refreshing to have something to think about while you squirm, and the characters - stereotypes one and all though they might be - are deliberately used to give us a microcosm of America. (It's also good to have a kid behave like a kid, even if that means being annoying; better that than the precocious beasts we more often have to suffer.)
Trapped in the store, prejudices (often centering on those who are not 'local') soon bubble over and create sides when everyone should be uniting. Fear, as the characters themselves point out, on the one hand puts us in the hands of monsters, and on the other, and indeed as a result, makes monsters of us all. Marcia Gay Harden's Christian fundamentalist is the primary source of the polarisation. Beginning as a figure of fun, she rapidly becomes a mini-Hitler. She is just the most visible human monster though; no one really survives the onslaught.
On the outside an impressive, but often very familiar, array of beasties keep the pressure on the survivors. I am not one for CGI appreciation, but though the pixels do sometimes show, the inter-dimensional monsters do their job, instilling terror in shoppers and audience alike. We are never in any doubt that what lies in the mist is best left there. Again though, they are something of a McGuffin, or rather a mechanism, to set the real monsters loose.
The movie had a lukewarm reception in America and probably won't break box office records here either. It's far from perfect. Certainly the damning portrait of the silent majority could not have helped in the US. The real reason audiences might baulk though is undoubtedly the ending. If what has gone before was Lovecraft, what finishes proceedings is pure Ambrose Bierce ('THE COUP DE GRÂCE' anyone?), and if the movie were tighter, this would be one of the best contes cruels of recent times. But contes cruels are an acquired taste and that ending probably won't help here either. Neither will the frequent longuers. However, for the cynical among us (and there's still a couple of us), the film's negative view of humanity, and indeed Fate, cannot but appeal. Yea, as Hobbes put it, 'Life is nasty, brutish and short'; and then there's those damn tentacled, inter-dimensional thingies. We just can't win!

Digging for Diamonds

Well, I had the headache if not the fully fledged handover. That will teach me to drink strawberry beer!

 

I read a couple of stories ghostwritten by Lovecraft; 'The Last Case', 'Two Black Bottles', and 'The Thing in the Moonlight' There can be no tension where there is no possibility of surprise, and his formula is too uniform to offer that. The only enjoyment to be derived comes from the originality of each story's horror. In that respect he has a lot in common with television shows like (the oh, so enjoyable) 'Kolchak: The Night Stalker', and its descendent 'The X-Files'. Sadly the 'horrors' of these particular Lovecraft tales weren't too original either. Only the two-page 'The Thing in the Moonlight' had a real hint of the bizarre, though 'The Last Case' with its initial prison setting did put me in mind of 'Beyond Reanimator'.

 

In total contrast I picked up my Edith Nesbith collection then and read 'The Violet Car'. Edith Nesbit is famous predominantly for her children's books, particularly 'The Railway Children' and 'Five Children and It'. However, between these and her political activities (she was a member of the Fabian Society, the precursor to Labour), she also managed to write some very well-regarded ghost stories. When they are good, as in the case of 'Man-size in Marble', they are very, very good. 'The Violet Car' is very, very good.

 

Written when cars were still a novelty, it tells in an admirably, though deceptively, simple way of the effects a car accident has on an ordinary farming couple. A young nurse is called in to help, but exactly who is she meant to help and how? In its determined play on the is it real/all in the mind dilemma, Nesbit does unpretentiously what more heavyweight authors like Henry James exerted far more (wasted?) effort to achieve. She even manages to make a little feminist dig at the patriarchal establishment by misdirecting us about the true 'mental case'. Not a word of its ten or so pages is wasted, and the first person narrative of an older woman reminiscing on an episode of her younger years is sprinkled with sad, unobtrusive wisdom. It reminded me a little of Oliver Onions' similarly understated 'Rooum'. A very talented writer was E. Nesbit.

 

There are little gems like this scattered throughout the genre, though you have to do some digging and you'll probably get dirty in the process. Finding one though is always a pleasure.

That Thing Invisible

Runt of the Litter

The rain that began last night continued right through to this morning (and indeed the afternoon), but I braved it to see 'Harry Potter' and 'The Simpsons Movie'. More on them later, no doubt. I was going to make it a hat trick and go to the new Japanese animated version of Ursula Le Guin's 'Tales of Earthsea', but when the ticket seller said it was assigned seating I gave up the idea in preference for a coffee. Coffee and Carnacki.

'The Casebook of Carnacki - Ghost Finder' is now finished. With 'The Hog', the final story, it is very easy to see the seeds of Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos; an evil force (one of the 'Outer Monstrosities') that once dominated the Earth, was banished, but seeks to return, finds a gateway back to our world through the dreams of a sensitive man. Carnacki even has his own Necronomicon; the Sigsand Manuscript. Unfortunately Hodgeson's insistence on the most ludicrous of supernatural agents - a whistling room, a crazy dagger, a spectral horse in a house, and now a giant pig's head - threatens to throw the whole thing over into farce. In this story, I think it does.

Sometimes Carnacki's 'scientific' paraphernalia doesn't help either. In the climactic experimentof 'The Hog', both Carnacki and the unfortunate victim of swine abuse are wearing full rubber suits, complete with rubber ear flaps. Snazzy! The grunting, squealing victim doesn't aid matters. I mean it could all be scary, it's certainly unnatural, but it has to be done right. And a giant pig's head emerging from a gate of Hell is questionable to say the least. At least Lovecraft left most of his indescribable horrors without description. To compound matters, Carnacki's constant querying of his audience - 'Am I making this clear?', 'Can you imagine?', 'Do you understand?' - also annoys. And while I am about it, what otherworldy version of Ireland did Hodgeson write of with placenames like Kraighten, Iastrae, etc..

And yet I am still a fan. Hodgeson's was a unique vision. Granted he borrowed from Wells, Arthur Conan Doyle and others, but what he took he put in the service of a very strange take on horror. 'The House on the Borderland', generally regarded as his best novel, is a bizarre mix of the far future elements of 'The Time Machine', an anticipation of '2001: A Space Odyssey', and the found manuscript stories of Hogg and Poe. It is way ahead of its time while still being mired in some very Victorian attitudes. Personally I love 'The Ghost Pirates' (I've been writing a film adaptation off and on for ages), while 'The Boats of the Glen Carrig' is a strange mix of Verne and Stephen King. And as for 'The Nightland'! I'll have what's he's having!

Nevertheless, for all their deficiencies, the Carnacki stories are as strange as anything Hodgeson has written. As the introduction points out, Dennis Wheatley couldn't have written 'The Devil Rides Out' without Carnacki's Electric Pentacle and Magic Circle. And in his sceptical, yet open attitude, not to mention his espousal of science, it's not hard to see Mulder and Scullys' great-great-granddaddy pottering around in these tales. Anyhow take my disappointment with a grain of blessed salt. I have high expectations when it comes to Hodgeson. Though it may not be great art, it is fun. Give him a try.

By the way, I have decided that rather than go through my past posts and populate them with the relevant pictures, I am going to post photos taken with my phone over the past year arbitrarily, hence the Adelaide photo above.

Koh Lanta

This is more like it. Lanta is a great deal more relaxed - in some ways - than Haad Rin. But I'll get to that. I want to be brief as the beach is calling.

Firstly my booking to get here supposedly involved a minibus to the port, a night boat to Surat Thani on the mainland, a bus to Krabi and a ferry to Koh Lanta. All in all I was looking at 15-16 hours travel. The minibus packed to capacity, most of the packing being done by three drunk Danish guys and one drunk Canadian. The Canadian wistfully hoped he would get a bed on the night boat with the three Irish girls from the night before. "They can really pack away the drink!" he said. As it happened he did, or certainly a stretch of mattress near them. The night boat had around six standalone beds and then 60 places on the floor, each space occupying half of a thin mattress. To be honest we were really sleeping on the wood floor, the padding being minimal. Naturally a monk got one of the standalone beds, though I wondered what he made of the perpetual jabbering of the Irish girls righ next to him. We landed, not at 5 a.m. as stated, but 4 a.m., and from there we were taken by open backed truck to the bus depot. It opened a few minutes later. As an aside let me tell you that all that guff about Thai hospitality is guff. Sure there are nice people, but by and large they're the same as anyway, but when they are rude, as was the girl in the depot, they are RUDE. Not to me, in this case, but she demonstrated her formidable talents to an admittedly obnoxious American. At 7.00 the bus arrived and off we set to Krabi. Never expect an empty seat beside you; they pack everything to capacity here.

Now things got annoying. On presenting my ticket for the ferry, I was told I would have to pay for another minibus to another port to get a different ferry. I remonstrated and initially was given a boarding pass, but before I could use it was pulled back. The very rude ferry girl insisted I had to get a minibus. I insisted I had already paid for everything. In the end I had to watch the ferry leave. She called head office and a minibus was arranged, though without my having to pay. It seemed clear where the mistake lay.

The minibus driver drove me around alone for a while, stopping once to let a buddy try to selll me accommodation. I should have taken it as it transpired, but I didn't. Then we picked up the capacity load. I have to admit I enjoyed that trip as we had a Corkonian couple, a cute Swiss girl and two young Kiwis all in the mood for talk. The minibus took two ferries and finally at around 2.30 I arrived on Koh Lanta. Unfortunately at that point we all went our separate ways.

I then tried to get accommodation. I wanted a place on Long Beach, a popular spot, and rightfully so, it being very long and very lovely. Scorning help that said all places were already booked on the beach, I set off walking with my backpack. Koh Lanta is considerably hotter than Haad Rin, and considerably longer. After five minutes I was collapsing. I might point out that many comments have been made on the size of my pack (not packet, I hasten to add). Every reception I went to seemed to confirm the knowledge that everywhere was booked. Fortunately some bored receptionists in a fancy resort took pity on me and arranged a taxi to take me to the other end of the beach and better prospects. Eventually I got a place, cheaper than Haad Rin and with t.v. and a hammock. Not too keen on the outside loo though.

Anyhow I am starting to relax, helped by clear, calm water and some good restaurants. There is still a bit of the Bangkok chicanery, and I am not keen on the mosquitoes (my resort sits by some stagnant pools), but there is lovely scenery, geckos on the walls and frogs by the pathway. Every morning and evening Muslim prayers echo over some nearby loudspeaker (the island is 90% Muslim), and at the exact moment the sun drops below the horizon the cicadas raise their chirps in an unbelievable roar. They must be incredibly sensitive to light levels because I cannot notice any real difference in the sky light at that moment, though I trust their judgment.

Reading wise I have gratefully finished the Lovecraft stuff (it gets very repetitive, despite some good stories). Salinger is once more on the menu. 'Raise High the Roofbeams...' was enjoyable, setting a time, place and situation very well, and, though Seymour Glass never appears in person, he is on every page. 'Seymour: An Introduction' in contrast, is the toughest piece of Salinger I have had to read yet. It's not difficult, just dull, self-indulgent, back-slapping stuff, more about Buddy Glass (presumably Salinger himself) and his preoccupations than anything else. I suppose I should make the blasphemous confession that Seymour himself doesn't overly interest me. I know it doesn't have to be a 'rattling good yarn', but if this is in any way autobiographical, it is hardly enlightening, and if it is entirely fictitious, it is pointless. Still I have gone this far, I will finish it.

Anyway to the beach!

The Dunedin Horror

I am filling myself with vitamins, Lemsip and lozenges, battling a nose that runs when it's not blocked up. Naturally it had to rain today, but let me get things in order.

The railway station here is famed for its ornate exterior and Royal Doulton porcelain interior, so I thought I'd take a quick peek; it's only a few minutes away. Yes, it's pretty, but not too much to get excited about, looking more like an expensive country town station (which is, after all, what it is) than the glorious city hub I was expecting. I picked up some medication and headed back for lunch, that is chicken soup.

Of course, I couldn't resist that bookshop I passed when I set out again, so I purchased a nice anthology of Cthulu Mythos stories (including some by Lovecraft himself) for a couple of dollars. Well, hell, I've been reading Salinger long enough!

In the afternoon I had high hopes: the Otago Museum; the Botanic Gardens; the World's Steepest Street, Baldwin Street. The museum, however, which is better than one has a right to expect, took up my standard three hours. In an effort to celebrate their achievements, they even have a section concentrating on the local university, one of the first in New Zealand. One interesting piece told of the mixed flat student scandal of the '60s. Apparently in 1966, the University Council passed a decree that no student might live in an accommodation of which the University disapproved, unless it was their parents' home. As a result a male student, who had been living with three women, was expelled. Ah, what glorious days when students had fight in their souls! 1,800 students rose up and staged a live-in in the Registry, a third of them sleeping over. Although the University didn't repeal the rule, they gave in on most of the student demands.

On the top floor, the original natural history display is preserved (just like the animals) and it's very peaceful wandering around the glass cases filled with skulls, pinned insects and stuffed creatures.

I escaped at 5, hardly the right time to visit the Botanic Gardens, particularly as it was lashing rain. Rain is the bane of Dunedin life apparently, the monster under the well-made bed, and it made things miserable. One should weigh that against the price of housing though, a four bedroom villa costing $250,000.

Regardless of the intemperate climate, I determined to visit and scale the height of Baldwin Street. There are many steep streets in Dunedin, but this particular one was three kilometers out. Wearing a hoodie, I got halfway there before resorting to my emergency poncho, but the rain was too persistent. The poncho was, of course, a waste of space. Besides looking like I was wearing a plastic bag (which I was), the hood kept ballooning back until I put up my hoodie hood again allowing the plastic to stick to the wet cloth. The plastic too makes for a very uncomfortable walk, especially when you are walking a monster of a road, as Balwin Street turned out to be. I saw steps on one side, but felt that was a cheat, so I deliberately started to walk the path on the other side of the street. Near the top, the path gave out. The road was wet, the angle was steep (well, that was why I was there) and my rubber soled shoes slip. What could I do though? Braving the drain water rapids, I inched across the slippery road to the other side's safe last few feet. It was an easy toddle from there, though I was perspiring nastily when I finally stood in the rain at the top. One almost wishes they cut down the many trees on the street as there is very little view when you get to the top, very little to see except that steep road going down.

I knew there was some spaghetti waiting for me in the hostel, but I could not resist some fish and chips in a takeaway. How can they charge $2.40? That's probably 1.50 euro, yet that is how much I was charged for a pretty satisfactory takeaway (all that was missing was vinegar). And then the rest of the menu? Chowmein for $7! And it wasn't just that takeaway, others along the road were cheaper. I stopped again for a mocha and a quick read (I couldn't resist a little of 'The Call of Cthulu'; hee, hee, hee). All in all, I could easily stay a few days and sample Dunedin's cheap meals and cafe delights, but tomorrow I leave.