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Art Movies

Three Corpse Circus Hits Its Stride

This year the Three Corpse Circus really hit its stride with polish and panache and easily the best crop of short horror films they’ve screened yet. The whole evening was enjoyable… for those, of course, who enjoy an evening of gore and terror. A few touches were tasteful, like the costumed vampires who handed out programs while others were simple but greatly appreciated, like projected list of films shown between each movie that reminded viewers of the title and country of origin. The evening was preceded by a zombie walk and the lobby was filled with tables for the local chapter of Zombie Squad, The Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers and the Flint Horror Convention which rounded out the sense of an actual horror community in Michigan.

The films were the stars as it should be at a film festival. I was struck by the “freshness” of the offerings since all but one were made within the last year. Those who have read my reviews of the previous festivals (year one and year two) will remember my embarrassment that so few exceptional films came from the US. I am pleased to note with a quiver of patriotism that this year the domestic product was clearly dominant. U-S-A! U-S-A!! Overall, the movies themselves were of such a generally high quality, a loud disagreement broke out among myself, Elsa and Igor when it came time to choose our favorites.


Igor particularly enjoyed the taut Spanish short “Refuge 115,” a beautifully shot tale of mysterious disappearances in a bomb shelter. The location was spot on perfect and was exceptionally well lit, a necessity since darkness in the tale seethed with malevolence.

Elsa agreed that Refuge 115 was the most consistently scary piece, but she also quite enjoyed “Saw Misgivings” a British farce that depicted the dark hilarity resulting when a housewife discovers a torture-porn head vice and gets it stuck on her head… just as company is expected for dinner. The acting was spot on and its comic timing was immaculate. It was the kind of droll comedy we expect from the British Isles.

I, however, don’t like to laugh.

I am a purist and a snob when it comes to horror and I tolerate only the lightest touch of comedy and only when it’s used to heighten the overall tension of the piece. Otherwise, I’d be extolling the obvious virtues of “Zombie Factor,” a locally produced piece about reality TV after the zombie apocalypse. Its tone perfectly captured the feel of survivor-type television with a healthy dose of the undead. The director was on-hand and answered questions during intermission and he should be justly proud of his work. It really felt like a professionally produced product. Honestly, the only thing I can say against this film is that is was funny, quite effectively so… and with horror at least I am not amused by humor.

With that prejudice in mind, let me highlight the three films that rocked my world.


“Tarnished Gluttony” (2012), a music video, told an eerie Lovecraftian tale of sacrifice. Gorgeous visuals and convincingly bloody with good, yet tasteful gore, this short piece left just enough mystery and wonder unexplained to whet my taste for more. Igor, that grouch, couldn’t get past the soundtrack.


“Familiar” (Fatal Pictures, Canada 2012), the final piece of the night, was a well-shot and perfectly acted tale of middle-aged quiet horror that spirals downward into more Cronenbergian body terror. The effects were nicely achieved and the whole tone of domestic desperation was masterfully portrayed. Damn those Canucks and their National Film Board!

But my favorite piece, the one that I would like to watch again, was the brief gem titled “Green Glass Door,” which depicted a grisly parlor game directed by a serial killer. (It can be watched in its entirety here.) Elsa, Egor and I were talking about it as we left the theatre, puzzling it out. Pay attention to the closing credits if you’re still in the dark. It was for my money the most consistently brutal piece cramming a fist full of convincing executions into its scant seven minutes. The horrific deaths were unsettling, immaculately shot but framed so as not to show too much. And if all that wasn’t enough, I discovered that “Green Glass Door” was entirely shot and edited in 48 hours as part of a Lousiville, Kentucky project. I expect great things from Antonio Pantoja.

I could keep going since there was something interesting about each of the films this year. I left eager for more but quite satisfied. I felt that last night, Three Corpse Circus really started to its promise as a rallying point for the Michigan horror community. I can hardly wait for next year.

Categories
Book

Review: The Corn Maiden by Joyce Carol Oates

The Corn Maiden and Other NightmaresThe Corn Maiden and Other Nightmares by Joyce Carol Oates
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I picked up this volume on a whim and fell in love. It’s been years, well to be honest, decades since I first read Joyce Carol Oates’ stories. They were assigned in college, as I recall, and perhaps for that reason, I didn’t click with them. I was aware that her interests had become more gothic, more horrific over the years. Similarly, I realized in my middle age that it was OK to read beyond the prim and proper confines of literary fiction, that my soul was not in danger if I strayed toward more lurid tales of genre literature, that is stories where something actually happens. So I was prepped but not prepared to encounter these “nightmares.” Her language is acute, her perspective unflinching. These are stories where bad stuff happens and the narrative does not fade to black or turn away when it does. Yet not only bad things happen. I hesitate to use the belabored term “redemption” but dammit a kind of redemption occurs, for instance, after the bleak horrors of the title novella. There are touches of grace in the other tales too, sometimes very light. And let me also praise the fact that these are stories, not the easier to sell commercial novels so prevalent. The selection let me live a half dozen lives in the course of this volume, perhaps not lives I would choose for myself but then, do we always get to choose our lives? Tonight, I stopped at the library and discovered two and a half full shelves devoted to the works of Joyce Carol Oates, many of which are story collections. My new found love affair need not end soon.

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Categories
Book Fiction

Novels – The Bottoms by Joe R. Lansdale

Something roams the wild places down by the Sabine River, something mysterious, something murderous in Joe R. Landale’s novel The Bottoms. The book, a fictional memoir, is a joy to read, by turns suspenseful and horrific, wry and at times melancholic. It’s a well-crafted piece by an accomplished master every bit deserving of the Edgar Award it won in 2000.

In The Bottoms, Harry Collins recounts events that happened to him during his Depression-era boyhood in East Texas after he discovered the body of a woman murdered by a serial killer. One by one, more bodies are found, each bound and mutilated. Harry’s father is the constable to the area which allows him privileged access to information about the killer. Woven into this coming of age tale are local legends about a Goat Man who’s sold his soul, the curious wonders of sexuality as well as the dizzying terror of entrenched racial hatred.

The book is clearly the work of a craftsman. On every page there are one or two sentences that are simply and elegantly phrased. The pacing of the narrative is smooth and I was able to relax as I read, knowing that there would be no surface irritations to disturb the ride. If anything, the ride was a bit too smooth for my tastes, as if all the rough edges had been sanded flat even if some mysteries remain unsolved. This observation is hardly a criticism since the tone and scope perfectly fit the conceit that these are the well-considered reflections of a man late in life.

My only quibble really was a slight touch of what I’d call white-man’s-burden-ism. I’m a Yankee and we suffer from our own forms of entrenched racism so I don’t presume to speak from some morally superior position. I’m just left extremely curious about what the black community depicted in the novel would have done to protect itself from a serial killer. Lansdale does an admirable job of providing plausible insights into this world and granted, since Harry’s father is constable, the novel is weighted toward official (i.e. white) justice. Still, I’m left curious even though I realize that this curiosity is probably an unfair expectation to put on any memoir.

The Bottoms is well worth reading, especially if you enjoy tales of sex murders, satannic Goat men and hooded night riders. It deals rather intelligently with that time of life when we realize we’re living in a world of wonders and horrors and that people we respect sometimes respond to that world in less than respectable ways. Take it to the beach with you instead of that other cookie-cutter mystery novel.