Friday, 9 April 2010

Dead Before Dawn

I watched Zombi 2 this morning (a.k.a Zombie Flesh Eaters a.k.a Zombie) for the first time in several years. My buddy Dan bought a super-cool DVD special edition a while back, convinced that due to his worship of Romero zombie flicks he’d love this one. He’d never seen it and I told him not to hold his breath, but if he hated it I’d give him the asking price. He did, I did, and now it’s the last movie on my DVD shelf. I can’t say I was surprised that he didn’t care for the picture. It’s cheap, incredibly dated, has routinely awful performances and is far removed from any form of style or finesse.

But I love the film. A lot of my affection comes from my age and the era I grew up in as a film geek. Zombi 2 was an Italian Exploitation rip-off designed to cash in on the hugely popular success of George Romero’s Dawn Of The Dead, which had been a massive hit, especially in Europe, in 1978. The Italians, ever quick to jump on the bandwagon, threw together a script, some gore and a clutch of actors and let hack-extraordinaire Lucio Fulci direct the whole mess. Stuffed full of lurid splatter and nasty violence, we get plenty of head explosions, throat rippings, gratuitous nudity, a splinter of wood in an eyeball and a superb underwater moment when a zombie attacks a shark. Seriously. It was sold at the 1979 Cannes Film Festival before it was even completed, was a worldwide hit and proceeded to make a fortune, revitalising Fulci’s career and kick-starting the new wave of Italian horror in the eighties.


Released in the UK on video in 1983 it immediately found it’s way onto the Department Of Public Prosecutions list of so-called Video Nasties that circulated Thatcher’s Britain and deprived many a movie fan of seeing what they wanted, as well as putting many small video stores out of business. I was eleven at the time, and already a huge movie nerd, and I can still remember the thrill of looking at the garish box cover art to Zombie Flesh Eaters (which was the UK title, and what a title) sitting on the shelf, realising that there was no way on Earth my Dad would let me see it. I’d been allowed to see Alien and An American Werewolf In London and The Omen, but extreme Italian horror? Not a chance.


But when you’re a kid, those boxes and those cool names burn their way into your fevered mind. I used to dream about Zombie Flesh Eaters and other flicks with titles like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Ilsa She-Wolf Of The SS, The Bell Of Hell, Cannibal Apocalypse, The House By The Cemetery, Tombs Of The Blind Dead… I visualised plots and scenes for these films, to such an extent that the actual watching and realisation of them could and mostly never did live up to my expectations. In fact, it’s true to say that by and large many of the titles that made their way onto the banned list are much more fun to read about than to watch. However, that knowledge only came to me in later years. As a pre-teen horror fan they rocketed to the top of my list of movies to see.

The DPP ban was successful and in 1984 many films were removed from shelves and my dreams died. But this young film fan was resourceful, and towards the late eighties I started to pick up film magazines like Deep Red, Gorezone, Shock Xpress and Sleazoid Express. Here was film journalism aimed directly at me, with promises of new films from Italy and Japan and appreciation of directors like Dario Argento, Jess Franco and Lucio Fulci. Writers who loved Zombi 2! It was also around that time that I discovered there was a network of like-minded fans who met at movie festivals, swapped lists of their personal collections, traded VHS tapes and didn’t let archaic releasing schedules or ‘banned’ lists preventing their love of cult and horror cinema. It saw a period of my life when my movie collection went from a couple of hundred titles to a couple of thousand, when I was writing to and trading movies with people from as far as Japan to Brazil (the internet was years away) and the rattle of the letterbox in the morning meant another crazed chunk of cinema, not the electric bill.

All that is a (long) story for another time though, because I’m getting away from where I started, which was with today’s viewing of Zombi 2. I couldn’t recommend this film to anyone whose love of horror cinema comes from the glossy, MTV-style product that Hollywood throw into the theatres these days. Movies like Saw and Final Destination have their place in this world, and I have seen and enjoyed them, but Fulci’s masterpiece (and I use the word carefully) is a different genre, a different world away. I suspect that if was a kid of this generation and I sat down in front of Zombi 2 for the first time, I’d hate it. It has all the negative elements that I described earlier.


But as I said, not only do I love it, frankly I think it’s fucking brilliant. A boat drifts into New York harbour appearing to be deserted, and it’s only when two shockingly dumb cops start nosing around the deck that a palid, crazed creature comes up from below and starts taking chunks out of them. Titles, then some nonsense with Tisa Farrow (sister of Mia) and the great Ian McCulloch as scientists who decide to head off to a weird island in the Caribbean to investigate the work of Richard Johnson (allegedly drunk throughout filming) who’s been experimenting on the dead. The first half of the movie comes on like some boys-own adventure with boats, islands and lost treasure, and then following an attack by the undead the second half picks up the pace with some relentless splatter as our heroes are eaten one-by-one until a fiery climax as waves of zombies are alternatively torched, get their heads blown off, or both. Farrow and McCulloch escape to their boat, but tuning their radio in they hear panic in New York. The zombies have made it into Manhattan, presumably off the yacht from the beginning (It‘s never really explained, and Fulci was never much of a one for continuity or common sense). The credits roll over a cracking shot of the dead shuffling across the Brooklyn bridge.


It’s such a mish-mash of a film. Italian production, an American actress with Farrow, two veteran British actors with Johnson and McCulloch (star of the classic Brit Sci-Fi series Survivors in the seventies and who would go on to appear in Fulci’s even more crazy The Beyond two years later). A film shot in 70mm widescreen but with shaky zooms and some dodgy focus, and in the case of the New York scenes shot completely illegally. But it somehow works. Lucio Fulci is still considered a cheap hack in the mainstream but he knew how to stage a scene and turn on the gore. Zombi 2 is always exciting and never, ever boring, which is something I can’t say about a lot of horror pictures I see today. It is of it’s time, and will never find new appreciation with a modern audience, but for genre fans of my age it is a true classic to be revered and treasured.

The only problem I have now is the burning urge to buy sparkling new special DVD editions of Fulci’s other classics and remind myself how much I love them all over again. In the old days it used to take weeks, sometimes months to get my hands on a film. I just took a look on Amazon. The Beyond, House By The Cemetery, City Of The Living Dead, New York Ripper, Don’t Torture A Duckling, Lizard In A Woman’s Skin… They’re all there, with re-mastered discs stuffed full of special features. And that’s great, really, because these movies deserve to be seen in the best possible prints by a new generation and by us old bastards who only ever had shitty third generation VHS copies to squint at.

These days collecting cult and strange cinema is so much easier than it used to be.

But nowhere near as much fun.

Monday, 5 April 2010

10 Thoughts From Navarone

Thinking that having the six pins and the plate pulled out of my ankle would have me back skipping around like Usain Bolt on speed within 24 hours is possibly the most misguided thought I’ve ever had.

Seven episodes of Lost left. Still no idea what’s really going on, and as time progresses, I’m fairly sure the writers don’t either. Still, it was fun while it lasted.

Jimmy Page’s guitar riff on Led Zeppelin’s In My Time Of Dying is pretty much the most perfect thing I’ve ever heard. Watching Page, The Edge and Jack White jam to this classic in It Might Get Loud just brightens my day every single time.



Writing is a frustrating, un-rewarding, depressing and lonely occupation. But when I’m on it, and I mean really on it, nothing makes me happier.

I have an awful lot of man-love for Jason Bourne.

Eating all your Easter Eggs as quickly as possible so you can’t see the mountain of chocolate any more will not stop the guilt. Especially when the cocoa smudges on your shirt are a constant reminder of what a greedy bastard you’ve been.

Why must they now release all the old classics on Blu-Ray? I’m broke, but that HD version of Lucio Fulci’s City Of The Living Dead is a must-have.

My PornStar T-shirt needs to go in the bin, because (a) it’s now so old and I can’t really tell where the holes end and the sleeves start, and (b) it’s blatant false advertising. Ask my wife. It’s more PornHope than PornStar.

I have a dream about taking my family and running away to somewhere remote, idyllic and peaceful, with long days filled with golden sun and nights dreaming beneath the stars. And as I get older, I realise that I must give it my all to make that dream a reality.

Repeatedly watching the trailer for Scott Pilgrim Vs The World will not make the August 6th release date come any faster.



I try and I try, yet still cannot find any Brain Salt on the shelves at Boots. If I could just take a spoon a day… Think how amazing my thought processes would be.

Friday, 26 March 2010

Jim Marshall

Photographer Jim Marshall died this week at 74. He was responsible for some of the greatest images of some of the most iconic musicians of all time. He captured the photo of Hendrix setting his Strat alight, of Johnny Cash flipping the bird at San Quentin, of Morrison in full flight with The Doors. He was the only photographer The Beatles allowed backstage with them on their final show in San Francisco in 1966. He spent three months living with Jimmy Page at the height of Zeppelin. The Stones took him out on the road during their legendary tour of debauchery in 1972. He was chief photographer at Woodstock. The man was arguably as influential as the artists he commited to film. In a world where image and look can be as important as sound he turned men and women into legends with his lens. The first photo below, of Pete Townshend on stage at 3.00am during the climax of The Who’s Woodstock set remains my favourite rock photograph of all time, and is pretty much the reason I picked the guitar up as a kid. Rest in peace, Jim. You will be missed.




Samples Of Noise

Random samples of noise circulating my head this afternoon, generated from a mix over at 8Track, a music-mix site you could do worse than checking out. This one contains some Mondo Generator, Zeppelin, Townes Van Zandt, Mark Lanegan, and more. Cool tunes from me to you.

Wednesday, 24 March 2010

New Sounds

So your humble writer sits with his feet up, suffering the after-effects of having metal supporting objects removed from his right ankle. Little else to do but write and listen to music. Here are six musical recomendations, stuff I'm digging right now, with love from me to you...

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club remain one of the finest and unsung rock bands around, a gloriously scuzzy two-piece from San Fransisco who released their debut in 2001 and haven’t made the same record since. Their 2008 album The Effects Of 333 was pretty experimental and didn’t always hit home, but new release Beat The Devil’s Tattoo is awesome, mixing fuzz bass, driving beats and a gospel feel on some tracks to great effect, and the finished product is filled with guitar swagger and psychedelia. You want to wear dirty leather listening to this.



Four albums down and Metric continue to make some fantastic music. This Canadian group have recently recorded a track for Edgar Wright’s new film Scott Pilgrim Vs The World, and deserve the opportunity to get massive. Latest album Fantasies is filled with great indie-pop that reminds me of The Breeders and Stereolab. Their last single Help, Im Alive has a chorus that always, no matter where I am, gets me jumping around when I hear it.



Four Tet are pretty much unknown, and in reality is just one man, Kieran Hebden, who pays the bills by remixing the likes of Radiohead. All instrumental, and new album There Is Love In You is atmospheric electronica that I’ve found myself listening to a lot when I’ve been working on fiction. It’s mood music of the best kind, sucking you into the brilliant melodies with ease. Last track on the album is She Just Likes To Fight, which sounds like Air meeting Brian Eno. No bad thing.



I got into the Drive-By Truckers by accident a couple of years ago, surfing Amazon and listening to sound clips, and quickly bought everything they had ever done. Their combination of southern-rock guitar, early 70’s Stones vibes and lyrics straight out of a Joe Lansdale novel touch all the right buttons for me. New album The Big-To Do is, frankly, tremendous. I love this band.



The Morning After Girls are probably the best Indie coming out of Australia right now. Great lyrics, brilliant hooks, these guys are making anthems like we haven’t heard since the first Oasis album.



Jack White can have as many side projects as he likes (the okay Raconteurs and the genius Dead Weathers) but The White Stripes have just released their first live disc Under Great White Northern Lights to remind us just how fucking brilliant they are. A recording can’t capture the energy and thrill of seeing Jack and Meg, but this makes a pretty good go of it. And who else But Jack White could see Dolly Parton’s Jolene completely straight and turn it into a punk scream for lost love?

Saturday, 20 March 2010

Sane Man

If you have no idea who Bill Hicks is, I strongly urge you to find his work. Head over to YouTube and watch as much of his stand-up work that you can find, or get your hands on his albums Arizona Bay, Relentless and Rant In E-Minor. I was exposed to Hicks around 1992 after seeing his live show on late night TV. It was a revelation, changing the way I thought about comedy in the same way that hearing The Pixies changed the way I thought about music. I was used to and enjoyed edgy, dark comedy that was being offered by the likes of Ben Elton and Stephen Wright, but Hicks was something else. This pale, lank haired, spec-wearing American was part-comic, part-revolutionary, part-preacher, screaming his diatribe at an audience who were laughing sometimes with humour and other times with nervousness. Hicks was funny but he was angry, attacking corporate business, the LA riots, the Kennedy assassination, mass marketing, abortion and George Bush Sr. Listening to his routine got me thinking about politics, about alternative music, about the importance of making a choice in my life that didn’t have to fit in with a certain crowd and about having my own voice. I may well have discovered those things on my own or with a different guide, but it was Hicks who pushed me onto the path. As I started to track down his work and find out more about the man, I also discovered that he was dying of pancreatic cancer.

Bill Hicks died in February 1994 at the age of 32. To say that his voice was cut short to early is an underestimation of biblical proportions. In the years following his death I have often wondered what he would have had to say about the current state of the America and life in general. Certainly seeing George Bush Jr in the White House would have incensed the man to a white-heat rage. I would have loved to hear his thoughts on 9/11 and our so-called ‘War On Terror’. Or the cult of Celebrity. Or Reality television. Or the Internet. There would have been so much for Bill to turn his intellect and genius towards.

American : The Bill Hicks Story is a new documentary that examines his too-short life taken from over 150 hours of footage from his early days on the comedy circuit, back through his teen years and right up until his death. Bill’s journey was similar to many artists. Drugs, alcohol, temperamental mood swings, the works. But unlike most such stories Hicks righted himself, kicked the booze, kicked the drugs (even though it seems that Acid was what took him to the next level as a person and comedian) and didn’t lose any of his edge because of it. The documentary reveals Bill to be a deeply complex individual who loved and hated the world in equal measures. There’s a particularly incredible piece where Hicks picks up a tape recorder and starts discussing his deep-rooted fears of having to live up to being funny. It’s a raw and honest moment of insecurity from someone who just oozes confidence in every bit of moving footage I’ve ever seen. Writing this entry and re-watching some of his old work made me realise just how much I missed the man, one of my true, genuine heroes. His words today are more essential than they ever were. As The Smiths once said, ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out…’

Monday, 8 March 2010

Mama

Andy Muschietti is a 23 year old Spanish filmmaker who has managed to get Pans Labyrinth genius Guillermo Del Toro to fund and produce his first film. How? By making a very impressive, creepy little movie called Mama, which has been playing at international festivals in the past year and causing fans to sit up and take notice. Rightly so - it's one of the best shorts I've seen in a long while, and it packs plenty into a little over three minutes. Muschietti is expanding this into a feature length fright fest that should definately be worth a look if he can keep the suspense and atmosphere seen below. Check it out and pay attention to just how long the main shot is and the environment it moves through. Damn impressive.