Canada / 1983

“Will I be this way when I am dead?” asks the old woman all skin and bones, and John Vernon is there as the ringmaster to this circus of trick poodles all vying for the same treat and says that, yes, this is what your dead face will look like but it’s your truest self now, the nucleus of your being waiting to be born after your perfect Samantha Eggar cheekbones been shed away like so much human dust. CURTAINS is one of the smartest slashers to have risen during the subgenre’s Golden Age and it’s a wonder that this Canuck chiller isn’t spoken of more frequently or in the glowing terms that it deserves. The film is a meditation on not just the vagaries of aging and accepting that we’ve already seen the back of our personal glories but on the very concept of “acting” itself, on what drives us to assume another’s identity and become someone else whether it’s in front of the unblinking eye of the camera or a lover, on the diminishing returns of satisfaction that can be reaped from our efforts when we need to crawl over a growing pile of broken backs to get what it is we want. That the movie contains some of the most deliberately paced and fiendishly executed suspense setpieces feels like a bonus award for the viewer when really it’s just an honor to be nominated. We eventually discover the true identity of the masked killer, but when we see that haggard wraith wielding its scythe as it glides across the ice in torturous slow-motion, in that moment we know the figure for her truest self. She is Lady Death, and she is gliding towards us all.



Luxembourg, Belgium, Spain, US / 2013

As Hurricane Matthew surges forward and brings with it the grim reminder that October might as well be Summer Part II for residents along the East Coast, I find myself wanting to tap into that chilly root of autumnal bliss and despair that never taints the incessant greenery of my peninsula, and once that hunger takes hold of me, I can always depend on the works of Edgar Allan Poe to appease it.

Continue reading “OHMC ’16: EXTRAORDINARY TALES”



US / 1995

Despite what you might assume from that screenshot and the fact that FROSTBITER: WRATH OF THE WENDIGO was released under the banner of Troma Entertainment, that bastion of questionable tastes, this film is actually rather wholesome in its own bizarre way, not unlike another wintry favorite of mine released from the same company, Trey Parker’s CANNIBAL! THE MUSICAL (1993). Take for example the sequence when our brave heroine (Lori Baker) strips down to her birthday suit: the only bare skin we see is her back, and the reason for this gesture was not in service of some skeevy sex scene, but so that she could revive her hypothermic pal with her body warmth! This kind of doe-eyed innocence permeates throughout the film even in its most antithetical moments. Gushing decapitations set to crackly old country tunes never seemed so sweet. Or maybe that’s just me.




2005 / Japan

One of the special joys of watching Kôji Shiraishi’s found footage docu-horror NOROI: THE CURSE is playing detective alongside Jin Muraki as reporter Masafumi Kobayashi, a specialist in the paranormal with a healthy catalog of spooky videotape investigations and a name hearkening back to Masaki Kobayashi, the influential director of one of the country’s earliest ghostly classics, KWAIDAN (1964). Like that film, NOROI is steeped in folklore and ritual, albeit those solely conceived for Shiraishi’s purposes here. Sigils, ceremonies, and omens abound, and the filmmaker lays the ominous portent on thickly as Kobayashi gradually pieces together the binding ties that link one woman’s claims of an infant’s strange wailing to the submerged remains of a demon-haunted village. Glimpsed images and offhand comments coalesce in a chilling manner that is pure catnip for the deductive mind.

Continue reading “OHMC ’16: NOROI: THE CURSE”



US / 1958

Low-budget films trade in a certain breed of claustrophobia. The single-digit casts, the  cramped sets, the largely stationary cameras capturing everyone’s soul on flat, static celluloid; the shining gristle of Hollywood is scraped away, the dull gray bone beneath exposed. I BURY THE LIVING largely focuses on a lonely man in a small room. The man is slate-jawed Richard Boone, and the room is the “cottage” office of the cemetery chairman, a position Boone’s character is forced to adopt through familial and professional obligation and one that slowly consumes his mind like a loamy cancer when he becomes obsessed that through the use of a map charting the property’s funeral plots and the white and black pins denoting their “occupied” or “unoccupied” status, he has the power to control the forces of life and death. It’s a heady concept rich with philosophical potential, but director Albert Band and scripter Louis Garfinkle hone their focus in on the singular psychological impact that this notion has upon Boone’s hero. Workaholics will find much in him to sympathize with: going to the office when off the clock, staying at irregular hours, pouring over the same scales and figures until it all becomes monochromatic mush. There are echoes of doom and foreboding from great literary works like William Freyer Harvey’s “August Heat” and W. W. Jacobs’ “The Monkey’s Paw,” moments when Boone becomes utterly convinced that he’s seen his death marker chiseled before him in his dreams and that switching the color of the pins will restore life where it was senselessly taken away. Watching this film in the isolated darkness of your home might convince you of a unsettling notion or two. Such are the thoughts of lonely people in small rooms.




USA / 1973

As I get older, the homegrown horror films of the 70s seem to take firmer root in my heart. They represent a combination of aesthetics that I find endlessly compelling: the ethereal, surreal preoccupations of our European ancestors and the hardscrabble, plucky resourcefulness of our Yankee forefathers. MALATESTA’S CARNIVAL OF BLOOD has both qualities in spades. It’s an absurdist play set in one of the country’s most treasured and dubious of entertainments, the regional amusement park. The film was lensed at the Willow Grove Park in Pennsylvania, a frugal tactic that goes a long way in establishing the legitimately shabby air that lovingly clings to every frame like a layer of dust. You can practically feel the termites chewing through the rickety wooden roller coasters and smell the sweaty, stagnant water of the dunk tank.


Seize the Hybrid Moments


Hybrid Moments: A Literary Tribute to the Misfits, the collection that contains my story “American Gods, American Monsters,” has just dropped from Weirdpunk Books. My contributor’s copy arrived in the mail yesterday. Justin Coons’ artwork is very nice to hold.

There’s a veritable Riot Fest of creeps, scoundrels, and psychos lurking in the contents here, and I’m happy to have gotten the chance to honor a band that has so provoked and influenced me over the years. Editors MP Johnson and Sam Richard interviewed me the other month to ask about my history with the Misfits and the genesis of my story. You can read it here.

For those who’d prefer an actual taste, the Rod Serling-flavored opening to the story goes something like this…

Continue reading “Seize the Hybrid Moments

INTERVIEW: Michael Wehunt


At the center of Michael Wehunt’s fiction is a vibrant emotional core enclosed in a skin of rich, musical language instantly recognizable to the ear. It’s these qualities that have allowed Wehunt to grace the pages of such esteemed publications as Cemetery Dance, Shadows and Tall Trees, The Dark, and The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror. Michael took a few moments to sit and talk with us about the release of his first collection (reviewed a few days ago on this site), the travails of writing about (and in) the darkness, and the quiet ecstasy of lobster rolls.

Continue reading “INTERVIEW: Michael Wehunt”