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Author: Thomas Parker

Odd Old Indie: Night Tide

Odd Old Indie: Night Tide

Growing up in Southern California in the 60’s and 70’s was a movie lover’s dream. Late night and weekend television in those days was almost completely given over to old movies, especially on the Los Angeles independent channels: KTLA channel 5, KHJ channel 9, KTTV channel 11, and KCOP channel 13.

The independent stations were especially prone to showing independent movies, small films that hadn’t cost much and hadn’t made much and could be acquired cheaply to occupy all the time that had to be filled until sign-off and the test pattern. Many of these movies were from the House of Corman (The Little Shop of Horrors, The Masque of the Red Death, Dementia 13), but most weren’t, and any night of the week you could watch a pulse-pounder like The Flesh Eaters, The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies, or Beast of Blood (once you had advanced — or descended — to Filipino horror movies you could consider yourself a schlock PHD.)

Most of these films were awful, of course (that’s how you wound up on channel 13 at two in the morning), but sometimes a (relative) diamond could be found among the ashes. One movie that I discovered during those years was Night Tide, an odd little indie that aimed a bit higher than the usual cheapie thriller. I was always happy when it popped up in the week’s TV Guide listings.

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The Eccentric’s Bookshelf: Michael Weldon’s Psychotronic Encyclopedia of Film

The Eccentric’s Bookshelf: Michael Weldon’s Psychotronic Encyclopedia of Film

1983? Let me tell you how it was.

In a World Without the Internet, before Youtube, before Netflix, before Prime, before 4K UHD smart TVs, before social media or Substack or niche newsletters, before IMDb and Rotten Tomatoes, before DVDs and Blu-rays, even before blogs (gasp!), you would find yourself sitting around late at night, channel surfing, listlessly flipping through TV Guide, restlessly looking for something to watch, and you would come across a movie like The Horror of Party Beach and you would think, “What the hell? Is this worth ninety minutes of my life?” And since you would likely have only once chance to see the thing, it was a decision fraught with import. (I’ve always wanted to use that phrase.)

In the absence of all of the resources and options we now take for granted, how did you decide what to do? I’ll tell you what I did — I reached for The Psychotronic Encyclopedia of Film.

The brainchild of Uber-Geek Michael Weldon and an offshoot of his Psychotronic Video magazine, the book is, according to the back cover, “The complete viewer’s guide to the weirdest movies of all time!” It’s a boast that the volume makes good on with one pseudopod tied behind its back.

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Movie of the Week Madness: Duel

Movie of the Week Madness: Duel

Can anyone dispute Steven Spielberg’s title as the most successful motion picture director of all time? Not if you’re talking box office, you can’t. As of June, 2024, Spielberg’s films have grossed almost eleven billion dollars, putting him two billion ahead of his nearest competitor, James Cameron, and as Randy Newman sang, it’s money that matters. In Hollywood that’s probably truer than anywhere else in the world, and the profits generated by Spielberg’s many successes have more than made up for the losses incurred by his rare failures, making the suits very, very happy.

What about recognition from colleagues and critics? He has been nominated nine times for Best Director, winning twice (for Schindler’s List and Saving Private Ryan), and he received another Oscar as the producer of Schindler’s List when that film won Best Picture. He has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame (you can step on him at 6801 Hollywood Boulevard), has won the Academy’s prestigious Irving Thalberg Award (are there any awards that aren’t prestigious?), and has received more honors from various cinematic guilds and organizations than can easily be counted.

This storied career had its humble beginning in television in 1969, when Spielberg directed an episode of Rod Serling’s Night Gallery, and through the early 70’s he directed episodes of various other television shows, including the very first episode of Columbo, Murder by the Book. (And yes, I know about Prescription Murder and Ransom for a Dead Man, but technically those are stand-alone TV movies, not episodes of the series.)

And speaking of TV movies, Spielberg also directed three segments of the ABC Movie of the Week, one of which still stands as arguably the best made-for-TV movie ever. I’m talking, of course, about Duel.

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A Metaphysical Nightmare: Brian Moore’s Cold Heaven

A Metaphysical Nightmare: Brian Moore’s Cold Heaven

The Irish writer Brian Moore, who died in 1999 (he pronounced his first name in the Irish fashion — Bree-an) was one of the most interesting novelists of his time, at least based on the four books of his that I’ve read, all of which deal with areas where the supernatural, the philosophical, and the theological intersect and blur into each other.

Catholics (1972) is set in the near future after a hypothetical Fourth Vatican Council has banned private confession, clerical garb, and the Latin mass, while the fictitious Pope of the novel is engaged in negotiating a formal merger of Roman Catholicism and Buddhism, radical changes that are resisted by a handful of monks living on a small island off the coast of Ireland. In The Great Victorian Collection (1975), a scholar dreams of a fabulous collection of Victorian artifacts, and when he wakes up, it has actually appeared in the parking lot outside his California motel room. Who will believe such a thing? Can he believe it himself? Black Robe (1985) is a painstakingly detailed — and bracingly unsentimental — historical novel about the material and spiritual struggles of a Jesuit missionary to the Hurons in seventeenth century Canada.

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To Save Your Sanity, Take Stephen Leacock’s Nonsense Novels and Call Me in the Morning (or, Why Are Canadians Funny?)

To Save Your Sanity, Take Stephen Leacock’s Nonsense Novels and Call Me in the Morning (or, Why Are Canadians Funny?)

You need a good laugh right now. How do I know this? I know this because I need a good laugh right now. Everyone I know needs a good laugh right now, so it stands to reason that you need one too, doesn’t it?

So… where to go for that much-needed laugh? Well, there are standup specials on Netflix and the other streamers, you’ve got SNL, there are the many late-night topical jokemeisters — all the usual suspects. Now if that stuff really makes you feel better, more power to you; there’s so much of it available these days, you’re in the enviable position of being a kid locked in a candy factory. For me, though, none of those folks can talk for two minutes without referring to you-know-who who lives you-know-where and is up to you-know-what, and I’m sorry, but all that usually ends up making me feel worse.

To maintain minimal sanity, sometimes what I need most is something that will take me to a place that Thomas Hardy (who briefly hosted the Tonight Show after Conan O’Brien was fired) called “far from the madding crowd.” I don’t want something that’s out to earn my approval because it’s correct; I want something that’s out to make me laugh because it’s funny.

Fortunately, several years ago, I found a fabulous device that accomplishes just that. It’s called… are you ready for this? It’s called a book. And that’s not the half of it. It was written by a fellow named Stephen Leacock, and this guy was… I can’t believe I’m saying this… he was… a Canadian.

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You Are Cordially Invited to a Dinner Party in Hell: The Exterminating Angel

You Are Cordially Invited to a Dinner Party in Hell: The Exterminating Angel

Social interaction is a minefield, isn’t it? Whether it’s gathering with the family for the holidays, relating to people at the workplace, or making small talk with the checker at the supermarket, any encounter with other people, no matter how casual or seemingly benign, is fraught with uncertainty and even, sometimes, menace. That may be why such interactions have so often been depicted as a form of combat. (It may also be why the trend towards “contactless” social transactions that reached warp speed with the advent of COVID isn’t going anywhere, but just continues to gain ground even as the Coronavirus era recedes.)

Of all the opportunities for social victory and defeat, triumph and humiliation, the party may be the most hazardous, but no party has ever been such an ordeal as the one endured by the hapless dinner guests in Luis Buñuel’s merciless 1962 nightmare, The Exterminating Angel (in its original Spanish, El ángel exterminador).

Filmed in Mexico and set in a “wealthy district” in an unnamed country (Roger Ebert declares that it’s Spain and that the movie is an attack on the regime of Francisco Franco, but I know of no statement by Buñuel that places the film so specifically or that defines its meaning so narrowly), The Exterminating Angel is the blackest of black comedies; I have no doubt that it would have made the chap who invented the rack and thumbscrews giggle uncontrollably.

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The Beating Heart of Science Fiction: Poul Anderson and Tau Zero

The Beating Heart of Science Fiction: Poul Anderson and Tau Zero

Tau Zero (Millennium/Gollancz SF Masterworks, February 2006). Cover by Dominic Harman

Science fiction — what is it, really? What elements place a story firmly in the genre? For any requirement that you can think of, there is probably a great sf story that violates it, and rather than cobble together some dictionary-ready definition, it’s easier to just think of particular books that you would hand to someone unacquainted with the genre with the words, “Here — read this; this is science fiction!”

Everyone would have their own choices for such a list, of course, and those choices would amount to your de facto definition. For me, some of those books would be Rendezvous with Rama by Arthur C. Clarke, The Stars My Destination by Alfred Bester, and Man Plus by Frederik Pohl, but the very first book on my list would be Poul Anderson’s 1970 novel Tau Zero. Why? What does this book have that makes it a quintessential work of science fiction?

Maybe it’s this — it’s a grand voyage, a brave excursion into the great out there, and it also has a grand perspective shift, like a camera pulling back in a movie, a maneuver that radically alters everything that you had previously thought about the story, something that’s not a minor adjustment, but a move that completely explodes the frame. You think the story is this, but it’s really that, you think you’re here, but you’re really there; the here where you thought you were turns out to be the tiniest corner of there, a there that is larger and stranger and more dizzying than you ever could have originally imagined. (In The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, Peter Nicholls calls this kind of maneuver a “conceptual breakthrough.”)

Tau Zero begins as a straightforward story of an interstellar voyage, but it ends as far away from that prosaic beginning (prosaic by the standards of science fiction, I mean) as it is possible to imagine. Farther than that, really, and I think that’s the whole point.

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The Gorey Century

The Gorey Century

Yesterday was the 100th birthday of Edward Gorey, one of the most unique, unclassifiable artists that this country has ever produced. Though he died in 2000, he has a continuing cultural presence; he certainly lives on in my life and in the lives of a great many people.

Back in the incumbency of Jimmy Carter, when I was studying theater and living in the dorms of California State University Long Beach, one year I had a roommate named Scott. Scott didn’t fit into our tight-knit little community very well, and while I’ve always prided myself on my ability to get along with everyone, I didn’t get along very well with him. We had a bumpy year together, but I will always be glad that we were roommates, because Scott introduced me to the work of Edward Gorey, and that was a priceless gift that I can never repay him for.

Edward Gorey was a man of many talents — He did scenic and costume design for the stage, winning a Tony Award in 1978 for his costume designs for Dracula (his set design for that production was also nominated) and several of his stories are about ballet, which was one of his supreme passions. Additionally, he did highly individual book covers; for several years he did them for Anchor Paperbacks (including, among many others, editions of H.G. Wells’s The War of the Worlds, Franz Kafka’s Amerika, and T.S. Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats), which are highly prized today simply for their Gorey covers. He also edited and illustrated a collection of classic ghost stories (1959’s Edward Gorey’s Haunted Looking-Glass) and did covers and illustrations for several of the supernatural mysteries of John Bellairs.

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Reading for the End of the World Redux

Reading for the End of the World Redux

Eight years ago, in the wake of the 2016 election, I penned a piece for Black Gate that I called “Reading for the End of the World”, in which I listed a dozen books I thought ideal for helping us get through the four years of turmoil and uncertainty that loomed ahead. I wrote it, posted it, and moved on with my life, little suspecting that coping with that particular cultural earthquake was not a one-time job like getting a vasectomy, but would instead turn out to be an onerous recurring chore like mowing the lawn or doing the laundry.

Well, if He did it again, I suppose I should too. Therefore, once again, “In the spirit of the incipient panic, withered expectations, and rampant paranoia that seem to dominate our current national life, I offer twelve books to get you through the next four years (however long they may actually last): a reading list for the New Normal.” (Groundhog Day is a movie, not a book; that’s why it’s not here.) In 2017 I hoped that the books I discussed would provide some much-needed insight or diversion, and that’s my hope for these twelve additional volumes. Some things have changed after the passage of eight years, however, so now I suppose I should also state that these books were neither written nor selected with the help of A.I. (Of course, that just begs the larger question — how do you know that “Thomas Parker” is a real person? Short answer: you don’t. Then again, I don’t know if any of you are real people, either.)

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Say It Ain’t So

Say It Ain’t So

You’ve heard. I know you’ve heard. And I know what your reaction was — first, surprise… shock, even. Then sadness, and probably anger too. “Please, not again, Goddammit! And not him!” (And if you really haven’t heard, forgive me for being the bearer of bad news.)

Those were my reactions, anyway, when I read about the New York Magazine story that was published early this year (“There is No Safe Word,” by Lila Shapiro; the article may be paywalled), a story that contains appalling, sickeningly detailed accusations from multiple women of thoroughly vile conduct (up to and including outright sexual assault) by Neil Gaiman, one of the most successful and admired writers in contemporary fantasy.

Whatever the results of the inevitable adjudication, civil or criminal, I think it is safe to say that Gaiman (who has naturally denied everything, because that’s what a guilty and an innocent man alike would do) has, at the still relatively young age of sixty-four, entered the “public and professional pariah” stage of his life. This has been confirmed by the panicked corporate scramble to cancel any and all Gaiman-related film, television, and literary projects that were in any stage of discussion or production when the accusations began to surface.

I don’t know the truth about any of these allegations, of course, but given their number and scale and specificity, it’s extremely difficult to believe that the predicament Gaiman finds himself in is merely the result of a “misunderstanding” (his characterization). What I do know is how depressing and disheartening the whole thing is.

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