AFTERTHOUGHTS (71)
PIMP MY BOOK (9)
CRAVING

The following is an excerpt from the Penumbra horror/dark fantasy novella, Craving, written by yours truly, and published by Visual Print Enterprises.

The sun was just beginning to set, and Anne was on her way back to the house from her daily walk along the beach. Every other day of the week, Lester accompanied her, but today was Thursday, and Thursday was Clean-Up Day, so she went solo on Thursdays, careful to pack her cell phone in her canvas tote bag, in case of…
Well… just in case.

Anne sighed. She was so grateful for Lester, for his patience, his understanding. As difficult as this and the past two pregnancies had been for her, Anne knew it was doubly hard for her husband, who had no choice but to simply be there, by her side, unable to carry the whole burden on his shoulders.
Which she knew he would, without a doubt, without a moment’s hesitation, if he only could. But this was her burden, by virtue of gender and biology, this was hers, and she felt blessed to have Lester there, always, strengthening her resolve by his mere presence.

Anne smiled, a small, tender smile, as she walked along the dirt road leading up to the Doctora’s house, walked in the Daisy Duckzilla walk, as Lester had dubbed it. Anne had perfected a shuffling, shambling lope that was slow and awkward, but got her to where she wanted to go, safe, and in one piece.
“And that’s what it’s all about these days, huh, Junior?” she cooed, rubbing her stomach through the thin summer blouse she wore.
Dimly, she heard something.
She stopped, frowning.

There, off in the depths of the waist-high talahib to the side of the dirt road.
What sounded like a cat… yowling…
No. Not a cat. Not yowling.
Wailing. Crying.
“Oh, my God,” Anne whispered.
It’s a baby, she thought. It’s a baby that’s been abandoned, and it’s hungry and thirsty and how am I supposed to reach it? There could be snakes in there, and, oh! Snakes! And that poor baby! Lester!

And she began to dig through her bag, frantically. Then she noticed the crying getting louder, closer to her.
Frozen, she watched as the stalks of grass bent, and now, there was the sound of brittle snapping, and something (something?) crawled through the talahib, towards her, the crying definitely louder now, more insistent.
Anne backed away, slowly, her eyes transfixed, watching the swaying, the bending and snapping, marking the path, the trajectory.

And then the crying stopped. No winding down, no softening. Just a clean, dead stop.
But the grass was still being disturbed, upset by the movement, the resolute crawl of whatever it was.
Anne resumed the Daisy Duckzilla walk, a little faster now, pulling the cell out of her tote bag, the sound of crunching, snapping blades of grass deafening to her.

As she flipped her cell phone open, the giggling began, a high-pitched, lunatic sound.
She didn’t look back, didn’t wish or want to, she just kept walking, walking, her eye on the mango tree, which was yelling distance from the house, whispering the “Hail Mary” beneath her breath.
And though the giggling continued, an awful, manic noise, the sound of movement through the grass stopped, and Anne imagined blades of grass being pulled apart, eyes watching her, boring into her back.

But she still didn’t look back. She just walked, tote bag in one hand, cell phone in the other (in a skeletal, white-knuckled grip), leaving the giggling behind her, the “Hail Mary” still on her lips.
“… and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus…”
And the giggling just went on, and on, and on…

If the above tidbit has suitably intrigued you, Craving is available in bookstores. (And if you don’t see it on the shelves, ask for it, please.)
Or, if you’re so inclined, you can drop by Kolektib (Shop 33 in the Cubao Expo) this Saturday, May 24, 2008, and attend “9 in 1: Kolektib Intelidyens,” where I will be among the menagerie of wild writers and artists the good people of Visual Print Enterprises will gather for your awe and amusement.
Craving (and lots of other goodies) will be available there.
It’s from 3pm to 6pm, this Saturday; see Afterthoughts (67) for more details.
Hope to see all you fine folk there!

(Craving art and jacket design by Carl Vergara.)

AFTERTHOUGHTS (70)
PIMP MY BOOK (8)
PARMAN

The following is an edited excerpt from the Penumbra horror/dark fantasy novella, Parman, written by yours truly, and published by Visual Print Enterprises.

The two friends stare at the figure some ten feet away, man-shaped, to be certain, but powerful, made out of (or perhaps, wrapped in) some white, chitinous substance, all emphasized, stylized musculature, and bony ridges and barbs, features obscured in a helmet or mask of some sort, which displays only the vaguest contours of a face, its eyes glowing an unearthly blue.
The figure stands, menace and intent in his muscled stance, his stillness an implication of strength, of power.

The friends straighten their shoulders, their backs, as if shrugging off their drunkenness.
Suddenly, the ivory figure leaps into the air and strikes, a foot catching one on the chin, sending him to the street. The other foot is blocked though, with a solid forearm; blocked, then grabbed by the ankle.
The man swings the armored attacker down, slamming him, hard, against the pavement. Instantly, the man lunges for the white figure, but he is blindingly quick, and already rolling, and on his feet, ready to face his enemy.

The man pauses, just long enough to flash a cold, guillotine smile, before he steps forward and attacks. What follows is a blur of motion, of attack and counter-attack, strike and block, fist against forearm, foot against shin. And though the man is slashing his fists and flesh to bloody shreds on the thick barbs on his enemy’s forearms, he evinces no pain, intent only on the duel.
Finally, the rhythm is broken, the flat of a palm catching the white-clad figure under the chin, sending him staggering back a few paces. Quickly, the man lashes out with his foot, catching the ivory figure square in the stomach, in the stylized abdominal muscles on his armor.

The blow is hard, knocking the wind out of him, doubling him over. Before he can recover, hands are grabbing his arms, pulling them back, while a knee, forcefully, painfully, digs against the small of his back.
Caught in the brutal hold, trying to recoup his strength, the armored figure looks at the man who stands in front of him, in a fashionable, two-sizes-too-small polo of some shimmering fabric, gloating.
“Hey, Uno,” the man says, flashing that grin.

A fist rams into the armored man’s abdomen, and though the angry, sharp pain makes him want to double over again, he can’t, because of the agony of the hold he’s in.
The man leans in. “We’ll be sure to bring Mangilala your head.”
This is all he’s been waiting for.

His knee slams into the man’s groin, and, just as the man folds up in agony, his helmeted head butts savagely against the top of the man’s head, sending the man sprawling to the street.
Then, in a supreme effort of will and muscular strength, the one called Uno does double over, quickly, pulling the man who holds him off his feet, and up, and over, dropping him heavily on his companion.

Standing over the stunned pair, Uno’s hands flare, a blinding corona of white light outlining them. Even as the companions try to get to their feet, Uno grabs them by their foreheads, and they scream, shrill, high-pitched keenings, the light spreading, blanketing them.
Their skin begins to char then, to peel back in glowing, blistering shreds of ash.
Moments later, their skeletons are visible; their bones, and what lies within.

As Uno releases both skeletons, what look like grey water balloons spill out from their rib cages, falling on the street with liquid plops.
Uno looks down dispassionately (and though his features are obscured, one can tell this by his stance, his body language, and the way the eyes of his mask—if mask is indeed what it is, and not his true face—simmer a cold, sky-distant blue), at the two foot-long grey worms that writhe on the asphalt.

Uno places a booted foot on one of them, and it jerks, its needle teeth trying to snap at Uno, its all-too human face twisted in a malignant grimace, its eyes burning with malice.
“You will fall, warrior,” it says, its voice, the screeching of fingernails across a chalkboard. “You will fall, and we saitans shall feed on your innards.”
Uno applies pressure, and the worm bursts in a noisome flurry of blood and sewage.
He turns to the other one, which seems dazed, in shock, its eyes glazed over in an idiot stare.
Uno’s foot comes down, hard.

If the above tidbit has suitably intrigued you, Parman is available in bookstores. (And if you don’t see it on the shelves, ask for it, please.)
Or, if you’re so inclined, you can drop by Kolektib (Shop 33 in the Cubao Expo) this Saturday, May 24, 2008, and attend “9 in 1: Kolektib Intelidyens,” where I will be among the menagerie of wild writers and artists the good people of Visual Print Enterprises will gather for your awe and amusement.
Parman (and lots of other goodies) will be available there.
It’s from 3pm to 6pm, this Saturday; see Afterthoughts (67) for more details.
Hope to see all you fine folk there!

(Parman cover image by Oliver Pulumbarit.)

AFTERTHOUGHTS (69)
PIMP MY BOOK (7)
TAKOD

The following is an excerpt from the Penumbra horror/dark fantasy novella, Takod, written by yours truly, and published by Visual Print Enterprises.

She lies awake in bed, sweating, the house looming around her, like a crouching beast, oppressive. Summer has come early this year, the warmth like a herald for Semana Santa, an angel beating its wings, waves of heat radiating outwards from its divine being.

This is the time of death, and resurrection, though for the little girl, it is only the former she understands.
Death.
Death is when your father leaves one early morn, before the sun has even risen, leaves to make a living from the sea, a sea which betrays him, swallowing him whole, taking him into its cold, blue, bottomless throat.

Death, the little girl understands.
Resurrection, she cannot comprehend, a concept she cannot grasp, a word she cannot pronounce.

Outside, skeleton fingers scratch against the thin capis of her room’s window, as if the tree which towers over their home wishes entry. She stares at the window, at the vague shadows outside, not understanding why the tree is moving when she can hear no wind, when it seems too hot for any wind to even exist.
Or perhaps it is the wind from the angel’s wings.
(Her mother would disapprove of this fancy, so she pushes it from her mind.)

Then, as if summoned by her stray thought, a figure appears at her door.
Shadowed, silent, it is her mother.
She wishes her brother were awake, but he is not. He lies next to her, asleep, snoring softly. He looks exactly like her (for they are, after all, twins), and for an instant, she imagines it is she who is asleep, while her brother lies awake in the warm, humid dark.

Barefoot, her mother walks to their bedside.
She towers above them, her children; one asleep, the other, not. The little girl cannot see her mother’s face, cannot pierce the dark shadows which cloak it, like strands of long, ebony hair.
She watches as her mother leans down to plant a kiss on her brother’s smooth cheek. She remembers the Bible story of Judas, and again, pushes the thought away, mindful of her mother.

Then, strangely, impossibly, she watches as her mother, still on the opposite side of the bed, leans, and stretches towards her, somehow keeping her balance with both arms at her sides, as she moves to kiss her (and surely she can’t reach her, not with the bed so wide, not without having to lean over her brother).
She watches, frozen, her mother’s shadowed face moving towards her, dark hair like water, like spider’s silk, framing features she cannot see (and somehow, she knows, she would not want to see, even if she could).

And finally, finally, when her mother’s face is right next to hers, and she can feel the warm, fetid breath on her cheek, feel the feather touch of those dark strands of hair on her neck, she closes her eyes.
Then the wetness is on her mouth, and something slick finds its way past her lips, sliding along her tongue, something spherical and soft, tasting of mold and rot.
It slides down her tongue, her throat, and at last, she opens her eyes, to look upon the cold, blank face of darkness.

If the above tidbit has suitably intrigued you, Takod is available in bookstores. (And if you don’t see it on the shelves, ask for it, please.)
Or, if you’re so inclined, you can drop by Kolektib (Shop 33 in the Cubao Expo) this Saturday, May 24, 2008, and attend “9 in 1: Kolektib Intelidyens,” where I will be among the menagerie of wild writers and artists the good people of Visual Print Enterprises will gather for your awe and amusement.
Takod (and lots of other goodies) will be available there.
It’s from 3pm to 6pm, this Saturday; see Afterthoughts (67) for more details.
Hope to see all you fine folk there!

(Takod cover image and design by Wawi Navarroza.)

AFTERTHOUGHTS (68)
SUPERMAN FOUND!

The Search For Superman Committee has made its choice, and the official Man of Steel for Metropolis, Illinois’ 2008 Superman Celebration is…
Josh Boultinghouse!
Congratulations, Josh! (You can find out more about Josh here.)
Josh officially debuts as the 2008 Metropolis Superman at the ribbon cutting ceremony which opens this year’s Superman Celebration, on June 12. (For other details, go to the Metropolis Tourism website.)

(All images: Josh Boultinghouse)

DEXTER
Season 2 Episode 12
‘The British Invasion’
Teleplay by Daniel Cerone; story by Melissa Rosenberg & Daniel Cerone
Directed by Steve Shill
(WARNING: SPOILERS)

So Erik King makes it to the season finale, only to get blown into teeny pieces by the arsonist titty vampire.
Lila breaks into the cabin to find Doakes, and when she asks who he is and why he’s locked up, she understands just exactly what that hunger and darkness is that she senses in Dex.
And since she believes she’s his soulmate, she does what she can to protect Dex: set the cabin on fire, flick open the propane tank, and leave.
Doakes manages to smash his way out of the cage, but just as he’s about to try and put out the fire (mouthing “Motherf*ck—“), the tank explodes, taking him and the cabin with it.

Meanwhile, Deb and hordes of Miami’s Finest are closing in on the area where the cabin is located, so Dex hurries to get there first, only to find the flaming wreck already crawling with cops.
In a gruesome bit, they find the partial remains of Doakes, and once positive ID’s been made, the case is officially closed.

There’s a great scene in LaGuerta’s office, as Lundy breaks the news to Maria, and she then goes through the rest of the episode being faithful to the memory of her former partner (and probably, lover).
Lauren Velez also has a fantastic scene with Jennifer Carpenter, when Deb makes the effort to reach out to LaGuerta; after all, they’re now in the same boat, two women who aren’t sure they can ever trust another man—and themselves—again, given that someone they thought they knew turned out to be a killer. (Of course, in LaGuerta’s case, that isn’t the truth at all, but let’s not tell her that…)

And while Angel is cleared by I.A. over the whole rape thing, there’s a nice little play on the show’s opening credits sequence, as it dawns on Dex that with Doakes framed and dead, he’s a free man. That whole time, I fully expected Lila to be lying in wait as Dex opens his door, but the b!tch had other plans.
After an early morning booty call with Rita, Dex’s jubilation comes to a screeching halt when Masuka tells him that the cabin’s explosion wasn’t accidental (Masuka seems to think Doakes committed suicide this way, rather than be caught by the police).
When Dex finds the SUV’s GPS thingie in the debris, he realizes Lila’s behind the miracle save, so he meets her at the aquarium. There, Dex makes her believe he still wants her, and convinces her that he’s leaving Miami and that he wants to take her with him.

But when he shows up at Lila’s place (with his bag of kill tools), Deb’s there too. And when Lila arrives to find the Morgans there, and with Deb being her usual vitriolic self, Lila twigs onto the fact that something’s not kosher. So she makes like Dex’s kill bag is hers and prances on outta there.
Dex calls her on her cell, making all the appropriate “Sorry” noises, but Lila doesn’t reply.
Instead, she goes on over to Rita’s and abducts the kids.
Dex realizes Lila’s game a little too late, and when he finds the kids missing, he tells Rita to call Deb.
Of course, Rita’s call finds Deb just about to hop into a cab to meet Lundy at the airport (Lundy’s off on another serial killer case), Deb intent on leaving everything in Miami behind for love of the Lundy. But the call from Rita puts Deb in a spot, and in the end, she ditches FBI lover boy to help Rita out.

Dex arrives at Lila’s to find the kids watching TV. Lila then says, “You could have had it all,” and sets the place on fire, as she locks Dex and the kids in.
Dex gets the kids out through a window, which he can’t fit through, and it looks like it’s over for Dex, but he smashes through the burning wall, and Deb arrives just in time to help him.
Dex is singed, but okay; the kids are fine; Rita’s understanding.

Then, it what seems to be an epilogue, we see Lila in Paris, and I’m thinking, Oh, no, what evil has Dexter Morgan wrought? Is Lila now some loony copycat killer?
I also thought, This is rather messy of Dex, leaving that loose end.
But my faith in my favourite blood spatter expert/serial killer is renewed as he pays Lila a visit and takes care of her. (It’s curious though and perhaps a tad hypocritical when Dex accuses Lila of murdering an innocent man; I mean, he was selling Doakes up the river, after all. How different would it have been if the cops had wound up capping Doakes’ a$$? Or if he’d wound up with a death sentence?)

The finale winds up with a montage as we see Deb and Angel getting commendations from the force, and Dex running with Rita and the kids in slow mo (we just lacked the friendly family dog, really).
During the voice over, Dex says that his relationships are no longer part of the mask; they’re something he needs now, and if that makes him vulnerable, so be it. Harry would disapprove, but as Dex claims, he’s no longer Harry’s disciple. He’s his own master now.
And as he places a new (and thus far empty) slide box in his secret AC hiding place, Dex says stuff about finding new rituals in his perpetual lot in life.
He ends by asking, “Am I evil? Am I good? I’m done asking those questions. I don’t have the answers.”
Then, as he shuts the AC while looking straight at us, his riveted audience, he asks, “Does anyone?”

Parting shot: My thoughts on the finale and Season 2 in a future installment of In-Between Seasons.

(Image courtesy of sho.com.)

AFTERTHOUGHTS (67)
If you happen to be in the area this coming Saturday, May 24, 2008, you may want to drop by Kolektib (Shop 33 in the Cubao Expo), where Visual Print Enterprises is throwing “9 in 1: Kolektib Intelidyens,” a to-do featuring myself and a whole bunch of other writers whose work has been published under their auspices.
I’ll be there pimping the Penumbra novellas (Takod, Craving, and Parman), Carl Vergara will be there pimping ZsaZsa Zaturnnah, and Budjette Tan and Kajo Baldisimo will be there pimping the Trese compilations. (Check the image above for the full line-up.)
If you like any or all of these curiosities, come on by!
That’s Kolektib at the Cubao Expo, May 24, from 3pm to 6pm. (You can find more details here.)
Hope to see all you fine people there!

(Top image courtesy of Visual Print Enterprises; bottom image features art by Carl Vergara, Oliver Pulumbarit, and Wawi Navarroza.)

FUNNY GAMES U.S.
(Review)

"I've been accused of 'raping' the audience in my films, and I admit to that freely—all movies assault the viewer in one way or another. What's different about my films is this: I'm trying to rape the viewer into independence."
-- Michael Haneke

Well, consider me frakked.

In Michael Haneke’s shot-for-shot English-language remake of his 1997 Funny Games, George and Ann Farber (Tim Roth and Naomi Watts) are a couple of rich, white folk vacationing at their lakeside home for a couple of weeks. They’ve brought their son, Georgie (Devon Gearhart), and their dog, Lucky.
Naturally, in a film like this, when there’s a dog named “Lucky,” you can bet your bottom dollar that the mutt will be anything but.
You see, a pair of insanely courteous young lunatics (Michael Pitt and Brady Corbet) clad in immaculate white, are about to make a house call, all set to torture, not just the unlucky family, but the film’s audience as well.

With the cold, clinical precision that is his cinematic stock-in-trade, Haneke basically hijacks his audience and unleashes a confrontational and provocative indictment of what passes off as “entertainment” in today’s culture.
Funny Games U.S. (and its original Austrian progenitor) challenges its audience: so you like movies where people get tortured and terrorized? Well, see if you enjoy this.
With its largely static camerawork, its lack of a traditional musical score, and painfully frank performances, Funny Games U.S. presents the horrible scenario in a seemingly very real manner, while simultaneously tearing down the fourth wall on a number of occasions, reminding us that, A) this is a fiction, and B) we, the audience, are complicit in what we are witnessing.
Because this is, after all, unfolding for our entertainment.
Given that this is a decidedly non-Hollywood approach to the idea, and given that this is clearly Heneke’s agenda, it becomes obvious that Funny Games U.S. isn’t meant to be “entertainment.”
From all of what I’ve said above, it’s plainly evident that Funny Games U.S. is meant to be “art.”
And that’s I believe the sticking point of this entire quandary.

Let me use Gaspar Noe’s Irreversible as an example.
Irreversible is the sort of grueling cinematic experience that I really wouldn’t want to repeat. Viewing it wasn’t a pleasant experience.
But I do appreciate what Noe seems to be saying in it, the manner in which the narrative unfolds (begin at the end of the story in a very chaotic, nauseating manner, and work our way towards the beginning, with the camerawork gradually becoming calm and steady), part and parcel of his message.
Clearly, Irreversible is not entertainment. But I do believe that it is art.
So what’s to stop someone who makes a film that’s non-stop degradation and torture without any apparent message from claiming that there is, after all, a message (those who don’t “get it” merely ill-equipped to understand), and that his film is “art”?
And aren’t the lines that separate art and entertainment ultimately subjective?
Let’s face it: I may think Irreversible is art, but someone else will probably denounce it as filth and look at me like some sort of unhinged deviant for even considering Irreversible as a piece of art.
By the same token, I’m sure there are films out there others consider “art” that I, personally, just don’t get. (Apparently, I too, can be ill-equipped.)
Then there are those films that are ostensibly entertainment, and yet manage to say something substantial and potent about the human condition, that manage to bridge the gap and present some sort of hybrid.
Are they entertainment? Art? Or both?

Now, any Iguana regulars reading this will know that horror with significant subtext is pretty much my speed. As such, Haneke’s preaching to the choir here. (See, Herr Haneke, “No” really does mean “No.”)
But the reality is, I also happen to love films like the first Saw and Eli Roth’s Hostel films (particularly the second), because in them, I feel there is subtext, there are messages amidst the gore and the grue.
Now, whether or not Haneke will agree with me, I’ll never know. And for that matter, where is Haneke’s line, his personal demarcation between “acceptable” and “unacceptable” violence?
Shouldn’t all violence be unacceptable? But in a frank discussion of violence (the kind art can engage in), isn’t the depiction of it a necessity?
And with any depiction of violence, don’t we return to the question of acceptability? How much can we show so as to make our point?
So many questions…

In asking what Herr Haneke’s personal demarcation is though, I believe I’m missing the real point, which is, What is my personal demarcation? Where do I draw the line?
And where do you?

Parting shot: Reviews of Saw and Hostel II can be found in the Archive.

Parting shot 2: Incidentally, both Haneke and Noe were included by avclub.com in a list of 17 “Notorious Living, Working Cinematic Provocateurs,” which uses Haneke’s New York Times quote in its title.
Others on the list include Park Chan-Wook, Takashi Miike, Oliver Stone, Lars von Trier, and Michael Moore.

(Funny Games U.S. OS [design by Crew Creative Advertising] and UK quad courtesy of impawards.com; Funny Games DVD cover art courtesy of amazon.com; Funny Games U.S. images courtesy of ign.com.)