Weekly Mondo Round-Up: And You Know What This Means? It Means That You Can Earn Some Real Money Edition

Being born creative is one of those double-barreled gifts. It's almost like having a second type vision. You can see life, both good and bad, in richer hues and assorted layers. The downside is that we live in a world that is not really built for artists. Making a viable living doing what you're born to do can feel about as accessible as winning the Mega-millions jackpot while simultaneously getting a deep-tissue massage. That's not even touching the assorted comments you will get from families, loved ones and friends. People that are not writers often have NO idea about the realities of trying to get your work out there. Every real victory you have will mean nothing to some folks just because of out-moded prejudices. Back when I was getting my feet wet with zines, I had friends obviously look unimpressed just because the publication wasn't a)glossy and b) available at your local mass-market book emporium.

Another one is using the term “blogger” like it's an insult. In the past few years of writing, I've been lucky to see people get progressively more open minded about writing online. It was just a handful of years ago where the snobbery towards online writing was massive. Whether it was writing for a blog or a regular website, the prevailing attitude was that it just didn't count. The sheer amount of bullshit attached to that is nearly mind-blowing. Writing is writing. If your work is out there and someone who is not yourself is reading it, then guess what? It totally counts. The fact that literary titans like Neil Gaiman have a blog should be proof right there that being a “blogger” is not and should not be a scarlet letter.

There's been a lot of really fascinating and needed discussion lately about the value of writing, especially for those of us in the fringe/genre film world. The internet is a huge blessing, making everything more democratic than ever. Of course with the landscape bigger than ever, it also means that there is more work to sift through. Even more troublesome is that it also ups the odds of having someone opportunisticly cribbing some of the words that you worked hard to craft. Of course, does that mean you shouldn't put you and your work out there? Hell no! When you're creative, at the end of the day the biggest priority should always be the work itself. If the cult of personality is something that is your main goal, then just be a celebrity and leave the art to the people that actually care. Also, ego? Check that at the door too. Doing anything to be “cool” is about the uncoolest thing in the world.

Writing is a field that will give you ample scar tissue, so to quote one especially mediocre Van Halen song, “you've got to roll with the punches to get to what's real.” The cream inevitably rises and the karmic scale does get balanced. Being a “real” writer isn't just about getting paid and published. It's about getting rejected, having someone leave a shitty comment or an editor bypassing your hard work for one of a lesser quality. Yet it is the negative that makes the positive all the sweeter when it happens. Getting your work out there and connecting with both like minded readers and writers is far richer than any of the annoyances that come with it. The more you explore, the more you realize that the good far outweighs the bad.

Being a film writer has a lot of blessings. That moment of not only moving a reader but sometimes even the artist whom you are writing about is tantamount to magic in this world. It is those moments that make up for any dramas or depression. Getting to explore and write about the language of cinema is what I live for and even when it can drive me crazy, it is without a doubt, my path. It's not even my chosen path, because it chose me long before I chose it and I would not have it any other way. Play people, especially your readers, for chumps and they will return the sentiment two-fold. But treat them with respect and the right ones will always, always get it.

Dedicated to Larry Gibbs and Andy Copp. Two friends that loved film and cut out from this plane too soon. Thank you both for making a special mark in this world and my life.

Weekly Mondo Round-Up: Lessons From the Living

Happy Solstice and Summertime Blues everyone. I've always had a like/hate thing with hot weather. I prefer it to cold, but still find it to be on the steamy side of assy. That said, there is a certain atmosphere, a certain weird gravitas to Summer days that I do enjoy. In other words, it's great for creativity and bad for the ole electric bill. The humidity will thrill you as much as it will clobber you. 

 This week has been long, but not bad. I finished the first part of my contribution to the upcoming William Castle blog-a-thon and am about to dip again into the waters of formerly-lost-films, as well as underrated dramas. Like the Magic 8 Ball says, more will be revealed. 

Music wise, I've been revisiting my Lee Hazlewood kick, with “Sand,” “Jackson” and “Some Velvet Morning” becoming the biggest repeat offenders. There's such a lush weariness to Lee's voice and music that gets me every time I listen. There are some artists that you have to be in a specific mood to listen to and then there are those like Hazlewood, that just hit the sweet spot every single time. 

Last night, the hubby and I went to a growing outdoors art event, which was fun. There were fabulous crepes to be had and there was one artist in particular, Robert Shinn, whose work really stood out. He had this one piece, involving an old nutcracker, that I became intensely smitten with. Naturally, it was way the heck out of my budget, but worth it if you've got it. While we were looking around and entered a small gallery, I was quickly annoyed by one of those classic, pretentious art conversations. You know, the talkers in question have a little glass of white wine (rarely red, for some reason, which is fine since that leaves more for me!) and a white-bred/upper-middle class sense of self-importance. I hate this kind of thing so much, especially since I think there is way you can have an intelligent and even fun conversation about art without it devolving into yuppie-styled wankery. Being an artist does not make you a better person than anyone, only being an honest, aware and a conscious person does. 

On a happier note, the crepe was truly sterling.

For more, you can find me via Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest & Google+.

Don't you know that I'm a 2000 Man or My Life as a Film Writer

There are certain things in this life that are predestined for all of us. Some folks grow up loving to cook and become chefs. Others have no souls and grow up thinking Eric Clapton is the best bluesman out there. It happens. For me, art has been my Siamese-twin since birth. Whether it was putting on plays with household objects when I was little or educating myself about cinema, it's my old friend and my continual habit. Film writing, in a lot of ways, is one of my pre-destined paths. Writing is something I have always done, mainly because I have no choice. With anything creative, you do these things out of a sense of need and compulsion. Working in the arts in general can be a long road of rejection, mental blocks and loved ones who don't understand why you are not getting Stephen King sized book deals. Even worse, once you get into specific types of art, you then have to deal occasionally with petty peers and weird agendas. One person brands you as too intellectual while another thinks you're too crude and working class. For a piece of fiction I once submitted, I had an editor get offended by my story having a morally flawed but goodhearted hero. (Namely, a dandified gigolo named Renaldo.)

The thing they can never teach you in school about writing is that you can't please everybody and if you are foolhardy enough to try, you risk compromising your own voice but for the worst kind of results, the dreaded mediocrity. Granted, that doesn't mean disregard constructive criticism, because anything that can help you grow tighter with your craft is a gift that should be fully accepted. In addition to all of that, art is subjective and not everyone has to like what you do, either. This is normal but there is a difference between someone having a different opinion and someone being a dick. If it's the latter, learn to laugh at them, have a shot of something strong and use that vinegar to fuel something even bigger and better than what you originally created. Success is better than slashing their tires or investing yourself in the dark arts just to curse their joyless selves.

With film, what moves me are often the same things that move me about expression in general. A great film is a like a great song, story or painting. It should move you, punch you in the gut, give you a warm hug, leave you bleeding in an alley under the stars, make love to you, make you feel like the world is a little more jewel like or alternately, have you come crashing down to the realization of how jacked up the human condition truly is. Great art is like being in your favorite neon lit bar, the one that reeks of nicotine and stale beer, with the sound of someone crying behind you while a couple dance on obliviously to an old Slade tune, too lost in their good time and lust to notice the fringes of human sadness all around. Or great art can be a cute puppy. The beauty is that it can be all of these things and more, just as long as it doesn't just settle. Settling is the worst. It's almost better to hate something then to feel indifferently about it.

The beauty of cinema is that for being a relatively young form, the options of what you can explore are almost endless. The only limitations are time, money and your own tastes. The best thing about the latter is that, much like your palate, it will change and evolve. I hated westerns as a kid but as I got exposed to films by guys like Sergio Leone and titles like “The Great Silence,” that changed quite a bit. The best surprises can sometimes come from within.

My biggest goal as a writer is to bring you into these worlds, sometime as an act of love, warning, preservation and maybe a bit of all three. The work has to be like a bright neon light, attractive to some, too much for others but always colorful. (And attractive to moths. I love moths.) But not only that, I hope to help, dandelion style, spread the seeds of all the great art out there. For me, that's what a writer who delves into cinema, music and art in general does. If you don't love what you do, then stop doing it because life is too damn short. But if you do love it and need it, then you owe it to yourself to damn the torpedoes, storm the barn and keep creating.

Feeling like Poor White Trash? Not Any More!

Are you a fan of great film writing? How about Southern Exploitation, Cajun Style? Even better, the man himself, Timothy Agoglia Carey? Then stop whatever you are doing and pick up the newest issue of Video Watchdog! The power of Timothy Carey dancing compels you!

...And Now the Screeming Starts!!!

Yes, I know I've been a very bad blog momma lately. The struggle of balancing career writing, and the ever dreaded day job work was bigger than ever in October. I've been recovering from the aftermath, but hey, it's a new month with plenty of new projects on the horizons.

Want proof? I'd be more than happy to provide,




Exhibit A? The latest issue of the legendary Screem magazine, where you can find my reviews dealing with everything from the Cinema of Transgression to Aleister Crowley to even Al Adamson. (Trio of heroes right there.) Being in Screem is a big thing, since it was one of the very first film mags that helped form the demented cinema lover that I am today. It was their third issue, with the The Beast of Blood cover, that proved to be a huge bright spot in my other wise highly awkward and unhappy junior high girl existence. There was something about that big eyed ghoul beheading himself in stark blood red and cobalt blues that has burned into my brain forever. It was that issue that first turned me on to Something Weird Video and films like Bloodsucking Freaks. I actually used stills from the latter to illustrate our fictional family trees in my 9th grade French class, much to the icked out confusion of my teacher. (I should also mention that I also used a picture of Lydia Lunch for one of my Aunts.)

Over a decade later, the magazine is still going strong and features such strong, notable writers like Greg Goodsell (Angels in Distress) and Shane M. Dallmann, among many others. It's a real joy to be in this issue, featuring one of my all time favorite films, The Phantom of the Paradise. (In fact, I want you to go build a proper shrine to William "Winslow" Finley right now.

Anyways, feel free to pick up the latest Screem, ride the mindway, and keep watching this space for further bits of opinionated but factual bits of cultural esoteric grooviness.

The Strangeness in Me-An Overview of "Feast of Flesh"

In the Spirit of Halloween, I thought I would post another review from the Vaults. This time around it's a South American treat with a few tricks up its sleeve, all in the form of Emilio Vieyra's exclellent 1967 film "Feast of Flesh." This is one of my earliest reviews ever, dating back to 2003. I still love this film and think it is ripe for rediscovery. It is available on Something Weird's Double Feature DVD with the uber-gory Mexican horror film, "Night of the Bloody Apes." The two were often shown theatrically back-to-back, which must have been a mind blowing combo for any lucky duck that bought a ticket. Moody B&W psychosexual art film paired with a balls out bloodbath, complete with nudity, severed eyeballs, and Mexican wrestlers. (Which I fully endorse all of these elements, by the way.)

Like most writers, it's hard to look at older works and not think about how you would do some things differently, but you have to start somewhere. It's all part of the gig.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy this article and have a hauntingly good night!

There are certain films that have all the traditional elements of an exploitation film yet somehow transcend them and transform into something completely different. Emilio Vieyra’s “Placer Sangriento” aka “Feast of Flesh” is an ideal example of this. It has all the markings of a good exploitation film; nudity, promiscuous teens, drugs, a sleazy police inspector, a man sexing up and then killing beautiful young girls while dressed in a monster mask. Hey, as far as I was concerned, it already sounded like a winner! But as I watched it, I realized that to dismiss it as another wonderfully goony exploitation film would not be fair at all.

For starters, it is a visually gorgeous film to watch. The black and white cinematography is wonderfully, especially the shots of the ocean. (In fact these shots are often so stark, that the sea almost becomes a separate character.) Black shadows are ever present throughout, adding to the weird and fitting mixture of murder and melancholy that permeates every scene of the film. The fact that even the gruesome moments of the film look elegant is a real testament to the talent that was working behind “Feast of Flesh.” Even the sunny scenes at the beach feel less frivolous and more unhealthy, which is perfect for a film like this. There is a killer on the loose and the teenagers (some of whom look like they are already well into their twenties), while aware, react by with their standard brand of airy recklessness as if they already know they are doomed. It’s not the usual immature stupidity that plagues most teen characters in horror films (or real life, for that matter.) Granted, none of them come across mature in the film, but as you soon will realize, reality is a questionable thing in this film.

Which is one of the aspects I loved about this film, is that it contains this slightly unsettling, dreamlike air. When I say “dreamlike” I don’t mean a full blood nightmare or pink-cheeked daydream either. Instead the film lies in this shadowy limbo that keeps you curious till the last frame. The music that is played throughout the film certainly enhances this. The score, composed by Victor Buchino, is lush and quite haunting, which is enhanced by the use of ethereal sounding female vocals. Parts of it reminded me of what would have happened if Martin Denny had composed the Dark Shadows theme song.

Then there is the matter of the man-monster. Naturally, the mask hides his identity until the very end of the film, when both his person and all the red herrings that were littered throughout, are revealed. Now with a film like this, where obviously a lot of hard work was spent to establish this surreal atmosphere, having a mask for the killer could make or break the overall tone. If the murderer has a goofy looking mask, it will efficiently kill any real atmosphere that has been painstakingly created. Luckily, this is not a problem in “Feast of Flesh,” since the mask is perfect. Unlike most cinematic killers-in-masks, which tend to be icy in a mechanically predatory way, both the murderer and especially his mask harbor an air of sadness around them.

This effect is a special combination of both the man and the rubber mask. The former clutches his victims (who are often willing, albeit via mind control through the haunting musical compositions) in a passionate yet desperate way. His mask resembles the long face of a lonely old man with a shock of black hair. In fact, he does not feel like the true villain of the film until the very end. If anything, the real villains of the film are the adults. You have the parents who neglect their teen children while shrugging indifferently about their strange behavior. Then you have adults, like Inspector Lauria who attempt to take advantage of them sexually. Not to mention the sheer incompetence of the Inspector and his coworkers at the police station. These men are so amazingly inept at their jobs that they end up inadvertently killing one young lady while using her as a “guinea pig” for the killer. So what do they do after that tragic event? Use another young lady as a guinea pig for the killer! To me, their ineptitude is far scarier than any sadly seductive madman.

The strange human behavior does not end with the killer and habitually inept police force in. Right from the beginning, we are greeted with some bizarre human reactions. For example, the film opens with a young couple making out on the beach at night. They see the killer drive by, dump a half nude body by the side of the road, and then speed off. Here’s a dialogue sample from that scene; “Oh he brought a chick of his own all right.” “Don’t blow your cool.” You know, if I saw someone dump a half nude body, I would probably not be up for some witty repartee unless the spirit of Oscar Wilde somehow possessed my soul that night. Yet, somehow, this does not affect the film’s power at all, since nothing in it feels like it is rooted in realism. To have realistic characters would have demanded a far grittier film that “Feast of Flesh” is.

One of things I did admire about the group of wild teens in the film is that they are very liberal, since their circle of friends includes a gay couple and a lesbian. These characters, while a wee bit stereotypical, are not used for comic relief and are not used as killer fodder. Sure, this may not seem shocking now, but given the time period of this film, it is very impressive to see (Not that film today has advanced that much in terms of non-biased portrayals of minorities.)

For some of you cult film cineastes, some of the cast and direction will look very familiar to you. There’s a very good reason for this, since Vieyra went on to direct “The Curious Dr. Humpp” and two of the main actors, Gloria Pratt (who plays the sexy and naïve “Beba” in this film) and Ricardo Bauleo (who plays the handsome pianist, Silvio), where in both “FoF” and “Curious Dr. Humpp.” Both films even shared the same producer, Orestes Trucco. (Bizarrely enough, Trucco went on to direct the 1982 film “Una Aventura llamada Menudo,” a film about the monstrously huge Puerto Rican boy band, Menudo.)

“Feast of Flesh” is a film that will surprise you with its beauty, darkness, and otherworldly view of reality. If you are up for a strange film that is both arty and a little sleazy, then you must definitely give this film a chance.

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This film impressed me so much, that I incorporated clips from it in my very first video collage art piece, entitled "The Eternal Sea." With this video I got to achieve my dream of merging key scenes from the film with Martin Denny's beautiful and haunting song of the same name. Much thanks to my brother from another mother Mark Warren for posting this for me.