Dark Waters is a 1994 horror film about a young woman, who, after the death of her father, goes to a remote island convent where her mother died giving birth to her. There's a lot of atmosphere in this one.
It could easily be said that there is something in Dark Waters for everyone. However, in order to enjoy it, it really needs to be taken as a whole – the dizzying story embraced and experienced. If you’re willing to enter that kind of mindset, that kind of half-fantasy world, Dark Waters has the potential to be understood not only as a creepy religious horror, but as a fine addition to Lovecraftian filmmaking.
Empire Online describes it as "atmospheric, if plot-light".
The Ebony Frame is an 1891 ghost story by E. Nesbit. There's witchcraft here in the middle of ordinary lives. You can read it here. It begins,
To be rich is a luxurious sensation, the more so when you have plumbed the depths of hard-up-ness as a Fleet Street hack, a picker-up of unconsidered pars, a reporter, an unappreciated journalist; all callings utterly inconsistent with one's family feeling and one's direct descent from the Dukes of Picardy.
When my Aunt Dorcas died and left me seven hundred a year and a furnished house in Chelsea, I felt that life had nothing left to offer except immediate possession of the legacy. Even Mildred Mayhew, whom I had hitherto regarded as my life's light, became less luminous. I was not engaged to Mildred, but I lodged with her mother, and I sang duets with Mildred and gave her gloves when it would run to it, which was seldom. She was a dear, good girl, and I meant to marry her some day. It is very nice to feel that a good little woman is thinking of you? it helps you in your work? and it is pleasant to know she will say "Yes," when you say, "Will you?"
But my legacy almost put Mildred out of my head, especially as she was staying with friends in the country.
Before the gloss was off my new mourning, I was seated in my aunt's armchair in front of the fire in the drawing-room of my own house. My own house! It was grand, but rather lonely. I did think of Mildred just then.
On a personal note, I read that a low-carb diet can help decrease sinus-related issues so am trying to alter my diet with that in mind. I considered a Keto diet, but I can't eat that much fat and weight loss is not my goal anyway. I'm having success over the last 2 weeks in keeping my daily carbs under 50 grams. I didn't think I'd miss sweets, but I do. I've discovered that a chocolate chip cookie is 7 carbs and half a Hersey chocolate bar is 10, so I'm including them as I can. I'm thankful for chicken salad, tuna salad, and eggs lol. I'll take a break from it around Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, but I'll eat fewer carbs than I usually do during those holidays. I have no interest in using wheat flour alternatives or sugar alternatives. I've added raspberries, celery sticks, and more veggie salads to my meals. I quartered some tortilla shells and small naan breads and salted and baked them to use one at a time with the chicken/tuna salads.
That cup above is Swiss Mocha, at 10 grams of carbs, for dessert. Little treats are a good thing.
Please join me at Bleubeard and Elizabeth's weekly T Stands for Tuesday blogger party, though the pesky squirrels have chewed the AT&T lines she counts on for internet access. We'll start the tea but keep plenty warm for her until she can join us. All willing to share a beverage with us are welcome. And there's no rush; it's not like these blog posts are going away if you're a bit late😄
The Dream Woman is a horror story by Wilkie Collins. This version was expanded from the author's earlier 1855 story called "The Ostler". There are dreams and visions, portents and foretellings, dark women and fair. The old-fashioned horror stories have an atmosphere often unmatched these days. Is it just the style of the writing? You can read it online here. It begins,
"Hullo, there! Hostler! Hullo-o-o!"
"My dear! why don't you look for the bell?"
"I have looked -there is no bell."
"And nobody in the yard. How very extraordinary! Call again, dear."
"Hostler! Hullo, there! Hostler-r-r!"
My second call echoes through empty space, and rouses nobody--produces, in short, no visible result. I am at the end of my resources--I don't know what to say or what to do next. Here I stand in the solitary inn yard of a strange town, with two horses to hold, and a lady to take care of. By way of adding to my responsibilities, it so happens that one of the horses is dead lame, and that the lady is my wife.
Who am I? -you will ask.
There is plenty of time to answer the question. Nothing happens; and nobody appears to receive us. Let me introduce myself and my wife.
I am Percy Fairbank -English gentleman -age (let us say) forty -no profession -moderate politics -middle height -fair complexion -easy character -plenty of money.
My wife is a French lady. She was Mademoiselle Clotilde Delorge -when I was first presented to her at her father's house in France. I fell in love with her--I really don't know why. It might have been because I was perfectly idle, and had nothing else to do at the time. Or it might have been because all my friends said she was the very last woman whom I ought to think of marrying. On the surface, I must own, there is nothing in common between Mrs. Fairbank and me. She is tall; she is dark; she is nervous, excitable, romantic; in all her opinions she proceeds to extremes. What could such a woman see in me? what could I see in her? I know no more than you do. In some mysterious manner we exactly suit each other. We have been man and wife for ten years, and our only regret is, that we have no children. I don't know what you may think; I call that -upon the whole- a happy marriage.
The Wailing is an award-winning 2016 South Korean horror film/ghost story directed by Na Hong-jin. Wikipedia says it's "about a policeman who investigates a series of mysterious killings and illnesses". I tend to like Asian horror films, and I liked this one.
trailer:
IndieWire calls it "epic" and "spellbinding and scatterbrained". The Guardian says, "Korean director Na Hong-jin delivers a supreme evocation of evil in this intense rural-horror". The Hollywood Reporter concludes: "A darkly unsettling story about evil is masterfully told".
The Tell-Tale Heart is an 1843 short story by Edgar Allan Poe. You can read it online here or here. Don't read it in the dark. I'm not kidding. It begins,
TRUE! - nervous - very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses - not destroyed - not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily - how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture - a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees - very gradually - I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded - with what caution - with what foresight - with what dissimulation I went to work!
In 1970, Vincent Price did An Evening of Edgar Allan Poe on television which included this tale. The Tell-Tale Heart is at the beginning of the video below and is followed by three other tales:
Bay Coven is a 1987 made-for-tv horror movie about a young couple who happens across a coven of witches. It stars Tim Matheson, Pamela Sue Martin, Barbara Billingsley, Jeff Conaway, and Woody Harrelson. Slow, so very slow. I didn't finish it.
Vampire Hunter D is a 1985 Japanese horror animated film. If you like this kind of thing, you'll like this. I doubt it'll convert anybody who's not already a fan.
This story takes place in the distant future
when mutants and demons slither through a world of darkness.
Anime News Network says it "could legitimately be considered a cult classic even outside of Japan. It earns that honor in part because of its style – it was a ground-breaker in terms of introducing Gothic elements into sci fi". DVD Talk calls it "a great anime movie that fans of the genre should check out". Rotten Tomatoes has a 78% audience score.
The Body Snatcher is an 1884 short story by Robert Louis Stevenson. It is based on criminals who worked for a historical surgeon who was in practice around the time of the notorious 1828 Burke and Hare murders. You can read the book here or here or here. It begins,
EVERY night in the year, four of us sat in the small parlour of the George at Debenham — the undertaker, and the landlord, and Fettes, and myself. Sometimes there would be more; but blow high, blow low, come rain or snow or frost, we four would be each planted in his own particular arm-chair. Fettes was an old drunken Scotchman, a man of education obviously, and a man of some property, since he lived in idleness. He had come to Debenham years ago, while still young, and by a mere continuance of living had grown to be an adopted townsman. His blue camlet cloak was a local antiquity, like the church-spire. His place in the parlour at the George, his absence from church, his old, crapulous, disreputable vices, were all things of course in Debenham. He had some vague Radical opinions and some fleeting infidelities, which he would now and again set forth and emphasise with tottering slaps upon the table. He drank rum — five glasses regularly every evening; and for the greater portion of his nightly visit to the George sat, with his glass in his right hand, in a state of melancholy alcoholic saturation. We called him the Doctor, for he was supposed to have some special knowledge of medicine, and had been known, upon a pinch, to set a fracture or reduce a dislocation; but beyond these slight particulars, we had no knowledge of his character and antecedents.
One dark winter night — it had struck nine some time before the landlord joined us — there was a sick man in the George, a great neighbouring proprietor suddenly struck down with apoplexy on his way to Parliament; and the great man’s still greater London doctor had been telegraphed to his bedside. It was the first time that such a thing had happened in Debenham, for the railway was but newly open, and we were all proportionately moved by the occurrence.
‘He’s come,’ said the landlord, after he had filled and lighted his pipe.
‘He?’ said I. ‘Who? — not the doctor?’
‘Himself,’ replied our host.
‘What is his name?’
‘Doctor Macfarlane,’ said the landlord.
Fettes was far through his third tumbler, stupidly fuddled, now nodding over, now staring mazily around him; but at the last word he seemed to awaken, and repeated the name ‘Macfarlane’ twice, quietly enough the first time, but with sudden emotion at the second.
‘Yes,’ said the landlord, ‘that’s his name, Doctor Wolfe Macfarlane.’
The Big Killing is the 2nd book in the Bruce Medway series by award-winning British crime writer Robert Wilson. I came across this book used and picked it up on a whim. I haven't read anything else by him. Too much of the story is told in conversation between characters to suit me. I finally got tired of it and put the book down. I don't think I'll finish this one.
from the back of the book:
Bruce Medway, a go-between and "fixer" for traders in steamy West Africa, smells trouble when a porn merchant asks him to deliver a video at a secret location. Things look up, though, when he's hired to act as minder to Ron Collins, a spoiled playboy looking for diamonds in the Ivory Coast. Medway thinks this job could be an answer to his cashflow crisis, but when the video delivery leads to a shootout and the discovery of a mutilated body, he wants out. Soon, he is caught in a terrifying cycle of violence. Unless he can get to the bottom of the mystery, Medway knows that for the savage killer out there in the African night, he is the next target.
Publishers Weekly concludes, "Wilson isn't about to rival Alexander McCall Smith in the African mystery market, but Graham Greene fans stateside ought to start taking him seriously just as fans have in Britain." Kirkus Reviews calls it a "darkly tangled thriller from highly regarded Wilson".
The book begins:
Chapter 1
Saturday 26th October
We were here again -if you call a hangover company or a slick of methylated sweat a friend- in this bar, this palmleaf-thatched shack set back from the sea in some fractious coconut palms, waiting for the barman to arrive. The head I was nursing (the first since last Saturday) had already been given some hot milk -the Ivorians call it coffee, I called it three grains of freeze-dried and a can of condensed milk.
I agree with his preference for coffee without the milk added. I hold that people who add flavorings to coffee don't actually like coffee and should drink something else. Your mileage may vary, of course ;) Strong and black, that's how I like it. Please join the T Stands for Tuesday blogger gathering and share your own beverage preferences.
My computer died a sudden death, and I'm having some trouble with this borrowed one, but I'll visit when I can.
This is a link to my horror movies list. These are (mostly) things I've seen and have blog posts on. They range from 1896 to 2018. The list includes short animated comedies, horror westerns, foreign films, and more from a variety of types and sub-genres. Many have the full film embedded in my posts. I'd invite you to check them out.
I'd particularly appreciate it if you'd let me know if you find broken links or videos that aren't there any more. I try to keep this list current, but my best efforts aren't enough. The comments are still open on those posts, so feel free to offer corrections there.
I'd also especially appreciate any suggestions for more movies I could watch. Thanks!
The Guardian calls it "exhilarating". The New Yorker says "The fablelike drama offers a powerful symbolic display of feminine power and outlaw charm..."
Roger Ebert's site gives it 3.5 out of 4 stars and calls it "a fresh and exciting re-imagining of a well-worn oft-told genre." It has a 96% critics consensus score at Rotten Tomatoes .
Under the Shadow is a 2016 internationally co-produced Persian-language supernatural horror film written and directed by Iranian-born Babak Anvari as his directorial debut. I watched it dubbed in English on Netflix during our free trial month. The Djinn are real.
For this unholy brew of the domestic, the political and the irrational, Anvari’s film has been drawing ‘Farhadi meets The Babadook’ comparisons since it premiered at Sundance in early 2016. Netflix had already snapped it up even before the premiere buzz was able to anoint Under the Shadow the latest in a recent string of breakout indie horror titles.
a satisfyingly tense and atmospheric thriller set in a haunted Tehran apartment during the terrifying final days of the Iran-Iraq War. Slyly merging a familiar but effective genre exercise with a grim allegory of female oppression, Babak Anvari’s resourceful writing-directing debut grounds its premise in something at once vaguely political and ineluctably sinister.
The Guardian says the film "evokes [the director's] fear-ridden childhood in Iran – and is being hailed as a horror classic." Roger Ebert's site gives it 4 out of 4 stars and says, "In a year filled with great first features, add "Under the Shadow" to the list." Rotten Tomatoes has a critics consensus score of 99%.
Rocky Jones, Space Ranger was a 1950s-era television serial starring Richard Crane in the title role. There were 39 episodes, some of which contained complete stories while others were written so as to tell a story over the course of 3 consecutive episodes. They're dated, as you might expect, but great fun if you can get past the oppressive sexism. "Knit me a sweater"?
Season 1, Episode 1, Beyond The Curtain Of Space Chapter 1:
The Pyramid of Mud is the 22nd book in the Inspector Montalbano mystery series by Andrea Camilleri. I've read these in publication order because the characters age and develop over time.
from the back of the book:
Italy's favorite detective uncovers mafia ties in the world of construction.
On a gloomy morning in Vigata, a call rouses Inspector Montalbano from a nightmare. A man named Giugiu Nicotra has been found dead in the skeletal workings of a construction site, a place now entombed by a sea of mud from recent days of rain and floods. Shot in the back, Nicotra appears to have fled into a water supply system tunnel. The investigation gets off to a slow start, but all the evidence points to the world of construction and public contracts, a world just as slimy and impenetrable as mud. As he wades through the case, Montalbano is obsessed by one thought: that by going to die in the tunnel, was Nicotra trying to tell him something?
Kirkus Reviews concludes, "The usual humor and strong personalities we expect from Camilleri will be missed by fans in this book, but the more intricate portrait of the detective will make the pages turn anyway." Publishers Weekly closes with this: "Despite feeling his age, Montalbano manages to arrive at a solution to the puzzle with his customary cunning, humor, and fearlessness. Readers will hope he lives forever."
Moonrise is a 1948 crime film, sometimes classed as a film noir. It's directed by Frank Borzage and stars Dane Clark, Gail Russell, and Ethel Barrymore. Harry Morgan, Harry Carey, Jr., and Lloyd Bridges are also in this.
Slant Magazine says, "Moonrise is less a violent film than a film about violence—one that’s occupied, in particular, with the lingering aftereffects of capital punishment. The film’s violent acts are intricately linked, each perpetuating the next in an expansive chain reaction." Noir of the Week calls it "a standout among noir's lesser-known B-pictures and is one of the hardest to classify. A noir film you can argue about over a pitcher of cold beer (or two)."
Criterion says, "With this postwar comeback, Borzage recaptured the inspiration that had animated his long and audacious early career, marrying the lyrical force of his romantic sensibility with the psychological anguish of film noir, in a stunning vindication of faith in the power of love." Senses of Cinema concludes, "With powerful performances from his lead actors, particularly Dane Clark in arguably the best role of his career, Moonrise was a romance after Borzage’s heart, with an additional layer of psychological intensity. It remains, justifiably, a critically acclaimed high point in his career."
It's getting close to October when a crone's heart turns to horror movies. It helps when you're watching these movies to have a basic understanding of the terms, and "zombie" is one many people don't seem to know the history of. When I came across this 7-minute video essay Where Zombies Come From:
at Open Culture, I thought I'd share. It covers the history in film quite well, I think. I mean, there are few of us who don't have 7 minutes, right? Perhaps while we're drinking our morning cuppa? (Please join me at the weekly T Stands for Tuesday blogger gathering.)
The Open Culture link provides a helpful written overview of the history of the term, its origin and how it has developed in film, and embeds of a few of the movies. I've seen some of the movies myself over the years, and you can see my blog posts on the zombie and zombie-related films at the links below:
It's so odd with the ATCs, but when I only had scrap paper and cheap ribbon I made these things with wild abandon, but the mere presence of pretty new treasures to make them with is intimidating me lol. I'm being like the people who save all their decent clothes "for nice". This has been hard to shake, but I'm forging ahead and will use these lovely new possibilities in making ATCs. Any Day Now.
In May of 1997, two years after the massive earthquake in Kobe, I hit upon the idea of taking a leisurely, solitary walk from Nishinomiya to Sannomiya in downtown Kobe. I happened to be staying in Kyoto at the time for work, and continued on to Nishinomiya. On the map it’s about fifteen kilometres west from there to Kobe. Not exactly a stone’s throw away, but not such a gruelling distance, and besides, I’m a pretty confident walker.
I was born in Kyoto, but soon afterwards my family moved to Shukugawa, a neighbourhood in Nishinomiya. And not long after that we moved again, closer to Kobe, to Ashiya, where I spent most of my teenage years. My high school was in the hills above the city, so naturally downtown Kobe was where I headed when I wanted to have a good time, specifically around Sannomiya. I became a typical Hanshin-kan boy, the term referring to the area that lies between Osaka and Kobe. Back then –and probably nowadays as well– this was a great place to grow up. It’s quiet and laid-back, with an open, relaxed feeling about it, and it’s blessed with the ocean, mountains and a large city nearby. I loved going to concerts, hunting for cheap paperbacks in used bookstores, hanging out in jazz cafes, and enjoying Art Theatre Guild new-wave films. My favourite look at the time? VAN jackets, of course.
But then I moved to Tokyo for college, got married and started working, and seldom travelled back to this strip of land between Osaka and Kobe. There were times I’d return, of course, but as soon as I finished what I had to do I’d always hop on the bullet train and head straight back to Tokyo. I had a busy life, and I spent a lot of time abroad. And there were a couple of personal reasons as well. Some people are constantly being pulled back to their home town, while others feel like they can never go back. In most cases it’s as if fate separates the two groups, and it has little to do with how strong your feelings are towards the place. Like it or not, I seem to belong to the second group.
Miner's Massacre (or Curse of the Forty-niner) is a 2002 horror western starring Karen Black. It is what it is, and I imagine this is more fun if you like slasher films. I'm not a fan and found this tedious so didn't finish it. So many movies, so little time.
The Case of the Pocket Diary Found in the Snow is an 1890 detective novella by Auguste Groner. This is the first appearance of Joseph Muller, who was the first serial police detective in German crime literature. According to the story's introduction, Muller was
a small, slight, plain-looking man, of indefinite age, and of much humbleness of mien. A naturally retiring, modest disposition, and two external causes are the reasons for Muller’s humbleness of manner, which is his chief characteristic. One cause is the fact that in early youth a miscarriage of justice gave him several years in prison, an experience which cast a stigma on his name and which made it impossible for him, for many years after, to obtain honest employment. But the world is richer, and safer, by Muller’s early misfortune. For it was this experience which threw him back on his own peculiar talents for a livelihood, and drove him into the police force. Had he been able to enter any other profession, his genius might have been stunted to a mere pastime, instead of being, as now, utilised for the public good.
Joseph Muller’s character is a strange mixture. The kindest-hearted man in the world, he is a human bloodhound when once the lure of the trail has caught him. He scarcely eats or sleeps when the chase is on, he does not seem to know human weakness nor fatigue, in spite of his frail body. Once put on a case his mind delves and delves until it finds a clue, then something awakes within him, a spirit akin to that which holds the bloodhound nose to trail, and he will accomplish the apparently impossible, he will track down his victim when the entire machinery of a great police department seems helpless to discover anything.
A quiet winter evening had sunk down upon the great city. The clock in the old clumsy church steeple of the factory district had not yet struck eight, when the side door of one of the large buildings opened and a man came out into the silent street.
It was Ludwig Amster, one of the working-men in the factory, starting on his homeward way. It was not a pleasant road, this street along the edge of the city. The town showed itself from its most disagreeable side here, with malodorous factories, rickety tenements, untidy open stretches and dumping grounds offensive both to eye and nostril.
Even by day the street that Amster took was empty; by night it was absolutely quiet and dark, as dark as were the thoughts of the solitary man. He walked along, brooding over his troubles. Scarcely an hour before he had been discharged from the factory because of his refusal to submit to the injustice of his foreman.
The yellow light of the few lanterns show nothing but high board walls and snow drifts, stone heaps, and now and then the remains of a neglected garden. Here and there a stunted tree or a wild shrub bent their twigs under the white burden which the winter had laid upon them. Ludwig Amster, who had walked this street for several years, knew his path so well that he could take it blindfolded. The darkness did not worry him, but he walked somewhat more slowly than usual, for he knew that under the thin covering of fresh-fallen snow there lay the ice of the night before. He walked carefully, watching for the slippery places.
He had been walking about half an hour, perhaps, when he came to a cross street. Here he noticed the tracks of a wagon, the trace still quite fresh, as the slowly falling flakes did not yet cover it. The tracks led out towards the north, out on to the hilly, open fields.
Amster was somewhat astonished. It was very seldom that a carriage came into this neighbourhood, and yet these narrow wheel-tracks could have been made only by an equipage of that character. The heavy trucks which passed these roads occasionally had much wider wheels. But Amster was to find still more to astonish him.
In one corner near the cross-roads stood a solitary lamp-post. The light of the lamp fell sharply on the snow, on the wagon tracks, and—on something else besides.
Amster halted, bent down to look at it, and shook his head as if in doubt.
A number of small pieces of glass gleamed up at him and between them, like tiny roses, red drops of blood shone on the white snow. All this was a few steps to one side of the wagon tracks.
“What can have happened here—here in this weird spot, where a cry for help would never be heard? where there would be no one to bring help?”
So Amster asked himself, but his discovery gave him no answer. His curiosity was aroused, however, and he wished to know more. He followed up the tracks and saw that the drops of blood led further on, although there was no more glass. The drops could still be seen for a yard further, reaching out almost to the board fence that edged the sidewalk. Through the broken planks of this fence the rough bare twigs of a thorn bush stretched their brown fingers. On the upper side of the few scattered leaves there was snow, and blood.
Amster’s wide serious eyes soon found something else. Beside the bush there lay a tiny package. He lifted it up. It was a small, light, square package, wrapped in ordinary brown paper. Where the paper came together it was fastened by two little lumps of black bread, which were still moist. He turned the package over and shook his head again. On the other side was written, in pencil, the lettering uncertain, as if scribbled in great haste and in agitation, the sentence, “Please take this to the nearest police station.”
The words were like a cry for help, frozen on to the ugly paper. Amster shivered; he had a feeling that this was a matter of life and death.
Because this blog does not consist of a single focus topic I chose the name Divers and Sundry where "Divers" means being of many and various kinds, and "Sundry" means consisting of a haphazard assortment of different kinds.
Posts
