tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22276648477302310172024-03-24T15:43:11.834-04:00Slasher SpeakThe Murderous Articulations of Author Vince LiagunoVince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.comBlogger216125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-47650335623848414742024-03-09T11:55:00.008-05:002024-03-09T13:23:26.237-05:00Breaking Up Is Hard to Do<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIS-CzUkStNoDh4QRdiepVqLe_JWPF3rFyF5fTWBrQrdW_xJtqh4iYmZmJ22D0BIeMYkKIuT7XlChV5QcgmGo-IhvvVGTP-3YDiI2R0JHuAFLixpODYTHmO4ZOl2PZlgCgNVMh07u8Zti1eZDF8NyW2iLz6sWtYzH37ly4jzt3IswDhJPKpikx3Cq1xhgT/s1280/End%20Image%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIS-CzUkStNoDh4QRdiepVqLe_JWPF3rFyF5fTWBrQrdW_xJtqh4iYmZmJ22D0BIeMYkKIuT7XlChV5QcgmGo-IhvvVGTP-3YDiI2R0JHuAFLixpODYTHmO4ZOl2PZlgCgNVMh07u8Zti1eZDF8NyW2iLz6sWtYzH37ly4jzt3IswDhJPKpikx3Cq1xhgT/s320/End%20Image%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I have been an Active member of the Horror Writers Association since 2007. Over the course of my 17-year membership, I served two terms as their secretary, another six years as a member of their Board of Trustees, and three years on their Scholarship Committee. Solo, I coordinated the HWA’s presence at BookExpo (then North America’s largest trade show for booksellers) from 2009 to 2015. This entailed booth selection and physical prep, scheduling member authors for book signings, maintaining financial records of funds (which I often laid out to be reimbursed later), and taking time off work to be there from early in the morning until the show closed each day. In 2011, I chaired both Stoker Weekend (the prototype and precursor to what has become StokerCon) and the Stoker Awards in New York (with the lovely Nanci Kalanta).<p></p><div style="text-align: left;">All of this was volunteer work—and all of it performed because I was committed to what the HWA was doing and believed, deeply, in their mission.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />In 2022, I co-edited the HWA anthology <i>Other Terrors: An Inclusive Anthology</i>, which became one of the organization’s most critically-lauded original anthologies—earning starred reviews in <i>Publishers Weekly</i>, <i>Booklist</i>, and <i>Kirkus</i> and nominations for both the Shirley Jackson and World Fantasy Awards. I think it’s fair to say that the anthology’s critical reception bestowed a modicum of prestige upon the organization.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />On New Year’s Day, I received an email that my membership in the HWA had lapsed—oops! I forgot to renew my dues, which I had done faithfully for the 16 years prior, and made a mental note to do so after celebrating the holiday.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Long story short: I forgot.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I continued to receive emails (about spirited giving, Summer Scares, even received <i>an</i> <i>invitation</i> to contribute to the 2024 StokerCon souvenir book) and the newsletter so it slipped my mind that I had neglected to pay my dues. I never received a single email or nudge from anyone in the HWA after New Year’s Day. (As a point of context, during my years of service on the Board, we used to divvy up the non-renewals to see if anyone had a personal relationship or rapport with those members and would reach out to see if their failure to renew was an oversight or an intentional choice due to some issue we’d then try to help resolve.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Flash forward to February 21st. I received another email from the HWA announcing the final ballot for the Stoker Awards—and quickly realized with a start that I had never received a ballot to vote on the preliminary ballot. That jogged my memory that I needed to pay my dues, which I did that weekend. I messaged the organization’s Executive Director who instructed me to email the appropriate party “to make sure you can vote on the final ballot.”</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I did as instructed and received an impersonal email that began, <i>"Per the Bram Stoker Awards rules…"</i> Cut to the chase: You were tardy paying your dues, so you don’t get to vote. (I paraphrase.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Gobsmacked is the word that best captures the moment. No explanation of this rule (that basically says that if you’re not a member in good standing on January 31st, you can’t vote) was given. I can only assume that it’s meant to dissuade/prohibit an influx of new members after the preliminary ballot is released for the sole purpose of voting. But, again, I’m a <i>17-year member</i> who has dependably paid in excess of $1,000 in dues over that time—I don’t think any reasonable person could think my renewal was predicated on wanting to help stack the vote in someone’s favor. The org’s Executive Director graciously offered to take up a fight on my behalf, but there should have been no dispute over this situation in the first place. I think I have more than exemplified "a member in good standing" for almost two decades.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><sigh></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />The HWA has grown in size and stature—and deservedly so. The downside of this growth, of course, is that the larger an organization grows, the greater the risk that is sacrifices its personal touch and loses sight of its own history and those who have helped contribute to its success. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />It was time for a self-assessment. What does the HWA offer <i>me</i>?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I don’t need a mentor;<br />•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I don’t need access to their health insurance;<br />•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Their latest anthology call (there’s one per year if we’re lucky) afforded <u>three</u> member slots—statistically a joke. (By contrast, my co-editor and I managed more than <i>triple</i> that number on <i>Other Terrors</i>, which was published by William Morrow.)<br />•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Neither their jury system (put in place largely to balance the popularity contest aspect of the member vote) nor their membership have put a single LGBTQ+/queer horror anthology on the ballot since 2008. Likewise, not a single queer horror anthology has won since that same year. In fact, only <u>one</u> queer horror anthology has been nominated <i>in the</i> <i>history of the category</i>, which originated in 1998. A single queer horror anthology in 26 years. As a queer anthologist, this depresses me to no end. #StokersSoStraight?<br />•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now, I can’t even vote in the Stokers, punished for my tardiness in paying my dues. Twenty-five days meant the difference between being able to cast my vote for the worthy works I read last year and having to sit the year out. <br />•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There are other grievances over the years—minor and otherwise—that I could elaborate on that have made me feel increasingly alienated and less than. But those are largely based on emotions, so I’ll leave those out of this otherwise fact-based account. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I have been a vocal supporter of the HWA, a pom-pom shaking cheerleader, even when doing so strained friendships with professional colleagues back in the day. The volunteer hours I have freely donated over the last 17 years would easily equal in the tens of thousands of dollars if quantified, as do the volunteer hours of the countless volunteers—past and present—who have kept the organization running year after year. I realize that I’m nothing special—and with a single email earlier this week, the HWA drove that point home. Message received.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Every relationship comes to a crossroads at some point, and I find myself standing at mine with the HWA. I’ve come to realize that I no longer benefit from being a member, so I take my bow and exit stage right. Since I can’t even vote, I requested a refund of my just paid membership dues. My $75 is but a mere blip on the radar that no one will even notice. The HWA will continue to flourish, as it should. It’s in the capable hands of good, hard-working folks. Its mission and work are important for the survival and success of the genre. It’s a bittersweet goodbye, yes, but why continue an association that no longer brings either joy or benefit? As the old—albeit cliché—adage goes, all good things must come to an end. </div>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-61160030277764497192023-06-29T10:20:00.003-04:002023-06-29T10:20:31.366-04:00The Case for Anthologists<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJsw1UGWzx49yqJMZqtJmuhQdfTkeRzxeeXTREzM3_nkcPYC71r4ewq2UYgD1fQ5mtd1DOHROJshO3hK9YQtkBbMdT1OsAsIy-nC0jXTfLGdtBD7qsj3Ne97Ou0mI2mdNvZUKaIWOyR4cbE-Z7GIp1ZiSBtW6MaiUJKK3LUQTmD5C4oLBm-3681Junpon/s474/Editor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="474" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJsw1UGWzx49yqJMZqtJmuhQdfTkeRzxeeXTREzM3_nkcPYC71r4ewq2UYgD1fQ5mtd1DOHROJshO3hK9YQtkBbMdT1OsAsIy-nC0jXTfLGdtBD7qsj3Ne97Ou0mI2mdNvZUKaIWOyR4cbE-Z7GIp1ZiSBtW6MaiUJKK3LUQTmD5C4oLBm-3681Junpon/s320/Editor.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Discussion has cropped up on the Internet
regarding anthologies and the editors who curate them and the writers who
contribute stories to them. An open letter to the varies bodies that administer
speculative fiction awards has been circulating that calls for Best Anthology
awards to be awarded to each contributor of the anthology, as well as the
editor(s). The proposal calls for an “equal share of the award” for each
contributor. Part of the justification for this is that the editors “have not
contributed a single story” to the anthology.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">First, and foremost, I appreciate
the discussion and the civility that has ensued despite differing opinions. I
did not immediately weigh in on the issue, preferring instead to sit back and
listen to the opinions of others—of those on both sides of this discussion—for
a bit on various social media sites. But in some of the responses, loaded words
like “injustice” and “inequity” and “unfair” have been introduced into the
discourse. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Speaking specifically from the
horror-side of the equation, as a point of clarification, the Shirley Jackson
Awards have 6 categories—five are exclusively for writers, one for editors (the
Edited Anthology category). The Bram Stoker Awards have 13 categories—eleven
are exclusively for writers with one solely for editors (Superior Achievement
in an Anthology) and a second (Superior Achievement in Non-Fiction) that could
be won by either a writer or an editor. Are 2 to 3 editor-eligible awards out
of 19 really an "injustice" or constitute "inequity" as has
been characterized elsewhere? Neither one of these award bodies have a
"Best Editor" award. So, at least in the cases of these two genre
awards, an 85/15 split for writers and editors seems more than equitable.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">I have both edited anthologies
and contributed original works to others. When the editors of anthologies to
which I've contributed have been nominated for an award, I celebrate them. I
understand that my role was to write a story (or submit something already
finished) and cash the check for said story. On occasion, that may include a
few hours of research. Even after this business transaction, I still try to be
a good cheerleader for the anthology's success. As a contributor, those were my
obligations. As an editor, I'm responsible for developing the concept/theme,
developing the pitch that sells the anthology to a publisher or convinces an
agent of its potential to sell, negotiating an advance that ensures I can pay
contributors at or above the prevailing professional rate (or bankrolling that
portion myself in advance), reading through hundreds of slush pile submissions,
notifying each author who submits of their story's acceptance or rejection,
preparing author contracts/agreements, sending them out, and tracking their
return. As the editor, I'm editing each one of the stories and working with the
contributors on revisions, deciding on the TOC order, proofreading each story
in the manuscript at least twice (usually more), pulling the manuscript
together into one document, writing the introduction, working with the
publisher on the cover concept and art, and proofreading the manuscript after
it's been formatted. As the editor, I'm engaged in the pre-release
marketing—email interviews, virtual interviews and podcasts, social media
boosts—keeping the contributors updated on reviews and award nominations. For
<i>Other Terrors</i>, my co-editor purchased and mailed each contributor a t-shirt
with the anthology's cover on it at her own expense in celebration of the
anthology and everyone who contributed to it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">So, respectfully, no, I do not
believe that an award nomination or win for an edited anthology should be
equally shared, as has been proposed. Each one of contributing writers has
opportunities to be recognized for their work as a contributor to an anthology
in one of several short fiction categories in those same awards. So why the
call to dilute the anthologist’s single opportunity to be recognized within
either of these awards bodies? Using <i>Other Terrors</i>, as an example, one
of our contributors—the magnificent Tananarive Due—was recognized for her
contribution to the anthology with a Locus Award nomination for her superb closer
“Incident at Bear Creek Lodge” in the Novelette category. The anthology itself
was not nominated. Should Rena and I—as editors of that story in our anthology—also
been recognized as Locus nominees because (under the proposal’s logic) anthologies
are a group effort? Of course not—that’s ludicrous. Likewise, it’s ludicrous to
equate the amount of labor, time, and creativity that an anthologist pours into
curating a 100k-word collection with the writer’s (inarguably valuable) single
story contribution for which they have ample opportunity for awards recognition on their own.
Again, with an 85/15 split between writers and editors in terms of awards
eligibility in both the Shirley Jackson and Bram Stoker Awards, there is hardly
a case that can be made for inequity. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Using an analogy from another art
form, let’s take movies to illustrate the point here. Like an anthology, it
takes numerous artists of various kinds to create a film. There is the film’s
director, the actors, the producers, the screenwriter, the costume and set
designers, the cameraman, the publicists, and countless others—many individuals
who contribute to the success of a film. When a film is nominated for and wins an
Academy Award for Best Picture, the producers win the actual award. The actors
and everyone else involved in the film get bragging rights to having been
featured in/worked on an Oscar-winning film, but the honor is bestowed upon the
producer(s) (i.e., the person(s) who oversees the film’s production, the person(s)
who plans and coordinates various aspects of the film’s creation, such as
selecting the script, coordinating writing, directing, editing, and arranging
financing).<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">As someone who strives to be a
good and professional anthologist, I think the contributors should always be
acknowledged and thanked in public forums; when I won the Bram Stoker Award for
Superior Achievement in an Anthology in 2009, I named each contributor in my
acceptance speech. If OTHER TERRORS was to win the SJA, the same would occur.
Throughout the process for OTHER TERRORS and my latest anthology, contributors
were repeatedly tagged in each and every social media post highlighting a
starred review or notable mention. I even asked the art department at Harper
Collins to design a graphic celebrating the anthology's SJA nomination (which
they happily did) and I immediately emailed every contributor to thank them for
being a part of the anthology and to offer them the graphic to share. I think
only 4 out of 20+ contributors actually did.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">That all said, while I still hold
to the idea that it's the editor(s) who is credited with the nomination or
award for an edited anthology, I see absolutely no harm in a certificate being
bestowed upon the contributors acknowledging that their story was included in
an anthology that was nominated and/or won the <insert award name here>
award. As was said elsewhere, contributors still get bragging rights for being
included in said anthology, on top of being paid for their work (hopefully at
or above the prevailing per word rate, as they should).<o:p></o:p></p>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-66163997370542124512023-04-22T11:33:00.006-04:002023-04-23T09:34:40.923-04:00First Love and Loss (or For Jimmy)<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbamxeugvcgvWxRlFeGnTfvZRd8NXZ48mXMSF8eUT0qag6iN68LfyzT-9BdI99ZjDKIsVgEtmswZ47pFBqoZEeuip_-gGrHSzQZcxROnAWM7uCH0hTYdizpcGBpwPAAwvkLXhlkuV9R4TGECA4MC0yfd7nbYB0kr22REu3GsJUMusRTbLvRH9GNqB9pw/s1200/aquamarine-henry-scott-tuke.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="732" data-original-width="1200" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbamxeugvcgvWxRlFeGnTfvZRd8NXZ48mXMSF8eUT0qag6iN68LfyzT-9BdI99ZjDKIsVgEtmswZ47pFBqoZEeuip_-gGrHSzQZcxROnAWM7uCH0hTYdizpcGBpwPAAwvkLXhlkuV9R4TGECA4MC0yfd7nbYB0kr22REu3GsJUMusRTbLvRH9GNqB9pw/s320/aquamarine-henry-scott-tuke.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I was 18 the first time I fell in
love. Not the love-is-patient-love-is-kind sort of love, but the kind of love
that one—if you’re lucky—experiences at the cusp of adulthood when the emotions
are adult, but the emotional processing mechanisms haven’t quite caught up. That
frantic, desperate, one-minute-you’re happy/the-next-minute-you’re-an-emotional-mess
kind of love. Messy, passionate, all-consuming, and ultimately doomed. That was
the way it was for me with Jimmy, who I met at the first nursing home I ever worked
in—the inevitably named Foothill Acres. Jimmy worked in the kitchen; I worked
as an orderly. (These were in the pre-certification days when the girls were
nurses aides, and the boys were orderlies.) Our fellow crew on the 3 pm to 11
pm shift of building 1 was largely comprised of high schoolers—there was my
best friend at the time, Greg, a fellow Immaculatan, Sharon and Denise and Chrissy
who all attended Hillsborough High, and then there was Jimmy, who attended
Somerville High School. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was
another guy, too, whose image blips at the periphery of my memory—Bruce maybe? <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">We forged a tight bond that often
led to extracurricular outings after our shift—I distinctly remember late night
trips to Denny’s on the Somerville Circle as one of them. There were parties at
various houses when the parents were away, and then there was the one night we
all hung out at a park in Neshanic Station, near Jimmy’s old house on Pearl
Street. Now, I knew I was gay from a very young age, but this was the mid-1980s
at the height of the AIDS epidemic when the word “gay” was synonymous in the
minds of many with the disease. So, I did what many young gay kids did back
then, which was to “date” girls. I was pretty confident in who I was and the
type of life ahead of me, less so in those years about how to execute said
life. So, I played the role that was expected of me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">But that night in that little
park in Neshanic Station changed my life forever. Our group had all been
hanging out, drinking, laughing. As the hours wore on, members of the group
left one-by-one or in pairs until it was just Jimmy and me, alone, under the
most star-filled sky on a temperate night. I believe it was late June because I
had just graduated high school. There had been no discernible flirtation or
obvious attraction between us that I could recall, but that night we connected
in the most beautiful and gentlest of ways. The only way I can describe the experience
all these years later is that it felt <i>organic</i>. Don’t ask me who made the
first move or how a blanket or sleeping bag suddenly appeared—because I
remember so few of the details, only the feelings of the experience. And it was
beautiful. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">That summer was the best summer
of my young life. I understood my own truth more than ever. Jimmy and I were
inseparable for those months—except for an agonizing week when he flew to
Seattle with his family. I still remember sending him off with a mix tape (I
can only remember that Anita Baker’s “Sweet Love” was on the playlist) and a
letter professing my feelings. Otherwise, we slept at each other’s houses where
the biggest worry was making too much noise, or we would hop in his ’67 green Mustang
and head down to the Jersey shore where we’d get a motel room for the night. There
were even one or two make-out sessions in the back seat of that old Mustang,
engine idling, parked down some dark, old dirt road when neither of our family
homes were accommodating. It was an intense summer during which my feelings
only deepened—and I never missed an opportunity to express them to Jimmy, who
was far less forthcoming with what was going on inside his head and heart. Our
nursing home group of friends knew on some level that there was something more
than a close friendship between us, but again, those conversations didn’t really
readily flow naturally back in those days. We acted out the roles prescribed to
us by society. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">September came and Jimmy began
his senior year at Somerville High School. That was the beginning of the end
for our torrid summer romance. In the end, I think I’ve always been an old soul—knowing
what I wanted, which was stability and companionship…yes, even at that age.
Jimmy still wanted to experience all that lay before him. I didn’t handle any
of it well back in those days before I could recognize that love had turned into
infatuation. I know I made a lot of mistakes and hurt Jimmy, who was doing
nothing more than trying to be a high school senior. Wisely, he eventually cut
me off. I remember the intensity of those emotions and feeling alone and frantic
for an unrequited love. Relationships with friends suffered and I acted like a
fool, culminating in a stupid act of desperation in a last-ditch effort to get
his attention. Ultimately, he graduated from high school and went away to college
in Syracuse without looking back. Reluctantly, I eventually found a way to move
on with mine. Time has the best way of soothing over the jagged edges of
painful memories. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Flashforward 20 years later and through the wonder of the Internet and social media, Jimmy—who was now going by “CJ”—and
I reconnected back in 2010. We caught up and stayed connected all these years.
We made peace with our shared past. Apologies were exchanged and accepted. In
2011, we met up again for the first time since we were teenagers. Jimmy met me
at my weekend place in Manhattan. He treated me to a lovely Italian dinner at
ViceVersa on West 51<sup>st</sup> Street, and then I treated him to the theater
to see the limited engagement (and Broadway debut) of <i>The Normal Heart</i>
at the Golden Theater. That teenage love we shared briefly over that magical
summer of ’86 was far back in both of our rearview mirrors, but the act of
coming together again was a long overdue closure in some weird but comforting way.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">That was the last time I saw
Jimmy. We’ve stayed in touch regularly via text and Facebook. We’d message
during his mother’s chemotherapy appointments a few years back, or I’d try to
cheer him during one of his own unsettling cardiac procedures, and there was
the one time—honest to God—that he saw on Facebook that Brian and I were about
to meet Chita Rivera in her dressing room following a performance of Terrence McNally’s
<i>The Visit</i> at the Lyceum Theatre and texted me a message to give to her. I
did as directed, and she lit up! Jimmy last sent me a message on March 16<sup>th</sup>
with a link to an interview about how Jamie Lee Curtis met and married her
husband. His sarcasm and naughty sense of humor was ever present in those exchanges
and never failed to make me smile.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Yesterday, I received word from
our dear mutual friend, Sharon, that Jimmy died on Wednesday afternoon. He laid
down for a nap and never woke up. I immediately cried and the memories flooded
back as their liable to do in times of the worst news possible. I’m eternally
grateful for our first shared experience with love and the lessons it taught us—and
even more so that we eventually made it out the other side, neither of us worse
for the wear and probably better people for it. I’m glad Jimmy got to live the
life he wanted, to experience love and heartbreak, to do things on his terms. Some
of the stories he shared were so colorful, and I remember being nothing but
happy that he got to experience life so fully, even if it’s been tragically cut
short at the age of 54. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">As I wrote this blog, I stopped
and searched through the shoebox I keep of old photos. I was saddened but not
surprised to realize that I don’t have a single photo of Jimmy and me together
from 1986. We didn’t even take one together when we met up in 2011. This left me
momentarily heartbroken, but then I realized that maybe we were so busy living
those moments, present and engaged with each other, that we never thought to memorialize
our time together. Instead, I’ve chosen Henry Scott Tuke’s beautiful painting, “Aquamarine,”
to accompany and capture my sentiments here. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Fly high, Jimmy. You will always
and forever hold a very special and indelible place in my heart, even as it
breaks today over your loss. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">xoxo Vince</p><br />Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-90855760264350109452022-07-17T08:42:00.001-04:002022-07-17T09:01:47.702-04:00A Tribute in Pen and Ink<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9YPkDKi1vRMrm9zYC2m441D2ROdRuumTbDnYl8xG7gw5hGuFJgFYqvqGPreiIiaqQPNd9tZlmVm3_HHdg_na7vXgLqNxCE00w1S1QcwAFjD0qFQFAz1Til_iUh36iRjP4NK-p4zNsyxpHxzlSGcd4z5Nm_Ltj1bULWiYtx8fuWwdZJr7812gVrXhmw/s2048/Collage%20JLC.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9YPkDKi1vRMrm9zYC2m441D2ROdRuumTbDnYl8xG7gw5hGuFJgFYqvqGPreiIiaqQPNd9tZlmVm3_HHdg_na7vXgLqNxCE00w1S1QcwAFjD0qFQFAz1Til_iUh36iRjP4NK-p4zNsyxpHxzlSGcd4z5Nm_Ltj1bULWiYtx8fuWwdZJr7812gVrXhmw/s320/Collage%20JLC.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>When my Dad passed away this past December, I wanted to do something special with a portion of the estate proceeds—something that would have significant personal meaning. I’ve mentioned before how my Dad would take me to the movies every Saturday as part of our weekend “buddy days” when I was a kid. They were usually Irwin Allen disaster flicks or movies with a lot of car chases, but then a little film called <i>Jaws</i> was released. I was eight years old and can still feel the knot in my stomach the first time I heard the first notes of the film’s now-legendary theme music. I think I only made up to the point when poor skinny-dipping Chrissie gets slammed into the buoy before I pleaded with my Dad to leave. It would take three subsequent tries before I could make it through the entire film, each time making it a little further into the film before my ever-patient father heard the desperation of the “Please, Daddy…can we leave now?” in my voice. But 1978 was a game changer for ten-year-old me—on the cusp of adolescence—with the release of John Carpenter’s <i>Halloween</i>. If <i>Jaws</i> hooked me, <i>Halloween</i> reeled me in and cemented what would become a lifelong adoration of both slasher films and a certain actress named Jamie Lee Curtis. It therefore seemed fitting to incorporate the themes of movies and JLC into my tribute and that something special to have created in memory of my wonderful, loving father.</div><div> </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW6kc5gv_LKkdMcH1svn-2m5pS7_bslEG18B9gYoqvOeNLB9kaJtctM_de4zUAGRravX-n2xAu-bnnhPJnAIki5SFQAvpzvB47dRGKcz5RwwGfBsI_DwzEH9jCFm4IFbdJQGqqwGMAAT31ydCmIzGcBO-5neBw8lSMNKlFqNBdcH6IXJeMwXlzcbKwjg/s980/Ken%20Fallin.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="653" data-original-width="980" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW6kc5gv_LKkdMcH1svn-2m5pS7_bslEG18B9gYoqvOeNLB9kaJtctM_de4zUAGRravX-n2xAu-bnnhPJnAIki5SFQAvpzvB47dRGKcz5RwwGfBsI_DwzEH9jCFm4IFbdJQGqqwGMAAT31ydCmIzGcBO-5neBw8lSMNKlFqNBdcH6IXJeMwXlzcbKwjg/s320/Ken%20Fallin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I’ve long been a fan of illustrator and famed caricaturist Ken Fallin, who first came to prominence in 1983 doing the posters and advertising for the popular satirical revue <i>Forbidden Broadway</i> in the style of the famous pen and ink drawings of the legendary Al Hirschfeld—a concept in homage to the great theatrical caricaturist. He’s since gone on to illustrate roughly 500 notable people for the <i>Wall Street Journal</i> and has contributed countless other illustrations to <i>The Boston Herald</i>, <i>The New Yorker Magazine</i>, <i>The Hollywood Reporter</i>, <i>The Los Angeles Times</i>, <i>The Washington Post</i>, <i>The Chicago Tribune</i>, and <i>Playbill</i> (among others). Private collectors of Ken’s work include Angela Lansbury, Warren Buffett, Barbra Streisand, Sarah Jessica Parker, Darren Criss, Bernadette Peters, Sarah Paulson, Bradley Cooper, and Sir Patrick Stewart. Fallin did a lovely caricature of the cast of 2014’s Broadway production of Harvey Fierstein’s <i>Casa Valentina</i>, which I saw with my friend James and loved. I reached out to Ken and purchased a print of the drawing, which hangs today in one of our guest rooms. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPjzjwmlA77o-cXjXS6cA7Vy4pPyzHP3hf35-HNBo1pfXG77RVRC0UxokZOEfrMqmPWdESpIaSidjNTim4mH3xjfXA5FsFBMhHytMcxF63WIXbkJEXNjvcULhYAEKgVCWc8OqMfPul594WBgiEbKD2CETAZ7uqr4k1cbjz7kv1xtjm0iMnqeTDqMiV4Q/s2592/DSC00072.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPjzjwmlA77o-cXjXS6cA7Vy4pPyzHP3hf35-HNBo1pfXG77RVRC0UxokZOEfrMqmPWdESpIaSidjNTim4mH3xjfXA5FsFBMhHytMcxF63WIXbkJEXNjvcULhYAEKgVCWc8OqMfPul594WBgiEbKD2CETAZ7uqr4k1cbjz7kv1xtjm0iMnqeTDqMiV4Q/s320/DSC00072.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>So, the idea came to me: To commission an original caricature of Jamie Lee Curtis, in character, from some of her most notable film roles—in honor of my Dad and the love of movies that he endowed in me. I reached out to Ken who, despite being in the process of undergoing radiation therapy at the time, graciously agreed to accept the commission. Flash forward six-plus months later, and my original, hand-drawn caricature collage of Jamie Lee Curtis arrived yesterday. Featured are her characters from <i>Trading Places</i>, <i>Blue Steel</i>, <i>Freaky Friday</i>, <i>True Lies</i>, <i>Knives Out</i>, <i>Scream Queens</i>, and <i>Halloween II</i>—all surrounding a lovely portrait of her taken at last year’s Venice Film Festival. There will also be a colorized print version on its way to me shortly. To say that I’m beyond thrilled with it would be an understatement.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once properly framed, this exquisite and one-of-a-kind piece of art will hang proudly somewhere where I’ll see it every day and think of my beloved Dad and our “buddy days” at the movies all those years ago. </div><div><br /></div><div>Speechless with gratitude. Thank you, Ken.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxywMTWmb7znIVenMXgQLkdGgTFuPDnOkZxVZTz9ImoxLvp4P2Zvpm5tB9A6AoE5hJr19Z3UL0oTFZ7vZFwMg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-63196459259276727192022-06-01T07:16:00.003-04:002022-06-01T07:49:38.723-04:00Call for Submissions: 'Unspeakable Horror 3'<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="text-transform: uppercase;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd4zKwrTgfwSElPYgbffpcdIE0B4zeuypVK1xxBuHr7DY1bY_idOWgOPfLrdzo_45rMl9PqFKPTb1DLFZD2XEbF3ZpOp4SR8IF4OZkz4JiW7HL3k3ER0hnjQS7Wow8_DWBhVrIwXRfc_r8GJAHc5CNQRL8HZ3yObAW12Cg10Dl0IZ0adqtggl3onEQgA/s1563/Teaser%20Image.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1563" data-original-width="1558" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd4zKwrTgfwSElPYgbffpcdIE0B4zeuypVK1xxBuHr7DY1bY_idOWgOPfLrdzo_45rMl9PqFKPTb1DLFZD2XEbF3ZpOp4SR8IF4OZkz4JiW7HL3k3ER0hnjQS7Wow8_DWBhVrIwXRfc_r8GJAHc5CNQRL8HZ3yObAW12Cg10Dl0IZ0adqtggl3onEQgA/s320/Teaser%20Image.jpg" width="319" /></a></b></div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Unspeakable Horror 3: Dark Rainbow Rising<br />
Edited by: Vince A. Liaguno</span><o:p></o:p></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When the pendulum of civil rights and social change initiatives
swings toward progress, the LGBTQIA community often holds its collective breath
in anticipation of the inevitable backlash when the pendulum swings back. Even
with these gains, we are constantly looking over our shoulder—waiting for the
next shoe to drop, for the next attack on our personhood. The community’s
enemies see progress as a perceived danger to their own heteronormative
bubbles—and any advancement threatens to burst those fragile bubbles. Even as
we hoist the rainbow flag in celebration, a dark rainbow rises on the horizon…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For this third volume of the award-winning <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable Horror</i> series, we are
seeking original short stories up to 6,000 words that explore this idea of
great terror growing from the LGBTQIA community’s great strides forward. We
want your terrifying interpretations and extensions of this theme—not a literal
reading. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Questions to explore:</p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Does the unspeakable horror manifest in a subtle, growing sense of unease that
our enemies must surely be plotting to thwart our efforts—or does it present in
outward paranoia?</li><li>Do we settle into a false sense of security and not see the
unspeakable terror that rises behind us? </li><li>Do we turn on each other now that our external enemies are (seemingly)
defeated? </li><li>Do we leave part of our community behind in some misguided
act of self-preservation?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li></ul>
<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Stories can be set in any time period, as long as the
narrative includes some historical LGBTQ+ civil rights/social movement/moment
as a direct <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>or</u></b> indirect
backdrop. Think:</p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Homosexuality and the Holocaust;</li><li>the Stonewall Riots;</li><li>the Mattachine Society and its 1966 “Sip-In”;</li><li>the first Pride parades in the early 70s;</li><li>the American Psychiatric Association’s removal of homosexuality from the official
list of mental illnesses;</li><li>the assassination of Harvey Milk;</li><li>the Upstairs Lounge fire in New Orleans;</li><li>the AIDS crisis at its advent, at its peak;</li><li>Proposition 8;</li><li>Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell;</li><li>the murder of Matthew Shepherd;</li><li>DOMA and eventual marriage equality;</li><li>the growth of LGBTQIA families;</li><li>One Millions Moms and their crusade against
inclusive Hallmark Channel programming;</li><li>serial killers that have targeted the LGBTQIA
community (be careful with your handling of the internalized homophobia elements
here);</li><li>calls for the end of conversion therapy;</li><li>the current rise of anti-transgender
legislation;</li><li>how LGBTQIA inroads in America affect LGBTQIA
persons in other places around the world.</li></ul><!--[if !supportLists]--><o:p></o:p><p></p>
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<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l3 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l3 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
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<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l3 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The above list is <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>NOT</u></b>
inclusive nor is it mandatory that one of these events must be included—these
are merely prompts to get the creative juices flowing. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What we want:</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">This is an LGBTQIA/horror anthology. Stories
must have a strong, central gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, or queer
focus/slant/theme.</span></li><li>Stories with a strong, literary feel and crafted
with language that captivates</li><li>Stories with a strong sense of atmosphere</li><li>Stories that shock and/or provoke—but for the
right reasons. We want that shock and provocation to sneak up on us versus
clobbering us over the head. We want material that elicits an emotional
response of some kind and leaves us with our jaws hanging open upon conclusion.</li><li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Above all, this is a </span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><i>horror</i></b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> anthology—we want
stories that are scary and unsettling, stories that evoke a sense of dread or
unease or excruciating tension. Think horror that’s rooted in existentialism,
folklore, psychology, the avant garde, body horror, survivalist horror,
eco-horror, the supernatural, occultism, urban gothic, suburban gothic, and
weird fiction.</span></li></ul><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l2 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What we don’t want:</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Straightforward erotica;</span></li><li>Stories that confuse or conflate sexual
orientation or gender identity with pedophilia or bestiality (It’s happened
more times than we care to admit on past calls for submissions!);</li><li>Science fiction or fantasy;</li><li>Zombies, werewolves, vampires, and other
traditional monsters will be an exceptionally hard sell unless you’ve got
something singular to offer;</li><li>Humorous horror;</li><li>Poetry;</li><li>Stories with graphic descriptions of
violence/abuse against children, women, or animals.</li></ul><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tips from the submissions process for the first two volumes
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable Horror</i>:</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">It doesn't take an authentic LGBTQIA person to
imbue a work with an authentic LGBTQIA POV. It takes talent. The </span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Unspeakable Horror</i><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> anthology series is
an inclusive project that welcomes </span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;">all</i><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
writers from </span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;">all</i><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> backgrounds, abilities,
orientations, and gender identities.</span></li><li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">There's a difference between seamlessly weaving
keen political commentary throughout the fabric of a story and dropping a
political rant into the middle of it. Save the political speeches for
<insert name of favorite politician here>.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Chances are, they’re better at them.</span></li><li>We want to experience terror from the stories—not
suffer nightmares from the grammar. Line edit, proofread, line edit some more,
proofread again. Repeat until verb tenses agree, the punctuation doesn't
upstage your characters, and sentences enjoy self-actualization.</li><li>The stories that blew our socks off on previous
calls for submissions were the ones with a strong sense of setting and mood.</li><li>Please. We beg of you: No psychotic trans
killers or lesbian revenge tales in which someone's unmentionables are chopped,
eaten, or otherwise lopped off. Cliché is dead.</li><li>This is a queer-themed horror anthology. We’re
looking for horror tales with a strong queer subtext—not straight horror
stories with a gay character or two thrown in to meet a quota.</li><li>Horror sometimes demands a suspension of belief—not
a suspension of logic.</li></ul><u>Terms</u>: Pays $0.10 (ten cents) per word upon
acceptance for All Rights throughout the world and 12-month exclusivity from
date of publication. Payment will be made within (10) business days of
acceptance.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To be published by Crystal Lake Publishing in the 2nd quarter of 2023—subject to change.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Original stories only—no reprints. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Word count up to 6,000 words. Stories of 6,001 words or more
will be rejected instantly. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">No simultaneous submissions. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Follow Shunn format. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Submissions open on 8-01-22. Submissions close on 9-30-22. All
authors will be notified of our editorial decisions by 10-31-22. Contributors
and TOC announcements will follow.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Submissions can be sent to submissions@darkrainbowrising.com beginning August 1<sup>st</sup>.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Please format subject line as follows:</p><p class="MsoNormal">UH3 / Author Last Name / “Name of Story”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><u>Any submissions received prior to August 1<sup>st</sup> will
be deleted without being read.</u></i></b></p><p></p>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-38471738719898259962022-04-17T13:36:00.003-04:002023-03-12T07:38:26.495-04:00The Transcendent Chaos of ‘Everything Everywhere All at Once’<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq7jHbczUyZG8ja6qfXdODUIQuuiU43U5MfmIG3wyzMbS5YbuCIfdRY9fzq9PqDaCgGYKPkhC6OZF_4W7BJDgpLOkXk5JxcVBQajzqYLi9vysBMmcd3va7wLgUGhdL3g3jr0oih4WZLYMvDgLm3GYc920oQY9Da0jVaPTgXIs1v6cf0Z_0uuD5Fe6HBg/s1200/Everything%201.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="1200" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq7jHbczUyZG8ja6qfXdODUIQuuiU43U5MfmIG3wyzMbS5YbuCIfdRY9fzq9PqDaCgGYKPkhC6OZF_4W7BJDgpLOkXk5JxcVBQajzqYLi9vysBMmcd3va7wLgUGhdL3g3jr0oih4WZLYMvDgLm3GYc920oQY9Da0jVaPTgXIs1v6cf0Z_0uuD5Fe6HBg/s320/Everything%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Be forewarned: There is no way to
adequately craft a proper review of <i>Everything Everywhere All at Once</i> without
an inordinate number of adjectives and other qualifiers. In fact, it would likely
be easier to create an extensive list of adjectives—with adverbial modifiers to
drive the point home—to critique this extraordinary achievement in American filmmaking.
<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgewazdlORp0i7DsTrQdkQDxSV72b0AI4-nIYAEFBC_gnp9rePBleRKelhlUE30moKE_PETfTcF2GNTGvQ4kIDP5ShXb9I8xRsETcwNxY248lLH3nR997JDN4bNtDKzcvvhqpqL7Cfu0ST6bRjfLe3okyz0I1hDhDbXpJO0lYZZHkitmI9vG6la1v72Og/s2100/Everything%201A.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2100" data-original-width="1450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgewazdlORp0i7DsTrQdkQDxSV72b0AI4-nIYAEFBC_gnp9rePBleRKelhlUE30moKE_PETfTcF2GNTGvQ4kIDP5ShXb9I8xRsETcwNxY248lLH3nR997JDN4bNtDKzcvvhqpqL7Cfu0ST6bRjfLe3okyz0I1hDhDbXpJO0lYZZHkitmI9vG6la1v72Og/s320/Everything%201A.jpeg" width="221" /></a></i></div><i>Everything Everywhere All at
Once</i> is the bombastic brainchild of the directing duo collectively known as
Daniels—Dan Kwan and Daniel Scheinert. The filmmakers previously helmed the
2016 surrealist comedy-drama <i>Swiss Army Man</i>, which saw Daniel Radcliffe
playing a corpse with propulsive flatulence and an erection that doubles as a compass.
Daniels bring that unique brand of off-kilter kookiness to their latest effort
and then turn the sensory overload dial way up past the point of no return. Daniels
effectively throw everything and the kitchen sink at the wall and—remarkably and
improbably—everything sticks, everywhere, and (yes) all at once. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">The incredible Michelle Yeoh
toplines as Evelyn Wang, a Chinese-American immigrant and laundromat owner who,
while being audited by the IRS, discovers that she must connect with different versions
of herself from parallel universes in order to prevent the destruction of them
all by an evil entity known as Jobu Tupaki. That’s a dramatic oversimplification
of the plot, which also has Evelyn grappling with her daughter’s sexual
orientation, learning of her husband’s petition for divorce, and stressing over
the arrival of her judgmental father (the legendary James Hong) from China. Looming
over all of it is frumpy, humorless IRS inspector Deirdre Beaubeirdra (Jamie
Lee Curtis), who warns of foreclosure and repossession due to Evelyn’s woeful
mismanagement of the business’ taxes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYXSkRgT84mAI3GgXgmfbYQKECxy-KHuo6PfcqG1y7_hHp-fMrIX6ujCR5vVIGqxxlgpP87x4b4lHG4r_wDmKeC1frIGjPMWZ4PHYCsDpWctjb5EW5oLWis_HWoZXTn1vfrQnHSGWj1xa9sZDFwlDEWFcnn4DLgBQqG-JQ3iN-sTroCDDuiffYh_0SQ/s1600/Everything%205.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="897" data-original-width="1600" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYXSkRgT84mAI3GgXgmfbYQKECxy-KHuo6PfcqG1y7_hHp-fMrIX6ujCR5vVIGqxxlgpP87x4b4lHG4r_wDmKeC1frIGjPMWZ4PHYCsDpWctjb5EW5oLWis_HWoZXTn1vfrQnHSGWj1xa9sZDFwlDEWFcnn4DLgBQqG-JQ3iN-sTroCDDuiffYh_0SQ/s320/Everything%205.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Through a variant version of her
husband, Waymond (<i>The Goonies</i> Ke Huy Quan all grown up), Evelyn learns
that every choice made creates a new universe; these innumerable parallel universes
make up the multiverse. In order for Evelyn to defeat Jobu Tupaki—a version of
her daughter, Joy (<i>The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel’s</i> Stephanie Hsu) who’s
capable of experiencing all universes at once and manipulating matter at will—she
must repeatedly “verse-jump” and connect with the different versions of herself
to access the skillsets and memories of her parallel universe counterparts. But
there is inherent danger in verse-jumping with such abandon; Evelyn risks splintering
her mind, which is what drove a once benign version of her daughter to become
the self-hating Jobu. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">In her many verse jumps, Evelyn
sees how her life would have turned out having made a single different choice.
In one, she’s a glamorous martial arts movie star who encounters a sophisticated
version of a Waymond she left and never married—one who now rejects her. In
another, she’s a lesbian married to Dierdre, in a bizarre world where humans
have hot dogs for fingers and play the piano with their toes. In yet another,
she and Joy are merely two rocks with googly eyes living on the edge of a
cliff. Daniels excel at creating madcap, boundary-pushing dreamscapes within these
multiple realities existing at once within the known realm of time and space. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Within their evocative and cacophonous
labyrinth of storytelling, the directors employ an anything-goes audacity—a swirling
cyclone of fertile ideas and heady concepts—and straddle the worlds of science
fiction, comedy, drama, action, and martial arts. The nearly two-and-a-half-hour
film moves at a frenetic pace, with nonstop martial-arts action and
in-your-face slapstick that allow for no bathroom breaks. (Word to the wise: Only
buy the small soda and sip judiciously). Despite the complexity of their convoluted
plot, Daniels admirably keep things surprisingly coherent—even the technobabble
makes sense. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIsiItzdl41Avd46bUn7BH1vNPAxSBsuH5c2xDHCCcQrNtmgYajdIb3mbM-VN2cQGb3xL8m72DKeYNE83bx-MecubF7aY5cawGXq8cn0s8dnwLyf2cUKOEmENP9j8bwv2I5SW01Io_XMSIhlm2yUA8XIDfom6YL5yhX2Ls_b5TMftKSZOkjRSJjlJuAg/s1600/Everything%206.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIsiItzdl41Avd46bUn7BH1vNPAxSBsuH5c2xDHCCcQrNtmgYajdIb3mbM-VN2cQGb3xL8m72DKeYNE83bx-MecubF7aY5cawGXq8cn0s8dnwLyf2cUKOEmENP9j8bwv2I5SW01Io_XMSIhlm2yUA8XIDfom6YL5yhX2Ls_b5TMftKSZOkjRSJjlJuAg/s320/Everything%206.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Yet, despite its massive
interdimensional scope, <i>Everything Everywhere All at Once</i> is
surprisingly intimate in scale. Even as the film slingshots between realities, somewhere
between super-powered pinky fingers and weaponized butt-plugs, its absurdity is
matched only by its heart. While you’re strapped in and relinquishing yourself
to the cathartic rush-release of Daniels’ delightfully gonzo rollercoaster ride
of psychedelic visuals and bold tonal shifts, you don’t expect the film’s emotional
core to sucker punch you so hard by the end. With its larger, overarching message
about kindness being the strongest weapon, it’s a story of human connection
explored here in the conflict and reconciliation between an Asian mother and
daughter who learn to cherish each other again. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5rNR7C0rMLnlq5e1F3rIE3XTZraCAvoQD2ppI-FDCN-nQ5Md2ie6bH-b2zATPyQQHesuvbVTcVPjDyyWDSjcmFJQxCaoXTpWShfXkT1ZC_eaBzhWbf1Eh7-Mu8u_Siv35Vw77bLRzZ8xn8GXgA3Hk2xvj7XXrrVhGOAmodVKQI1ZhYdhGcN4Yc0QPiQ/s800/Everything%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5rNR7C0rMLnlq5e1F3rIE3XTZraCAvoQD2ppI-FDCN-nQ5Md2ie6bH-b2zATPyQQHesuvbVTcVPjDyyWDSjcmFJQxCaoXTpWShfXkT1ZC_eaBzhWbf1Eh7-Mu8u_Siv35Vw77bLRzZ8xn8GXgA3Hk2xvj7XXrrVhGOAmodVKQI1ZhYdhGcN4Yc0QPiQ/s320/Everything%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Anchoring that emotional core is Yeoh’s
Herculean performance. The film reads like a love letter from Daniels to the
59-year-old actress, who’s given what’s easily the best role of her career. Yeoh
adeptly juggles the myriad nuances of Evelyn’s multiverse counterparts with
aplomb, never losing track of who she’s supposed to be at any given moment.
That she’s able to play so many versions of, essentially, the same character is
no small creative feat. She effortlessly switches from comedic to dramatic,
from martial arts maestro to overwrought mother, without missing a single beat
anywhere in the film. Yeoh’s Evelyn shows us that even when you feel like you
are the worst possible version of yourself, there is hope.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTL-NEJ4jjK_U1_6iDg5Ntpl7rumlDYB47Msq8cqCXVP7kkBn_mHTOx9HMmf3fTv4C-d7RJT6IVAaGC741m5Zh_G4_TcoPyEwC3fuwWeINYj9mIMtPP0pXRJP1pJyca1OnSS4nFYIXAuIdfgWREN2v0XpaZzzbnJbFVmiE_cdJpmZMxCv9jkqRIpDjhg/s1320/Everything%203.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="668" data-original-width="1320" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTL-NEJ4jjK_U1_6iDg5Ntpl7rumlDYB47Msq8cqCXVP7kkBn_mHTOx9HMmf3fTv4C-d7RJT6IVAaGC741m5Zh_G4_TcoPyEwC3fuwWeINYj9mIMtPP0pXRJP1pJyca1OnSS4nFYIXAuIdfgWREN2v0XpaZzzbnJbFVmiE_cdJpmZMxCv9jkqRIpDjhg/s320/Everything%203.webp" width="320" /></a></div>Likewise, the film’s supporting
cast is a treat. Arguably, Quan does as much heavy lifting as Yeoh, especially
in being tasked with having to explain the more technical aspects of Daniels’
plot. Hsu is a pure joy (pun intended) as both disaffected twenty-something
daughter and as the colorful, villainous embodiment of all that disaffection.
(Fun fact: Hsu got the role after Awkwafina dropped out due to scheduling conflicts.)
Hong, a legend in his own right, lends gravitas to his role as Evelyn’s father
and it’s a hoot to see him deployed in the multiverse. Tallie Medel as Becky,
Joy's girlfriend, also makes the most of what could have been a pedestrian
role. Curtis, who’s become so comfortable in her own skin as an actor as she’s matured,
is a real scene-stealer here. In the hands of a lesser actor, her crotchety
Dierdre could have been played as a one-note comic relief character, but Curtis
imbues her with so many subtle humanities, that she elevates Dierdre beyond the
periphery. There’s a scene between Evelyn and Dierdre outside the laundromat toward
the end of the film that is utterly pitch-perfect and shows why these two women
are Hollywood royalty. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0gwidEZjSKM-KtyfKcAtX5bStaqGvpndhazUvP-7s6EttwVMcQ9W1Jqcd6nNIhhoTr6m_U-4DxjRFlnkTi7H7tv439eQQmvjKTX-lD46WqJ3gQ2LUXfMkWwoIgQpzxM6uP_PnAInpKXqo1DqhlLm6buljd7PENkaLEGl_bv6EbyhLl2144ZiH8Ct1kQ/s1600/Everything%204.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0gwidEZjSKM-KtyfKcAtX5bStaqGvpndhazUvP-7s6EttwVMcQ9W1Jqcd6nNIhhoTr6m_U-4DxjRFlnkTi7H7tv439eQQmvjKTX-lD46WqJ3gQ2LUXfMkWwoIgQpzxM6uP_PnAInpKXqo1DqhlLm6buljd7PENkaLEGl_bv6EbyhLl2144ZiH8Ct1kQ/s320/Everything%204.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>My only beef with <i>Everything
Everywhere All at Once</i> has nothing to do with the film itself and more to
do with its distributor, A24. Arguably one of the most ambitious and prestigious
film outfits out there today, I’m baffled why they chose to release this virtuoso
cinematic triumph so early in the year. My fear is that the film will be overlooked
come awards season later this year—and that will be nothing short of criminal.
The film, its directors, its screenplay, its score by Son Lux, Larkin Seiple’s
cinematography, its countless technical achievements, and at least three of its
actors—Yeoh and Quan in lead acting categories, Curtis in supporting—should all
receive nominations from multiple awards bodies. I hope the members of these
various awards institutions will remember this masterpiece film a few months
from now amid the noise of the year-end slate of “prestige” films that take
over the narrative leading up to nominations. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Somewhere between death and taxes
are beautiful moments—and these brief snippets of time are what make life worth
living. This is the essence of <i>Everything Everywhere All at Once</i> and
Daniels—aided immeasurably by Yeoh and their ensemble—employ an unmatched artistic
aptitude in bringing their vision to whimsical, technicolor life. It’s a masterclass
in filmmaking that will enthrall you with its exquisitely choreographed martial
arts sequences before bringing tears to your eyes with the weight of its
profound questions and truths about life. Unlike anything you’ve seen before, <i>Everything
Everywhere All at Once</i> is destined to become a classic, an amalgamation of
genre anarchy that defies classification, subverts expectations, and explores
existential matters with empathy and insight. This marvelously unhinged slice
of cinematic maximalism is nothing short of a work of art—and not to be missed.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><o:p></o:p></p><p>Just let go—and let Yeoh. </p>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-85164581341181917292022-02-20T14:24:00.002-05:002022-02-20T14:27:31.600-05:00Buckets of Blood and Gerontological Madmen in 'Texas Chainsaw Massacre'<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjB9d68bZfY-0n_Y9HvXjZHQLa2eKStuN51m5b2jaMK6cvD9v0Z7c7HHOl5yKqlLFKPO_MU_DkqkRNbQz7L-MQRZCz3bBouJqM2Rlq8DDcQQJ6uUzIsO59FhF5inqJqLxvCJOaDGa8cGdqYYG-hS5ua23oq_-IKhHr5MT75Ny7_vcYPM3VZ99RjMdYlAg=s1400" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1400" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjB9d68bZfY-0n_Y9HvXjZHQLa2eKStuN51m5b2jaMK6cvD9v0Z7c7HHOl5yKqlLFKPO_MU_DkqkRNbQz7L-MQRZCz3bBouJqM2Rlq8DDcQQJ6uUzIsO59FhF5inqJqLxvCJOaDGa8cGdqYYG-hS5ua23oq_-IKhHr5MT75Ny7_vcYPM3VZ99RjMdYlAg=s320" width="320" /></a></div>Horror fandom is a curious thing
indeed. This week’s bemusement has been watching the horror faithful on social
media extolling the original <i>The Texas Chainsaw Massacre</i>—the story of
young people from out-of-town trespassing on other people's property and getting
butchered by a chainsaw-wielding maniac named Leatherface—as a virtuous classic
while in the same breath decrying the new TCM—a story about young people from out-of-town
trespassing on other people's property and getting butchered by a chainsaw-wielding
maniac named Leatherface—as the stupidest thing they've ever seen. It's
literally the same plot, just updated. It’s hard not to laugh out loud at the
computer screen some days. I’m reminded of the tagline from Wes Craven’s <i>The
Last House on the Left</i>: “To avoid fainting, keep repeating, ‘It’s only a
movie…’”<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">So, let’s unclutch those pearls
and talk about the latest installment in the franchise that began with Tobe
Hooper’s gritty 1974 slasher. <i>Texas Chainsaw Massacre</i> (the ’22 film
drops the “the” from its title) is directed by David Blue Garcia, with a
screenplay by Chris Thomas Devlin, from an original story co-written by Fede
Álvarez (also a producer on the film) and Rodo Sayagues. Originally, the
production began with brothers Ryan and Andy Tohill (who directed 2018’s <i>The
Dig</i>) at the helm, but the directors were replaced with Garcia after studio
displeasure with the footage they shot. That’s never a good sign. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjg6O8Wp2vAitGeFWnooeqlEzM49wOEL-MG8ZWzajHrbnc1t8oFd_Hk5oSksux604kZY2xsaZlLPEnYjnknZNE7rA4hPyPSOSO5tBWgLVtu6oLSarbp1N8OjxW2jCTfnfL081GMc0bUau5EyYCbKSH_0TDHyWDa1ZpNrmRFgRp75bTRSPilt1Kfktf8Yg=s1222" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="690" data-original-width="1222" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjg6O8Wp2vAitGeFWnooeqlEzM49wOEL-MG8ZWzajHrbnc1t8oFd_Hk5oSksux604kZY2xsaZlLPEnYjnknZNE7rA4hPyPSOSO5tBWgLVtu6oLSarbp1N8OjxW2jCTfnfL081GMc0bUau5EyYCbKSH_0TDHyWDa1ZpNrmRFgRp75bTRSPilt1Kfktf8Yg=s320" width="320" /></a></div>Ripping a page from the playbook
David Gordon Green used for his 2018 relaunch of the <i>Halloween</i>
franchise, the new <i>Texas Chainsaw Massacre</i> serves as a direct sequel to
the original film—however it doesn’t necessarily retcon the sequels the way
Green’s film trilogy does, with Álvarez stating in interviews that it's up to
audiences “to decide when and how the events of the other movies happen.” Fair
enough—and who cares, anyway, right? To tackle direct sequel problem #1—the
2014 death of Marilyn Burns, who played TTCM Final Girl Sally Hardesty—the
filmmakers cast Irish actress Olwen Fouéré, an especially accomplished stage
actor with about a dozen movie and TV credits each to her name. It’s excellent
casting and Fouéré does the best with what she’s given; unfortunately, she’s
not given anything other than a watered-down version of 2018’s Laurie Strode.
To tackle direct sequel problem #2—the 2015 death of Gunnar Hansen, TTCM’s
original Leatherface—Mark Burnham was cast in the role of the iconic horror
villain. Burnham does a most respectable job given the big shoes he has to
fill, but of course his character’s agility and stamina at (at least) age 70
requires a huge suspension of disbelief. Suffice to say that 2022 Leatherface
is one fast, strong-ass motherfucker. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">The new film opens as San
Francisco speculators Melody (Sarah Yarkin) and Dante (Jacob Latimore)—with Melody's
sister Lila (Elsie Fisher) and Dante's girlfriend Ruth (Nell Hudson) along for
the ride—travel to the remote, long-abandoned Texas town of Harlow. Melody and
Dante plan to auction off the town’s properties to create a trendy, heavily
gentrified area for hipsters of every persuasion. Why, you ask, would said
trendy hipsters with ample cash to burn pick an out-of-the-way,
hot-as-Satan’s-ass locale like bumfuck Texas as an investment opportunity? No
one really knows—and Lila even questions it aloud at one point in the film. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTviAsEB2aweJED2VnoRKRYGpE9HR-68WQh0NruptbmEpaKTIi3VzDyrLJ6nU0EjkFxJU969j2akQvHU0kiGP0jNPr2ftR7MbigcD1Lxx0mtT5xjLFjKStXSVgrohADqDEcH7uzF_QDdBGOBDlKMtMAvjkHWAiHk2iLXoVX_ZP2H_Jp_EKzSQExzZLnQ=s1400" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1400" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTviAsEB2aweJED2VnoRKRYGpE9HR-68WQh0NruptbmEpaKTIi3VzDyrLJ6nU0EjkFxJU969j2akQvHU0kiGP0jNPr2ftR7MbigcD1Lxx0mtT5xjLFjKStXSVgrohADqDEcH7uzF_QDdBGOBDlKMtMAvjkHWAiHk2iLXoVX_ZP2H_Jp_EKzSQExzZLnQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div>Upon the foursome’s arrival, they
discover that one of the buildings—the town’s orphanage—is still occupied by
the elderly Mrs. Mc (a welcome cameo by the wonderful Alice Krige) and a
silent, towering older man. While enjoying some sweet tea provided by the
congenial Mrs. Mc, a kerfuffle over who holds the rightful deed to the
orphanage breaks out—and ends with Mrs. Mc suffering a heart attack. Fearful of
the bad publicity, Ruth offers to accompany the sheriff and his deputy as they
transport Mrs. Mc—and the not-so-mysterious hulking man—to the hospital. En route
to the hospital, things go awry—so much so that hulking mute guy goes
ballistic, kills almost everyone in the emergency rig, and peels the face off
one of them. Leatherface is back—and he’s pissed. Cinematographer Ricardo Diaz
shines in this gorgeously shot scene that has Leatherface standing in a field
of dead sunflowers, holding up the skin of his new face. Ruth, who’s injured
but alive, witnesses the rebirth of Leatherface and manages to get a radio
transmission off before she’s (literally) gutted by him. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg75kIPOepKghSKN6iURonNSkanO8xfxHQDT6LmTDYawEk-ciS-EES_o0qIAj0idCXyIejNh7upYPhfeX2pNk1J5ig3cLQagd7VNyf-Lxq5jXb7l8uwrvjEFRfM0OTNjudmceNnATSFCV5Emki35dEQorTiwL9xicbLoVlVSq7ZepOgYEBHewNae6YZ7g=s1400" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1400" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg75kIPOepKghSKN6iURonNSkanO8xfxHQDT6LmTDYawEk-ciS-EES_o0qIAj0idCXyIejNh7upYPhfeX2pNk1J5ig3cLQagd7VNyf-Lxq5jXb7l8uwrvjEFRfM0OTNjudmceNnATSFCV5Emki35dEQorTiwL9xicbLoVlVSq7ZepOgYEBHewNae6YZ7g=s320" width="320" /></a></div>As Leatherface makes his way back
to Harlow, a charter bus full of potential investors arrives and the property
auction ensues. As word of Mrs. Mc’s death makes it back to Melody via Ruth’s
last text before Leatherface’s ambulance ambush, local contractor Richter (Moe
Dunford) hears her and Lila talking about it and takes Melody and Dante to task
for causing Mrs. Mc’s heart attack and subsequent death. He confiscates the
keys to the bus and their sports car, demanding proof that they had the right
to evict Mrs. Mc before he’ll give them back. Discovering they don't have the deed
showing they own the orphanage after all (oops!), Melody and Dante return to
the creaky home for wayward boys to find it. Elsewhere, Sally Hardesty—her long
grey hair and tank top giving us immediate Laurie Strode vibes—takes a call
from the local gas station clerk who received Ruth’s last radio transmission,
and he informs her that Leatherface is back. She arms up and heads out, adding
an awesome cowboy hat to her survivor ensemble to perfect effect.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKBuFAFxRkfU9yyWjMZ0xuk6JshGbDGSlUmjN_olXWbKAcSoiSx5VcmmrtFQ1vSgpBgZKXmSUPHU5SZIrIU6nim6Kt-3HjHKnXqWs-u1celeGndD79Vxyc9YYsgn6yn4_WV_i2wPtk5tW7m5qQQjQYGbg4QlxGemdgyPV6GCTIuwIJJuNfYuq99B8okA=s1135" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="1135" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKBuFAFxRkfU9yyWjMZ0xuk6JshGbDGSlUmjN_olXWbKAcSoiSx5VcmmrtFQ1vSgpBgZKXmSUPHU5SZIrIU6nim6Kt-3HjHKnXqWs-u1celeGndD79Vxyc9YYsgn6yn4_WV_i2wPtk5tW7m5qQQjQYGbg4QlxGemdgyPV6GCTIuwIJJuNfYuq99B8okA=s320" width="320" /></a></div>It's not giving too much away to
say that Leatherface makes his way back to Harlow in what seems like record
time and resumes his titular massacre once again. There are some over-the-top
set pieces here—one of them pushed to the point of pure camp—and gorehounds
will delight in the plethora of practical special make-up effects. The film is
lean (at one hour and twenty-three minutes) and meaner than a rabid dog in the
midday Texas sun getting poked repeatedly with a big stick. It’s all a heck of
a lot of fun, even if the creative forces miss the boat almost entirely with the
Sally Hardesty character. What could have been an awesome final chapter for survivor
Sally is reduced to a mere sidenote, largely wasting Fouéré’s considerable
talent. If anything, <i>Texas Chainsaw Massacre</i> reminds us how very
important—crucial even—writers are to what we see and experience onscreen. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">No, none of the characters are
particularly memorable nor do we care when it’s their turn to meet the end of
Leatherface’s chainsaw. No, making this film’s Final Girl a school shooting
survivor adds nothing of note to her character or the plot. No, Leatherface’s
speed and agility don’t make a lick of sense in the context of his
chronological age. But 2022’s <i>Texas Chainsaw Massacre</i> is a lot of fun
despite its myriad flaws—in that kind of mindless Saturday matinee, popcorn
movie kind of way. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><o:p></o:p></p><p>How best to enjoy this latest
entry in the venerable horror franchise? Let go and let Garcia. </p>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-64390774036513760042022-01-04T07:39:00.000-05:002022-01-04T07:39:17.044-05:002021: The Year in Television<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgK4XFZseqMort_aTNiSJHMDDrf-h_MXl5rFdIgNRECRr5IWD_n7ko1ithkZTET3aGfaWxWOatEh0plJ-sKrjiM16CivUFtnk8axK9n29FeOOTybOcPy82lB_LyCzRb-PS7CEsYdo4f15XNRQ_yh7PYRmLzNIEkakg11nR7yItfOOE_d463SFC0VOY84A=s1200" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgK4XFZseqMort_aTNiSJHMDDrf-h_MXl5rFdIgNRECRr5IWD_n7ko1ithkZTET3aGfaWxWOatEh0plJ-sKrjiM16CivUFtnk8axK9n29FeOOTybOcPy82lB_LyCzRb-PS7CEsYdo4f15XNRQ_yh7PYRmLzNIEkakg11nR7yItfOOE_d463SFC0VOY84A=s320" width="320" /></a></div>With COVID-19 and its many
increasingly sci-fi-sounding variants again curtailing group activities, trips
to the theater were few and far between in 2021. (Read: I went once and was so
paranoid and uncomfortable the entire time that I haven’t gone since.)
Fortunately, between same-day streaming releases of theatrical films and the
insanely high caliber of original television programming pouring out of our Smart TVs,
we were at no loss for quality home viewing experiences in 2021.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Those of us old enough to
remember when choices were limited to the big three (ABC/NBC/CBS) on network
television thought that the addition of premium cable outlets like HBO and Showtime
and Cinemax was monumental in and of itself. Then, basic cable expanded into
original programming, and previously surfed-right-by filler channels like AMC
and FX became destination viewing. Now, with the proliferation of streaming
services (Netflix and Amazon Prime and Hulu and Paramount+ and HBO Max and
Disney+ and Peacock and Apple+) our choices are myriad. Even the most diehard,
dedicated TV aficionado has trouble keeping track and keeping up. We are truly
living in another golden age of television. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">The creative opportunities these
streaming services have opened up for content creators have been unparalleled
and have brought an exceptional diversity and quality of shows into our living
rooms. Instead of three networks having to choose between hundreds of hopeful
pilots for a limited number of primetime slots, television’s expansion into
premium cable, basic cable, and (now) streamers has created an insatiable
demand for new content that will attract new subscriber-viewers. That
competition for must-see content has attracted high-end writers, directors, and
actors to the medium. That’s especially great news for pandemic-weary audiences
who desperately need the escapism right now. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">2021 brought another exceptional
slate of offerings into our homes. There were revivals of old favorites and
murder mysteries and a historical drama chronicling the AIDS crisis. From notable
literary adaptations to originals that explored weighty themes like ageism,
racism, the cyclical nature of life and poverty in small towns, the concepts of
agnosticism and atheism in religious faith, and man’s eternal, tail-chasing quest
to discover happiness, television gave us much to enjoy and chew on this year. It
was a year that brought career resurgence to comedic veterans Steve Martin and
Martin Short, newfound respect for the versatility of perennial scene-stealer
Jennifer Coolidge, and well-deserved accolades for the inestimable Jean Smart,
who played the hell out of not one, but two, career-best roles in 2021. It was
a year that saw adaptations of books by Ann Cleeves, Emily St. John Mandel, Philipp
Meyer, and Liane Moriarty. It was a year that gave us two unforgettable limited
series written and directed by guys named Mike that had everyone taking: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The White Lotus</i> from Mike White and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Midnight Mass</i> from Mike Flanagan. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Without further comment, these
are my ten top television picks of 2021:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#10 Dexter: New Blood<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#9 Station Eleven<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#8 Only Murders in the Building<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#7 It’s A Sin<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#6 The Long Call<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#5 Yellowjackets<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#4 The White Lotus<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#3 Mare of Easttown<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#2 Hacks<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#1 Midnight Mass<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">A few honorable mentions, in no
particular order:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">The Chair (the first season) <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Halston<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">YOU (the third season)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">American Rust<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Nine Perfect Strangers<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">WandaVision<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Yellowstone (the fourth season)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">And Just Like That<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Chucky (the first season)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Pose (the third and final season)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Them</p>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-15227674939977007002022-01-02T10:36:00.000-05:002022-01-02T10:36:13.867-05:002021: The Year in Music <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqBChyXok_UZZTf9BPW6fy0NX_u4Z6I54PXqB_AdZ37YGwIruRebVR1XobFpnUbV6asXVMtOnyxSU87FKo1dCQ-707bY6jA85GU9f-0CzYEQOXn0MfTIJ1IskB46napPdXHMVMncqkDUDyUI0DYzQyCP7vzvmAQKTIbNtGhf7wokfafZgbTui-1YbsNg=s1200" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqBChyXok_UZZTf9BPW6fy0NX_u4Z6I54PXqB_AdZ37YGwIruRebVR1XobFpnUbV6asXVMtOnyxSU87FKo1dCQ-707bY6jA85GU9f-0CzYEQOXn0MfTIJ1IskB46napPdXHMVMncqkDUDyUI0DYzQyCP7vzvmAQKTIbNtGhf7wokfafZgbTui-1YbsNg=s320" width="320" /></a></div>With the global pandemic that
defined 2020 continuing on largely unabated in 2021 with surges and variants throwing
monkey wrenches into the entertainment industry once again despite the
availability of vaccines, music artists resumed a steadier release schedule than
the year prior. Even as some artists resumed playing live dates while others
postponed shows yet again over fears of rising infection rates, most resigned
themselves to releasing their new music even if supporting it with a tour wasn’t
a guaranteed source of income in 2021.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">This was welcome news for music
fans who lamented over slimmer pickings in 2020. Heck, 2021 even saw the long-awaited
return of vocal juggernaut Adele with her first album of new material in six
years. In last year’s recap, I noted that escapism was the prevailing theme—understandable
considering the unprecedented circumstances we found ourselves in with
lockdowns and mass casualties numbering in the hundreds of thousands. This
year, artists found themselves more reflective—even those who surrounded themselves
in uptempo beats—with songwriting taking center stage. Some musical veterans went
back in time on their 2021 releases—from Shirley Manson and her Garbage bandmates
who returned to the rebellious rage of earlier releases to Duran Duran who took
a stroll down memory lane on their 15th album while managing to sound fresh and
relevant. Some focused on the emotionality of stepping out of darkness and into
the light, like Yebba on her exquisite debut and Adele on her cathartic fourth
album. Yola and Valerie June each delivered gorgeous collections of folky Memphis
soul songs about love and loss and the acceptance of bygones. Surprisingly, Billie
Eilish found some bliss on her sophomore set, while—less surprisingly—Lana Del
Rey picked up right where she left off on last year’s <i>Norman Fucking Rockwell!</i>
and continued to musically chronicle the death of the American dream on her piercingly
perceptive 7th studio album. Even when artists like Saint Motel and Laura Mvula
expanded their music into gloriously bombastic walls of sound, it’s the lyrics that
stood out over the beats. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">In any event, this year’s annual Top
10 list again held steadfast to past trends and personal penchants: Heavily
female artist skewed (7 out of 10, plus a female-fronted band) and at least one
new discovery (Yebba). Less Brits than previous years, although I still managed
to include four—Adele, Laura Mvula, Duran Duran, and Yola. Three bands make the
list; no male solo singers managed the same this year. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">All that said, down to the
countdown. My favorite albums of 2021:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#10 THE ORIGINAL MOTION PICTURE
SOUNDTRACK / Saint Motel<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#9 DAWN / Yebba<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#8 THE MOON AND STARS:
PRESCRIPTIONS FOR DREAMERS / Valerie June<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#7 HAPPIER THAN EVER / Billie
Eilish<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#6 CHEMTRAILS OVER THE COUNTRY
CLUB / Lana Del Rey<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#5 STAND FOR MYSELF / Yola<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#4 FUTURE PAST / Duran Duran<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#3 30 / Adele<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#2 PINK NOISE / Laura Mvula<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">#1 NO GODS NO MASTERS / Garbage<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><b>Honorable Mentions:</b> No formal
ranking, but worthy of a listen or two.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="text-transform: uppercase;">Not Your
Muse / C</span>eleste<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->COLLAPSED IN SUNBEAMS / Arlo Parks<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->CALIFORNIAN SOIL / London Grammar<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->JOURNEY TO YOU / The Blow Monkeys<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->ONE WAY OUT / Melissa Etheridge<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->YOUNG HEART / Birdy<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->HI / Texas<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->WELCOME TO THE MADHOUSE / Tones and I<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->PRESSURE MACHINE / The Killers<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->THE BODY REMEMBERS / Debbie Gibson<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->BLUE BANISTERS / Lana Del Rey<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->HUNTER AND THE DOG STAR / Edie Brickell &
New Bohemians<o:p></o:p></p>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-31072108857464540542021-12-30T10:20:00.001-05:002021-12-30T10:58:51.726-05:00Eulogy: Vincent Liaguno (1938-2021)<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7SG6amlk4yT0AOi9w3xQGmbiSrTlcbJ8uwUMdt1HN4tk5WAuTe16brJ7YK2Wf5HmUQz5pw_B0Yso0RrDqqYlxmfR2LvLVTusPLe1oWYnuswHssAYB_cdGCWbTBt-ZeW9gOqaqCApDKbbsGfdU7C_0ZcLeSUVOj8PCRZIEVuctInZTpCW09PtixTY5Og=s1280" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7SG6amlk4yT0AOi9w3xQGmbiSrTlcbJ8uwUMdt1HN4tk5WAuTe16brJ7YK2Wf5HmUQz5pw_B0Yso0RrDqqYlxmfR2LvLVTusPLe1oWYnuswHssAYB_cdGCWbTBt-ZeW9gOqaqCApDKbbsGfdU7C_0ZcLeSUVOj8PCRZIEVuctInZTpCW09PtixTY5Og=s320" width="320" /></a></i></div><i>*Originally delivered as a live eulogy on
December 8<sup>th</sup>, 2021 to those gathered to remember Vincent Liaguno at
his funeral Mass at St. Leo the Great Catholic Church in Lancaster,
Pennsylvania.</i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Thank you all for being here
today to remember and celebrate the life of my Dad, Vincent Liaguno—or “Vinnie”
as most of you knew him or, if you really go back, “Tiny” which was his
nickname back in his Arts High School days in the 1950s.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">My Dad was the consummate
gentleman, never without a smile or kind word for anyone he encountered.
Describing my Dad as “outgoing” is an understatement. He was a natural-born
storyteller who loved to socialize in any setting—and he was <i>never</i>
without a joke. We fell into the habit many years ago of speaking every Sunday
after he’d gotten home from Mass and his breakfasts out with his fellow ushers
here at St. Leo’s. After he’d recount his lab values for the week—which was
usually capped off by telling me that the dietician at dialysis had put a
sticker on his lab report for a job well done—he would tell me which usher’s
turn it was to pay, what he’d ordered for breakfast, and then he’d end with whatever
joke he’d told the priest who had said Mass that week. More Sunday’s than not,
the call usually concluded with me exclaiming, “Dad! You did <b><i>NOT</i></b>
tell that joke to your priest!” and we’d laugh. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYB7okpf1yJFEyfiZM-ar3epQFBMAOrkWpZZV9tNUZiLPs5Dj-Ym3i336RsEWMPATs3nRZAGIiwzqNVhBy30fdLG3fdaxVAYh6wkGALmo1qBDoQfbgNTZtSKBZU_xSu4KNGrGKh7P7rjQ0IJt-IHsAczn-9Xd3xpu4qZC8wP-EEr9juDSxf5vGJykcqg=s1985" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1985" data-original-width="1395" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYB7okpf1yJFEyfiZM-ar3epQFBMAOrkWpZZV9tNUZiLPs5Dj-Ym3i336RsEWMPATs3nRZAGIiwzqNVhBy30fdLG3fdaxVAYh6wkGALmo1qBDoQfbgNTZtSKBZU_xSu4KNGrGKh7P7rjQ0IJt-IHsAczn-9Xd3xpu4qZC8wP-EEr9juDSxf5vGJykcqg=s320" width="225" /></a></div>I have so many wonderful memories
of my Dad growing up—and I could speak for days about what an amazing father he
was, especially remarkable since his own Dad, my grandfather Anastacio, passed
away when he was very young, and he and his sister, Gloria, were raised largely
alone by my hard-working grandmother, Angelina, with some wonderful support
from my great-uncle Sammy, who was—in many ways—a surrogate Dad to them. My
favorite memories of my Dad are of our “buddy days” on Saturdays when he’d take
me to a matinee movie and then to this little hole-in-the-wall roadside burger
joint in Fords, New Jersey, called Frank’s Fireplace where we’d enjoy a
cheeseburger and a frosted mug of root beer together. There were the countless summer
weekends when he’d take me down the shore to swim at Sandy Hook beach. Or the
night we watched the movie <i>Airplane</i> on HBO at home and he was on the
floor, on all fours, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. Later, as I got
older, my Dad faithfully played the role of chauffeur and chaperone, taking me and
my best high school friends Martin, Mark, and Greg to the movies. My poor Dad
sat through so many gory horror movies; he deserves sainthood for that alone.
And he never complained once because that’s just the kind of Dad he was. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJwpY6eZeB5ROLpG4rop6m9MLOomZN-frEg7SsrU-9Ah-u6xeGLFI9PIidP9s486k-QUYSCTbyn7fZHhcD6orU2HKCsEb9molwhfP37ajA8UbgaA5QC5aa04A_s7Hvjvcv5vAyTuAWFmK30HNhjZ4efCImqwpWc45xkwzXW6MhxE_yoXC0u3B0VFn5jg=s1534" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1534" data-original-width="1336" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJwpY6eZeB5ROLpG4rop6m9MLOomZN-frEg7SsrU-9Ah-u6xeGLFI9PIidP9s486k-QUYSCTbyn7fZHhcD6orU2HKCsEb9molwhfP37ajA8UbgaA5QC5aa04A_s7Hvjvcv5vAyTuAWFmK30HNhjZ4efCImqwpWc45xkwzXW6MhxE_yoXC0u3B0VFn5jg=s320" width="279" /></a></div>My Dad always provided for
me—from all the food / shelter / clothing basics to making sure I had a
first-rate parochial school education. He worked hard to afford our home and
that Catholic School tuition, and one of the greatest gifts he gave me was my
work ethic. Those who knew my Dad also know how generous he was. Nothing gave
him greater pleasure than to pick up a dinner tab—and he never forgot any of
his family or friends at Christmas time or on birthdays. Beginning to get my
Dad’s affairs in order this past week and going through his bank records and
checkbooks, the depth of his generosity and charitable giving was apparent. And
that kindness extended to virtual strangers—no one would be surprised to learn
that once we convinced Dad that it was safer for him to use the valet parking
at dialysis that he would prepare little baggies each with a dollar bill and a
peppermint patty as a tip for the valet attendants. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6LiZflpEpPVp28UeQ-xXKkx-icEqDqdXIKk_4l4y6OAh0f1NTJgyxQjT4lAL0gKf5Ixk_TbiEItlfi6Afb9Fnl_Ree0fAdBfjNjbWI1bKdAK3gXZV98AUeYoF2N1edB4TLIXVlrxLI3ON-kmi0KcVNQ70eYssvLGSEnrdhBf8k9-HW33VrGQcmwH2Bg=s1280" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1140" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6LiZflpEpPVp28UeQ-xXKkx-icEqDqdXIKk_4l4y6OAh0f1NTJgyxQjT4lAL0gKf5Ixk_TbiEItlfi6Afb9Fnl_Ree0fAdBfjNjbWI1bKdAK3gXZV98AUeYoF2N1edB4TLIXVlrxLI3ON-kmi0KcVNQ70eYssvLGSEnrdhBf8k9-HW33VrGQcmwH2Bg=s320" width="285" /></a></div>As I got older and stepped into adulthood,
my Dad and I had a few bumps along the way—as any two strong-willed Italian men
are wont to do. But my Dad and I found our way to a wonderful, close
relationship marked by mutual respect, admiration, and—most of all—love. My Dad
was my biggest cheerleader—sometimes embarrassingly so—and never missed an
opportunity to tell me that he was proud of the man I’d become. In his later
years, he loved nothing more than to visit Brian and I in New York for
Christmas or during the summer, although we secretly suspect that he really
came to spend time with our Miniature Schnauzer, Coco, who he loved dearly and who
left us in August—now, we know, to prepare for the arrival of his favorite “old
man friend” as we used to jokingly refer to my Dad. During those visits, my Dad
loved spending time and holiday gatherings with our dearest circle of friends,
who just adored my Dad as evidenced by some of them driving several hundred miles
this morning out from the eastern end of Long Island to be here today to honor
him. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0z_-VCN-WzkrErFWKrgXYv6qhAbK-9mv3tykkZtF7Ude7u-EIAvXalSoY5lJN6UZ3E8KUyDd7cpk4XztPeB_RR5Y5sHIeM963dqQKcNHQdNrWzSQ2tBzKrYkgaXildiTAtOlcCBuBzRACbGVbuEjGS2NwFbxrwc0Z0jVyPk5CyfN-F4qhyV_8a45m7g=s1791" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1791" data-original-width="1291" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0z_-VCN-WzkrErFWKrgXYv6qhAbK-9mv3tykkZtF7Ude7u-EIAvXalSoY5lJN6UZ3E8KUyDd7cpk4XztPeB_RR5Y5sHIeM963dqQKcNHQdNrWzSQ2tBzKrYkgaXildiTAtOlcCBuBzRACbGVbuEjGS2NwFbxrwc0Z0jVyPk5CyfN-F4qhyV_8a45m7g=s320" width="231" /></a></div>My Dad taught me many things over
the course of my life—from the importance of good manners and firm handshakes to
working hard for what you want in life and the magnitude of having a loyal
circle of friends. But those who knew my Dad also know that he taught us all a
great lesson in resiliency. No matter what challenges life lobbed at him, he’d
figure out a way to rise above it; and if he couldn’t, he quickly adjusted and
learned to live with it. How many people do you know who lived with the
inconveniences and limitations of dialysis three times a week for more than 25
years—rarely, if ever, complaining and just working life around it? Whether it
was the heartbreak of the dissolution of a relationship or a health setback,
Dad took a deep breath, found strength in his abundant faith, and recalibrated.
<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzaElJ_1IkcjXJQZSSMwJ1wZh-QzBk-WcPZ1ps6BxH9gqt_FE-6B6ktYDInwxfkBfi5xACjtOFVqxPoqdHMpvi-Fyy0e9YSRKw4AGHVeHXaxo3LlnayVIEJeC94fJcpy5OC0X3raJJ4xjKbHw89hnQBamegbCMehPc6G5e7Yymn4BlLsKDlhKER3_RTg=s1280" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzaElJ_1IkcjXJQZSSMwJ1wZh-QzBk-WcPZ1ps6BxH9gqt_FE-6B6ktYDInwxfkBfi5xACjtOFVqxPoqdHMpvi-Fyy0e9YSRKw4AGHVeHXaxo3LlnayVIEJeC94fJcpy5OC0X3raJJ4xjKbHw89hnQBamegbCMehPc6G5e7Yymn4BlLsKDlhKER3_RTg=s320" width="320" /></a></div>As an only child, I was given
both the heavy emotional burden and great blessing last week of being with my
Dad when he transitioned from this earthly life to what he faithfully believed
came next. It was an intimate and profound experience between the two of us that
I haven’t quite been able to fully process yet, but I realized in the days
after that I’ve come to realize that Dad gave me one final gift—an
understanding of grace. Sure, as a dutiful Catholic school student I memorized
the definition many years ago, likely in preparation to receive one of the
sacraments. But this week, in the days leading up to and following his death, I
understand it in tangible terms. From the night nurse who sensed my fatigue and
instinctively brought me a cup of ice water and a can of ginger ale the night I
arrived at the hospital after a long, eight-hour drive in from Michigan to my
Dad’s longtime nephrologist, Dr. Ciampaglia, who came to his room a few hours
before his passing and just sat with me for a good 30 minutes, recounting how
she’d first met my Dad during her residency at Temple more than 25 years ago.
In the immediate moments following his passing, the nurse’s aide who quietly
slipped into the room behind me as I sobbed over my beautiful Dad and gently
rubbed my back. Or the following morning, after little sleep, as I pulled up to
the Starbucks drive-in, desperate for a latte and instead getting a cheery
disembodied voice to take my order and then ask if I’d like to participate in
the holiday question of the day. I choked out that my father had just died, and
that disembodied voice grew immediately conciliatory and apologized, ushering
me forward. At the drive-up window, the young lady had tears in her eyes and
recounted how she’d lost her Dad around the holidays several years before and
that she understood and that she was sorry. Then she handed me my latte and
told me it was on her. I understood that these simple moments—these amalgamations
of empathy and kindness from the purest part of the human heart—are grace
personified. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJ54jP2P65psH2qMPw03128ZvZWyZIJfAeO7sfCt86si8OhwJ14alGd-Ppch4JTkbrMCRaa4m-FXDD5apNZzjVCtVbBroS_0qmvoVRdVtXH6qNv5v-8dPRHsEurFrtMFH3yJ6jm-915v9qq4dENt7H0u3oplAibgl66jk07MTGxdGVo3bn78zZ6AuAfQ=s948" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="948" data-original-width="867" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJ54jP2P65psH2qMPw03128ZvZWyZIJfAeO7sfCt86si8OhwJ14alGd-Ppch4JTkbrMCRaa4m-FXDD5apNZzjVCtVbBroS_0qmvoVRdVtXH6qNv5v-8dPRHsEurFrtMFH3yJ6jm-915v9qq4dENt7H0u3oplAibgl66jk07MTGxdGVo3bn78zZ6AuAfQ=s320" width="293" /></a></div>My Dad—a man who loved Sinatra
and the Yankees, a man who loved to dance, a man who was always the
sharpest-dressed one in the room, a man who was never without a joke to tell—was
also a man of tremendous grace. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Rest easy in eternal peace, Dad. You’ve
more than earned your angel’s wings. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">Vincent Liaguno<br />12/30/1938 - 12/03/2021</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-86222687528312210692021-11-24T05:10:00.001-05:002021-11-24T11:18:31.698-05:00Speak Not On All Matters<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFvoczb3elZU5-9HKgPlMQsMDecoioVymncuOcupIVCN-UGQXgKakWZRb9C2mNhpZMmY-mh2Ijd_dP4AC6XDScduUtuuqjjR5O4sa6J8iRcTAcjs9hiuXGwhBuD4r6LNt38VuOvJUK2GF0/s1200/5fd08266358709223de28076_Why-a-Culture-of-Silence-Is-Killing-Innovation.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="811" data-original-width="1200" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFvoczb3elZU5-9HKgPlMQsMDecoioVymncuOcupIVCN-UGQXgKakWZRb9C2mNhpZMmY-mh2Ijd_dP4AC6XDScduUtuuqjjR5O4sa6J8iRcTAcjs9hiuXGwhBuD4r6LNt38VuOvJUK2GF0/s320/5fd08266358709223de28076_Why-a-Culture-of-Silence-Is-Killing-Innovation.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">I’ve tried to be more disciplined in what I respond and
react to—especially on social media. I find that when I resist the impulse to
jump into the fray on every topic or respond to every incendiary headline, I
find greater peace of mind. My opinion is just that—mine. It’s not imperative
to my well-being to share it. I’ve tried to recognize that doing so in the past
only served to feed my egotism. Today’s virtual public square is a cacophony of
inflammatory rhetoric and ideological disharmony; I’ve found that sometimes the
easiest way to decrease the noise is not to add to it. Looking back, I’ve found
that, at times, it was more important to jam my point into a discussion than it
was to consider the broader implications for those involved in said discussion.
Does my need to hammer home my point have to steamroll over someone who may
have a greater emotional investment in the topic at hand? The short answer: No.</div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<div style="text-align: left;">In resisting the self-serving need to hastily weigh in on
every topic, I find that I’m able to strengthen my sense of self-control,
avoiding unnecessary online altercations and vexations in which—undoubtedly—one
or more parties walks away feeling wronged or, worse, persecuted. The world around
us is cause enough for anxiety; why add to the collective tension and temperature
of the pot through an egocentric compulsion to force opinions and the need to
be “right?” In the last of Freud's major theoretical works, 1923’s <i>The Ego and the Id</i>, he made the analogy of the id being a horse while the ego is the rider.
The ego is “like a man on horseback, who has to hold in check the superior
strength of the horse.” That’s largely what this exercise has been for me—trying
to keep my instinctual desire to opinionate in check by taking tighter reins of
my ego and engaging in secondary process thinking. Do I succeed at controlling
the impulse every single time? Hell, no. Do I still succumb to my ego-demon on
occasion, the one who feels the need to be snarky or clever or right? Hell,
yes. </div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<div style="text-align: left;">But this work in progress keeps trying to get it right, to
find the balance, to hurt and demean people less with my words. I take
inspiration in this quest from the essayist Joan Didion, from her award-winning
2007 memoir on grief, <i>The Year of Magical Thinking</i>: “Why do you always have to
be right? Why do you always have to have the last word? For once in your life
just let it go.”</div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p></p><p></p>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-61407600281590309122021-10-21T05:04:00.004-04:002021-10-21T14:31:52.145-04:00Mob Mentality and the Sidelined Final Girl of ‘Halloween Kills’<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8b3RV49A7G14N6EVsNuo43fBzrPmNeu7m5O_j9lR7yFBx0Q4IafKKdnmmz1KwrPJf6UCkq8XjU4n3Zsa9ZbYyFWqqUCw6jT3BvnTdLweH3WrdvuWH9qV9W5Mm-L7sEqGfWNjIOYG4wXI/s700/HK9+%25282%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="700" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8b3RV49A7G14N6EVsNuo43fBzrPmNeu7m5O_j9lR7yFBx0Q4IafKKdnmmz1KwrPJf6UCkq8XjU4n3Zsa9ZbYyFWqqUCw6jT3BvnTdLweH3WrdvuWH9qV9W5Mm-L7sEqGfWNjIOYG4wXI/w320-h182/HK9+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Let’s get this out of the way early: Jamie Lee Curtis is
largely relegated to a hospital room in <i>Halloween
Kills</i>. Her iconic final girl, Laurie Strode, gets no kick-ass action
sequences battling perennial boogeyman, Michael Myers. She winces (a <i>lot</i>) from her injuries sustained in the
2018 installment, <i>threatens</i> to go
hunt Myers down, and waxes philosophical about the nature of evil—but gets to
do nothing beyond these trivialities. Knowing that <i>Halloween Kills</i> is the bridge film between <i>Halloween</i> and next year’s <i>Halloween
Ends</i>, one suspects that director David Gordon Green is reserving Curtis’ genre
capital for a climatic showdown for the ages in the last film—but that does
little to alleviate the feelings that something’s missing from this film;
namely, the lynchpin of the <i>Halloween</i>
franchise. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0osRPRRafIvx9EkTZHUPg32O5EPOF7ttmqanEQKXCzmbu2CHQGjAQ6-N3AGTQWIIP1gnud9Oyb2nAGFyZPAR-Mz6Ea-E1rcJJ41HzACqSQZUL8_Nwvr4VWaCXZhjH6Lbg1YQhCaRCoSdT/s2048/HK4.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0osRPRRafIvx9EkTZHUPg32O5EPOF7ttmqanEQKXCzmbu2CHQGjAQ6-N3AGTQWIIP1gnud9Oyb2nAGFyZPAR-Mz6Ea-E1rcJJ41HzACqSQZUL8_Nwvr4VWaCXZhjH6Lbg1YQhCaRCoSdT/s320/HK4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Ok, now that that’s out of the way, we can move on and
assess <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween Kills</i> on its
Strode-less merits. I’ve watched the film twice; the first time as my
ten-year-old self who’s still enthralled by the boogeyman in suburbia, the
second time with a more deliberate critical eye. Like any film in the venerable
franchise, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween Kills</i> is a mixed
bag, hitting some of its marks with brutal precision while missing others
completely. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZEHY2QYIzBPWsrlWAynNNVz5XNa80D7-v-qG5ofZzxdCN2NdmDzUTgS8TR3WDyAcbtlHZDAeJcSSJ1NX5W6O9TfrK5_XQgc_Ta5vefRIKtFwX-AxHMszBsW5c_T9BPbyi8xQp0WMaMHjK/s681/HK6.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="681" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZEHY2QYIzBPWsrlWAynNNVz5XNa80D7-v-qG5ofZzxdCN2NdmDzUTgS8TR3WDyAcbtlHZDAeJcSSJ1NX5W6O9TfrK5_XQgc_Ta5vefRIKtFwX-AxHMszBsW5c_T9BPbyi8xQp0WMaMHjK/s320/HK6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The new film begins with a very clever prologue that
continues the 1978 film’s storyline—the pursuit and capture of Michael Myers.
It involves a young Officer Hawkins (Thomas Mann) and a life-and-death decision
that changes the trajectory of far too many lives to count by now and an
encounter between Myers and young Lonnie Elam (Tristian Eggerling). It also
features an impressive—if improbable—cameo by a character from the original
film. Green and company really shine in this sequence, which possesses both the
look and feel of Carpenter’s original, and ably set the mood for what’s to
come. After this pre-credit sequence, the film picks up where the 2018 film
ended: Laurie’s compound engulfed in flames and its intergenerational trio of
final girls—an injured Laurie, daughter Karen, and granddaughter Allyson—jostling
down the road in the back of a pick-up truck en route to Haddonfield Memorial. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUjLNFjf-k4Dc8r4tdapgxqGleblIfaJY21e-Crp1CA7ldX_4HV3TyG0QLb87UtzxbYxfmeMOZgIf3J71fNOm1EUhs_9THp7fGzEjfOCbERaI51oiaIif5qo2FNsm_xfOAGPEnJOdkKOH9/s1696/HK13+%25282%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1542" data-original-width="1696" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUjLNFjf-k4Dc8r4tdapgxqGleblIfaJY21e-Crp1CA7ldX_4HV3TyG0QLb87UtzxbYxfmeMOZgIf3J71fNOm1EUhs_9THp7fGzEjfOCbERaI51oiaIif5qo2FNsm_xfOAGPEnJOdkKOH9/s320/HK13+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>After giving the audience a reasonably plausible explanation
for how he survives the fiery deathtrap Laurie rigged for him, a slightly
charred and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very</i> pissed-off Myers
goes on a rampage, slicing and dicing his way back to Haddonfield proper. Myers
is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">angry</i> in this movie—with the kills
brutal beyond anything seen in the franchise since Rob Zombie took his one-two
crack at it. While Mikey takes out the majority of Haddonfield’s fire
department and a drone-flying interracial couple, the audience is re-introduced
to the survivors from the original film—Tommy Doyle (Anthony Michael Hall),
Lindsey Wallace (Kyle Richards), nurse Marion (Nancy Stephens), and a grown up
Lonnie Elam (Robert Longstreet)—who gather at a dive-bar for an annual
commemoration of the tragic events of Halloween night ’78 and to toast Laurie.
Elsewhere, Lonnie’s son and Allyson’s on-the-outs boyfriend Cameron (Dylan
Arnold) happens upon a critically injured Officer Hawkins (Will Patton). As the
parties converge upon Haddonfield Memorial, news that Myers has somehow
survived and is killing his way back to town gets out. The survivors—led by a
baseball bat-wielding Tommy—decide that “evil dies tonight!” and a vigilante
mob is formed to hunt Myers down once and for all. Otay, Panky.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVZ2RifhTwvj8ldO8UiMijJuaQZSE8QeEYprCeXU8a6s8-SVp3jISIYUcRg-t2tUPg0QuDoscihyfUe8EAz7zU1K2bEn7MfZyzdc6MQ7YoFxQTC0CK8me2y8RICZk-yC0W5KXf8eQeOIOM/s768/HK11.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="768" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVZ2RifhTwvj8ldO8UiMijJuaQZSE8QeEYprCeXU8a6s8-SVp3jISIYUcRg-t2tUPg0QuDoscihyfUe8EAz7zU1K2bEn7MfZyzdc6MQ7YoFxQTC0CK8me2y8RICZk-yC0W5KXf8eQeOIOM/s320/HK11.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>If it sounds like there’s a lot going on in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween Kills</i>, it’s because there is.
Green is firing on all cylinders in this one, his many story threads mirroring
the growing chaos of the mob outside Haddonfield Memorial. Karen (Judy Greer),
who’s given far more than the yeoman’s work she had to do in the last film, is
convinced that Myers is coming to the hospital to kill her mother. Allyson
(Andi Matichak) ignores her mother’s directive to sit vigil at her
grandmother’s bedside, instead arming up and joining Cameron and Lonnie in
their hunt for Myers. Sheriff Barker (Omar Dorsey, also returning from the last
film) tries—albeit unsuccessfully—to control the mob tensions about to tragically
spill over at the hospital, even getting into verbal fisticuffs with
Haddonfield’s former sheriff, Leigh Brackett (Charles Cyphers), who’s now head
of hospital security. And Michael Myers? He’s making a beeline for his former
family home on Lampkin Lane, now inhabited by an affectionately quirky gay
couple nicknamed Big John and Little John and played by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">MADtv’s</i> Michael McDonald and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Mick’s</i> Scott MacArthur. Suffice to say that Myers reaches the ‘ole
homestead before the ragtag crew of would-be vigilantes does and is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> a fan of the new color scheme. Or
charcuterie. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0uHMa2xja_xFWwmZjlAooa20hxhKGLI6sza6WYyRnpoTtDpdrbjyY4AuV0VytFRcU0pHafEAbEeW_kmQwhMVdXySwwFoPjHP7Y8Vwfb51W-uk_kRh3ea6OyMi2Pz3N_hurjAIx8mJmJCG/s1024/HK15.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0uHMa2xja_xFWwmZjlAooa20hxhKGLI6sza6WYyRnpoTtDpdrbjyY4AuV0VytFRcU0pHafEAbEeW_kmQwhMVdXySwwFoPjHP7Y8Vwfb51W-uk_kRh3ea6OyMi2Pz3N_hurjAIx8mJmJCG/s320/HK15.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The film’s third act coalesces in a weird, dreamlike,
violent denouement—complete with voiceover by Laurie from her hospital room—the
sole intention of which seems to be setting up the next film. It’s in this
final sequence of events where Green is either going to succumb to the same
fate as all previous sequel directors or rise above it in spectacular fashion:
Explaining how and why Michael Myers “transcends” human mortality. It’s clear
after the Haddonfield mob puts Myers through his paces that he’s something…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beyond</i> a mere mortal man. How Green will
expound on this in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween Ends</i>
will ultimately cement his standing in franchise history. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTqtruTfxjtpwk7WIhdwMmrNiqywVuuqLyB-am9shOZb4a0p0c1VH57hW0HNsbcVd-TdZwFLfZhDp6Bbg821yXmyFiIrzCCMsjYoMrhI9egXPYqgVu5q8ZI9bdE44xxMwmLwCzDX7erRG6/s768/HK7.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="515" data-original-width="768" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTqtruTfxjtpwk7WIhdwMmrNiqywVuuqLyB-am9shOZb4a0p0c1VH57hW0HNsbcVd-TdZwFLfZhDp6Bbg821yXmyFiIrzCCMsjYoMrhI9egXPYqgVu5q8ZI9bdE44xxMwmLwCzDX7erRG6/s320/HK7.jpg" width="320" /></a></i></div><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween Kills</i>
isn’t a perfect film and suffers from middle-child syndrome, the degree to
which won’t be evident until it can be held up within the context of the full
trilogy of films. As purely a sequel, it’s briskly paced with some exceptionally well-executed
sequences, like the parkside SUV assault, and some less so. (Yes, I’m talking
to you, Big John and Little John.) The nostalgia factor here with returning
characters is high (hell if I didn’t get misty-eyed when Cyphers first appears
on the screen), with surprisingly strong performances from Richards and
Longstreet. Matichak, too, is exceptionally good. Disappointingly, Hall’s Tommy
Doyle is a misfire. With his bellowing and menacing baseball bat stance, it’s
as if he were channeling Jeffrey Dean Morgan’s Negan from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Walking Dead</i> here. Chalk this up to the film’s inconsistent
writing, which Green shares with Scott Teems and Danny McBride. For every
well-written scene (like the one in which Greer’s character attempts to help
one of the escaped Smith’s Grove patients who’s been mistaken by the hospital
mob for Myers), there are two that suffer from cringe-worthy dialogue and weird
pacing. Even the big twist at the end of the film feels off, illogical in the
context of time and what’s going on just outside the Myers house where it
occurs. Elsewhere, Green makes at least one surprising choice in which a
character most would peg as a goner early on actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">survives</i> their Myers encounter, which leaves one wondering if said
character will have a part to play in the final film. On the plus side, John
Carpenter (with son, Cody, and Daniel Davies) delivers another outstanding
soundtrack that manages to sound distinctive while remaining true to his original
’78 score. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb3oTILdqwoe4s9LFnmyUgBy4vqOZafB_qNglZDsdOGXCBsEcCO-UVtHcSUxK7ZWbylNTPAGhVCLaTuRdtNYmTh5dtEtlQOEeIJhQLLPS1Ip0XyRiOVod7KIbXy9H7nArj2tjXMOwl_bEc/s2048/HK2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb3oTILdqwoe4s9LFnmyUgBy4vqOZafB_qNglZDsdOGXCBsEcCO-UVtHcSUxK7ZWbylNTPAGhVCLaTuRdtNYmTh5dtEtlQOEeIJhQLLPS1Ip0XyRiOVod7KIbXy9H7nArj2tjXMOwl_bEc/s320/HK2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Like its predecessor’s commentary on generational trauma, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween Kills</i> works better in a broader
sense with its depiction of the dangers of mob mentality. When the hive mind
overrides rational thought and reason, Green and company postulate here, the
resulting consequences can be worse than the original trigger. The denizens of Haddonfield
rise up—collectively—to defeat their longtime boogeyman. It’s a noble
undertaking to want to reclaim their home, but Green is there to remind us that
sometimes evil wins—especially if you’re the lady who brings an honest-to-God iron
to the street fight. And, sometimes, there’s collateral damage. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween Kills</i> gives us the collateral
damage in spades. This Curtis-light entry in Green’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween</i> trilogy may be short on the Strode but it’s heavy on the
brutality. Its breakneck violence works best when viewed as the (fast) moving
part to a whole not yet fully in view. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyn41sEV4yth1wwwoaVUsDlHyA0kXw8OmwzYNdq3AjKABZAD83HYqtFGJdJdivktXoZQqJaX4kpaOs5ss_-D5NPRc7lAQdpYtbF3LeedbNoWaDw-nTD5dOv6JDdAOLPp7jw7rbEbwmMULA/s740/HK17.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="740" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyn41sEV4yth1wwwoaVUsDlHyA0kXw8OmwzYNdq3AjKABZAD83HYqtFGJdJdivktXoZQqJaX4kpaOs5ss_-D5NPRc7lAQdpYtbF3LeedbNoWaDw-nTD5dOv6JDdAOLPp7jw7rbEbwmMULA/s320/HK17.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Narrative choppiness aside, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween Kills</i> ultimately delivers the slasher goods. Michael
Myers is the soulless killing machine we’ve all come to know and love over the
course of 40+ years in eleven films (with a twelfth on the way) and a body
count now over 150. Best advice: Turn off your brain, grab some popcorn, and
just ride the waves of slasher nostalgia. Let the armchair critics of the world
argue pointlessly over the film’s merits—or lack thereof—and just lose yourself
in the seasonal slaughter. There will be plenty of time for more serious
discourse and analysis once we see what kind of bow Green slaps on his trilogy
with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween Ends</i>. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Rest up, Laurie Strode—we expect big things from you in the
next one.</p>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-31806990287735655712021-09-17T10:14:00.001-04:002021-09-17T10:19:23.614-04:00Fearing the Other in 'Other Terrors'<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgejD9YvKokpK5ZX_QNiK_6CPamH_gzNMaX2krwAQMS6R09-1n1iC2jX9s1ArmKQc3nWlTDDmwxkEWufNOWwATjvvKB7J1CGJ55eteX5vybhAVfoELYJQcbWjdqvQb7VghwabgzV6-JCuh9/s2048/Cover+-+FINAL.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgejD9YvKokpK5ZX_QNiK_6CPamH_gzNMaX2krwAQMS6R09-1n1iC2jX9s1ArmKQc3nWlTDDmwxkEWufNOWwATjvvKB7J1CGJ55eteX5vybhAVfoELYJQcbWjdqvQb7VghwabgzV6-JCuh9/s320/Cover+-+FINAL.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">I'm very happy to finally share the exquisite cover for <i>Other Terrors</i>, my forthcoming HWA anthology, co-edited with the talented Rena Mason. The cover artwork was done by Venezuelan graphic designer Pablo Gerardo Camacho, who also did the cover for Marlon James' <i>Black Leopard, Red Wolf</i>. The anthology will be published on July 19, 2022 by Mariner Books (an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt). </p><p></p><p>Even better, after many months of reading and re-reading member submissions and editorial deliberations, we recently revealed the contributors and TOC. Personally, I’m most proud of the fact that although we were slated to select five member submissions, Rena and I worked hard to open up space for ten, doubling the presence of HWA members in our TOC. There are 22 short stories, 2 poems, written by 15 female contributors, 9 male—each bringing a unique perspective to the universal theme of “otherness” from the diversity of their backgrounds and experiences. From the publisher’s website:</p><p></p><blockquote><p><i>An anthology of original new horror stories edited by Bram Stoker Award winners Vince Liaguno and Rena Mason that showcases authors from underrepresented backgrounds telling terrifying tales of what it means to be, or merely to seem, “other.”</i></p><p><i>Offering original new stories from some of the biggest names in horror as well as some of the hottest up-and-coming talents, Other Terrors will provide the ultimate reading experience for horror fans who want to celebrate fear of “the other.” Be they of a different culture, a different background, a different sexual preference, a different belief system, or a different skin color, some people simply aren’t part of the dominant community—and are perceived as scary. Humans are almost instinctively inclined to fear what’s different, as foolish as that may be, and there are a multitude of individuals who have spent far too long on the outside looking in. And the thing about the outside is . . . it’s much larger than you think.</i></p><p><i>In Other Terrors, horror writers from a multitude of underrepresented backgrounds will be putting a new, terrifying spin on what it means to be “the other.” People, places, and things once considered normal will suddenly appear different, striking a deeper, much more primal, chord of fear. Are our eyes playing tricks on us, or is there something truly sinister lurking under the surface of what we thought we knew? And who among us who is really of the other, after all?</i></p></blockquote><p></p><p>We are happy to announce that the following HWA members will be included in <i>Other Terrors</i>:</p><p>• Holly Walrath with “The Asylum”</p><p>• Denise Dumars with “Scrape”</p><p>• Annie Neugebauer with “Churn the Unturning Tide”</p><p>• Nathan Carson with “Help, I’m a Cop”</p><p>• M.E. Bronstein with “The Voice of Nightingales” </p><p>• Shanna Heath with “Miss Infection USA”</p><p>• Michael H. Hanson with “Night Shopper”</p><p>• Jonathan Lees with “It Comes in Waves”</p><p>• Maxwell Ian Gold with “Black Screams, Yellow Stars”</p><p>and</p><p>• Hailey Piper with “The Turning”</p><p>These exceptional stories from our HWA members will join previously announced esteemed contributors:</p><p>• Tananarive Due with “Incident at Bear Creek Lodge”</p><p>• S.A. Cosby with “What Blood Hath Wrought”</p><p>• Alma Katsu with “Waste Not”</p><p>• Stephen Graham Jones with “Tiddlywinks”</p><p>• Jennifer McMahon with “Idiot Girls”</p><p>• Michael Thomas Ford with “Where the Lovelight Gleams”</p><p>and</p><p>• Ann Dávila Cardinal with “Invasive Species”</p><p>Rounding out this outstanding TOC, the following talented authors will also be joining the <i>Other Terrors</i> lineup:</p><p>• Usman Malik with “Mud Flappers”</p><p>• Gabino Iglesias with “There’s Always Something in the Woods”</p><p>• Eugen Bacon with “The Devil Don’t Come with Horns”</p><p>• Larissa Glasser with “Kalkriese”</p><p>• Tracy A. Cross with “All Not Ready”</p><p>• Linda D. Addison with her poem “Illusions of the De-Evolved”</p><p>and</p><p>• Christina Sng with her poem “Other Fears”</p><p>Heartfelt congratulations to all those whose stories made the TOC, and our sincerest thanks to the HWA membership for making our decisions so difficult. The quality of the pool of submissions was impressive! We deeply appreciate your patience as we worked through the long process of bringing this anthology together. Special thanks to Jaime Levine at HMH, whose been a pleasure to work with, HWA's agent Alec Shane, and Lisa Morton, who both recommended me for the gig and had the insight to pair me with a superb co-editor.</p><p>Pre-orders are up now. Following the lead of one of our contributors, Jonathan Lees, here are several online retailers from whom you can pre-order <i>Other Terrors:</i></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="https://bookshop.org/books/other-terrors-an-inclusive-anthology/9780358658894" target="_blank">Bookshop</a> (a great way to support indie booksellers)</li><li><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/other-terrors-vince-a-liaguno/1139666711;jsessionid=B9FC0C76384D632F7453C91E68A84D18.prodny_store01-atgap16?ean=9780358658894&st=AFF&2sid=Houghton%20Mifflin%20Harcourt%20Publishing%20Company_8371646_NA&sourceId=AFFHoughton%20Mifflin%20Harcourt%20Publishing%20Company" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a> </li><li><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0358658896?tag=houghtonmif04-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> </li><li><a href="https://www.hmhco.com/shop/books/other-terrors/9780358658894?fbclid=IwAR1E6y5v9JtbINdi6cfe2o2_n_Q7UV83lyzUfcVYrsPdWnTQv6BqpzNHSMY" target="_blank">Houghton Mifflin Harcourt</a> (straight from the publisher) </li></ul><p></p>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-29139916403589373772021-08-15T15:03:00.004-04:002021-08-15T15:20:02.838-04:00Coco (2007 - 2021)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheOBQ5UyqAQ0pOziKRVzuAxoydDy9m59xKDJQfYwimhpmGqsSi580XqT9oHnTGhLRh3WUXIpI-k97zkpeM5unl9C5ELxrfMHJVKi2EkZP1un55hfpbj3Hdew2yQWtQO2DTZlBdoldCW1hL/s2048/Coco+-+Toy+4.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheOBQ5UyqAQ0pOziKRVzuAxoydDy9m59xKDJQfYwimhpmGqsSi580XqT9oHnTGhLRh3WUXIpI-k97zkpeM5unl9C5ELxrfMHJVKi2EkZP1un55hfpbj3Hdew2yQWtQO2DTZlBdoldCW1hL/s320/Coco+-+Toy+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>It’s Tuesday as I sit at the desk in my home office and begin writing this; it’s a gray and gloomy morning here in Michigan. <br /><br />Fitting weather for a heartbreaking morning after. <br /><br />On Monday, August 9th, our sweet boy, Coco—with Brian and I at his side—crossed the Rainbow Bridge. It feels infinitely more comforting to write that instead of “he died” or “he passed away” but we’re all adults in the room and well-versed on the deceptive reality of such feel-good words. Yet we cling to them when there is little left to cling to, don’t we? It somehow lessens the gravity; too bad it doesn’t lessen the ache.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl7eTH1j6IQ4uki3gpLkX46V2xrBz_-H_xcIsEG25eXq65fOfWKuT1UoavAAC2bBk7LcchyfhzbfBLjeZhxp3Xt8J0MyE9DsjpKI9iySUgBRYgm61BIJV61iL7dLYCFio5h1iIufF_nEj6/s922/Coco+Intrepid+1A.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="691" data-original-width="922" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl7eTH1j6IQ4uki3gpLkX46V2xrBz_-H_xcIsEG25eXq65fOfWKuT1UoavAAC2bBk7LcchyfhzbfBLjeZhxp3Xt8J0MyE9DsjpKI9iySUgBRYgm61BIJV61iL7dLYCFio5h1iIufF_nEj6/s320/Coco+Intrepid+1A.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Coco was a special dog—a Miniature Schnauzer who personified love with his gentle spirit. He was handsome in the stateliest of ways with a dog show prance for miles. He shared a birthday with my own Dad—December 30th—although my father has a few years on him. He was a lover—no dog could cuddle like Coco, whether it be on a lap or beside you in bed. He oozed affection and goodwill and could instinctively gauge moods and give you just what you needed at just the right moment. Along with that German pedigree of his came stubbornness (sometimes it became a battle of wills over pooping), and no dog could throw shade as effectively or comically as our Coco. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioVihF5IAKsYVY_DcLsx1Aq_tLdPAzwlhQRGc3Y6gTJ2059-NDKeOYaYDTXsJ1yAOyIyIvPUDG7AkGePXznuTXr2ZWY40gwCd6JRUuuvvrkf9LavzN8MMtoT1ybnCQDfPPwECmjmJ00Uaa/s2048/Coco+-+NYC+1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioVihF5IAKsYVY_DcLsx1Aq_tLdPAzwlhQRGc3Y6gTJ2059-NDKeOYaYDTXsJ1yAOyIyIvPUDG7AkGePXznuTXr2ZWY40gwCd6JRUuuvvrkf9LavzN8MMtoT1ybnCQDfPPwECmjmJ00Uaa/s320/Coco+-+NYC+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I met Coco in October of 2011, shortly after Brian and I met in New York City. It was our third or fourth date and Brian brought Coco—then about four months shy of his 4th birthday—over to my weekend apartment in Hell’s Kitchen one Saturday evening. I had mentioned to Brian how my own childhood dog had been a Miniature Schnauzer, given to me by my father for my 8th birthday. When I met Coco, it was love at first sight. To this day, I joke with Brian about who I fell in love with first—him or his dog. That would have been 10 years ago next month. As Brian and I grew closer, our little family of three solidified.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs96TE-BdVdlCDb7w681_YJTw9_CYAwTbDoaIJpdA6X-6mG3OLn80BjTT15bcTFHEqtDcF6G5jNALO5dX5YRg5Z0lzlZp0CmpEFKlzxvs8O6VD9ATrWKw04P_YQp03SJ6C4O9X4I0BqwgY/s2048/Coco+-+Truck+Shotgun+.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs96TE-BdVdlCDb7w681_YJTw9_CYAwTbDoaIJpdA6X-6mG3OLn80BjTT15bcTFHEqtDcF6G5jNALO5dX5YRg5Z0lzlZp0CmpEFKlzxvs8O6VD9ATrWKw04P_YQp03SJ6C4O9X4I0BqwgY/s320/Coco+-+Truck+Shotgun+.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Coco had an amazing life of adventure—from growing up in the heart of Manhattan to our long road trips to Michigan and Pennsylvania. Even when Brian and I settled into the suburbs on Long Island, there were weekend getaways into the city for Broadway shows, with Coco always happy to be safely ensconced in a NYC hotel room with late-night and early morning walks around city blocks bustling with city dwellers and tourists alike. Coco frequently came with me to work at the nursing home, always happy to go office to office visiting my staff, presiding over morning meeting sitting on my lap at the head of the conference room table, and those midday strolls around the perimeter of the facility. Coco loved riding in the car, and I was happiest when he rode shotgun in my truck even if it was just to the Starbucks drive-thru to get coffee. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_BQTHPVCvGJG6Wl3cTAXvGTAMf7g5qpiLEtJhNcnrCIrubRFn_rc0_qOnGynQ0wwVpr1dmLAqk3yWHgoMfVQvs0iE1008l0Q_JvCMuz3u4Zh8Hn0_2gqlpYfeJRmbH4wWKxYIDweZYlXv/s2048/Coco+-+Toys+.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1974" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_BQTHPVCvGJG6Wl3cTAXvGTAMf7g5qpiLEtJhNcnrCIrubRFn_rc0_qOnGynQ0wwVpr1dmLAqk3yWHgoMfVQvs0iE1008l0Q_JvCMuz3u4Zh8Hn0_2gqlpYfeJRmbH4wWKxYIDweZYlXv/s320/Coco+-+Toys+.jpg" width="308" /></a></div>Coco had the tenderest of dispositions, instinctively knowing when to play gentler with a puppy (like his buddy Missy at The Hamptons Center) and when he could assert himself with a larger dog. There is still a YouTube video out there of our Coco hilariously terrorizing Brian’s brother’s late 100-pound-plus English Mastiff, Dante. There wasn’t another dog or person who Coco didn’t get along with. He was always a mellow, go-with-the-flow kind of dog. Even with our frequent moves (seven in the space of just under ten years), Coco always proved to be adaptable and resilient. As long as he had us—and a favorite “baby” or two—he was good to go and happy. And as long as we had him, our lives felt full and complete.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTGlsQNClCIclMR4H-ZAQVO4kX_hCbmYnckItW_1_U-Tx9GsBeuC9JkOJVKUJ_J3HFD5Vb4RKX-M209CUOTBbkP6jxpQPLBUnUEVDecgK5N0uyy6kqfnG0z2t1X2bcRNJOw4NZ_EpfYb5-/s2048/Coco+and+the+Christmas+Ornament+2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTGlsQNClCIclMR4H-ZAQVO4kX_hCbmYnckItW_1_U-Tx9GsBeuC9JkOJVKUJ_J3HFD5Vb4RKX-M209CUOTBbkP6jxpQPLBUnUEVDecgK5N0uyy6kqfnG0z2t1X2bcRNJOw4NZ_EpfYb5-/s320/Coco+and+the+Christmas+Ornament+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>He became a big brother in December of 2019, when Cooper—also a Miniature Schnauzer—joined our family. My only regret is that we waited so long to get another dog and playmate for Coco. Although they only had about a year and a half together, they bonded quickly. In testament to Coco’s generous and loving spirit, he (again) quickly adapted to sharing his dads with the family’s new addition, never once showing signs of resentment or jealousy. Even as the years advanced on our Coco, he did his very best to keep up with mini-Cooper’s endless energy. They’d tussle together on the floor and be happy to go on long walks together, but sleeping arrangements were where we always let Coco maintain the upper hand—he got to sleep between us in the bed, while Coop snuggled amongst his blankets and “frog baby” in his crate. It was our one way to remind Coco that he came first and had at least one privilege his upstart little brother did not. It was an arrangement he seemed satisfied with, even until his last night with us.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiukCKYGLkEQcl5AGchqHtLsvN0yu0uLtbq6kf_ygUb-YnS2AhKdzfoECy4Arc-oGrWtHH_W8FndkMXU0VW-VUUmnpv805VTOGY_G1kSoGz3QZwAgOJUYcLq084XJBi5Kysbmc5MTaA7W6m/s2048/Coco+-+Paisley+Chair+3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiukCKYGLkEQcl5AGchqHtLsvN0yu0uLtbq6kf_ygUb-YnS2AhKdzfoECy4Arc-oGrWtHH_W8FndkMXU0VW-VUUmnpv805VTOGY_G1kSoGz3QZwAgOJUYcLq084XJBi5Kysbmc5MTaA7W6m/s320/Coco+-+Paisley+Chair+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>About two weeks ago, we noticed that Coco was drinking exponentially more than usual and urinating a lot. We took him to the veterinary clinic we’d carefully researched and selected when we moved back to Michigan last December, and he was diagnosed with a urinary tract infection. He had been eating voraciously up to that point, but after one sprinkle of the probiotics the vet had prescribed and one dose of the heavy-duty antibiotic she’d ordered, he all but stopped eating. On the Saturday before his passing, I called the vet to report that now Coco hadn’t been eating for 2 or 3 days despite my ever-patient Brian even trying to hand-feed him. Although the vet had office hours that day, we were brusquely told that they wouldn’t be able to fit him in and to try an emergency veterinary hospital. Panicked, I began calling other local vets. The second call I made was answered by a lovely young woman named Sarah at the Somerset Veterinary Hospital in Troy. Even though Sarah didn’t know us from a hole in the wall, she made us an appointment for that same morning, and we brought Coco in. There we met Dr. Whitney Reinhold, who was just lovely—gentle, empathetic, and possessing excellent clinical skills. Concerned with Coco’s dehydrated state (despite his continuing to drink plenty of water), she ran some diagnostic tests.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXipq7RtMJsNscgzxgsKwoBqhDdBPXyF5RZkXHWQLhatodDYYfcaN21ev5a7GmjDBAK_JV-qZYk5WhDYVNR9dN_SqwhKBgOIbO1HpZNSyGvr4qcMAaWuGm1m7PV7QbauGedO-iF0pEbvy-/s2048/Coco+-+Hamptons+Office.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXipq7RtMJsNscgzxgsKwoBqhDdBPXyF5RZkXHWQLhatodDYYfcaN21ev5a7GmjDBAK_JV-qZYk5WhDYVNR9dN_SqwhKBgOIbO1HpZNSyGvr4qcMAaWuGm1m7PV7QbauGedO-iF0pEbvy-/s320/Coco+-+Hamptons+Office.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>The news was delivered with compassionate candor—based on his symptoms and lab values, Coco was either suffering from Leptospirosis (possibly treatable) or bone marrow cancer (not treatable). We were left with an agonizing decision: Hospitalize him or bring him home over the weekend. Somerset Veterinary was not open on Sundays, so if we left him with Dr. Reinhold and her staff, he’d be essentially alone, save for a few overnight checks by the vet. If something went wrong and he took a turn for the worse, there was the possibility that he’d die alone. There was also the option of an emergency veterinary hospital; upside was immediate treatment, downside was that (again) he could take a turn and we wouldn’t be with him. The third option was that we take him home with us for the weekend and monitor him closely; Dr. Reinhold suggested that we offer him anything he would eat—baby food, peanut butter, rice and chicken. Coco—around year 5 or 6—developed a ridiculously intolerant gastrointestinal problem that limited him to one Science Diet variety of food that was particularly vile to my human sensibilities in every way possible, from texture to smell. Although Coco was weak and his breathing a little congested (likely due to an enlarged liver pressing against his little diaphragm), we opted for option #3. Dr. Reinhold gave him some subcutaneous fluids, a gentler antibiotic, and medication for his liver. We would nurse him all weekend and pray that he’d pull through until Monday, when we could return him to Somerset Vet for additional treatment. By then, we hoped his Leptospirosis test results would be back and we would be in a better position to determine a course of action. In an act of such compassion and empathy, Dr. Reinhold gave us her personal cell number in case we ran into any problems over the weekend or Coco took a turn for the worse. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjWDs12CR2yEtIO3jsXCQvv14jhU9qkGRGmvq_FUH1rAljKGBIVtOuL4rjvmdBNnBHxohW6MVSA7qbBxnpJzMNwH34vxqVMirNdsiYzw4DenkflQuhUbH2AmAfcWaZyxDLjLTWF3kxQuJs/s2048/Coco+-+Brighton+Groomers+2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjWDs12CR2yEtIO3jsXCQvv14jhU9qkGRGmvq_FUH1rAljKGBIVtOuL4rjvmdBNnBHxohW6MVSA7qbBxnpJzMNwH34vxqVMirNdsiYzw4DenkflQuhUbH2AmAfcWaZyxDLjLTWF3kxQuJs/s320/Coco+-+Brighton+Groomers+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>That weekend, we dedicated ourselves to our little buddy. Brian, in particular, was so attentive to his needs, from helping him stand outside and spreading his back legs so he could urinate to sitting on the floor with him every two hours with any combination of peanut butter and baby food on his finger trying to coax Coco to eat. He administered his medication, without fail, like clockwork. My heart broke watching them together, because Brian raised him from a puppy and their bond was an unbreakable one. At night, in bed between us, we took shifts cuddling him, turning him over every two hours or so to prevent any kind of skin breakdown. With his poor nutritional intake, he was in a much-weakened state by now. Although we forced ourselves to stay hopeful, there was a looming reality hanging over us like a dark cloud those two long days and nights, and we took every opportunity to stroke his head and tell him everything that we needed to say. He was able to make eye contact with us and we spent hours just sitting with him, staring into those soulful eyes of his, trying to figure out what he wanted. He didn’t appear to be in any pain, which buoyed our spirits somewhat. By Sunday night, he stopped urinating and his breathing slowed. We were positive he was going to pass away during the night, and we tried to take some comfort from the fact that he would be with us, at home, in the familiar comfort of his own bed.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFlQ4dMqKrFiWeuYIWGDmXfPQBYzNrSckho_iNGUMsPm0XxwQ3S4Bk7fQPtB5tPHUimxu8CPWufzxaKiXbdev0RUa4gXMsRnyJJ5jJAgCsxJ6fGwUGJ3MqX-mbQ8UhQdxZhfTjqhqynuwm/s2048/Coco+J.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1704" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFlQ4dMqKrFiWeuYIWGDmXfPQBYzNrSckho_iNGUMsPm0XxwQ3S4Bk7fQPtB5tPHUimxu8CPWufzxaKiXbdev0RUa4gXMsRnyJJ5jJAgCsxJ6fGwUGJ3MqX-mbQ8UhQdxZhfTjqhqynuwm/s320/Coco+J.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>But our Coco, once again, defied the odds and proved to be an intrepid little fighter. He made it through that night and even seemed ever-so-slightly more responsive in the morning. We took that as a sign that he wanted more time with us. We called Dr. Reinhold first thing on Monday morning, and she had us bring him in. She would start IV fluids and IV antibiotics while we waited for the test results, run some more diagnostics, and see how he was in a few hours’ time. But she was guarded and benevolently honest: Coco’s prognosis was poor. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikiBdeYiH1Rhc2ZcOv8ESOzCwqnVwUSqwpnRvt3xTuga2KNNXmKjIXGvlhqGzRuGhd1PnJhrXqNjq0Td_D67ZBBym5PPcD-nDIqieLwRbHqyMfKE3wzVL3lzVfzE8UfQU1CYK_vbi6m_Yk/s2048/Coco+-+August+9th+-+Last+Pic.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikiBdeYiH1Rhc2ZcOv8ESOzCwqnVwUSqwpnRvt3xTuga2KNNXmKjIXGvlhqGzRuGhd1PnJhrXqNjq0Td_D67ZBBym5PPcD-nDIqieLwRbHqyMfKE3wzVL3lzVfzE8UfQU1CYK_vbi6m_Yk/s320/Coco+-+August+9th+-+Last+Pic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I’m not going to lie—that morning was the longest few hours of my adult life. Brian opted to go to work to busy his mind; I ran into the nursing home for an hour to tend to a few of my usual early morning tasks and came home. Around 1:00 PM, the phone rang. It was Dr. Reinhold explaining that Coco had taken a turn and advising that Brian and I should come as soon as possible. Instinctively, I grabbed one of Coco’s favorite toys—a silly-looking orange dinosaur that he’d had for years. Jumping into my truck, I called Brian and told him. Thankfully, Somerset Veterinary is only a few blocks from the house, so I was there within minutes. Running into the vet’s office, my heart was lodged in my throat. I was ushered immediately into the back where our beloved Coco was lying in his doggy bed, the soft blanket we had left with him covering him. He was breathing heavily—too heavily, I knew—and had a plastic cup-like apparatus over his snout delivering oxygen. His eyes were wide open, and he seemed markedly more responsive than how I’d left him earlier. Dr. Reinhold explained to me that he’d been doing ok for a while that morning, that he had perked up with the IV fluids. But when they’d gone to turn him over—changing his position as we had to avoid skin breakdown—he’d gone into respiratory distress. She’d run more tests and his kidney and liver function were both poor. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5e9EpePsgs6DETpI_Dqbjgcta7Tz4r02bHVxHu6KR-vR8EU38dlL1xj_uKOZB5pzQXfBSTP36Iw4nFdA_hQkEu2Q9uSPYgsYFtOotQusy_sRH4rt3R1HuqIJLng232zvQRlxx8xxuXvfL/s1289/Coco+D.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1289" data-original-width="1115" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5e9EpePsgs6DETpI_Dqbjgcta7Tz4r02bHVxHu6KR-vR8EU38dlL1xj_uKOZB5pzQXfBSTP36Iw4nFdA_hQkEu2Q9uSPYgsYFtOotQusy_sRH4rt3R1HuqIJLng232zvQRlxx8xxuXvfL/s320/Coco+D.jpg" width="277" /></a></div>There is that moment that all responsible pet parents know well—that agonizing reality and crushing weight of the decision to do the kind and loving thing for your furry loved one. While I waited for Brian to arrive, I sat with Coco and cried and cried while again and again telling him how very much I loved him, how sorry I was that I couldn’t make him better. My hand never left him, as I stroked and caressed his fragile little body and repeatedly kissed the top of his head and nose. I consciously tried to commit the feel of him, the smell of him to memory. My thoughts went to all those times when I’d failed him—when my patience fell short or when I raised a voice to him in frustration. I apologized to him, telling him how utterly and completely perfect he was and that those moments of harshness were my failing and not his. I begged him to forgive me and, in that moment, saw nothing but unconditional love in his expressive, tired eyes. There was my proof, my confirmation of what I’ve long known—that dogs are superior to us humans in every way that counts. Their capacity to love, without qualification, is limitless and sets them apart from every other living creature on this earth.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiya_xy6554dSvYAYdFA3jyJfR2RCVfKlsIg6yzUAw709o6zLcEb_UjcpVdYoyrmMefgPQeJyxgyvLqdHS-ePt_8uWJLEk560rX-aDRiyZaoFtseZiU70TBqsWgLrN9k5WrdXuFQaDICBh4/s2048/Coco+B.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiya_xy6554dSvYAYdFA3jyJfR2RCVfKlsIg6yzUAw709o6zLcEb_UjcpVdYoyrmMefgPQeJyxgyvLqdHS-ePt_8uWJLEk560rX-aDRiyZaoFtseZiU70TBqsWgLrN9k5WrdXuFQaDICBh4/s320/Coco+B.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Brian arrived and Dr. Reinhold explained to him what she’d told me a short time ago with nothing but patience and compassion. Without needing to discuss it, we both agreed to end Coco’s discomfort before it turned into suffering. We spent another 20 minutes or so talking to him, stroking his salt-and-pepper coat and frail little body underneath, kissing him, and making sure that when he left us, he did so knowing how very much he was loved. When we were ready, Dr. Reinhold explained the process to us—it’s one we’ve both been through before. We positioned ourselves directly in front of our beloved little buddy, and made sure that he could see us, that our loving faces would be the last thing he saw as the lights dimmed and he went to his eternal rest.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1OJNweJ9M6k7-gJpLFibQllxlQiVMYC19K-T4tJae_CpclcJcavgmfgfj36_ckfjL9nu7DjkwL2KPW9HV1D5Uo-oYGVssKw3PnVJ0VZhbVlLTfGOhNtFFXbD2QPRhPlH1V8cRrUBZhn_e/s2048/Coco+-+Grandpa+1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1OJNweJ9M6k7-gJpLFibQllxlQiVMYC19K-T4tJae_CpclcJcavgmfgfj36_ckfjL9nu7DjkwL2KPW9HV1D5Uo-oYGVssKw3PnVJ0VZhbVlLTfGOhNtFFXbD2QPRhPlH1V8cRrUBZhn_e/s320/Coco+-+Grandpa+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>As he left us, I simultaneously prayed to whatever force in the universe gives us the gift of these beautiful creatures and cursed it for not giving us more time together. Our grief was unbearable in those first moments when Coco left us, and Brian and I held each other—and Coco—and just sobbed and sobbed. Dr. Reinhold and her staff—truly angels who walk amongst us on this earth—gave us as much time as we needed with Coco afterward. I think we stayed with him for another half an hour before finally pulling ourselves away. Leaving that sweet creature’s empty shell there broke our hearts all over again, but we knew that Dr. Reinhold and her staff would handle his remains with the utmost care. He would be privately cremated—Brian made sure that his silly little orange dinosaur baby went with him—and he would come home to us the following day.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1aPw6wgpwPwz7-cBixe5F_jSmawBdNkcKSS-q2zd5Da8By5de89QzSJSsh5EQdHInH-cbELCs8O1EkbOnmyNV2zwhut8XZi6GQOeIL0jFVEhxgk1f6UozcZpAH5zPfnIDBqjisygsA4K0/s2048/Coco+-+Face+.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1aPw6wgpwPwz7-cBixe5F_jSmawBdNkcKSS-q2zd5Da8By5de89QzSJSsh5EQdHInH-cbELCs8O1EkbOnmyNV2zwhut8XZi6GQOeIL0jFVEhxgk1f6UozcZpAH5zPfnIDBqjisygsA4K0/s320/Coco+-+Face+.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>As I stepped outside the vet’s office, it started to rain. It was as if the universe was crying with me for the loss of this magnificent, selfless, beautiful-in-every-way dog named Coco, loved boundlessly by his two dads, a slew of family and friends, and his little brother, Cooper. I sat in my truck and my heart burst open even more than I thought possible. I just sat there, hunched over the steering wheel, and sobbed until I was empty. In those first heartrending moments following Coco’s passing, I wanted to truly die, to go with him and walk him over that famed Rainbow Bridge. If there is one thing I hope and pray, is that all dogs truly do go to some kind of heaven and, especially, that we’re somehow reunited in spirit and form at the end of our own lives. I want to believe that. I need to believe that.<p></p><p>The week following Coco’s passing has been filled with heartbreak—those first days and nights were nearly unbearable. </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p><i>Coco’s collar and leash hanging on the hook by the back door…</i></p><p><i>His empty doggy bed that still carries his scent…</i></p><p><i>That empty spot between us in the bed where Coco slept every night for so many uninterrupted years…</i></p></blockquote><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4enxou4BsLDaPpblvktCr8YFo1m4UDabjgxVaRE2ODI0_RmUcwIHG4IwOQszrE59SAvOo-2Y7S9-YFKbPiiTAcpt0bcpJmzjmJiUSXM9aM3usCn6ZSPbnW709VyhpZnmx72PD9_SjcLOr/s2048/Coco+C.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4enxou4BsLDaPpblvktCr8YFo1m4UDabjgxVaRE2ODI0_RmUcwIHG4IwOQszrE59SAvOo-2Y7S9-YFKbPiiTAcpt0bcpJmzjmJiUSXM9aM3usCn6ZSPbnW709VyhpZnmx72PD9_SjcLOr/s320/Coco+C.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>We received word from Dr. Reinhold yesterday: Coco’s Leptospirosis test finally came back from the lab and was negative. That’s good news in the sense that we don’t’ have to test or worry about Cooper contracting the disease. That also means that our beloved Coco succumbed to likely bone marrow cancer and that there was nothing that we could have done to save him, which takes some of the guilt off me for not opting to admit him to the emergency animal hospital over the weekend. Our choice gave us—and him—more quality time together to express our love and prepare for his final journey. It’s bittersweet news, but in the midst of this numbing heartache, it’s good to take whatever modicum of comfort you’re afforded. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPpxrttDaMTP6aUU_3hq4gGq-HUe8R_KCS4O-AmE0gFyd4k3B8RSQOIQUDAmEhLU6F8AwKovCewERRVoIkch5GwI9eZawMfXU4QtVjfHEe66kTeBHT1xRMy2xSwozo_K5emVwcycY_z_Rr/s2048/Coco+-+Poolside+2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1556" data-original-width="2048" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPpxrttDaMTP6aUU_3hq4gGq-HUe8R_KCS4O-AmE0gFyd4k3B8RSQOIQUDAmEhLU6F8AwKovCewERRVoIkch5GwI9eZawMfXU4QtVjfHEe66kTeBHT1xRMy2xSwozo_K5emVwcycY_z_Rr/s320/Coco+-+Poolside+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I finish writing this on Sunday, almost a week after Coco has left us. If you’ve read this far, I thank you for taking the time to read this tribute to him. I wanted to commit the events of Coco’s last days and life to writing so that there is a lasting homage to this extraordinary dog, who was loved more than these words can convey—try as I might. I hope his journey over the Rainbow Bridge has ended with all the promises contained within that beautiful poem. The grief this week has been unbearable at times, sometimes at the most unexpected moments. I asked him in our final moments together to send us a sign that he’s ok, that’s he still with us, watching over us. While I’m waiting for that sign, I’m replaying countless Coco memories in my head, taking comfort in the many heartfelt messages of sympathy left for us on social media, and just taking it one day at a time with lots of deep breaths to quell the panic attacks when I’m overwhelmed by the sense of loss. Coco’s final resting place—a beautiful, personalized wooden urn—arrives tomorrow. Brian and I will transfer his ashes after work and likely shed even more tears for our sweet boy. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbQEx_5dwrA4ZmPV-CQwf6PHxSAvMiJmzknuLVYk2eSMWO9Vrhyhk3o3SJitLxcxG6g3tHHv1aqj57VfPZm-kX-oM1IPUqBf41S_-tfv_rfbIUr3Dg__xUs__VgCKiys1b345jDRbNQhE/s2048/Coco+-+Toy+3.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbQEx_5dwrA4ZmPV-CQwf6PHxSAvMiJmzknuLVYk2eSMWO9Vrhyhk3o3SJitLxcxG6g3tHHv1aqj57VfPZm-kX-oM1IPUqBf41S_-tfv_rfbIUr3Dg__xUs__VgCKiys1b345jDRbNQhE/s320/Coco+-+Toy+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I am grateful that Brian and I have each other to hold one another up through this. Grateful, too, for little Cooper who now inherits the benefits as the singular recipient of our focus and doting. He’s our reminder that life continues, that there are always more dogs to love and care for. We’ll continue to love and care for him with the same dedication and passion that we cared for Coco—and the countless pets between us that we’ve loved and cared for over the years. In time, we will undoubtedly open our hearts and home to another dog, a little brother or sister to keep Cooper company. We’ll repeat this cycle of love and accept that this gift comes with the eventual—and inevitable—loss. <p></p><p>That is the cycle of life.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kByJXucCvjWNnw1Ms1pxJ0lLftuKClum4pdk8iDKeMwh2TUwaNZK7KbybL-p-NKidw8NTRNBiHkP_SuCQowYWLMH__P7WG91NcJUCxD_4p_tVFc-jBy46iouigbUqqSW7sQIjnTWMGNK/s1280/Coco+-+Gothic+Circle+1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kByJXucCvjWNnw1Ms1pxJ0lLftuKClum4pdk8iDKeMwh2TUwaNZK7KbybL-p-NKidw8NTRNBiHkP_SuCQowYWLMH__P7WG91NcJUCxD_4p_tVFc-jBy46iouigbUqqSW7sQIjnTWMGNK/s320/Coco+-+Gothic+Circle+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Rest in eternal peace, beloved Coco. Thank you for sharing part of our lives with us and for making us better human beings through the example of your steadfast loyalty and unconditional love. We will forever try to be the people you always thought we were. Our love for you transcends the meaning any mere words could ascribe. Miss you and love you dearly, little buddy. <p></p><p>Coco Liaguno-Charles</p><p>December 30, 2007 – August 9, 2021</p><div><br /></div>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-15564016736843705092021-01-04T09:14:00.001-05:002021-01-04T09:42:06.745-05:002020: The Year in Music<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVNVrxoXJXtGjhcBjWGN87zdenNGCVQ80Ntk_FdLT4grOgIWWvmFepLoNRXmTv0ZH8AenO2cJK58-Kzw9kAvAGyP1EOz8Uvtn4vbaPWR7SjT8RaoIRebd03fX3-28X65qHRFew6OJK0oJ2/s1200/Top+10+Collage.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVNVrxoXJXtGjhcBjWGN87zdenNGCVQ80Ntk_FdLT4grOgIWWvmFepLoNRXmTv0ZH8AenO2cJK58-Kzw9kAvAGyP1EOz8Uvtn4vbaPWR7SjT8RaoIRebd03fX3-28X65qHRFew6OJK0oJ2/s320/Top+10+Collage.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Thanks to the global pandemic that rocked everyone’s world this year, the first year of the new decade saw an unprecedented demand for at-home entertainment and solo leisure time pursuits. The written word probably fared the best, with people stuck at home and picking up a book for the first time in years. Movies and television were a catch-22; although the demand was there and people were willing to pay, there was limited new content because either production had been shut down or movie studios opted to delay or postpone theatrical releases versus release to VOD for fear of losing too much money. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Music fell somewhere in between. With artists creating new music remotely pre-pandemic, production capability wasn’t an issue. What stopped some artists from releasing new product was the inability to promote new music with live shows. In today’s business model, it’s the touring that brings in the bigger bucks—not releasing $1.29 singles on iTunes. Although streaming was up (despite listeners spending far less time in the car or at the gym), the streaming of new releases wasn’t, with data showing that folks opted to stream older catalog titles, like musical comfort food. Artists grappled with the timing of new releases—from competing with the coronavirus for media time to promote their music to the fact that people were just overall distracted. Less people traveling to and from work lessened the importance of radio play, while the closure of schools severed that all-too-important word of mouth publicity pipeline among the under 18 set. So, like movies, the amount of new music put out in 2020 was markedly less than previous years. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Still, there were some spectacularly good releases in 2020. If there was a theme in music during this pandemic-afflicted year, it was escapism. Artists created hopeful albums, filled with songs that were uplifting and uptempo. Lots of tunes to dance to—even if the dancing was relegated to living rooms. My own annual Top 10 list held true to past trends and personal patterns of predilection: Lots of Brits, heavily female artist skewed, and at least one new discovery. This year’s list sees the reappearance of artists you’ve seen grace my year-end favorites before, with two notable exceptions: Miley Cyrus and Love Fame Tragedy. Cyrus released a phenomenal collection with <i>Plastic Hearts</i>, an eclectic blend of pop-punk-country-glam-rock and homage to 80s-era New Wave that shouldn’t work as well as it does. Cyrus pays tribute to female rock icons with covers of Blondie’s <i>Heart of Glass</i> and The Cranberries’ <i>Zombie</i>, while bringing in rock royalty like Billy Idol, Joan Jett, and Stevie Nicks for duets and clever mashups. Cyrus made me a fan with this album.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCPpWUy9Q6UzLhNAV31pcUMOwkdfqgfGD7I_Y-67QHK7Vz_PuAE4eJZn4yVgXhaLCJYK_f4UK6Hn84jNyFe_a6kL7XmAW5lDebU6TNC0al37BkjXhPbiH9z_KOjixY0ZKB81tXdCwjkgps/s1280/Love+Fame+Tragedy+2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCPpWUy9Q6UzLhNAV31pcUMOwkdfqgfGD7I_Y-67QHK7Vz_PuAE4eJZn4yVgXhaLCJYK_f4UK6Hn84jNyFe_a6kL7XmAW5lDebU6TNC0al37BkjXhPbiH9z_KOjixY0ZKB81tXdCwjkgps/s320/Love+Fame+Tragedy+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Love Fame Tragedy is a collaborative solo project created by Matthew Murphy, the Wombats’ lead singer and lyricist. The album—<i>Wherever I Go, I Want to Leave</i>—is a glorious indie pop-rock masterpiece filled with Murphy’s wry, high-end songwriting on 17 tracks covering a range of musical styles from electro rock to ambient house, indie synth-pop, neo-funk, and even R&B.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugp9mu2TTEAMYt1UudrUIRZwHhvE7ks23iu-T6vxYfrMav2ixgn7vIRCxJHuPgXky6_e7l1fkGFo2hzmIKXYBoQ_GXUxnWEVJX5GK1e-n0ZLFSYUVtUa7y6kRHtDBoRODqtu5afIEE7o8/s2048/Jessie+Ware+3.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugp9mu2TTEAMYt1UudrUIRZwHhvE7ks23iu-T6vxYfrMav2ixgn7vIRCxJHuPgXky6_e7l1fkGFo2hzmIKXYBoQ_GXUxnWEVJX5GK1e-n0ZLFSYUVtUa7y6kRHtDBoRODqtu5afIEE7o8/s320/Jessie+Ware+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Topping my list this year is one of my “newer” favorite artists—Jessie Ware. Once described by <i>Rolling Stone</i> as “the missing link between Adele and Sade,” Ware has made consistently good albums since her 2012 debut, <i>Devotion</i>. Her fourth—this year’s <i>What’s Your Pleasure?</i>—is a pure pop-dance tour de force, finding Ware more comfortable than even in her own musical skin. The album is ripe with every variation of dance music—from disco to hi-NRG and house and back again to disco-funk. It’s frothy and flirty and frivolous fun and just the kind of record we needed this year to remind us to dance like nobody’s watching. It easily lands at a firm #1 on my year-end list.</div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">Speaking of, without further chitchat, here’s what you came for: </p><p>#10 – HOTSPOT / Pet Shop Boys</p><p>#9 – CHROMATICA / Lady Gaga</p><p>#8 – DISCO / Kylie Minogue</p><p>#7 – LOVE GOES / Sam Smith</p><p>#6 – PLASTIC HEARTS / Miley Cyrus</p><p>#5 – INFINITE THINGS / Paloma Faith</p><p>#4 – IMPLODING THE MIRAGE / The Killers</p><p>#3 – WHEREVER I GO, I WANT TO LEAVE / Love Fame Tragedy </p><p>#2 – FUTURE NOSTALGIA / Dua Lipa</p><p>#1 – WHAT’S YOUR PLEASURE? / Jessie Ware</p><p>Honorable Mentions: No formal ranking, but worthy of a listen or two. </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>I HAVE MY STANDARDS / Martha Davis</li><li>THE NEON / Erasure</li><li>FOLKLORE / Taylor Swift</li><li>RAZZMATAZZ / I Don’t Know How But They Found Me (aka iDKHOW)</li><li>HATE FOR SALE / Pretenders</li><li>FUN CITY / Bright Light Bright Light</li><li>SPELL MY NAME / Toni Braxton</li><li>DREAMLAND / Glass Animals</li><li>AFTER HOURS / The Weeknd</li><li>CHIP CHROME & THE MONOTONES / The Neighbourhood</li><li>THE RARITIES / Mariah Carey</li></ul><p></p><div><br /></div>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-69837422721536952020-06-07T17:48:00.000-04:002020-06-08T19:49:09.325-04:00Review: ‘Scream, Queen! My Nightmare on Elm Street’<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXJM7zQ88mdb9DnarYcHxuKsJF2oi0Qm6BfKIeSuFj23UiyQH9hZEOafW_KUTH5NL2tn0p_sSrepAFgxBDzJc-NqkzVcfHh1AHwreQ66W3jgSGENKOsc7GVrnkbZBphkkw7XoKQVGx3Q7Y/s1600/6a00d8341c2ca253ef01b8d2b77e04970c-800wi-695x1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="695" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXJM7zQ88mdb9DnarYcHxuKsJF2oi0Qm6BfKIeSuFj23UiyQH9hZEOafW_KUTH5NL2tn0p_sSrepAFgxBDzJc-NqkzVcfHh1AHwreQ66W3jgSGENKOsc7GVrnkbZBphkkw7XoKQVGx3Q7Y/s320/6a00d8341c2ca253ef01b8d2b77e04970c-800wi-695x1024.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>
I<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> finally had the opportunity to catch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scream, Queen! My Nightmare on Elm Street</i>, the documentary that
explores the infamous homoerotism of the first sequel to Wes Craven’s 1984
classic <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Nightmare on Elm Street</i>.
Co-directed by Roman Chimienti and Tyler Jensen, this heartfelt documentary
examines this aspect of the oft-maligned ’85 sequel in a unique way—by focusing
on the human toll the film’s reputation took on its leading man.</span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mark Patton was just 25 when he was cast as the lead in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy’s
Revenge</i>, quite the professional coup after leaving home in the Midwest at
17 to pursue his dreams of a career as an actor. Patton’s all-American good
looks led to immediate bookings in national commercials, with his big break coming
shortly thereafter when he landed a plum supporting role in the Broadway play <i>Come
Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy</i> <i>Dean, Jimmy Dean</i>, directed by
Robert Altman and starring Cher, Sandy Dennis, Karen Black, and a pre-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Misery</i> Kathy Bates—a role he repeated in
the subsequent film version. By the time he landed the role of Jesse Walsh in
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Elm Street</i> sequel, Patton—who was
gay and closeted, as the times dictated—had moved out to Hollywood where he met
and began a relationship with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dallas</i>
actor Timothy Patrick Murphy. </span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Despite its commercial success, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Freddy’s Revenge</i> was widely derided and eventually became known in
the early days of Internet film analysis as "the gayest horror movie ever
made." Although time—and evolving social mores—have been kind to the film
and elevated it to the status of a cult classic and even revered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because</i> of its not-so-subtle-after-all
gay subtext, Patton’s career became collateral damage. The actor was wrecked by
the negative response to the film and comments about his performance. Following
an episode of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hotel</i> and a CBS
Schoolbreak Special, in which he co-starred—ironically—with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Nightmare on Elm Street</i> final girl Heather
Langenkamp, his acting career came to an unceremonious end. His personal life
was no better—Murphy would die, tragically, of AIDS in 1988 at the age of 29 and
Patton’s own HIV-positive diagnosis would eventually follow, complicated when
he came down with tuberculosis. He left Hollywood in due course upon his
recovery, retreating down to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, where he entered into
decades of self-imposed exile—albeit with some newfound personal happiness in
the form of a husband and an art store, where he sells works of his own
creation, including a line of painted handbags he designed.</span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In 2010, Daniel Farrands, director of the exhaustive <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Elm Street</i> documentary <i>Never Sleep
Again</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">,<i> </i></span>tracked Patton
down and entreated him to speak openly about his experiences and his legacy as
part of the iconic film franchise. It was during his participation in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Never Sleep Again</i> that Patton came to
realize just how dramatically the critical and cultural tide had begun to turn
in favor of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Freddy’s Revenge</i>, with
the film now hailed for the very thing that had caused him so much past anguish.
Patton found himself applauded across the horror convention circuit, and that led
to his desire to get his life story out into the world by developing a film (then)
called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There Is No Jesse</i>. Unbeknownst
to him, he would soon cross paths on social media with two aspiring filmmakers
with a shared love for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Nightmare on Elm
Street 2</i>—and four years later, the trio gifts fans with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scream, Queen! My Nightmare on Elm Street</i>.
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Chimienti and Jensen have crafted a polished and engaging
documentary, utilizing interviews, archival footage, and a “day-in-the-life-of”
approach as they follow Patton from one convention to another. Although the
documentary threatens at times to burst at its seams with all that the
filmmakers earnestly include here, it’s Patton—the film’s center—who grounds
the proceedings with his candid, sometimes achingly bittersweet recollections
of his journey. Watching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scream, Queen!
My Nightmare on Elm Street</i>, I found myself raging at times over the
homophobic inner-workings of the Hollywood machine during the AIDS plague, cheering
for Patton’s self-discovery and journey to reclaim his legacy at others. It’s
hard not to find yourself in a puddle of tears watching how Patton is revered
by the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Elm Street </i>fans and to feel
the palpable sense of empowerment as he takes to the stage to rightfully affirm
his place as horror’s original “final boy” while embracing the “scream queen”
title that was once weaponized against him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The central conflict of the documentary is framed between <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Freddy’s Revenge</i> screenwriter David
Chaskin and Patton, with the latter holding firm to the claim that Chaskin
disingenuously skirted responsibility for the film’s overtly gay subtext.
Chaskin long-maintained that it was Patton’s performance that was responsible
for the film’s gay overtones that unsettled audiences upon its release, even
going on record with the proud admission that his screenplay was meant to be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">homophobic</i> versus <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">homoerotic</i>. In this 2007 interview with Bloody Good Horror, Chaskin
says:</span><br />
<br />
<i>“Yes, there was certainly some intentional subtext but it was
intended to play homophobic rather than homoerotic. I thought about the
demographics for these types of films (young, heterosexual males) and tried to
imagine what kinds of things would truly frighten them, to the core. And scary
dreams that make them, even momentarily, question their own sexuality seemed
like a slam dunk to me.</i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i>If you really wanted to have fun, one might argue that the entire
movie is a metaphor—Jesse is, in the end, finally able to control the monster
inside him (his latent homosexuality) with the love of a good woman. Maybe they
should show this film at one of those evangelical deprogramming sessions where
they try to ‘fix’ gay people into regular Americans.</i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i>That said, there were certain choices that were made (e.g.,
casting) that, I think, pushed the subtext to a higher level and stripped away
whatever subtlety there may have been. To this day, Jack Sholder says he read
no such subtext into the script. It must have been by osmosis. At any rate, he
should have seen it coming—when we opened in New York, we got a rave review in </i>The Advocate<i>.”</i><br />
<i></i><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s here—with the resolution of this central conflict—that my one
and only criticism with this otherwise pitch-perfect documentary comes into
play: Chimienti and Jensen should have skipped it. It falls flat and lacks the
requisite catharsis necessary to resolve the focal tension the film devotes
much of its 99-minute running time to exploring. What should play as a pivotal
moment in Patton’s liberation from this emotional shackle that he’s carried
with him for more than three decades comes across as anticlimactic, with
Chaskin’s “apology” being anything but. It’s a jarring moment of insincerity in
what’s been nothing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">but</i> a pervasive sense
of sincerity throughout the rest of the film. Even Patton looks nonplussed.
It’s an awkward scene that fails to give the audience the payoff it’s
expecting—and the moment of unequivocal apology that Patton deserved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Yes, Chaskin is an asshole for intentionally injecting homophobia
into his script, but I found <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Freddy’s
Revenge</i> director Jack Sholder far more culpable for his part in dodging accountability—and
almost insultingly so. The film—as in, the one Sholder <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">directed</i>—includes a sequence in a gay bar (that was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shot</i> in an actual gay bar!), frequent
male nudity, crotch shots, and glistening male chests, a bare-assed towel-whipping
of a naked restrained man in the shower, a scene in which Freddy Krueger
caresses Jesse's face before suggestively sticking a clawed finger in his mouth
(which actor Robert Englund even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">admits</i>
was meant to be homoerotic), Patton in tighy-whities, Patton in a jockstrap,
and Patton's butt-bumping solo dance to “Touch Me (All Night Long)” by Wish
featuring Fonda Rae. That Sholder can claim no knowledge, no awareness of the
gay subtext in his own movie is maddening to watch—especially in a later scene
in which he basically tells Patton that it’s time to “get over it.” I was left
shouting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“WTF?!”</i> at my television and
wanting to throw the remote at Sholder’s clearly dishonest attempt to remove
himself from any semblance of answerability by claiming naiveté.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Chimienti and Jensen wisely employ a diversity of voices to fill
their documentary’s requisite talking head roles, from the film’s cast and
crew, to fans, to film scholars. UC Colorado Film Studies professor Andrew
Scahill provides some of the film’s best academic moments, providing salient
points in support of reclaiming <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A
Nightmare on Elm Street 2</i> as a progressive film about sexual identity. Drag
performer Peaches Christ also speaks persuasively about the connection between
horror and the queer experience. The reunion scenes between Patton and his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">NOES2</i> cast members have a trepidatious
energy running throughout—no one (besides maybe character actor Marshall Bell)
seems completely at ease. Still, it’s great to see Kim Myers, Clu Gulager,
Robert Rusler, JoAnn Willette, Englund, and Bell all together again.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVBcUO01mAPgByyEsF2JmaKvFfW17Veu_GOf7lqVyM5FUWcfs7hSfTpw4fgkWUOO1D2SIdX7vwmEVAGlI-QVvEWDGYO2l2wAtyBcVj-ku9TWlnPuUn71O1g7IVI7YOiL40NZAG5HLocoZ/s1600/scream_queen_08web__large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="800" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVBcUO01mAPgByyEsF2JmaKvFfW17Veu_GOf7lqVyM5FUWcfs7hSfTpw4fgkWUOO1D2SIdX7vwmEVAGlI-QVvEWDGYO2l2wAtyBcVj-ku9TWlnPuUn71O1g7IVI7YOiL40NZAG5HLocoZ/s320/scream_queen_08web__large.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The filmmakers take on a lot—from online bullying and the
devastating effects of the AIDS crisis on the gay community to final girl film
theory and queer cinema. Despite its ambitions that—in less capable hands—could
have derailed the train, Chimienti and Jensen somehow manage to keep this hefty
cinematic locomotive on the tracks, ultimately crafting an intensely personal,
often painful, and surprisingly moving exploration of the life of a young gay
man who reached for his Hollywood star during the Reagan era only to watch it
fall from the sky as quickly as it began to rise against the backdrop of
AIDS and the homophobia of the period. While <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scream, Queen! My Nightmare on Elm Street </i>may have started out as a
passion project for two gay horror fanboys and a lost celebrity they connected
with online, it establishes itself as an instantly significant contribution to
the oeuvre of film and the canon of LGBTQ studies. That Chimienti and Jensen
are able to, in effect, teach an important lesson in queer history to a
predominantly heterosexual audience by following Patton’s journey from closeted
Missourian teenager and aspiring actor to self-described “Greta Garbo of
horror” to his creative rebirth is nothing short of remarkable—especially for
two first-time documentarians. As Patton says near the end of the film:</span><br />
<br />
<i>“My generation is gone. I have no friends my age. I want people to
know their history. I want them to at least hear from somebody that the way the
world is now…it wasn’t this way five minutes ago.”</i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Scream,
Queen! My Nightmare on Elm Street</span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> is a heartrending requiem to missed
potential and man’s ability to rewrite his narrative—tracing a proud scream
queen’s journey from promise and unlimited potential through the darkness of
crippling pathos and out into the light of hard-won personal peace. It’s about
the promise of a second act no matter how long the first one runs over. </span>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-78078115982763326012020-01-14T05:01:00.000-05:002020-01-14T10:33:08.539-05:00‘Underwater’ Keeps Its Head Above the Déjà Vu
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Movie audiences have been long conditioned toward
preconception and expectation based on a film’s release date. It’s become
generally accepted that films released just before Memorial Day and July 4<sup>th</sup>
are expected to be the big-budget summer blockbusters—those box office
juggernauts whose special effects budgets are eclipsed only by their marketing costs.
The more serious, arty films are released between Thanksgiving and Christmas,
with the expectation of garnering awards nominations. Then there is January—that
post-holiday cinematic graveyard when studios unceremoniously dump films for
which they have little to no expectations into theaters where they sink or
swim. Deep-sea actioner <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Underwater</i>
neither sinks nor swims—it dogpaddles. <br />
<br />
As far back as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Creature from the Black Lagoon</i> (1954), there’s been a fascination with what
lurks beneath the depths. Like deep space, the deep sea holds an element of the
unknown and limitless possibility for all manner of imagined terrors, and filmmakers
have been mining these creative waters since the early years of the Cold War
era. I can trace my love of these underwater-set creature features all the way
back to my childhood and one film, in particular—1966’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Destination Inner Space</i>, in which a group of scientists aboard an
undersea laboratory do battle with an extraterrestrial amphibian monster. <br />
<br />
There have been no shortage of terror-under-the-seas flicks
since—from 1973’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Neptune Factor</i>
to 1998’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sphere</i> and 2005’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cave</i>. 1989 seemed to be a
particularly robust year for underwater monster mayhem with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leviathan</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Abyss</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deepstar Six</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lords of the Deep</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Rift</i> (aka <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Endless Descent</i>) all released to varying degrees of success.
Sometimes, the underwater terror made its way to the surface in films like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Humanoids from the Deep</i> (1980), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deep Rising</i> (1998), and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Rig</i> (2010). Other times, amplifications
of familiar sea creatures—sharks, killer whales, piranha, octopus, even crabs—skimmed
the surface to wreak havoc on fictional seaside communities. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Underwater</i> is the
latest entry in this dubious tradition of sub-genre, a stylized big-budget film
whose price tag (estimated at $80 million) can’t hide its B-movie pedigree. Sharing
more plot-wise with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deepstar Six</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leviathan</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Underwater</i> takes place seven miles beneath the ocean’s surface on
the bottom of the Mariana Trench at an underwater mining operation owned by one
of those nefarious-sounding, faceless corporate entities called Kepler. The
audience is barely introduced to aquatic engineer Norah (Kristen Stewart)
before all hell (literally) breaks loose and much of the undersea complex is
damaged or destroyed by (cue the ominous Marco Beltrami/Brandon Roberts score)…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something</i>. The deep-sea action is
relentless, with Norah making her way through the ruined, leaking complex toward
the central command of the drill and picking up a few survivors along the
way—including Rodrigo (Mamoudou Athie), Paul (comedian T.J. Miller), Captain
Lucien (Vincent Cassel), research tech Emily (Jessica Henwick), and computer
engineer Liam (John Gallagher Jr.). Ragtag team of survivors assembled, it’s on
to full-tilt aquatic misadventure—the requisite blocked escape routes, imploding
bulkheads, risky underwater excursions across the sea floor, and the
Lovecraftian sea monsters picking off the survivors one by one. <br />
<br />
Sure it’s derivative, another submerged riff on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alien</i> that wears its Lovecraftian
influences rather conspicuously. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Underwater</i>
is also lean and very mean, pushing the accelerator to the floor from its
opening moments and never taking its foot off the gas. The aggressive pacing
contributes to a breathlessness to the whole affair that helps the film rise
above its unoriginality. Director William Eubank hones in on the sensory
elements of his setting, using tight spaces, limited oxygen reserves, and the
disorientation of the ocean bottom’s zero visibility to heighten the claustrophobic
tension.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What the film lacks in
narrative depth, it compensates for with its respectable visual aesthetic—courtesy
of cinematographer Bojan Bazelli, who also stylishly lensed Abel Ferrara’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Body Snatchers</i> (1993), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Ring</i> (2002), and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Cure for Wellness</i> (2016).<br />
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Kristen Stewart, who’s spent quite a few years trying to painstakingly
shake the trio of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twilight</i> movies
that have long dogged her career, ably carries the film. She commands and holds
our attention, no easy feat when the character is very clearly—and unimaginatively—drawn
as an Ellen Ripley surrogate. (If the close-cropped hair and bomber jacket weren’t
enough, the writers even find a way to have the character unnecessarily running
around in a sports bra and panties by film’s end.) To her credit, Stewart goes
all in with her performance, rising above the sub-par material to fashion a
respectable science-fiction/horror heroine. With little from the script itself to
aid in her character’s development, Stewart instead shows us who Norah is
through a series of conflicting emotions as the situation on the ocean floor worsens.
She’s simultaneously terrified and panic-stricken, pragmatic and resilient—an
everyday nobody who transforms into a durable, kick-ass heroine.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Underwater</i> knows
what it is and never pretends to be anything but. It’s a pure B-movie creature
feature throwback to 1989—slick schlock that understands the rules and never
tries to break or bend them (for better or worse). <br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-48807119666509053612020-01-02T05:02:00.000-05:002020-01-02T12:59:04.566-05:00Xavier Dolan’s ‘Death and Life’ Matters
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Watched an interesting film last evening called THE DEATH
AND LIFE OF JOHN F. DONOVAN, a determined arthouse muddle that suffers for its
ambition but is nonetheless a compelling watch that I'd recommend.<br />
<br />
The film boasts an impressive cast: Kit Harrington (fresh
off GAME OF THRONES), Susan Sarandon, Kathy Bates, Natalie Portman, Thandie
Newton, Michael Gambon, Jared Keeso, Chris Zylka, Amara Karan, Ben Schnetzer,
and an astonishingly good Jacob Tremblay (of ROOM fame). Jessica Chastain was
also in the cast, but her part was excised from the final cut of the film in an
effort by director Xavier Dolan to address issues with pacing and the film's
running time. <br />
<br />
In 2006, the title character (Harington) is a popular TV and
movie star and the object of an 11-year-old aspiring thespian named Rupert's
(Tremblay) devout fan worship. Rupert, an American expat living in England with
his drifting, neurotic mother (Portman), is a precocious outsider struggling to
fit in and subject to the cruel bullying by classmates that carries a strong
undercurrent of homophobia. One source of comfort in his isolation is an
unlikely (and clandestine) pen-pal correspondence he strikes up with Donovan
and the string of handwritten letters they exchange over the five years before
Donovan’s shocking tabloid-ready death.<br />
<br />
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The film totters back and forth between 2006 and 2017, as
adult Rupert (Schnetzer)—also now an actor—publishes a book around the
now-infamous correspondence and Rupert's interpretation of Donovan's tragically
short life in the context of his writings. Using an interview with a reluctant
journalist (Newton) in Prague, Dolan provides a serviceable—if somewhat anemic—framing
device to recount the parallels and interconnected pasts of Donovan and the
pre-adolescent Rupert.<br />
<br />
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Thematically, the film tackles quite a bit—the price of
celebrity, familial resentment, the eternal struggle of self-acceptance at odds
with the need for the acceptance of others, queer isolation, the impact that
movies have in shaping our identities. It's a lot of philosophical meat to chew
on, and this is where Dolan loses his storytelling grasp a bit. He seems
determined to cram it all in and, unfortunately, some of the weightier themes
get glossed over in his ambition. You’re left with the impression that Dolan’s
film—despite its Chastain-erasing edit—would have benefitted from more time in
the editing room. There’s also a nagging ambiguity about the epistolary
relationship between Donovan and Rupert, with the impression of scandal hinted
at but never delved into in any meaningful way. What was it about Rupert’s
initial fan letter that caused an in-demand celebrity like Donovan to reply—and
what was it in their subsequent letters that kept the correspondence going for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">years</i>? These are questions that go frustratingly
unanswered. <br />
<br />
Visually, the film is a treat. Cinematographer André
Turpin's sumptuous, burnished color palette and stylish camerawork lend a
dreamy quality to the film. Likewise, the acting ensemble—particularly some of
the supporting players here like Bates, Karan, and Gambon—grounds the film even
when it threatens to go airborne with some of its loftier concepts. Sarandon,
in particular, is excellent as Donovan’s alcoholic mother, even when her scenes
splashing booze around threaten to descend into pure camp. <br />
<br />
Despite its miscalculations, THE DEATH AND LIFE OF JOHN F.
DONOVAN can be appreciated for Dolan’s confidence as a filmmaker. Although the
cluttered fragmentation undermines the pace of the film at times, it also lends
a surrealism that pulls you in. It’s a thought-provoking film that—despite how
much it packs into its 123-minute running time—still feels unfinished. The film
limps into the U.S. marketplace weakly in select theaters and VOD—arriving more
than a year after its ill-received premiere at the 2018 Toronto International
Film Festival—where I hope it finds some appreciation for the beautiful
disaster it is.<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-410843809648574732019-12-31T14:32:00.000-05:002020-01-02T13:03:21.040-05:00Top Ten Albums of 2019<br />
No, there was no new music this year from Adele. Or Alison
Moyet. Or Jessie Ware—at least not beyond a pair of new singles. So perhaps
2020 will bring me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> holy trinity
of new albums. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
In the interim that was 2019, there were quite a few
excellent new releases—only two by artists who have made a previous year-end list.
Included in this year’s ranking are four albums from bands, two from male
artists, and four from female artists—three of which are the artists’ debut
albums.<br />
<br />
I share these year-end lists because I love music—and I love
sharing my favorite music picks in the hope that something here may pique your
interest and you’ll end up with a new artist or two that you end up really
digging. <br />
<br />
Without further comment, my picks for this year’s ten best albums:
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
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</div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">10- FEVER DREAM / Of
Monsters and Men</b><br />
<br />
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If you’ve yet to discover Icelandic indie folk/pop band Of
Monsters and Men, make this one of your New Year’s resolutions. And FEVER DREAM—the
band’s third album—is a great place to get acquainted. Trading the orchestral
folk sound around which earlier efforts were largely centered, the five-piece
band opts for a complex, at time disjointed, synthpop soundscape—complete with propulsive
basslines, shapeshifting drumbeats, and unpredictable song structures anchored
by the band’s patent lyrical poeticism. <br />
<br />
Lead vocalist Nanna Bryndís Hilmarsdóttir and singer/guitarist
Ragnar "Raggi" Þórhallsson alternate vocal duties on some tracks and
are paired together on others to great harmonious effect. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Overall, FEVER DREAM is a bold departure from
the band, bringing it out of the musical realm of Mumford & Sons and into
the edgier dominion occupied by Arcade Fire. <br />
<br />
<u>Standout tracks</u>: “Alligator,” “Wars,” and “Soothsayer”<br />
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">9- FINE LINE / Harry
Styles</b><br />
<br />
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The former One Direction singer earned high praise on my 2017
year-end ranking, with his eponymous debut album coming in at #2. He returned
just before the strike of midnight this year with FINE LINE, the
much-anticipated follow-up to that well-received set.<br />
<br />
Tapping into a new flock of rock influences here like David
Bowie, Fleetwood Mac, and even Pink Floyd, the album breathes musically a
little more than the decidedly sparser, Beatles-esque classic rock stylings of
his debut. Incorporating some more jaunty tempos and lean funk-pop grooves,
FINE LINE is a solid sophomore set that confirms Styles won’t be a one-note
artist with a reliable formula. He’s the kind of singer-songwriter who’s going
to dabble and stretch musically until he’s satisfied—and even then such satisfaction’s
not likely. <br />
<br />
<u>Standout tracks</u>: “Watermelon Sugar,” “Adore You,” and
“She”<br />
<br />
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<b>8- TRANSCENDANCE / Berlin</b><br />
<br />
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Marking the band’s first album with all three original
members—vocalist Terri Nunn and co-founders John Crawford (bass, synthesizer)
and David Diamond (synthesizer, guitar)—since 1984’s LOVE LIFE, the original
incarnation of Berlin returned in 2019 with TRANSCENDANCE. The 80s New Wave
darlings, who scored both an Academy Award and Golden Globe for Best Original
Song for “Take My Breath Away” from the juggernaut TOP GUN soundtrack, are in
fine form on the ten synth-pop tracks here, proving that creative lightning can
indeed strike more than once.<br />
<br />
On this eighth studio album (over the span of 41 years),
Berlin employs much of what worked on their earlier efforts, not straying too
far from the synthesizer-laden electro-pop formula that earned them legions of
fans back in their heyday. Nunn still coos sensually, an enduring vixen of the
first video generation. And there’s even a bombastic trance re-tooling of one
of their earliest hits, the radio-banned “Sex (I’m A…).”<br />
<br />
True story: This longtime fan saw Berlin (first band I ever
saw live in concert) open in ’84 for Thompson Twins on the latter’s INTO THE
GAP world tour. Year’s later, when I interviewed Terri Nunn for AUTOGRAPH
magazine and shared that factoid, she laughed and claimed to have stolen my
musical cherry!<br />
<br />
<u>Standout tracks</u>: “Lust,” “All for Love,” and the
title track<br />
<br />
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<b>7- IN THE END / The Cranberries</b><br />
<br />
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Would it sound cliché to say that The Cranberries have saved
their best for last? The aptly-titled IN THE END indeed draws the curtain on
the venerable Irish alt-rock outfit that rose to international fame in the
1990s and now takes its final bow following last year’s tragic drowning death
of lead singer Dolores O’Riordan—inarguably the distinctive voice of The
Cranberries. <br />
<br />
Thematically, IN THE END resounds with finality, giving the
album a funereal chill and added poignancy since there was no way for the band
to know that this eighth album would also be its last. The effort is so
polished that it’s almost impossible to tell that O’Riordan’s vocals were demo
recordings, with her surviving bandmates later bringing the tracks to fruition
with producer Stephen Street. My best advice is to resist the urge to dissect
the lyrics and songs through the lens of O’Riordan’s untimely passing and let
the tracks bring you back to the band’s heyday. That said, don’t fight against
the tears that will inevitably form at the corners of your eyes during the
album’s last track—and title track—when O’Riordan’s exquisite, singular voice
laments, <i>“All I know / Time is a valuable thing / Watch it fly by as the
pendulum swings / Watch it count down to the end of the day / The clock ticks life
away… / But in the end /<br />
It doesn't even matter.”</i><br />
<br />
<u>Standout tracks</u>: “Lost,” “Catch Me If You Can,” “Summer
Song,” and the exquisite title track <br />
<br />
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<b>6- WHEN WE ALL FALL ASLEEP, WHERE DO WE GO? / Billie
Eilish</b><br />
<br />
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Original and avant-garde, Billie Eilish’s debut album is a
tasty, trippy treat for the ears. With a deceptive sparseness that ingratiates
upon repeated listen, WHEN WE ALL FALL ASLEEP, WHERE DO WE GO? is a
hyper-modern, musically complex album with a macabre, almost-sinister aesthetic
that feels like the soundtrack for a post-apocalyptic new dystopia. Eilish
wears her weirdness—and her heart—on her sleeve on the dozen tracks here, many
of which defy genre classification. She—and brother Finneas, who shares writing
and producing credits—have crafted a musical journey that’s the equivalent of
going through a carnival funhouse on ‘shrooms. It’s freakishly fun, a little
creepy at times, and layered with just enough distortion that will leave you
teetering between daydream and night terror. <br />
<br />
Eilish sings with a dreamy detachment, an occasional nuanced
jazziness in her vocals evoking a modern-day Billie Holiday at times that at
once contradicts and complements her impish tomboy persona. In the continuing
era of manufactured, carefully sculpted recording artist-artifices, Billie
Eilish is seemingly poised to burn the whole building to the ground with her
freshness and authenticity. <br />
<br />
<u>Standout tracks</u>: “Bury a Friend,” “My Strange
Addiction,” and “Bad Guy”<br />
<br />
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</div>
<b>5- NORMAN FUCKING ROCKWELL! / Lana Del Rey</b><br />
<br />
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On her sixth studio album in the nine years since her 2010
eponymous debut, Lana Del Rey sticks to her distinctive, winning
formula—gravelly, slurred vocals, the glamour and melancholia of Hollywood
noir, and cultural references to 1950s and 1960s Americana. With her patent vocal
languor intact, NORMAN FUCKING ROCKWELL! finds the 34-year-old artist stepping
into her own—presenting an authentic sense of self versus the carefully
construed persona of past efforts. <br />
<br />
The abstracted cinematic quality of her music remains but
the lyrical pastiche of previous albums has been replaced with something
darker, something closer to the truth. This is particularly relevant in an era
where “alternate facts” and “fake news” are helping to rewrite American
history. Del Rey takes aim at this cultural devolution—an aim that’s lyrically
sharp and fine-pointed. From the album’s title itself—where even the name of
the SATURDAY EVENING POST’s famed cover artist is interrupted by profane
expletive—Del Rey endeavors to deconstruct the idealized Americana she’s spent
nearly a decade crooning about and Rockwell immortalized through his iconic
series of magazine covers. And she does so with beguilingly vicious songwriting
chops. Complex and elegant, NORMAN FUCKING ROCKWELL! ushers in a new era in the
Del Rey songbook. <br />
<br />
<u>Standout tracks</u>: “Hope Is a Dangerous Thing for a
Woman to Have,” “Doin’ Time,” and “The Greatest”<br />
<br />
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</div>
<b>4- MINT / Alice Merton</b><br />
<br />
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This electrifyingly eclectic indie pop-rock collection from
the nomadic German-born, Canadian-raised, English-based, singer-songwriter-pianist
Merton was one of 2019’s earliest treats, dropping in January and preceded by
single releases of four tracks from the album. <br />
<br />
The fifteen infectious tracks on MINT (eleven on the album
proper, four additional tracks on the album add-on MINT +4) are primarily
dance-rock confections with an indie vibe, chockful of thumping bass lines and
clapping backbeats, sing-along choruses and uplifting synths. Rising and
falling between cool-calm-collected and pure rampage, Merton employs vocal
pitch and the tempo of the music itself to both appease and agitate. Lyrically,
the collection is one of positivity and youthful nomadism, striking a perfect
balance between realism and idealism. Vocally, Merton may call to mind Florence
Welch (of Florence + The Machine), especially on softer tracks like “Back to
Berlin” and “Honeymoon Heartbreak.”<br />
<br />
<u>Standout tracks</u>: “Learn to Live,” “No Roots,” “Funny
Business,” and “Lash Out” <br />
<br />
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<b>3- WALK THROUGH FIRE / Yola </b><br />
<br />
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Musical fusion is the gift that British singer-songwriter Yola
brings to her dramatic country-soul debut, WALK THROUGH FIRE. With a lyrical
bent that veers decidedly more Americana coupled with a retro country-western
musicality—complete with fiddles and steel guitars, organs and glockenspiels—WALK
THROUGH FIRE is a glorious genre-busting musical journey anchored by Yola’s
powerful sonic palette that she instinctively knows when to harness and when to
let loose and her poignant songwriting, which alternates between susceptibility
to circumstance and chest-pounding emancipation from the past. <br />
<br />
Dan Auerbach of The Black Keys uses his penchant for
indulgence in a retro, pre-synthesizer vintage sound quality to great effect on
WALK THROUGH FIRE and his robust production is nothing short of a glorious throwback
to Nashville’s 60’s sound—that musical moment in time when country-western
music went pop. One reason for this authenticity is Auerbach’s use of vintage session
musicians like drummer Gene Chrisman and pianist Bobby Wood, both of The
Memphis Boys—the original house band from American Sound Studio in Memphis,
which was the musical point of origination for classic recordings like Elvis
Presley’s “Suspicious Minds,” Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline,” and Dusty
Springfield’s DUSTY IN MEMPHIS album. One listen and you’ll swear you’ve emerged
from a time capsule circa 1969.<br />
<br />
<u>Standout tracks</u>: “Faraway Look,” “Lonely the Night,”
and “Love Is Light.”<br />
<br />
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<b>2- CAUSE & EFFECT / Keane</b><br />
<br />
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On their first studio album in seven years, British foursome
Keane returned this year with their most accomplished and authentic album to
date. Musically, all of Keane’s trademarks remain intact: Sunny, radio-friendly
fare punctuated by irresistibly swelling choruses, emotive piano chords, and Tom
Chaplin’s soaring voice. But lyrically, the band goes deeper—daresay, darker—on
this fifth effort, with the real-life addiction of one band member and the
failed marriage and subsequent depression of another winding subtly through the
proceedings. The result is a newfound depth and vulnerability that make CAUSE
& EFFECT a standout effort while adhering to the band’s winning formula of sophisticated
British pop rock that harkens as far back to the 1980s with predecessors like
Spandau Ballet and Johnny Hates Jazz.<br />
<br />
<u>Standout tracks</u>: “Love Too Much,” “Stupid Things,”
“Phases,” and “Chase the Night Away”<br />
<br />
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<b>1- WESTERN STARS / Bruce Springsteen</b><br />
<br />
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Confession time: I’ve never owned a Bruce Springsteen album.
Nope—never been a fan of The Boss or, more specifically, his music. While my
high school classmates were popping cassettes of his 80’s juggernaut BORN IN
THE USA into their boomboxes, I was jamming out to bands from the second wave
of the British invasion like Duran Duran, Culture Club, and Eurythmics.<br />
<br />
But that all changed this year with Springsteen’s release of
WESTERN STARS, a gorgeous, achingly contemplative musical reflection on life
told through the eyes of an artist who’s lived one. The down-and-out male
narrators of the thirteen country-tinged folk pop tracks that comprise the lush
orchestral landscape of WESTERN STARS all have a similar story to tell—tales of
failure and missed opportunities, reflections on their life choices and the mental,
physical, and spiritual tolls of those choices. A pervading sense of being
older yet still restless, lost and still wandering, while life has somehow
quickly passed by gives the album an elegiac nod to the shortening timeline
that each of us—and Springsteen as well—face in the never-ending succession of
sunrises and sunsets that mark off each elapsing day. It’s an album about
looking back on shadows long cast and the quest to find our own relevancy in
life. And while the broken raconteurs of WESTERN STARS may lament being past
their prime, Springsteen’s 19<sup>th</sup> studio album proves he’s anything
but. <br />
<br />
Just ask his newest fan. <br />
<br />
<u>Standout tracks</u>: “There Goes My Miracle,” “Chasin’
Wild Horses,” “Tucson Train,” and “Sleepy Joe’s Café”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Not every album I enjoyed this year ranked within my Top Ten
list but are nonetheless worthy of mention. Here are my <b>Honorable Mentions</b>
of 2019 (in no particular order):<br />
<br />
LOVE + FEAR / Marina <br />
<br />
A BATH FULL OF ECSTASY / Hot Chip<br />
<br />
THE MEDICINE SHOW / Melissa Etheridge<br />
<br />
EVERYTHING LOST WILL NOT BE SAVED, PARTS 1 and 2 / Foals<br />
<br />
DAYLIGHT / Grace Potter<br />
<br />
CHAMPION / Bishop Briggs<br />
<br />
BLUE EYED SOUL / Simply Red<br />
<br />
COURAGE / Celine Dion<br />
<br />
REMIND ME TOMORROW / Sharon Van Etten<br />
<br />
CHEAP QUEEN / King Princess<br />
<br />
ON THE LINE / Jenny Lewis<br />
<br />
HOLLYWOOD’S BLEEDING / Post Malone<br />
<br />
CUZ I LOVE YOU / Lizzo<br />
<br />
CHIP TOOTH SMILE / Rob Thomas<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-36712336608682064982019-11-22T05:07:00.000-05:002019-11-22T11:51:18.796-05:00Bentley Little Was Right (Or, a Swan Song)<br />
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Bentley Little may be the smartest modern-day horror writer.
When I <a href="http://www.darkscribemagazine.com/feature-interviews/bentley-little-the-elusive-dark-scribe-speaks.html" target="_blank">interviewed him</a> back in the early days of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dark Scribe Magazine</i>, I was struck during my research that the guy
had no official website, no social media presence, and did very little to no
publicity or book signings when a new title was released. He’s written one book
per year—on rough average—since his debut in 1990 with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Revelation</i>. His latest, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Bank</i>, releases in 2020 from Cemetery Dance. <br />
<br />
One book per year over 30 years—give or take a year or two
here and there.<br />
<br />
No Facebook. No Twitter. No Instagram. No official author
website. Hell, not even an email address. <br />
<br />
Think about that for a minute: A working writer who
maintains a substantial enough fan base to publish consistently for three
decades (and counting). Anomaly? Most would argue yes. Yet Little’s conscious
decision to eschew the conventional wisdom espoused by agents and publicists
and publishers that a social media presence is necessary to peddle one’s wares
warrants examination. And some degree of envy.<br />
<br />
Imagine it: No emails to read and respond to. No
time-wasting distractions on social media. No online persona to cultivate and
maintain. No chance for misstep in the current era of cultural overcorrection.
Imagine the hours given back to write. Or read. Or whatever creative endeavor
eludes you because of the giant, time-sucking black hole of the Internet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Now some would argue—and they’d be correct in doing so—that
life doesn’t have to be about extremes, that there are enough hours in the day
to seek out and enjoy all that we desire, and that it’s really all about
striking a balance. Finding one’s equilibrium sweet spot. Yin and yang. <br />
<br />
True enough.<br />
<br />
But I’d argue that the Internet—social media, in
particular—isn’t like all the other boys and girls on the playground. No, its
time-wasting properties are unique; it’s real-time, continuous and
never-ending, with characters dropping in and out, and information flashing by
at light speed. Miss a little, miss a lot. And therein lies its distinctively
addictive appeal. I should know—I’ve been a social media addict for more than a
decade now. <br />
<br />
Like a functioning alcoholic, I’m a functioning <a href="https://addictionresource.com/addiction/technology-addiction/social-media-addiction/" target="_blank">social media addict</a>. To the naked eye, I function just fine—I work, I socialize, I create, I
eat and sleep. But over the years, I’ve noticed subtle changes as my social
media presence and activity increased—from that first Myspace page in 2004 to joining
Facebook in 2007, followed by Twitter and Instagram in the ensuing years. I’ve
noticed that I live with a nagging sense of urgency to check social media, that
I feel compelled to post about all manner of things that I do and opinions I
hold. I’ve watched entire live concerts through my iPhone camera, obsessively
needing to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">capture</i> the experience
instead of just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">living</i> it. I realize,
with a sickening sense that I’ve allowed myself to be swept up and away, that
I’m often subconsciously trying to “keep up” with the Joneses, that I’m
comparing myself (often unfavorably) with the social media personas of others.
It’s brought a persistent rhythm of unease to my mind and spirit—unease that
I’m a fraud, unease that I’m living life “wrong” or “not enough.” I feel like
an imposter, that although I try to present myself and my accomplishments in a
certain light that I know, deep down, that I’ve fallen short of my potential.
Social media has become for me like a virtual game of fake it until you make
it.<br />
<br />
Mindless fun can be useful, therapeutic even. There is
something restorative about letting go and indulging in something pointless and
undemanding—the silliness of a slapstick comedy, revisiting an old cartoon or
sitcom from childhood, flipping through home improvement magazines for
inspiration, or rummaging through an old yearbook. But, truth be told, social
media isn’t even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fun</i> anymore. Social
media is full of extremes and extremists—people arguing with themselves and
each other over everything from politics to social and cultural issues. There
is very little in the way of substantive discussion to be found, with each
party usually entering the fray with a predetermined and fixed mindset. Social
media presents two choices in 2019: divisive and toxic or nonsensical and
inane. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m guilty of contributing to
both to varying degrees. <br />
<br />
A steady diet of foolishness is not fun, and idiocy rules on
social media. Yes, by all means, re-post that news story from six years ago and
watch everyone else jump in with fury and righteous indignation until some poor
sap actually opens the link and points out the date. Yes, please post about
that celebrity’s death—you know, the one who died a decade ago. Yes, if you
re-post this pretty picture of fuzzy bunnies frolicking beneath the American
flag, Jesus himself will bless you with a lottery win. You bet me that the
little girl with the cleft palette can’t get 100 likes on Facebook? Well, then,
by all means—let’s share it even though your own page is private and that
little girl (if she or anyone associated with her in real-life <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actually</i> started the damn campaign) will
never see your share, like, or comment. And despite the proliferation of
information about fake news and clickbait and bad foreign actors
infiltrating social media to sow discord, many continue to share this crap and
engage with bots. Critical thinking is your friend, people—have it over for
dinner sometime and get to know it. <br />
<br />
Reflecting, I realize that I don’t even enjoy my own
participation on social media much anymore. Post about a TV show or film you
enjoyed and, within seconds, some armchair quarterback shows up to offer their
unsolicited expertise as to why the opposite is true. When people aren’t giving
in to their compulsion to crap on the parades of others, they’re posting
graphic photos of animal abuse (you know, to bring <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">attention</i> to it) or taking a victory lap for their “brave” stand
against this social evil or that from behind their keyboards and the comfort of
their suburban sofas. The social justice warriors of social media have deluded
themselves into thinking that they make an actual difference because they had
the “courage” to pile-on in a thread already 300 comments long with people
largely agreeing anyway. Social justice in an echo chamber; yeah, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that’s</i> effective. Social media has been
permeated by a vitriolic hivemind that demands nothing but complete submission
to the will of the masses, with swift and total annihilation to anyone who
dares question, suggest, or temper such contentious debate with anything
resembling nuance, a sense of pragmatism, or (the unholiest of crimes) the
application of critical thinking skills. Motives will be ascribed, malfeasance
charged. Those accused (of anything) are guilty until proven innocent on the
words of the accuser alone, with the idea of supporting someone now conflated
with a mandatory belief in what they’ve alleged. Proof? Proof is for pussies in
the age of social media. Personal evolution? Nope—not allowed. You’re either
“woke” or you’re not. Personal growth would just detract from the moral wrath
—and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">then</i> what would we be angry
about? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
As many of you know, I’ve had <a href="http://vinceliaguno.blogspot.com/2019/11/claims-of-racism.html" target="_blank">something similar</a> happen to me
recently. It was an eye-opener, the proverbial slap to the face this social
media addict needed to begin his recovery. I wouldn’t have wished the
experience on my worst enemy. It was sobering—to see those “friends” who
immediately bailed before I even issued the first rebuttal. There were those
friends who offered words of support privately, less who went on the record publicly
or defended me outright. There were those who stayed silent the entire time. I
noticed and made mental note of who spoke up, who spoke out, who said nothing,
and who jumped ship. Lesson learned, painful as it was.<br />
<br />
Honestly, it’s all too tiring. I’m worn out, drained, and weary
of it all. <br />
<br />
To circle back, Bentley Little has now inspired me to rip a
page out of his playbook and to log off. Time to drown out the buzzing rancor
of social media. Instagram is gone, to be followed shortly by Twitter.
Deactivating Facebook is in the cards, too—with the jury still out on it being
a permanent versus temporary move. I may keep it after an extended break
through the holidays to cross-post reviews from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.darkscribemagazine.com/" target="_blank">Dark Scribe Magazine</a></i> and op-eds from <a href="https://vinceliaguno.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">my blog</a>, which I’ll fire up
again in earnest, old-school style. If I return to the land of Zuckerberg,
it’ll be after a sharp culling of friends and followers. What Facebook was, it
will never be again. At least not for me after recent events. I’ve given too
much of my time and energy and attention to the white noise of social media—primarily
to the detriment of my creative pursuits. Time to focus on getting back to my
real life—viewing it through my own eyes instead of through an iPhone lens—and rediscovering
my authentic self.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-4005548329555884012019-11-07T20:18:00.001-05:002019-11-15T08:29:07.835-05:00Claims of RacismI was alerted yesterday afternoon to a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ChesyaBurke/posts/10156762670535308" target="_blank">post by one Chesya Burke</a>, a fellow writer, that mentioned me, by name, and included allegations that I participated in an online discussion back in 2013 about Paula Deen and said something racist within the post. When I first read the post, horrified by Ms. Burke’s vague allegations, I immediately reached out, privately via FB messenger, to get more details because I genuinely didn’t remember such a conversation or what I allegedly said. Unfortunately, in her post yesterday, she simply stated:
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Vince Liaguno, another totally not racist because he's gay, writer also said some just so happen racist shit."</i></blockquote>
There were no direct quotes of what I allegedly said, nor was <a href="https://chesyaburke.livejournal.com/23083.html" target="_blank">the link to a blog post she wrote in 2013</a> helpful since she didn’t name me—or anyone, for that matter—only referring to people by the color of their skin and sexual orientation. There were two exceptions to this—Anne Rice and her son, Christopher. There was really no way for me to evaluate her inflammatory claim since I didn’t have the actual social media thread in front of me, but there were clear contradictions between her own words written yesterday and those written in 2013 that made me wary.
For example, in her blog she references someone invoking the name of the elder Rice—not odd considering the thread was about comments Anne Rice had made about a lawsuit filed against celebrity chef Paula Deen in 2013—and writes, <i>“Eventually, for some reason, Anne Rice is linked to (as if he expects her to bring down her rain of truth on me) and her son is spoken to as if he’s commented (I have no idea if he did)…”</i> Yet, in her FB post yesterday, her memory apparently sharpens after six years when she notes that <i>“I just know that Anne Rice's son joined in at one point.”</i> (Side note: He was never part of the thread other than in passing mention by another poster much later in the thread.)<br />
<br />
Hoping for a response to address this with her, my mind was now preoccupied with finding the actual social media thread. Originally, I thought it occurred in a public thread of Anne Rice’s. After scouring through 2k+ comments, I typed in “anne rice paula deen” into the FB search engine and saw Mr. Rowe’s June 2013 post and the 100+ comments. This was on his FB page and a private discussion that only his friends could participate in.
The post itself (and I’m paraphrasing here) was about Mr. Rowe’s agreement with Anne Rice’s assertion that the Deen situation was less about racism and more about the public’s bloodlust for celebrity teardowns, with Mr. Rowe noting at one point in the conversation that the public outcry had less to do with any authentic or righteous desire to actually cleanse America of its racism but more with its sick fascination with celebrity culture and people using a public figure like Deen to deceive themselves into thinking that they were fighting against racism without ever having to actually do anything but type a few words from their computers. <i>Soft-targeting</i> was the term he used.<br />
<br />
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The post was largely polite, with some dissenting opinion that rolled along without incident. Ms. Burke entered the conversation about halfway through, presenting her dissenting opinion, and suggesting that instead of defending Deen (which no one was really doing…in fact, more than one person clearly stated that her use of the “n” word was not to be condoned) that “we feel sorry for…” and listing all of the allegations from the Jackson versus Deen lawsuit. She ends her post with a link to the actual suit. Mr. Rowe points out that no one is defending her, reiterating his point of the hypocrisy of how so many other far more egregious acts of racism, homophobia, and misogyny are overlooked by the media but because this involved a celebrity, it was a “feeding frenzy.” Ms. Burke and Mr. Rowe go back and forth for a dozen or so responses. No one is called the "n" word in any of the posts I read and re-read last night at least a dozen times.<br />
<br />
At some later point in the thread, I have clearly entered the discussion and respond to Ms. Burke’s assertion that those in the thread are characterizing Deen as a victim (she even goes so far as to throw out the word <i>crucified</i>, which no one has said anywhere prior) and that she’s actually done the things she’s been accused of in the lawsuit by asking her, directly, where in the actual deposition does Deen admit to these things, noting that these are allegations (capitalized for emphasis). This is the first of my three interactions with Ms. Burke:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYzPlN3haZILKxqjnbvbe612jtT1ZGzdOYzxeL6jkTknmLGM99xj2lC6OdU65ulFRM6imK1dyJgZnwxAwDsXU7onGCI2TfcP1Q5yqvEy5txhbYZ-l0oizZQw5hiLciFCR9M4jsLvt1IXHQ/s1600/Email+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1205" data-original-width="828" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYzPlN3haZILKxqjnbvbe612jtT1ZGzdOYzxeL6jkTknmLGM99xj2lC6OdU65ulFRM6imK1dyJgZnwxAwDsXU7onGCI2TfcP1Q5yqvEy5txhbYZ-l0oizZQw5hiLciFCR9M4jsLvt1IXHQ/s320/Email+4.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>
<br />
She responds, I respond back:<br />
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<br />
One more volley back and forth:<br />
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She’s out, I’m out after that. Was our exchange a bit heated? Ok, sure, a little. Were we challenging to one another? Yeah, sure. But please point out where anything I said was “racist.”
So now, after finding the six-year-old thread and reading and re-reading it—specifically my interactions with Ms. Burke—I’m even more dismayed that she’s publicly spreading something about my character that’s patently false. It was by then late afternoon/early evening and I found her email address on her blog. Since we are not friends on FB, I have no idea how or if connection to messenger works so I re-send my message, now with the added knowledge of having located the thread and noting that there are inaccuracies that I hope we can discuss and correct together. I’m purposefully choosing my words very carefully because I don’t want to intimate that she is lying—because I don’t believe she is. I believe that she remembers a six-year-old thread that she’s admittedly not had access to for many years in a certain way—a certain very <i>real</i> way to her. I’m trying to be empathetic to that while not allowing my character to be besmirched, with her post from yesterday shared 65+ times and seen by over 240 people. I send the message from my iPhone—immediately thinking that my @icloud.com email may likely end up in a spam folder.<br />
<br />
Flash forward to today. No response as I’d hoped for from Ms. Burke, but then again, I’m skeptical of both methods I’ve used to send the message. I’m trying not to stoke any unnecessary fires by commenting on her public posts, so I wait until this afternoon (about 20 hours or so since I sent the original email) and I re-send the email from my AOL account (yes, AOL…I know, I’m a creature of habit.) My game plan at that point is to ride it out through the weekend, hoping for some response and discussion with Ms. Burke.
Imagine my surprise, then, after taking great pains to handle the situation with some sensitivity and not taking it public without giving her the benefit of private discourse, to find my private email to her posted along with her response, complete with a refusal to engage and even an unnecessary F-bomb:<br />
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<br />
So, now I’m done. Ms. Burke’s experiences with racism in her life do not give her a free pass to irresponsibly toss around character-damaging claims of such—no more than my experiences with homophobia give me a free pass to recklessly level such claims against someone. I’ve found my interactions with her in that thread from six years ago and have screenshot them with my iPhone for all to see. As far as the rest of the thread, since she’s so adamant and sure of who/what/where/when from a single interaction in 2013, then she doesn’t need me to post anything else. It’s not my FB page and I’m not going to presumptively do so. My words to her speak for themselves and can be in no way construed as “racist.” There were <b>16</b> other people in that thread, at least one of whom is a quite well-known and well-regarded author, yet only three gay men (one of whom wasn’t even in the thread) are singled out.<br />
<br />
As I said last evening on my FB page, I will harbor no lasting ill-will toward this woman. I couldn't imagine for a moment what it's like to walk in the shoes of a black woman, no more than others could imagine what it's like to walk in the shoes of a gay man who came of age during the AIDS epidemic. But my empathy for her doesn't give her a free pass to spew false memories. I will not allow anyone to level such a serious charge as racism at me with no proof and (in their own words) a "six-year memory lapse" without rebuttal, which is what I have tried to do here.<br />
<br />
Let the hivemind do what they will. I’m not responsible for what others who don’t know me think. I’m responsible only for my own actions and words—and I would never speak derogatorily to a woman of color in racial terms like the vague ones ascribed to me by someone I have no connection to. Those who know me know that I’m the first with an apology if I’ve screwed up, the type of person who tries to evolve as a person. But I can’t—and won’t—apologize for something that I simply didn’t do to make someone else feel better. I meant what I said in my FB posting and comments yesterday:<br />
<br />
<i></i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"There is enough hatred in the world without me unknowingly contributing to it with some offhanded comment I may have made either in ignorance or one that was misinterpreted within the discussion. In either case, or even if she has incorrectly ascribed to me a comment I never made, I would very much like to set the record straight on this. Regardless, this incident made her feel terrible at the time, and for that I have tremendous sorrow for the pain it caused her." </i></blockquote>
<br />
<br />
I have done and said all I can and am going to with regard to this matter—the public record of what I actually said, how I tried to handle the situation, and this blog post will either suffice or it won't. I would ask that none of my friends (real-life and virtual alike) make any derogatory comments about Ms. Burke or this situation. Any such comments will be deleted without hesitation. Time for self-care and healing.<br />
<br />
Namaste.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Addendum to my original post</u>:</b><br />
<b></b><br />
I was alerted by more than one friend and colleague that there was something wrong with the formatting of the post on Thursday and, depending upon what device you were attempting to read it, it either appeared blank except for the four photos of the screenshots or you had to highlight the blank areas to read the text. I had written this on two different laptops and then copied/pasted it into the "compose" mode of my blogging platform, which did something wonky to the formatting. I took the post offline last night and have attempted to fix the issue by switching to HTML mode, but (admittedly) I'm not great with HTML code so apologies if anyone is still having difficulty reading this. The web version should now appear with white font against a blue background; the reader view (if reading from an iPhone) should be black text against a white background. My apologies for the technical issues.<br />
<br />
Since originally posting this, Michael Rowe has <a href="https://forever-october.blogspot.com/2019/11/statement-on-allegations-of-racism-by.html" target="_blank">responded on his own blog</a>, far more eloquently than I. I think both Mr. Rowe's account (including an in-person apology he made to Ms. Burke that same year and a corroboration of what I said above that at no time in the offending FB post was the "n" word directed at, used with regard to, or about Ms. Burke or anyone else nor was it used "at least 50 times" as originally alleged) and Ms. Burke's response add much-needed clarification and texture to the original claims still circulating. I encourage you to read both.<br />
<br />
I've also disabled comments on this post. After receiving notification that there were comments awaiting moderation, I read two—the first I will address below. The second was from an anonymous user that read (and I quote verbatim, poor grammar included): <i>"Its amazing in this day and age that an unclean faggot like you would call a woc a n****r</i> [the poster spells out the word]. <i>Your Aids diseased ass should know better."</i> I deleted all comments after that, having no desire to absorb that kind of uncalled for vitriol.<br />
<br />
The other comment I did read came from a woman named Ann, and I apologize for not having noted her surname before deleting all the comments—no disrespect intended. She mentioned my use of the phrase "there is not a racist bone in my body" that I used in a FB post, which I had briefly made public but returned to my standard private because I didn't want to create an online environment where my FB friends felt the need to defend me and, thus, fanning more flames of animosity. As I said above, my intention this entire time since first reading Ms. Burke's allegations was to handle the matter respectfully with the person who made them. Ann rightly pointed out to me the problematic nature of that statement, which negates the fact that all of us are influenced by the racism that permeates our culture and to make such a statement denotes that I've somehow managed to avoid all cultural influences. I humbly concede that point and will refrain from using that phrase again.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></span>
As I sit and write this addendum late into the night, it is clear to me that my participation in Mr. Rowe's FB thread of 2013 deeply offended and hurt Ms. Burke—regardless of what I actually wrote then and or feel about it viewing those three interactions now. She was hurt by the thread and my participation in it, and for that I am unequivocally sorry and apologize. There is just too much hurt and pain out in the world, and I regret that I played any part in adding to it. I also know that words are cheap and actions matter so there are two things that I would offer, in apology, to Ms. Burke as an olive branch: First, that I will earnestly try to consider my responses in sensitive cultural matters such as the one we engaged in together back in 2013 and weighing the importance of needing to make a point in the larger context of how someone might feel at that time. Second, I will make a donation to any charitable cause of Ms. Burke's choosing as a small reparation for the hurt my participation in this has caused her. Although she has asked that I not contact her privately—a request I will respect—she has my contact information and is welcome to email me the name of the charity of her choosing. If she prefers not to designate a specific charity, I will wait one week from today and then choose one myself and make a donation in her name.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Final addendum to original post (posted 11-15-19)</u>:</b><br />
<b></b><br />
Last week, I committed to making a good-faith attempt to make a gesture of reparation to Ms. Burke for my participation in a FB thread in 2013 that caused her much hurt by donating to a charity of her choosing. Today marks one week since that pubic commitment. In the absence of a charity designated by Ms. Burke herself, I've opted to donate in her honor to the Astraea Lesbian Foundation for Justice. With a mission to "address the lack of funding, specifically for lesbians and women of color," the foundation awards a variety of grants to individuals and groups, much of it in the world of the arts. The foundation has an overall score of 93.72 and four-star rating from <a href="https://www.charitynavigator.org/index.cfm?bay=search.summary&orgid=8820" target="_blank">Charity Navigator</a>. Although this small gesture does not negate or erase the anguish Ms. Burke felt in 2013 and continues to feel today, I hope this action is viewed as a respectful attempt to redress a painful and deeply-regretted occurrence that caused someone unnecessary offense and distress.<br />
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<br />Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-45490101916609873542019-10-15T05:46:00.000-04:002019-10-15T14:55:23.963-04:00Hilarity and Murder Afoot in ‘Knives Out’
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There is a sweet spot where the classic whodunit (think: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deathtrap</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gosford Park</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cat and
the Canary </i>or Agatha Christie’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Mousetrap</i>) meets comedy (think: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Murder
by Death</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clue</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Private Eyes</i>). And it’s writer-director
Rian Johnson’s great affection for and shrewd understanding of that intersection
between murder and laughter where audiences will find him in his cinematic wheelhouse,
as evidenced by the brilliant <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Knives Out</i>.<br />
<br />
On the morning following his 85<sup>th</sup> birthday
celebration, bestselling mystery writer Harlan Thrombey is found dead in his
study—the victim of a seemingly self-inflicted throat slashing. But when
renowned, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>idiosyncratic private
detective Benoit Blanc (Daniel Craig) shows up on the scene, it’s quickly
established that he suspects foul play, with each member of the immediate—and
pathologically dysfunctional—Thrombey family and household staff suspect in his
murder. Flanked by local law enforcement—the straight-shooting Lieutenant
Elliot (Lakeith Stanfield) and Trooper Wagner (Noah Segan)—Blanc questions each
member of the Thrombey clan, during which <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>murderous motivations aplenty come to light as
each spins a web of self-serving lies. Like a well-worn Agatha Christie paperback,
clues are uncovered, red herrings misdirect, and the suspect list grows—then
narrows—then grows again, with Johnson skillfully turning narrative tables
before the big drawing room denouement.<br />
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The acting ensemble—a virtual who’s who of several
generations of reputable Hollywood actors—includes Chris Evans, Jamie Lee
Curtis, Toni Collette, Michael Shannon, Don Johnson, Ana de Armas, Katherine
Langford, Riki Lindhome, Jaeden Martell, and the venerable Christopher Plummer,
who—despite his early demise—has much to do in the film’s ample flashbacks.
Even veteran character actors K Callan and M. Emmet Walsh show up for memorable
bit parts, as does actor-director-puppet voice actor Frank Oz in the role of
Harlan’s attorney. It’s enormous fun to watch these actors let loose onscreen
with each other as evidenced to no greater effect than the “Eat Shit” scene
that went viral from the film’s first trailer.<br />
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Each member of the cast is in top form—thanks in large part
to Johnson’s astute ability to write good characters and snappy dialogue. Craig
and de Armas are, arguably, the film’s leads and do much of the heavy lifting,
their characters and performances serving as nice contrasts to each other.
Craig is all wild-eyed energy and an oversized southern drawl—think a chicken-fried
facsimile of Christie’s Hercule Poirot—while de Armas earnestly plays the more
subdued moral center of the film as Marta, Harlan’s doe-eyed private nurse and
surprising confidant. The rest of the cast, although largely relegated to the
kind of supporting roles common to the ensemble whodunit, are each put to good
use, with Johnson giving every single actor in his troupe some juicy material
to work with—two, in particular.<br />
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Evans—in a nice change of pace from the do-gooder action
hero roles that have largely defined his career in recent years—goes full-tilt
rogue as Harlan’s trust-fund grandson, Ransom. He’s smarmy and snarky,
swaggering and sneering throughout the film with gleeful abandon. Curtis also
gets to flex her acting range nicely as Harlan’s eldest child, Linda, a driven real
estate mogul who envisions herself as family matriarch in the wake of her
father’s passing. She’s all business—crisp, and cutting right to the point—yet
Curtis manages to use the character’s no-bullshit gravitas to great comedic
effect, reminding audiences that she’s a deft comedienne who knows how to
deliver a funny line. I’m also going to give a well-deserved shout-out here to
Segan, who really proves himself to be a scene-stealer several times in the
film, with genuinely funny outbursts that find his giddy superfan to the late
mystery writer extraordinaire at odds with the dignified reserve required of
his occupation.<br />
<br />
From the opening scene—a wide shot of Thrombey’s stately (if
not slightly sinister) mansion nestled in an autumnal-hued wooded countryside
setting that’s accompanied by Nathan Johnson’s dramatic orchestral
score—Johnson aims for a grandiose and archetypal cinematic composition. Setting
is integral to Johnson’s visual storytelling, with the Thrombey family mansion
dripping in an old-world New England neo-gothic aesthetic that’s almost a
character onto itself. “The guy practically lives in a Clue board,” observes Stanfield’s
Detective Elliot at one point in the film. Indeed, the house is cluttered with
old-fashioned flamboyances like antique dolls and overstuffed furniture, ornate
moldings and stained glass windows, and a writer’s study on the attic floor that
will make any author—established or aspiring—drool. There’s even a spectacular chair
made of knives that not only illustrates the film’s title but perhaps not-so-subtly
suggests the deadly power grab at play à <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">la<b> </b></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Game of Thrones</i>.
Hats off to production designer David Crank, aided to immeasurable extent by David
Schlesinger’s impeccable set décor, for a set design that really pops and saturates
the film with much of its visual ambiance.<br />
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But the biggest star of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Knives
Out</i> is Johnson’s masterful, slyly subversive script, which transcends the
typical wink-wink, slapstick genre spoof. It’s fiendishly funny while remaining
true to its classical drawing-room mystery roots, with a cunning labyrinth of a
plot that never weighs it down or insults the audience’s ability to keep up. Johnson
expertly toys with his audience’s narrative expectations—especially in the
film’s second act when the reading of Harlan’s will drops a bombshell and the
proverbial knives come out—allowing him an opportunity to layer in some razor-sharp
commentary on upper-class entitlement and Trumpian politics. In one of the film’s
funnier satiric threads, for example, the Thrombeys inability to remember
Marta’s Latin American country of origin—despite their demonstrative declarations
that she’s a member of the family—cuts to the bone of current national
discourse on immigration. That Johnson’s able to take such shrewd political
potshots without the heavy-handedness that might otherwise detract from the
simple pleasures of the film’s popcorn entertainment pedigree is the true masterstroke
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Knives Out</i>.<br />
<br />
The game is afoot, dear readers, and in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Knives Out</i> it’s best to surrender to being a pawn masterfully manipulated
by Johnson’s ingenuity and adept juggling of his byzantine plot. By removing
the stodgy seriousness of the standard whodunit without sacrificing its
familiar conventions, he repositions and deconstructs the genre without
descending into parody or losing sight of the source material that inspired
this supersized romp. In the end, though, Johnson proves that people—like a
poison-filled syringe—can be just as toxic.Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-89294162137854019802019-03-31T15:46:00.000-04:002019-03-31T15:54:19.637-04:00'Self' Progress: First-Quarter Report<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSmyN6Sj3TRKLfevftNTwLlKN-DgOJ7u3CGwe4qS707mACag8f0LK0-DpIv-jmDPAtANkLw0TObs1YZbdOsPJzM9i_ZsUG3n-eMYQwtoAo_f0TNj3nLXs5KncIikRAdIVyF01sTEyUd2z/s1600/My+Review.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSmyN6Sj3TRKLfevftNTwLlKN-DgOJ7u3CGwe4qS707mACag8f0LK0-DpIv-jmDPAtANkLw0TObs1YZbdOsPJzM9i_ZsUG3n-eMYQwtoAo_f0TNj3nLXs5KncIikRAdIVyF01sTEyUd2z/s1600/My+Review.png" /></a></div>
Those of you who follow me on social media know that every
year—at least for the past few years—I compose an annual New Year’s themed blog
post in which I lay out my resolutions for the coming year. Why do I do this?
Mainly, to hold myself accountable in the public square. I’ve learned over the
years that resolutions kept to oneself are easier to take shortcuts around, gloss
over, or just conveniently forget altogether. Each year, I establish at least
three goals, laid out within the holistic framework of mind, body, and soul. This
year’s post can be found <b><a href="http://vinceliaguno.blogspot.com/2019/01/resolve-2019-edition.html" target="_blank">here</a></b>.<br />
<br />
For this year’s mind-centric resolution, I set out to
drastically limit political postings to my Facebook wall and have tried to
refrain from commenting on political threads elsewhere. Three months in to
2019, and I’d deem progress on this goal well underway. One scroll through my
social media feeds and you’ll see a tremendous (dare I say, “bigly”?) reduction
in the number of posts about our current administration. Yes, there are a few—times
when I simply can’t contain the myriad thoughts that pour out of my mind onto
the keyboard, times when I feel like I really have something of value to add to
the conversation. And, yes, I’ve succumbed to the demonic pull of commenting on
others’ political posts on occasion, try as I might not to. But, overall, vast
improvement noted in this area. I’ve also continued the strides made in the
year-prior’s slate of resolutions, continuing to limit my news sources, filtering
out biased sources in favor of more unbiased, legitimate ones.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUL3cmdHet9NKYc7c7F8U3JCGCdy77PMwADk2gf3aRr4nCIci6uTRpaNZCY9kAC-THoEhO-EjfCibg_kCw1w9F3ZTdEC5m85ZkAgLumMCYykbic0H78r1WIYMmXT6CdbYiRi7Em8djTRx/s1600/Mind+Body+Soul.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1063" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUL3cmdHet9NKYc7c7F8U3JCGCdy77PMwADk2gf3aRr4nCIci6uTRpaNZCY9kAC-THoEhO-EjfCibg_kCw1w9F3ZTdEC5m85ZkAgLumMCYykbic0H78r1WIYMmXT6CdbYiRi7Em8djTRx/s320/Mind+Body+Soul.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
After tanking both of my 2018 body-related resolutions—re-gaining
forty of the fifty pounds lost in 2017 and failing miserably to decrease my
psychological reliance on Starbucks coffee—I’m proud to say that Stella’s got
her groove back in this area. After a shaky start in January, I’ve now dramatically
decreased my Starbucks consumption—the iced Cinnamon Dolce latte and accursed
bacon, egg, and gouda breakfast sandwich were my mainstays—to once per week,
down from daily. I went cold turkey, suffered through the psychological
withdrawal and am now no longer dependent on that daily fix. In addition, after
failing last year to recalibrate following Oprah’s tinkering with the Weight
Watchers’ successful SmartPoints program by adding the nonsensical “freestyle”
element, I’ve finally found my way through the program’s changes and lost just
over 15 pounds over this first quarter (and, really, more like since the middle
of February when I finally re-grouped enough and got serious). That puts me at
25% of my 60-pound year-end goal—exactly where I should be. More than enough to
declare first-quarter success on my “body” goals for 2019!<br />
<br />
Lastly, regarding those soul/spirit-centric goals I’ve set
for myself in 2019, I’m also off to a solid start there as well. I’ve already
accomplished my priority this year: Completion of my first poetry collection(!).
While it resides with a select handful of beta readers who I trust to offer
unflinching feedback, I will next begin to scout out an appropriate publishing
home for it. I will now commence completion of that handful of unfinished short
stories I mentioned in my New Year’s post and find fitting homes for those
while I await word on the one that was submitted to a very cool themed
anthology earlier in the year. I also set out to perform more acts of kindness
this year, with a goal of performing one random act of charity/kindness per
month. Although the acts have been small, I’ve kept kindness on my mind through
the first three months of the year—and will continue to do so. Good progress on
the “soul” goals!<br />
<br />
So, enough about me. How are <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">YOU</b> doing on your goals for 2019? <br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-74753265137459751642019-03-08T03:15:00.000-05:002019-03-08T19:31:21.859-05:00Revisiting 'Amityville'<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsObw6hcJD2WMZgNslaf8vApT89tZRR76i3pID1GA7gVxjMTHUdM-knBNth5_Rfp-nr9EC5qwOpLiPYKEAUlvYQOdh_4bhOmHi9hEiPrC2gYMkoDVlE50kiOUn-uULRyrDZHkuIwD8eJ6O/s1600/Amityville+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="675" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsObw6hcJD2WMZgNslaf8vApT89tZRR76i3pID1GA7gVxjMTHUdM-knBNth5_Rfp-nr9EC5qwOpLiPYKEAUlvYQOdh_4bhOmHi9hEiPrC2gYMkoDVlE50kiOUn-uULRyrDZHkuIwD8eJ6O/s320/Amityville+1.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Among the sequel craze that started in the 1980s with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Friday the 13<sup>th</sup></i>, many might be surprised to learn that
the modern-day horror film franchise with the most films to its name is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Amityville Horror</i>. With a canon of
21 associated films (including sequels, reboots, and in-name-only knockoffs), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Amityville Horror</i> franchise has
eclipsed both <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween</i> (with 11) and
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Friday the 13<sup>th</sup></i> (with 12).</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So it might come as a bit of a surprise when noted genre veteran
Daniel Farrands—whose credits include screenplays for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers</i> and the 2007 adaptation of
Jack Ketchum’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Girl Next Door</i>, directorial
work on a number of notable documentary features on film franchises like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Nightmare on Elm Street</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scream</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Friday the 13<sup>th</sup></i>, and numerous producer gigs—would mine
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Amityville</i> archives for his
feature film directorial debut.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Amityville Murders</i>,
which Farrands also wrote and produced, goes back to the real-life events that
led to the original horror: The six gunshot murders at 112 Ocean Avenue,
Amityville, carried out by Ronald DeFeo on the night of November 13th,
1974. DeFeo, in court testimony, claimed that voices coming from within the
house drove him to kill every member of his immediate family. Although DeFeo
was sentenced to (and remains in) prison, a mythos developed around the house
itself when the Lutz family, who moved into the titular residence in late 1975,
fled after less than a month because of the alleged supernatural events that
served as the source material for Jay Anson’s bestselling 1977 book of the same
name, which was based on about 45 hours of tape-recorded recollections from the
Lutz family. The book became the ’79 film starring James Brolin, Margot Kidder,
and Rod Steiger that went on to gross $86.4 million on a $4.7 million budget.
In one of the longest-running acts of source material cannibalism, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Amityville Horror</i> story has been artistically
excavated, twisted and reconfigured, retold, and expanded upon for nearly four
decades—with varying results.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Enter Farrands. Wisely, he opts to return to the scene of
the crime—literally and creatively. Rather than add to the convoluted <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Amityville</i> mythos, he chooses to revisit
the story of Ronald DeFeo in what amounts to a proper prequel to the ’79 film.
Diehard <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Amityville</i> aficionados will
note that 1982’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Amityville<span style="margin: 0px;"> II: The
Possession</span></i><span style="margin: 0px;"> also attempted to loosely prequelize the pre-Lutz events, but Farrands’
outing is a more faithful retelling, coated with a nice period piece sheen.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf55a-clJiQWmp5JpRcYpTRVkpwkmBzbEe2D5C_DUdSCvKsuP84NUiHlSdhWyRpjbvLMl3du3dMOwJ9mW6ZVeYnY0yAAh53-FX_0HReRk1iWeZvZ6CmqfBPoWxEcUUriWR6ylUs1gXdSBV/s1600/Amityville+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="970" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf55a-clJiQWmp5JpRcYpTRVkpwkmBzbEe2D5C_DUdSCvKsuP84NUiHlSdhWyRpjbvLMl3du3dMOwJ9mW6ZVeYnY0yAAh53-FX_0HReRk1iWeZvZ6CmqfBPoWxEcUUriWR6ylUs1gXdSBV/s320/Amityville+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">The 1974 DeFeo’s are a suburban Long Island family whose outward picture-postcard
success belies the dysfunction within. Patriarch Ronnie (an excellent Paul
Ben-Victor) is the quintessential abusive husband and father, offering
intimidation and beatings in private and paternal hugs in public. Wife and
mother Louise (Diane Franklin) is that typical abused spouse who walks a fine
line between trying to keep Ronnie’s rage at bay while facilitating some
semblance of normalcy for her children. Eldest son Ronald (nicknamed “Butch”)
is a directionless slacker and drug user while eldest daughter Dawn (Chelsea
Ricketts) is smart, pretty, and protective of her older brother. There are
three other siblings—Alison, Marc, and Jody—but they’re largely relegated to
the periphery here, with Farrands choosing to focus his narrative on the DeFeo
parents and their two oldest offspring.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Farrands spends time painting his cinematic picture of the DeFeo’s and
their dysfunction—from Ronnie’s shady mafia dealings to Ronald Jr’s drug
use and the especially volatile relationship between the two. At some point
early on, both Lainie Kazan and Burt Young (who, in a nice wink to franchise
fans, was also in <i>Amityville 2</i> with Franklin) show up as Louise’s
parents—with grandpa Brigante gifting Ronald and Dawn new cars on their shared
birthday and Nona getting her hackles up when Louise casually mentions a
possible West Coast relocation. <i>“You’re going to sell my house?”</i> she
asks, practically drooling ill-omen. These early scenes are outstanding, even
if the Long Island accents are a tad too exaggerated and the family’s Italian-Americanness
bordering on caricature at times.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s revealed that Ronald Jr. and Dawn also mess around with the occult
down in a little basement crawlspace with red cinderblock walls (aka the
infamous “Red Room”). At some point, the dark forces within the house (it’s
purported to be built upon land where the local Shinnecock Indian tribe had
once abandoned their mentally ill and dying, an idea rejected by local Native
American leaders) start their whispering through the walls and take possession
of Ronald Jr. that culminates in the murders. The supernatural foreplay is
effective although most of the visuals and set pieces will ring familiar to
anyone who’s seen a <i>Paranormal Activity</i> film. Recycled but competent
scares abound as the tension escalates.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Overall, <i>The Amityville Murders</i> hits its marks. Caveat: I’ve not
seen a single <i>Amityville</i> film since the three-dimensional third so I may
not be as jaded or franchise-weary as many reviewers seem to be. Farrands’s
direction is solid, his pacing tight, and he really knows how to strikingly frame
his shots. He also gets some major props for giving Diane Franklin a role
befitting her talent. She’s been too-long relegated to shorts and subpar
material in recent years for an actress of her stature and talent.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimze6VhuTFscgd-4gOdNHfnLOAQIph51PvzuvqSEv0KLDJnZvSWmfufjWUXdvuxEejTL12hbcJzHUav21-liFxxhb4awmSi4YrP4JG4RP3lDlEf4FiIG5GD62ry0e9COGWkpGqFut8P09W/s1600/Amityville+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="673" data-original-width="1200" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimze6VhuTFscgd-4gOdNHfnLOAQIph51PvzuvqSEv0KLDJnZvSWmfufjWUXdvuxEejTL12hbcJzHUav21-liFxxhb4awmSi4YrP4JG4RP3lDlEf4FiIG5GD62ry0e9COGWkpGqFut8P09W/s320/Amityville+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="margin: 0px;">The standout here is John Robinson who does most of the film’s heavy
lifting as Ronald Jr. He convincingly portrays a man slipping into madness,
seamlessly shifting from anger and rage to vulnerability and melancholy with all
the requisite raw emotion. It’s actually in considering Robinson’s performance
where one might realize that Farrands missed a golden opportunity to muddy the
waters a bit and aim higher with his franchise contribution. Instead of presenting
the audience with a predetermined supernatural origin to Ronald Jr’s slip down
the rabbit hole, layer in some ambiguity to suggest it might have been the
drugs or PTSD from years of mental and physical abuse or even an undiagnosed
mental illness like schizophrenia (the onset of which would correspond with the
character’s age)—perhaps a combination of all these internal and external
factors. When you make a movie based on real-life events and your audience knows
the story’s ending from the outset, you need something else to make your mark. Leaving
the audience pondering—and ultimately deciding for themselves—the origin of Ronald
DeFeo’s eventual murderous snap would have added a decidedly </span>cerebral element
that would have elevated <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Amityville
Murders</i> beyond the limits of its well-trodden zip code. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2227664847730231017.post-37082307034751126702019-02-07T20:54:00.000-05:002019-02-08T19:22:49.847-05:00Hell Hath No Fury (Like Women in Horror)<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxozRR8cA9B41efUJqzkC7FyiBoQArKxac8CKQ1ujW_E45WC0T7dIRPZGOeMTl6tubh1lO1DEbQn6OcU30loffjzJwSnZY1QU-K-OvzRQY3WjIbClvENBVQPWrs0O8jaBx16whfYEhYRqh/s1600/Women+Horror+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxozRR8cA9B41efUJqzkC7FyiBoQArKxac8CKQ1ujW_E45WC0T7dIRPZGOeMTl6tubh1lO1DEbQn6OcU30loffjzJwSnZY1QU-K-OvzRQY3WjIbClvENBVQPWrs0O8jaBx16whfYEhYRqh/s320/Women+Horror+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">February marks the annual celebration of women’s contributions to
the horror genre, aptly dubbed “Women in Horror Month.” This international,
grassroots initiative is now in its tenth year of encouraging support and recognition
of the underrepresented work of women in the horror field.</span></span><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span>
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">F</span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">or the purposes of this blog, I’m going to celebrate “Women in
Horror Month” by focusing on horror in its written forms by showcasing 51 female horror writers and 49 of their works—10 poetry collections, 13
single-author short story collections, 12 novels, 10 non-fiction books, and
even a trio of anthologies for good measure. With no disrespect intended, I’m
purposefully omitting the obvious suspects like Shirley Jackson and Mary
Shelley in favor of exposing readers to some names they may not be immediately familiar
with. I’m also limiting mention of each author to a single representative work
(with the exception of one whose scope of work garners mention of three
titles), noting that several of these gifted writers have written and published
in numerous forms and formats. </span></span><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span>
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">S</span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">ince poetry is my new jam, I’m beginning here with ten of my
favorite dark poets of the female persuasion and a representative collection
from each:</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Helen Marshall – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sex Lives of Monsters</i> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Claire C. Holland – <i>I Am Not Your Final
Girl</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Saba Syed Razvi – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In Crocodile Gardens</i> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Stephanie M. Wytovich – <i>Sheet Music to My
Acoustic Nightmare</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Angela Yuriko Smith – <i>In Favor of Pain</i> </span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Daphne Gottlieb – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Final Girl</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Charlee Jacob – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heresy</i> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Linda Addison – <i>Being Full of Light,
Insubstantial</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Rain Graves – <i>Barfodder:
Poetry Written in Dark Bars and Questionable Cafes</i></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px 0px 10.66px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Marge Simon – <i>The
Mad Hattery</i> </span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Let’s move on to short-form prose by highlighting a baker’s dozen of
exemplary fiction collections by female writers:</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Joyce Carol Oates – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;">Haunted: Tales of the Grotesque</span></i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Helen Oyeyemi – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Gemma Files – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;">Drawn Up from Deep Places</span></i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Yōko Ogawa – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Revenge </i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Caitlín R. Kiernan<b>
– </b><i>The Ammonite Violin & Others</i></span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;"></span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Daphne du Maurier – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Birds and Other Stories</i> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Carmen Maria Machado – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Her Body and Other Parties</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Tananarive Due – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ghost Summer: Stories</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Karen Russell – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;">Vampires in the Lemon Grove</span></i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Lisa Morton – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monsters of L.A.</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">S.P. Miskowski – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Strange Is the Night</i><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Fran Friel – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mama’s Boy and Other Dark Tales</i> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 10.66px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Livia <span style="margin: 0px;">Llewellyn
– <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Engines of Desire: Tales of Love and
Other Horrors</i></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">As a bonus, I’m also going to include here this generation’s
preeminent horror anthologist—Ellen Datlow. Datlow consistently draws from the abounding
talent pool of women writers to populate her award-winning anthologies. Personally,
I think Datlow shines when she curates themed collections. Three recent
favorites to get you started include <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;">Black Feathers<b>:</b></span> Dark Avian
Tales</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Devil and the Deep: Horror
Stories of the Sea</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mad Hatters
and March Hares: All-New Stories from the World of Lewis Carroll's Alice in
Wonderland</i>. Her tables of contents include a number of talented female
contributors including Seanan McGuire, Pat Cadigan, Catherynne M. Valente, Genevieve
Valentine, Alison Littlewood, and Priya Sharma, among others.</span></span><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span>
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Next up, we move onto novel-length
works. Following are ten outstanding horror (horror-adjacent, in one or two
cases) novels by female writers that I’d highly recommend:</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Sarah Langan – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Missing</i> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Sarah Schmidt – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">See What I Have Done</i></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">A.J. Colucci – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Seeders</i></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Alexandra Sokoloff – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Harrowing</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Mariko Koike – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Graveyard Apartment</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Ania Ahlborn – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Within These Walls</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Liz Nugent – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unraveling Oliver</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Sarah Lotz – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Day Four</i> (which is a sequel to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Day
Three</i>) </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Lauren Beukes – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Shining Girls</i> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Kathy Koja – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Under the Poppy</i> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Alma Katsu – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Hunger</i> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Marisha Pessl – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Night Film</i> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Last, but certainly not least, I’d
like to point out some of the notable academics amongst the female set who have
contributed some invaluable non-fiction to the horror genre. Below are a
handful of must-have genre reference books written by women—beginning with my
all-time favorite academic tome:</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Carol J. Clover – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Men, Women, and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Stacy Schiff – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Witches: Salem, 1962</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Lisa Morton – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ghosts: A Haunted History</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trick
or Treat: A History of Halloween</i> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Margee Kerr – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scream: Chilling Adventures in the Science of Fear</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Alexandra West – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The 1990s Teen Horror Cycle: Final Girls and a New Hollywood Formula</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Amanda Reyes (as editor) – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Are You In The House Alone?: A TV Movie
Compendium 1964-1999</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Lucy Chase Williams – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;">The Complete Films Of Vincent
Price</span></i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Barbara Creed – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Monstrous-Feminine: Film, Feminism,
Psychoanalysis</i></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Kier-La Janisse – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">House of Psychotic Women: An Autobiographical Topography of Female
Neurosis in Horror and Exploitation Films</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0px 0px 10.66px 48px; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;">
</span></span></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Stacie Ponder – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Death Count: All of the Deaths in the Friday the 13th Film Series,
Illustrated</i></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyKc-Ly20c99K6AFSv8BXlBjl85iqf-UnoiSCPnGdd8LZsb5EpcNfJon-0-8iFt8g1b1-dJS6BvqWOjYg7it9tbOEQmjv32QVWAzW0dMimzXu60lx8wUFRQOvQR9l5C8Du_Gt8PhxVfa0v/s1600/Women+Horror+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="493" data-original-width="640" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyKc-Ly20c99K6AFSv8BXlBjl85iqf-UnoiSCPnGdd8LZsb5EpcNfJon-0-8iFt8g1b1-dJS6BvqWOjYg7it9tbOEQmjv32QVWAzW0dMimzXu60lx8wUFRQOvQR9l5C8Du_Gt8PhxVfa0v/s320/Women+Horror+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I hope at least a few of these titles—and
the literary virtuosos behind them—have piqued your interest enough to have found
their way into your online shopping carts. My hope is that you’ll expand your
reading repertoire to consciously incorporate more female dark scribes. Their
unique perspective, creativity, and abiding talent will no doubt enrich your reading
experience ten-fold.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span>
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Now, go forth and celebrate women in
horror.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; text-align: center;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span>
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“It is the same woman, I know, for she
is always creeping, and most women do not creep by daylight.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; text-align: center;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">― Charlotte
Perkins Gilman, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Yellow Wallpaper and
Other Stories</i></span></span><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></span></span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span>Vince Liagunohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01636180586377675728noreply@blogger.com2